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.
‘Good man,’ the officer said. ‘Let me sort out a few other things.’ He stood and came around the desk to have a closer inspection. George kept his feet together and pushed out his chest, resisting the urge to salute. Somehow, he thought, that would be pushing it too far.
‘How old are you, son?’ The officer raised an eyebrow.
‘Eighteen, sir. Nineteen next month,’ he replied, as he had been practising internally since leaving the house. He was really two years younger, but they would never accept a sixteen-year-old into the army no matter how big and strong he was. He was still sweating and the questioning gaze of the recruiting officer made it worse. Neither of the men said anything for a few awkward moments. George hoped the sweat didn’t show on his brow. It took all his mental strength not to reach up and brush it away.
The officer picked up the form and pen from the table and made a couple of fresh notes in black ink. ‘Date of birth?’ he asked.
George breathed for a second before replying, not realising that he had been holding his breath. He scrunched up his cap further in his hands. He would probably never be able to get the wrinkles out. ‘Fourth of September 1895, sir.’
‘Are you sure?’
He tried not to panic and ran a hand over his hair to help keep his breathing steady and give him time to calm down. ‘Absolutely, sir,’ he said.
‘Very well, so be it,’ the officer said as he ticked a box on the form and laid it back on the table, then grabbed his cap, placing it under one arm. ‘Wait here.’ He went out of the door at the back of the room. The sweat now dripped off George’s brow and ran down into his eyes. He finally gave himself a chance to wipe it clear with his sleeve. He relaxed, but the stance felt forced. Why had the officer left? He turned to Tom for an explanation, but his friend just grinned back. Sometimes it was a welcome gesture, at other times it was infuriating. He was trying to help calm George’s nerves, but it wasn’t helping. He wanted Tom to say something reassuring, but he just stayed silent. The other men in the queue didn’t appear to notice his distress, and were quietly talking amongst themselves. ‘What do I do now?’ he said to Tom, losing his calm. The beat of his heart was thundering in his ears.
Tom shushed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Don’t worry, lad, He’ll be back.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Probably gone for his tea. Keep on as you were, nice and confident like.’
As soon as Tom finished speaking the officer popped his head back around the doorframe. ‘This way, Abbott,’ he said, beckoning George. George gave Tom one last long meaningful look, which was returned as a smile, and walked into the other room.
This room was slightly smaller than the first. A metal-framed bed was set to one side with cleanly pressed white sheets and various instruments laid out beside it. The officer handed him over to a male doctor wearing a white coat over his khaki and holding a notepad.
‘The doctor here will perform some tests, to clear you for service,’ the officer said before he left the room. George wondered if the officer was humouring him. He couldn’t have believed that George was eighteen. Now the doctor would scare him off and they would have a good laugh. George would see this through, whatever may come.
‘Good morning, son.’ The doctor’s tone was a lot friendlier than the officer’s. ‘Undo your shirt.’ He was busy at the other side of the room. ‘All the way down to the waist please.’
George quickly took off his jacket, laid it on the unused gurney and undid the buttons of his shirt. When it was down, it fell to the sides of his waist, held into his trousers by its tails.
Without warning, the doctor reached around and pressed the cold pad of a stethoscope to his back. ‘Breathe in deeply, please,’ he said. ‘And out. Again, please… and again.’
He was polite, but he stood too close and there was a stench of stale alcohol on his breath as he too breathed in and out. As George tried to put some more space between them, the doctor tutted and shoved him back. ‘Stay still, son. This won’t take much longer if you don’t fidget.’ He finished checking George’s heart. ‘If you could stand with your back to this, please,’ With his hand he indicated a wooden standard against the wall with increments of height painted along one side and a wooden joist that came down to rest on the patient’s head. He placed his notepad on the bed and examined George. ‘Stand with your feet together, placing your weight on your heels. There we are.’
George did as he was bid and once again stared ahead, avoiding the gaze of the doctor who proceeded to gently bring the joist down to the top of his head.
‘Now just take a deep breath and push your chest out, while still keeping your weight on your heels.’ He picked up the notepad and pen again, making some notes. ‘Hmmm,’ he said after a moment. He crossed to the other side of the room, leaving George with the joist laying on his ever more sweat-sodden head, and pulled down a chart from the wall. It rolled down with a clatter and hooked on a spike that jutted from the wall. Various letters of differing sizes were printed on it, becoming smaller further down the page. There was a mirror next to the chart. George’s reflection, distressed by the irregular surface, was not of a face he immediately recognised. It was tanned from hours working under the blaring sun. The reflection looked like him, but older, somehow more confident.
‘Do you need eyeglasses?’ the doctor asked.
George replied with a quick negative.
‘Then could you please read the first line of the chart for me.’
George had no trouble reading the chart. The doctor nodded as George read each line, marking it on his notepad. It was the most confident George had felt in minutes. Although, he still felt as if the officer and doctor were waiting for him to crack.
‘Very good,’ the doctor said, bringing George out of his introspection. ‘Just one final thing.’ He then proceeded to push one of George’s arms up so that it was perpendicular to his body and run a tailor’s tape around his chest. George almost resisted being manhandled by the overly friendly doctor, but was determined to show that he could follow orders and stand his ground. No matter what, he would stand proud. If they didn’t accept him, he would keep trying until they had no choice.
‘Good,’ the doctor said folding up the tape and putting it in the pocket of his overcoat. He then took George roughly by the jaw and opened his mouth. He moved George’s head around so he could look at his teeth, as if George were a horse. Satisfied, he let go of George’s jaw and returned to his paperwork. ‘Now you just need to go through to the next room and hand the officer this form.’ He pushed a piece of paper into George’s willing hand and turned his back. ‘Good day,’ he said, finally.
George hadn’t known what to expect; his father hadn’t talked about army life much, except for drilling routine into his boys. Recruitment was nothing like what he may have dreamt; there was a lack of organisation that he, based on his home life, presumed all military life would have had.
Gripping the form, he went through to another room at the back of the house. This room was as bare as the first, like a village hall. A larger wooden desk sat at the right-hand side and another officer stood behind it. The man who had preceded George was busily signing a form. ‘Good, now stand with the other men and await the oath,’
