The Fourth Estate (18 page)

During the next
few weeks Lubji did little more than dig trenches, clean out latrines and
occasionally drive lorry loads of rubbish to a dump a couple of miles outside
the camp. To the displeasure of his comrades, he always worked harder and
longer than any of them. He soon discovered why the corporal thought the
coolies were nothing more than a bunch of skivers.

Whenever Lubji
emptied the dustbins behind the officers’ mess, he would retrieve any discarded
newspapers, however out of date. Later that night he would lie on his narrow
bed, his legs dangling over the end, and slowly turn the pages of each paper.
He was mostly interested in stories about the war, but the more he read, the
more he feared the action was coming to an end, and the last battle would be
over long before he had been given the chance to kill any Germans.

Lubji had been a
coolie for about six months when he read in morning orders that the North
Staffordshire Regiment was scheduled to hold its annual boxing tournament to
select representatives for the national army championships later that year.
Lubji’s section was given the responsibility of setting LIP the ring and
putting out chairs in the gymnasium so that the entire regiment could watch the
final. The order was signed by the duty officer, Lieutenant Wakeham.

Once the ring
had been erected in the center of the gymnasium, Lubji started to unfold the
seats and place them in rows around it. At ten o’clock the section was given a
fifteen-minute break, and most of them slipped out to share a Woodbine. But
Lubji remained inside, watching the boxers go about their training.

When the
regiment’s sixteen-stone heavyweight champion climbed through the ropes, the
instructor was unable to find a suitable sparring partner for him, so the champ
had to be satisfied with belting a punch-bag held up for him by the largest
soldier available. But no one could hold up the bulky punch-bag for long, and
after several men had been exhausted, the champion began to shadow-box, his
coach urging him to knock out an invisible opponent.

Lubji watched in
awe until a slight man in his early twenties, who wore one pip on his shoulder and
looked as if he had just left school, entered the gymnasium. Lubji quickly
began to unfold more chairs. Lieutenant Wakeham stopped by the side of the
ring, and frowned as he saw the heavyweight champion shadow-boxing. “What’s the
problem, sergeant? Can’t you find anyone to take on Matthews?”

“No, sir,” came
back the immediate reply. “No one who’s the right weight would last more than a
couple of minutes with’im.”

“Pity”, said the
lieutenant. “He’s bound to become a little rusty if he doesn’t get any real
competition. Do try and find someone who would be willing to go a couple of
rounds with him.”

Lubji dropped
the chair he was unfolding and ran toward the ring. He saluted the lieutenant
and said, “I’ll go with him for as long as you like, sir.”

The champion
looked down from the ring and began to laugh. “I don’t box with coolies,” he
said. “Or with girls from the Land Army, for that matter.”

Lubji
immediately pulled himself up into the ring, put Lip his fists and advanced
toward the champion.

“All right, all
right,” said Lieutenant Wakeham, looking up at Lubji.

“What’s your
name?”

“Private Hoch,
sir.”

“Well, go and
get changed into some gym kit, and we’ll soon find out how long you can last
with Matthews.”

When Lubji
returned a few minutes later, Matthews was still shadow-boxing.

He continued to
ignore his would-be opponent as he stepped into the ring.

The coach helped
Lubji on with a pair of gloves.

“Right, let’s
find out what you’re made of, Hoch,” said Lieutenant Wakeham.

Lubji advanced
boldly toward the regimental champion and, when he was still a pace away, took
a swing at his nose. Matthews feinted to the right, and then placed a glove
firmly in the middle of Lubji’s face.

Lubji staggered
back, hit the ropes and bounced off them toward the champion. He was just able
to duck as the second punch came flying over his shoulder, but was not as
fortunate with the next, which caught him smack on the chin.

He lasted only a
few more seconds before he hit the canvas for the first time. By the end of the
round he had a broken nose and a cut eye that elicited howls of laughter from
his comrades, who had stopped putting out chairs to watch the free
entertainment from the back row of the gymnasium.

When Lieutenant
Wakeham finally brought the bout to a halt, he asked if Lubji had ever been in
a boxing ring before. Lubji shook his head. “Well, with some proper coaching
You might turn out to be quite useful. Stop whatever duties you’ve been
assigned to for the present, and for the next fortnight report to the gym every
morning at six. I’m sure we’ll be able to make better use of you than putting
out chairs.”

By the time the
national championships were held, the other coolies had stopped laughing. Even
Matthews had to admit that Hoch was a great deal better sparring partner than a
punch-bag, and that he might well have been the reason he reached the
semifinal.

The morning
after the championships were over, Lubji was detailed to return to normal
duties. He began to help dismantle the ring and take the chairs back to the
lecture theater. He was rolling up one of the rubber mats when a sergeant
entered the gym, looked around for a moment and then bellowed, “‘Och!”

“Sir?” said
Lubji, springing to attention.

“Don’t you read
company orders, ‘Och?” the sergeant shouted from the other side of the gym.

“Yes, sir. I
mean, no, sir.”

“Make your mind
up, ‘Och, because you were meant to ‘ave been in front of the regimental
recruiting officer fifteen minutes ago,” said the sergeant.

“I didn’t
realize...” began Lubji.

“I don’t want to
‘ear your excuses, ‘Och,” said the sergeant. “I just want to see you moving at
the double.” Lubji shot out of the gym, with no idea where he was going. He
caught up with the sergeant, who only said, “follow me, ‘Och, pronto.”

“Pronto,” Lubji
repeated. His first new word for several days.

The sergeant
moved quickly across the parade ground, and two minutes later Lubji was
standing breathless in front of the recruiting officer.

