Peter looked upwards at the tower of the town Church; the once golden hands adorning the clock face so tarnished he could barely see them against the filthy, scarred countenance as it loomed above him.
The time was wrong, he was sure of it as his mind wandered, conscious unwilling, to what might be happening at home. He didn't like to think too much of Poplar anymore; couldn't even remember how it felt to leave as he was hauled by the shoulders into the back of the truck. It was too far away in mind and space to be any comfort that it ought to have brought him in this unexpected place he now was forced to call home for however long it may now be. Now, though, standing in this place he would never know, it was all that consumed him.
It must be late evening in Poplar if the sky was this dark here. Mum and Dad perhaps getting ready for bed; Mum with her flowery pink quilted dressing gown with the hem half down and Dad with those tartan slippers that needed throwing out, pottering around and locking doors. Would they be wondering where he was? Were they hearing the squeal of bombs, explosions in the distance as they battered their precious memories of this city that they grew up in? Were they even still there? Were they gone and no-one had sought to tell him and he really was as thrust aside as he felt?
He shivered. Peter was cold, barely remembering the feel of his own mattress, recollections tucked away that were fading no matter how hard he tried. The satiating taste of hot milk laced with cinnamon and a teaspoon of honey that Mum would make when winter drew in sprung to mind. It always helped him sleep as a kid; warming him from the inside out and how he could do with that now, even a drop on his lips would take this almost ethereal chill as it bit and tore away at his flesh, boring into him as he stood in this half abandoned street wondering how he got here.
Mum's cooking; Dad leaning over her shoulder trying to pinch a roast potato and throwing it between his hands when it was too hot. It was always the same.
Peter didn't like thinking of things like that anymore, not knowing if he may ever experience them again, but tonight his mind was running hell bent on provoking this emptiness that gouged its way into his middle. Perhaps it was the fact they were here now; stationed to wait for a night, perhaps two before they moved on and he had time to ruminate. It made his blood run to think he may never see them again; dead in a ditch or one of those soldiers who would be mourned forever with no funeral to call his own. 'Unable to identify'. It was no use being coy about it and the faster he learned that, perhaps it was better. Maybe he could survive better that way if he were to at all.
A truck steamed past him, a cigarette butt thrown from the back and landing at his foot. Peter stamped on it, grinding it into the cobbles until the orange spark was no more amongst the dense mud on his boots. Pain struck him for a moment sending vicious arrows up his leg. That blister on the sole of his foot, covering it in fact, red raw, bleeding, caused by boots that didn't fit and three pairs of socks, keeping the cold and damp away but tearing off his skin like a sharp knife.
Peter looked aloft again trying not to hear what was going on in the unlit alleyway to his side. The sky was a strange shade between orange and grey so vast and so devoid of any kind of hope as it almost overpowered him. Nothing lived up there anymore but fighters and bombs; even the clouds had scurried away and birds would no longer drift above him floating on currents of air.
Now that air was acrid, burning; a Bonfire Night of epic proportions with the hue around him of destruction with no end in sight. The smoke settled on his chest, scratching his insides, but he couldn't cough. That was the sign.
Under a filthy uniform and pack, mud and skin that had not been bathed properly for days, or even weeks, Peter continued to stand by the darkened lamppost leaning on it as it pressed earnestly between his shoulder blades. It was the only thing that was anchoring him to the ground, the hard cast iron the only thing upon which he could focus.
On watch he was, but not for reasons of any official nature this time. Stuck here, in a town whose name he could not pronounce and not entirely sure of its location at all, as he acted the dutiful sentry for his mates.
Another truck grumbled past, groaning under the weight of the gang of men crammed in the back, this time a bottle flying and smashing behind it, glass twinkling in the moonlight as he watched it splinter on the cobbles. It only made him think of collecting lemonade bottles and taking them back for the coins that would be spent on sweets and he shook his head quickly; trying to purge the memory as it rudely jumped into his mind.
