Chapter 1: Signing up

It was a beautiful early September morning. The streets of Liverpool were bustling as it was Market Day. Stalls lined the cobbles, being erected in any place that was available. Children ran through the stalls with bursts of energy, darting in and out the stalls and being careful not to crash into them.

Cecily Turner was a captivating woman. Time was very kind to her as she never looked the 50 years, she had been alive for. She worked as a secretary to a bank manager in the city but, every Saturday, she loved nothing more than helping out her community by running the fruit and veg. She was a local lass, always thoughtful, polite, who made no enemies. Those she had made were only jealous that she got the lion's share of the beauty pool. Hair soft as silk and dark as chocolate. Her curls fell perfectly around her oval face. She wore a long, baby blue cotton dress with a white bow tucked at her waist, giving the illusion of an hourglass figure. She had men clamouring after her, begging to have her for just one night.

Alas, her heart was taken by another.

Her husband, Arthur, was a surgeon at the Mill Road Hospital. As a young man, he had girls swooning down the wards. Many of them occupied the trolleys and blocked the corridors. Matron was less than happy. Because of the mass hysteria he caused, he opted to move to male surgical in order for some peace and quiet as the girls, lovely as they were, distracted him from his work and he stayed there ever since. He still had the charming, chiselled looks within his rugged face and his hair, once black, was all peppery. He was always seen with a pipe in his hand smoking his treasured tobacco. He too was the golden age of 50 and, like his darling wife, he aged gracefully. They met at a dance in Soho when they were 20, young, carefree, wanting to take the world by the hand.

Jazz erupted through the air like an explosion of life and excitement. It was 2 years before war broke. Streets were alive with music, singing, people having the time of their lives, not knowing what was to come. When the war came, everything changed. The pubs and dance halls no longer had the halcyon of the old days. The men were shipped off to war to fight the good fight, but only a few returned. However, they were shells of the people they used to be. Arthur wanted to join, to fight for King and Country. Fate did not smile upon him. He failed the physical exam due to a defect with his heart.

Looking back, he was thankful for it. In his opinion the war was a pyrrhic victory. So many died for a few acres of land. It wasn't worth the bloodshed. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach when he discovered that underage boys were recruited and never came back. And now it would happen again.

It was announced on the wireless that Britain, along with France, Australia and New Zealand had declared war on Germany and that eligible men under 30 should sign up. Both Arthur and Cecily were fraught with worry. Their only son, Patrick had turned 30 the week before last and they couldn't bear the thought of losing him. Patrick had inherited his parents' looks, making him a hit with the ladies. He was humble, kind and would do anything to help his patients. As a young boy, he was fascinated by the human anatomy and how different illnesses affect people. When he told his parents that he wanted to become a doctor, the pride was radiating off of them. He was very intelligent, so they had no lingering doubts that he would make it. He was every girl's dream. Slicked back black hair, defined features, hazelnut brown eyes. The young lasses of Liverpool had their passions stirred frequently as a result of this.

Arthur had forbidden Patrick from going to the front lines as his mother would be beside herself with fear that he would be facing danger head on. As Patrick had medical credentials, Arthur suggested that he should sign up to the Royal Army Medical Corps, to treat the wounded. Patrick was absolutely delighted. There was no better place for him to put his skills to use. Waving him goodbye as he went to the recruitment station, they both hoped that he would survive this.

…..

A puff of smoke clouded Patrick's view, briefly. He grew tired of just standing around, waiting. He wasn't like his father, smoking a pipe. He preferred the feel of a Henley's cigarette. He could sense that the fellow men around him were getting impatient. Near the front of the line, there was a brawl over some petty matter.

The Sergeant Major ordered them to cease but they still continued, moving it into the centre of the station. Punches were flying thick and fast. One contacted the Sergeant Major's chest, knocking him off his feet. A friend of one of the men had enough of this brutality.

"Jimmy, will you cut it out, you bastard. You've 'armed the Sergeant Major!"

The man, who was 6ft 4 and built like a brickhouse, tore Jimmy away from his opponent, who was battered, bloodied and bruised. His nose was out of place, 4 of his teeth were scattered around the cobbles, one of which fell into the sewer drain. His opponent was only 5ft 2, so he had suffered the full brunt of Jimmy's wrath.

The Sergeant Major escaped the fight unscathed so, to dissuade from further brawling, he clacked both men on the head with his stick.

"Now stop it, both of you! Are you grown men or children? There is no place in the Army for such puerile behaviour!"

He ordered the officers to place them at the back of the queue.

"I'm glad that's over. Stupid wankers."

Patrick turned to see a scruffy looking man wearing a grey, worn coat. He guessed that the man was his age, but slightly younger. His hair was a light brown and dishevelled looking. With eyes as blue as the sky and smooth features, he was quite handsome. Not that Patrick was vaguely interested. His trousers had patches sewn on, making him to resemble a patchwork doll. The shoes were beginning to show signs of age, wear and tear.

"Have you got a light?"

"Of course."

Patrick took out his lighter and flicked open the cap. The hot flame ignited from the canister and set the man's cigarette alight.

"Cheers for that."

"You're welcome."

Patrick looked at the gold-plated lighter. It bore his initials; a gift from his father when he turned 18. He always kept it with him in his pocket. It symbolised that he was no longer a boy, but a young man.

"So, what you here for, then?"

Patrick smiled. The tones of kindness and warmth shone through the lad's voice. He was very approachable. He was the type that wouldn't say no if someone had asked him to go out for a drink with them.

"Same as every lad. To do their bit for King and Country."

"Aye. We'll show the Jerries' a thing or two."

Nerves were beginning to show physically in Patrick. His hands started to shake, his heartbeat had become slightly abnormal and his palm were saturated. He remembered to take deep breaths and to remain calm. Curious by nature, he wondered about what adventures would await him in the Medical Corps. No doubt it would be frightfully exciting. He had an obligation to help people, whether here in Blighty or abroad. It was just the way he was.

"Next!"

The man in front of Patrick made his way to the desk, where the officer made him stand to attention as practice for the real thing. A lump formed in his throat. The uncertainty of what was in store scared him a little but now wasn't the time for his spine to desert. He had a job to do.

"So what's your name, then?"

The man stood to the side of Patrick, who was just finishing his third cigarette.

"I'm Patrick Turner. What's yours?"

"Timothy Hawkins, but friends call me Timmy."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Timothy."

"You too."

"NEXT!"

The deafening bellow nearly ruptured Patrick's eardrum. It was a good thing he was at a safe distance otherwise he would have been made deaf. He walked briskly to the desk and stood to attention, even before the officer told him to.

"Name?"

"Patrick Turner."
"Occupation?"

"Doctor."

The desk-bound officer raised his head and stared at Patrick dead in the eye.

"A doctor, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I see your credentials?"

"Of course, sir."

Patrick took out an envelope from inside the breast pocket of his trench coat and gave it to the officer.

The officer thoroughly inspected the documents and seemed satisfied with its content.

"Very well, Dr Turner. I see that everything is in order. You shall be assigned to Altcar Training Camp for a period of 5 months. After that, you will join the RAMC division working in Italy. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Good."

The officer handed Patrick the King's Shilling and directed him where the other candidates were waiting to be taken to Altcar.

His journey was about to begin.