Open Writing

The male choir to which I belong has been preparing for a Remembrance Concert. A declining number of choristers will wear their medals earned between 1939 and 1945. The majority do not have a right to wear any medals. I am one of those. I did not serve in the forces; I had a reserved occupation.

At school Billy Hall, christened Wilfred , and I became firm friends. We were part of a group, some having left school to be gainfully employed. Billy was cleverer than the rest and stayed on at school to do Higher School Certificate. As a friend he assumed the right to tell me that I did have brains but that “I was too bloody lazy to use them”. He did accept that I was a little more athletic than he was and could swim better. I could do the crawl, he only the breast stroke.

Some way off the beach there was a raft, anchored to the harbour bed, to which the “good “ swimmers could reach with ease. Others would try, and apply common sense in judging when to turn back. The tide run could be strong and it was pointed out to the wary that danger might be minimal, yet it did exist.

That last summer of youth was long, hot, exciting, and not forgotten even though six decades have passed. Each day the beach was visited for hours, lovely long hours. Every day the “good” swimmers went out to the raft and every day the “weak” swimmers stayed closer in. It was the age when the boys could not understand why the girls did not swim every week, and, indeed, hardly noticed the girls at all. Except Billy. He noticed all the girls, and they did not ignore him. Even when the daft ha’porth decided to show off to Ginger (the latest to take his eye) and go for the raft. He got there too, totally exhausted, naturally. He rested a long while before deciding not to chance his arm going back directly but to cut across, come ashore, and walk back to the beach over the rocks.

What a sight he was; always skinny and bony, lacking any sort of chest. He scrambled over those rocks for hours, eventually dragging himself back to his clothes. He was puffed with pride and, being inclined to arrogance because of his brains, he showed off in front of Ginger, and any other fathead who would listen. His Mother did not listen. She had been up the road overlooking the beach and , to quote her, she “wondered what idiot was so far out and struggling”. When he said it was him she was very annoyed indeed. She was the sort of mother who would not let him out to play for four hours after she had washed his hair.

Somebody will surely say ”What has this to do with the subject in hand” and I will tell you. Billy went off to college to be a teacher. Went to Bangor Normal in North Wales and passed out properly. It was intended that teaching would benefit from his brains and his aptitude. Pupils would be enlightened by his example, as long as they did not swim too far out.

It did not happen that way. He was called up, and being brainy he was trained on radiolocation (radar). I met him on Carmarthen station. He had been home on embarkation leave and was due to go overseas, but knew not where. For the first time in our lives I advised him” do nothing daft” and he said he heard what I said. I am sure he did, remembering the raft. It was unfortunate he could not control his destiny otherwise he would not have been in Singapore when the Japanese captured it.

In the town from whence we came there is a monument of polished marble, with an airman, a sailor, and a soldier set in mourning. Inscribed on the marble were the names of the fallen of the 1914-1918 war. As we passed on the way to the beach, we would hardly notice it.

That monument has changed. When, every five years or so, I pass that way I stop, gaze up, and read the names added since the days on the beach. All are known to me. We sat in the same classes at school.

Billy’s name is there, in alphabetical order.