He wore his best Sunday suit, which was reserved for special occasions. Today was definitely one of those. Tom had tried to convince him it would be all right, but he was sure that he would have trouble convincing the recruiting officer he was old enough. He hoped that they would think the two of them the same age.
Tom’s eyes widened as he saw George. He was also in his Sunday best.
‘Woo, look at you,’ he said. ‘Off to charm the girls in Belgium, are we?’
George wasn’t in the mood for Tom’s jokes, the butterflies in his stomach made him feel like being sick. It took all his effort to even speak.
‘We’ll be in uniform by the time we get out there, Tom.’
Tom chuckled heartily and patted George on the back with a couple of thumps. ‘Don’t be so matter-of-fact,’ he said.
It was a ten-minute walk to Gwent Street, where they would find the local recruitment office.
‘Did you tell your ma?’ George asked Tom.
‘Nah, she’d only worry about me, and what’s the use in worrying her? I’m gonna do it anyway. What other option have I got?’ An odd darkness crossed his face in contrast to his usually jovial attitude. ‘Besides, you’re with me, and she likes you. You’ll look after me, won’t you, George?’ He laughed that familiar laugh, as George scowled at him. ‘Did you?’
‘No,’ George replied. ‘I left early to avoid it. I hope they’ll think I just went to work.’
‘Why not? I mean, ya old fella was in the army. Surely he’ll be backing you?’
‘I hope so, but I didn’t want to find out. It’s my decision, not theirs. A part of me was worried what they might say. I am under-age after all. I should wait, but I want to go now. I want to do my bit before I’m no longer needed.’
Tom gave George another pat on the back. ‘Me too.’
On Gwent Street they met a group of men, chatting in excitement. Everyone was dressed smartly, in various brown suits, waistcoats and caps.
‘What’s all this then?’ asked Tom, speaking to no one in particular.
A short man turned. ‘We’re queuing up, lad. Tha’s the recruitment office.’ His Lancashire accent was stronger and more rural than theirs. He had the look of a farm hand, with dried mud around his face and in the corners of his nails. ‘Here’s back, if you’re looking to join.’
George heard the shout of a more familiar voice.
‘Hello, lads!’ Patrick smiled as he walked towards them, pushing through the crowd. ‘What time do you call this? We’ve been queuing for a good while now.’
‘We?’ Tom asked, with a frown.
‘Yeah. You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you? The other lads are up front, waiting to go in. I saw you come round the corner and thought I’d come say hullo. Henry’s keeping my place. He’ll start worrying if I don’t get back soon.’
‘I didn’t think you were signing up?’ said George.
‘What made you think that?’ Patrick flashed his smile again. ‘We couldn’t leave Tom and you on your own, could we?’
‘If you’re about to be called in you had better go back,’ Tom said, his usual good humour missing.
‘Not gonna join us, lads?’
‘Well now, cutting the queue wouldn’t be a very good start to military life now, would it?’
‘See you on the other side then, lads,’ Patrick said, as he jogged back to the front, disappearing into the crowd. ‘Don’t want to be the last one in,’ he called over his shoulder.
The queue took quite a while. As time went on George and Tom edged closer and closer to the recruitment office, and the single open door that would admit them to their new world. The queue twisted up the front stairs like a snake hunting its prey. Every now and then some unlucky men came back out and disappeared down the road in a hurry. Two of them passed George and Tom, muttering, ‘… ’king doctor. What’s ’is problem anyway? There’s nothing wrong with me. Who’s ’e calling short anyway? I was looking ’im right in the face. Could have nutted ’im. Bastard.’ They disappeared the same way as the others.
It didn’t help George feel any less nervous. The sweat caused by the late summer sun was building up on his brow, and he wanted ever so much to scratch at it, but he knew it would only make him sweat more. Everyone else appeared happy to be there, excited, but he could only worry. Why were men being turned away? Would he have to walk in shame past the assembled men, hanging his head and trying not to notice the looks of pity? He lifted his cap and wiped a hand across his brow.
‘Are you all right, George?’ Tom asked.
‘Yeah. I just keep thinking, what if they reject me?’
‘Stop worrying. That’ll only make them more suspicious.’ Tom flashed his teeth.
‘That’s easier said than done.’
‘I know. Just put it out of your mind. Remember what we agreed yesterday? Tell them you’re almost nineteen. They’ll fret that you’re not old enough to go overseas and that’ll make them forget you’re not old enough at all.’
Tom had it all worked out, but George wasn’t so sure. The army didn’t send eighteen-year-olds overseas. George would have to train for a month, but so would everyone else. By the time they were ready to be shipped out it would be his birthday. They didn’t have to know it was his seventeenth birthday. ‘Shush,’ George said. ‘I don’t want anyone to overhear you.’
‘It’s all right, George. It’ll all work out. Just do as I said.’
Tom made George go first so he could back him up if anything went awry. They got in just in time to see another nervously walk through a different door at the back of the room.
‘Next!’ called a commanding voice.
Tom gave George a nudge in the back and he stepped forwards. The recruiting officer was sitting behind a table, wearing an army dress uniform. His cap lay on the table, facing the potential recruits, showing off its badge. The table was a simple temporary affair, placed there for the purposes of enlistment, draped with a white cloth, and paper piled up on top.
‘Name?’ the officer asked, without looking up from the forms. His accent was not local, but rather that of an educated, wealthy man. His manner made George even more nervous. George took off his own cheap woollen cap, folding it in his hands.
‘George Abbott, sir.’ George stared at the back wall of the room and tucked his feet together; his father had taught him the standard army way to be presented when he was a small boy.
The recruiting officer finally regarded him. ‘Abbott, a good name, and you address me well.’ He wrote a few notes on the form and looked up again. ‘Do you know what arm and which regiment you are joining, son?’
‘Army, sir. The King’s Liverpool.’ George beamed with pride at the name of his father’s regiment.