Stop thinking of home, you stupid idiot. You're nineteen for Christ's sake, nineteen! You're a grown man, not a schoolboy and you are here to fight. Hear that? Here to give your life if you have to for your King and Country and you are thinking of lemonade bottles? You've already shot a man – three in fact – point blank in the head, in the chest, anywhere you could find to make sure they were dead. It was you or them and you chose you. You had to. One more step to seeing your lemonade bottles and drink your cinnamon milk again? Stop thinking. You're not that child. You'll never be that child again.
Peter swallowed and felt a hand clap him hard on the back, lost and not hearing the stomp of feet behind him as he failed in tonight's duty. He shot up, standing to attention, seeing one of his Sergeants pausing beside him, the last drags of a burning cigarette in his hand.
"Off duty, Noakes" his Sergeant smiled, throwing the cigarette and, much like Peter had done, grinding it into the ground under equally muddy leather.
"Yes Sir" Peter smiled, shoulders dropping, trying to ignore the burning pain searing in his boot at stamping his foot against the earth again.
"Am I to take it that Privates Cooper and Johnson are up that alley with those two 'ladies' that were hanging off the truck if you're on guard duty?" the Sergeant asked, nodding his head behind him at the pitch dark.
Peter dipped his head, seeing his Sergeant lean closer to him, slinging his arm around the younger's neck. He could smell beer on his breath he was that close. "Dirty little bastards they are too. Glad you're out here Noakes lad. Sensible head on your shoulders!" he concluded and with a raucous laugh he staggered off.
Peter watched him walk into the distance disappearing into what looked like another pub and sighed loudly, taking up his position propping up the lamppost again.
Looking skywards once more, fascinated by the tower, the arms on the church clock hadn't moved. Now he had no idea how long he had been standing here, the imposing spire in front of him just taunted him again. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, hands filthy, gritty and grimy, earth and mud pounded into his skin by weeks of sleeping in barns and outhouses, just anywhere that looked safe for a few hours rest.
He heard a quiet, quick whistle and looked to its source. Private Jack Henry Johnson, otherwise known as Riley; six foot tall exactly with piercing green eyes that attracted the girls from miles around and he certainly knew it. Peter's mate since he was three years of age; doing up his flies as he emerged from the stinking alley.
"Her names Amorette" he started, walking over with a confident swagger. "Givin' a little love to her Allies" Jack concluded with a smug grin, tapping his mouth knowingly. "Says she quite likes the look of you…." How she did that Peter didn't know as Jack didn't know a word of French, apart from 'cigarette' and any fool could get that one right.
"No thanks" Peter replied, shaking his head. He was an engaged man and Jeanie was the only thing that kept him going. He certainly had no plans to be throwing that away or, if he did come home, living with the guilt. Peter might only have been nineteen but he knew he loved her and he'd never face her again.
Jack, however, just laughed at him. He might be his long time mate but sometimes that Noakes lad could be a right prude. "I know you've got little Jeanie at home but what she don't know won't hurt her. Go on!" he encouraged, nudging Peter in the arm. "The other one's called Louise".
Peter shook his head again. There might have only been six months between them – Jack being the elder – but it sometimes seemed like years if their behaviour was anything to go by and did he really want to be caught up an alley with a whore?
'Respect women, son. You'll get your reward'. His Dad's words lingered in his mind, seeing the other soldier emerge, too shifting his uniform around. Private George Thomas Cooper, otherwise known as 'Coops'; from south of the water with an accent to match, but no-one held it against him.
"Took yer time mate" Jack offered, his arm going around the third soldier's shoulder, thumping him on the chest evidently in some form of congratulation as the two girls, bedecked in black, wandered away, blowing kisses and waving at their soldiers.
"Yeah well" Coops began, "some of us don't fire as early as the others! Drink?"
"Don' see why not…." Jack replied, hooking Peter under his other arm, dragging him forcibly into the road. "Vat looks like a good place to start" he said, gesturing vaguely to a small pub across the way with its windows smashed and blacked out. They could all hear music, tortured it would seem, from squeeze box as it drifted from the building with a piano in need of a rather urgent tune competing in the background.
Peter sighed as he was hauled through the door, taking one last glance at the clock face above him as it bore down over the greasy streets of this nameless town.
No, he thought as the screeching 'music' pierced his eardrums, those golden hands still hadn't moved.