The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!. S Worrall C

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       It’s past midnight now, so I must go and dream – perhaps about you lying in bed, your beautiful hair flowing over your shoulders. I think you have a soft pillow and your head is nestled deep in it. You see, I have all the pictures mixed because I’m drowsy.

       I love you.

       Martin.

6 AUGUST 1939

       High Wycombe Railway Station

      The station is packed with soldiers, getting ready to embark for the battalion’s training camp in Sussex. There’s a festive atmosphere. Union Jacks and bunting hang from the wrought iron fences and pillars. The battalion’s band plays a rousing marching song. Wives and children huddle proudly around their loved ones, as the August sun floods the station with light.

      For many of the men, this is the first time they will have left the county. There’s a mood both of excitement and fear. Words of comfort and encouragement are exchanged. Babies dandled. Kisses planted.

      Martin looks on, anxiously. Nancy promised she would try to get here to say goodbye. But there’s only twenty minutes till the train leaves. He knows if she doesn’t make it that there will be a good reason. He’s not a child, who needs someone to see him off at the station. But, as he watches a young soldier run towards a woman and child on the platform, and fold them in his arms, he can’t help feeling a pang of loneliness.

      He glances at his watch. Two soldiers almost run into him as they push a trolley full of baggage along the platform. The band strikes up a new tune. Martin darts another look at the crowd milling around by the entrance then hurries along the platform to where his platoon of sixteen men is assembling.

      ‘Everyone here, Sarge?’ Martin asks his platoon sergeant, Joe Cripps, a short, muscular man, built like a fireplug.

      ‘All present and correct, sir.’

      Martin is still getting used to his new role as an officer. Like most of the men in the platoon, Cripps is nearly twice as old as Martin; married and with children. As a twenty-year-old student, who has not even graduated, Martin feels awkward giving him orders. By rights, the sergeant should be telling him what to do.

      ‘Your family here to see you off?’ Martin asks his sergeant.

      ‘We’re from the north of the county, sir.’ Cripps lifts a huge canvas bag full of equipment and throws it into the train. ‘It’s too far, what with all the kids.’

      ‘How many have you got?’ Martin grins.

      ‘Just the two, sir.’ Cripps spots one of the platoon members swigging from a bottle of beer. ‘Hoy! You! Get rid of that bottle, or I’ll break it over your head!’ He turns back to Martin. ‘You, sir?’

      Martin is miles away, peering fretfully around the station, looking for the most beautiful redhead in the world. ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Are you married, sir?’

      ‘Not yet, Sarge,’ Martin replies. ‘Soon, I hope.’

      ‘Better hurry then,’ the sergeant says. ‘We’ll probably be in France before Christmas.’

      A deafening hiss of steam escapes from the locomotive, followed by a whistle. Martin glances anxiously towards the entrance.

      ‘Carry on here for a moment, will you, Sarge?’

      Martin doesn’t even wait for the answer but turns and hurries down the platform, bumping into other soldiers and almost tripping over a pile of sacks. Another whistle sounds. Orders are barked. The last men start to board. A young wife, with a blonde baby on her arm, clings to her corporal husband, sobbing. Another whistle pierces the air.

      As he approaches the entrance gates, Martin spots a woman with red hair. A blast of steam from the locomotive’s pistons obscures her in a swirling cloud.

      ‘Nancy!’ He breaks into a run, weaving through the knots of women and children, who now stand waving through the windows of the train to their loves ones.

      The cloud of steam clears. The woman turns. Martin’s heart sinks.

      Six days later, Martin opens his eyes to see an orderly dressed in khaki standing next to his camp bed.

      ‘Cup of tea, sir?’

      ‘Thank you, Jenkins.’ He yawns. ‘What time is it?’

      ‘Just before six, sir.’

      Martin swings his legs over the edge of the camp bed and sits hunched over, sipping his tea. Their training camp is near the village of Lavant, in Sussex. In the distance, the South Downs stretch away to the north. To the south lie Chichester and the coast. Nancy’s absence is like a dull ache in his side. Luckily, he has his hands full. The men are unfit, badly equipped and homesick. They need constant chivvying along and training. Every day brings new frustrations – and challenges.

      As the youngest officer in the battalion, Martin is already the butt of a few jokes from some of his mess mates; and the general dogsbody. Yesterday, he was just about to sit down and write to Nancy, after a day spent practising marching in pouring rain, when the second-in-command, Major Brian Heyworth, made him drive twenty miles into Chichester to fetch some rope.

      ‘Sleep well?’ Saunders greets him as Martin walks into the mess tent.

      ‘Fine.’ Martin yawns. ‘Just not enough. How about you?’

      ‘I’ve had better nights’ sleep.’

      Martin twists his torso to the right. ‘My back is killing me after that route march yesterday. Twenty miles! I really think it’s a bit unnecessary.’

      ‘Apparently, one platoon got lost and ended up marching halfway to Reading!’

      ‘One of ours?’ Martin tips back his cup.

      Saunders shakes his head. ‘Bloody 4th Battalion, of course.’

      Gibbens, the battalion’s medical officer, comes and joins them. He is older than Martin, a twenty-seven-year-old Scot with a pale face; dark, crinkly hair that is already beginning to recede; gentle, dark eyes; and a wry sense of humour, who was working at St Thomas’ Hospital when the war broke out. His family are related to the Hartley jam family. Since they first met at the beginning of camp, Martin, Saunders, and he have become regular mess companions.

      ‘Any more cases of flu?’ Martin bites into a piece of cold toast. The mess tent is packed, so that he has to shout to make himself heard.

      ‘Still just the six.’ Gibbens taps his head. ‘Touch wood.’ An orderly comes and pours him some tea. ‘But it’s ridiculous to work the men so hard. They can hardly keep their eyes open – let alone move their feet.’

      After breakfast, Martin assembles his platoon for trenching СКАЧАТЬ