Lieutenant
Wakeham had also returned to his normal duties. He stubbed out the cigarette he
had been smoking.

“Hoch,” said
Wakeham, after Lubji had come to attention and saluted, “I have put in a
recommendation that you should be transferred to the regiment as a private
soldier.”

Lubji just stood
there, trying to catch his breath.

“Yes, sir. Thank
you, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Yes, sir. Thank
you, sir,” repeated Lubji.

“Good,” said
Wakeham. “Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir. Thank
you, sir,” responded the sergeant immediately.

“No, sir. Thank
you, sir,” said Lubji. “Except .

The sergeant scowled.

“Yes?” said
Wakeham, looking up.

“Does this mean
I’ll get a chance to kill Germans?”

“if I don’t kill
you first, ‘Och,” said the sergeant.

The young
officer smiled. “Yes, it does,” he said. “All we have to do now is fill in a
recruiting form.” Lieutenant Wakeham dipped his pen into an inkwell and looked
up at Lubji. “What is your full name?”

“That’s all
right, sir,” said Lubji, stepping forward to take the pen.

I can complete
the form myself.”

The two men
watched as Lubji filled in all the little boxes, before signing with a flourish
on the bottom line.

“Very
impressive, Hoch,” said the lieutenant as he checked through the form. “But
might I be permitted to give you a piece of advice?”

“Yes, sir. Thank
you, sir,” said Lubji.

“Perhaps the
time has come for you to change your name. I don’t think you’ll get a long way
in the North Staffordshire Regiment with a name like Hoch.”

Lubji hesitated,
looked down at the desk in front of him. His eyes settled on the packet of
cigarettes with the famous emblem of a bearded sailor staring up at him. He
drew a line through the name “Lubji Hoch,” and replaced it with “John Player.”

As soon as he
had been kitted up in his new uniform, the first thing Private Player of the
North Staffordshire Regiment did was swagger round the barracks, saluting
anything that moved.

The following
Monday he was dispatched to Aldershot to begin a twelve-week basic training
course. He still rose every morning at six, and although the food didn’t
improve, at least he felt he was being trained to do something worthwhile. To
kill Germans. During his time at Aldershot he mastered the rifle, the Sten gun,
the hand grenade, the compass, and map reading by night and day. He could march
slow and at the double, swim a mile and go three days without supplies. When he
returned to the camp three months later, Lieutenant Wakeham couldn’t help
noticing a rather cocky air about the immigrant from Czechoslovakia, and was
not surprised to find, when he read the reports, that the latest recruit had
been recommended for early promotion.

Private John
Player’s first posting was with the Second Battalion at Cliftonville. It was
only a few hours after being billeted that he realized that, along with a dozen
other regiments, they were preparing for the invasion of France. By the spring
of 1944, southern England had become one vast training ground, and Private
Player regularly took part in mock battles with Americans, Canadians and Poles.

Night and day he
trained with his division, impatient for General Eisenhower to give the final
order, so that he could once again come face to face with the Germans. Although
he was continually reminded that he was preparing for the decisive battle of
the war, the endless waiting almost drove him mad. At Cliftonville he added the
regimental history, the coastline of Normandy and even the rules of cricket to
everything he had learned at Aldershot, but despite all this preparation, he
was still holed up in barracks “waiting for the balloon to go up.”

And then,
without warning in the middle of the night of 4 June 1944 he was woken by the
sound of a thousand lorries, and realized the preparations were over. The
Tannoy began booming out orders across the parade ground, and Private Player
knew that at last the invasion was about to begin.

He climbed onto
the transport along with all the other soldiers from his section, and couldn’t
help recalling the first time he had been herded onto a lorry. As one chime
struck on the clock on the morning of the fifth, the North Staffordshires drove
out of the barracks in convoy. Private Player looked up at the stars, and
worked out that they must be heading south.

They traveled on
through the night down unlit roads, gripping their rifles tightly. Few spokei
all of them were wondering if they would still be alive in twenty-four hours’
time. When they drove through Winchester, newlyerected signposts directed them
to the coast. Others had also been preparing for 5 June. Private Player checked
his watch. It was a few minutes past three. They continued on and on, still
without any idea of where their final destination would be. “I only ‘ope
someone knows where we’re going,” piped up a corporal sitting opposite him.

It was another
hour before the convoy came to a halt at the dockside in Portsmouth. A mass of
bodies piled out of lorry after lorry and quickly formed up in divisions, to
await their orders.

Player’s section
stood in three silent rows, some shivering in the cold night air, others from fear,
as they waited to board the large fleet of vessels they could see docked in the
harbor in front of them. Division upon division waited for the order to embark.
Ahead of them lay the hundred-mile crossing that would deposit them on French
soil.

The last time he
had been searching for a boat, Private Player remembered, it was to take him as
far away from the Germans as possible.

At least this
time he wouldn’t be suffocating in a cramped hold with only sacks of wheat to
keep him company.

There was a crackling
on the Tannoy, and everyone on the dockside fell silent.

“This is
Brigadier Hampson,” said a voice, “and we are all about to embark on Operation
Overlord, the invasion of France. We have assembled the largest fleet in
history to take you across the Channel. You will be supported by nine
battleships, twenty-three cruisers, one hundred and four destroyers and
seventy-one corvettes, not to mention the back-up of countless vessels from the
Merchant Navy. Your platoon commander will now give you your orders.”

The sun was just
beginning to rise when Lieutenant Wakeham completed his briefing and gave the
order for the platoon to board the Undaunted. Within moments of their climbing
aboard the destroyer, the engines roared into action and they began their tossing
and bobbingjourney across the Channel, still with no idea where they might end
up.