Shalom and Sheiks: 19 - Old Zeke
Old Zeke was on sentry duty one very dark, pitch-black night when he heard footsteps near the camp gate and challenged, as all good sentries do, unless they have dozed off. "HALT!" he yelled. "Who goes there?" He was absolutely word perfect.
He became suspicious at once when, from the darkness, came the reply, "Aw, piss off, Gran'pa!"
John Powell continues his hilariously entertaining autobiography. To read earlier episodes please click on Shalom And Sheiks in the menu on this page.
It may well be construed that our sentry, old Zeke, has been cast in a bad light. In deference and fairness to him, it should be related that he arrived with an intake from the Drill Hall, but was the only one carrying a rifle. He marched straight in to the CO, telling him that he had been assigned to the Unit as a 'permanent duty sentry'. He said that his orders were 'to protect the camp against any attack by German paratroopers', and he added that he was well qualified to do so, in view of his permanent-army experience and the fact that he had been an acting Lance Corporal at the siege of Mafeking. Strangely though, nobody could ever remember seeing him doing his training on the rocket guns at the Drill Hall.
He became our sentry, and gained the reputation of being a first-class marksman from an event which earned him admiration from us all. One very dark, pitch-black night he heard footsteps near the camp gate and challenged, as all good sentries do, unless they have dozed off, "HALT!" he yelled. "Who goes there?" He was absolutely word perfect.
When so challenged by an alert sentry, such as old Zeke, the correct answer to give is 'Friend'. You just have to answer 'Friend' and then there is no chance that you will be shot. Everybody knows that you have to answer 'Friend'. Even the enemy knows that you have to answer 'Friend'.
So old Zeke became suspicious at once when, from the darkness, came the reply, "Aw, piss off, Gran'pa!"
Old Zeke reasoned, quite logically, that they must be German paratroopers, since they did not answer correctly, so he shouted, "HALT! Or I fire," which brought the reply, "Get nicked!"
This was enough for our alert and stalwart sentry. Old Zeke whipped up his rifle to his shoulder as fast as his rheumatism allowed him, took aim into the darkness, and was about to squeeze the trigger when those pince-nez started to slide off again. Partly grabbing at the pince-nez and partly at the rifle, he fired. He hit his target, dead centre, and the body dropped dead at his feet.
Old Zeke was modest about it but, all the same, obviously happy. Not so the dead pigeon, but then it would not have known much about it. It was universally acknowledged that in the middle of a pitch-black night, to be able to hit a pigeon on the wing, dead centre too, well, that took some marksmanship. Old Zeke enjoyed his pigeon pie.
As a last accolade to old Zeke: it must be noted that his orders were to defend the camp against attack by German paratroopers. In this he succeeded admirably. Indeed, it should be recorded that during the whole war, not one single German paratrooper ever succeeded in capturing our camp in Hyde Park. Old Zeke did a magnificent job. He should have been given a medal.
Our Unit was in action numerous times, firing off their rocket salvos, in those dark days of the war. When peace came, the Unit was at once disbanded. No medals, no victory parades or accolades, not even a mention. The Dads just disappeared as quietly as they had come.
Charlie Troop continued to meet in a pub every fortnight, but not Sam. Surprisingly, he was never seen again but no doubt, went on through life, laughing all the way and all the time and brightening the lives of all those around him. Sir Ernest turned up twice, but finding that there was no Sam with whom he could exchange their gifts of hilarious repartee, he also disappeared.
Gradually they dropped out; it was not the same atmosphere anymore. Fortnightly meetings became monthly, then, they too stopped. Bill Steers took on two of the Dads in his factory when he discovered they had met with hard times. Only those three remained together from Charlie Troop.
* * *
Many years later I returned to London from overseas. It was a damp, bleak autumn evening as I walked across from the Dorchester Hotel into Hyde Park. The mist was hanging low over the Serpentine Lake as I stopped and stood under the tree, near which had been our Nissen hut, and I closed my eyes. For a moment I could hear once more Sergeant Walters shouting, TAKE POSTS!" as the sirens wailed and the ear-splitting alarm bells rang their deafening warning.
I could hear the deep laugh of Bill Steers and the others, as we listened to the refined voice of Sir Ernest answering Sam's cockney banter. I could hear once again Sam saying after we'd fired, breaking the hoodoo, "Gaw blimey, Sandy, we ain't 'alf torn it. What er bleedin' laugh."
I could see the barbed-wire fence, the Command Post and the rows of grey-green, rocket projectors. I opened my eyes, and they were gone!
Looking out to where Projector No.13 of Charlie Troop used to stand, there was nothing but the green grass and the usual, traditional, spooning couple of London's Hyde Park, oblivious to the cold evening, locked together as one, in a very active and loving embrace. I glanced at the couple and smiled to myself.
'Well,' I mused, 'it looks as though they've got their drill working well tonight; no sign of a hoodoo there'.
With a last 'Cheerio' to the memories of No.7 Relief, Charlie Troop, and in particular to No.13 projector, I lit my pipe and flicking the match onto the damp, golden-brown leaves littering the ground, I turned my back on the ghosts of a past era and strolled off towards the cheerful lights of Park Lane.
