by Ronnie Jay

Created on: July 09, 2011

Fair Exchange?

July 1914: the unthinkable was suddenly stark reality. Britain was at war with Germany.

Still two months shy of his nineteenth birthday, Charlie Mathews was among the first to sign up. Hell-bent on heroism from the beginning, the obligatory six-week training camp was a consummate bore – although, he was willing to concede, a necessary one. He applied himself with a will, accepting with good humour the stringent discipline that demanded that the toecaps of his boots be boned to mirror-brightness, that his bed be made up every morning to resemble nothing so much as a shallow coffin and the perfect replica of every other in the 24-bed bungalow, and that every boot in his 22-man drill squad should come down in perfect unison with a single thwack! on every command. “All in the interests of unity!” the sergeant-major bellowed by way of explanation before despatching him on a run around the perimeter of the parade ground one morning when he had the effrontery to enquire after the need for such pin-point precision in seemingly every aspect of army life. And then, upon completion of the lap: “Because, my lad, you are going to war and, believe me, that spirit of unity we are trying so hard to drum into your thick bloody skulls might just make the difference between whether you come home to mummy on your own two feet when it's all over or in a bloody body bag!” (This before despatching him on a second circuit for good measure.)

Eventually ("Cor blimey, about bloody time!" Charley was heard to mutter to a friend), his company received orders to embark for Calais. More boredom followed, which transmogrified inexorably into misery as autumn merged into brutal winter and home became a hellish system of trenches, often knee-deep in mud. But the heroism he craved found him one afternoon when he crawled over the lip of his trench under heavy fire and sallied forth to bring a wounded comrade to safety.

He returned home not long afterward to a fanfare of accolades, his chest resplendent with silver and gold. And soon, too soon, the accolades fell silent. And the silver and gold, proudly displayed behind glass in a beautifully carved oak cabinet, dulled under the tarnishing influence of years and neglect. And Charlie Mathews never walked again.

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