Long Way from Home , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Nigel Springthorpe

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286 pages

English

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The year is 1955. A time when international travel is reserved for the privileged few, Andy Marshall, an 18 year old National Service conscript from Plymouth, finds himself posted to the other side of the world. Soon after his arrival at RAF Changi, Singapore, he is sent on detached duty to a staging post on a remote island in the South China Sea, close to the mainland of Borneo. His nine month tour of duty there is filled with a succession of bizarre experiences as he attempts to adjust to living and working with the 30-strong complement of Airmen, led by an eccentric Station Commander. Andy returns to Changi where his unusual exploits, both on and off duty, continue unabated. Throughout his service in the Far East, he is left to reflect on the wisdom of a last-minute marriage proposal prior to his departure from England. His two years of service for Queen and Country completed, he returns home to re-adjust to civilian life, only to discover the lengthy period of separation from his fiance has had a profound effect on their relationship. Meanwhile, his thoughts are filled with memories of the his time overseas, particularly the camaraderie amongst his fellow men. A re-union of former colleagues takes place but with surprising consequences... A Long Way from Home is a work of fiction inspired by the author's personal experiences. It paints a wickedly humorous and perceptive picture from an era when National Service was accepted almost without question. Given the continuing debate of the desirability of re-introducing some form of compulsory military service, this novel throws a light on how, over half a century ago, one young man coped a long way from home.

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War

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	01 avril 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781780889436
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Norman, J. J, Doug, Keith, Tony, Alan, Eddie, George and the many other equally unforgettable characters with whom I served and to Jeanne, without whose encouragement this story would never have reached the printed page.
1

An Island in the South China Sea, 1955
With just a bump or two, a twin-engine aircraft of Royal Air Force, Far East Transport Wing, touches down on a crushed coral airstrip after a four hour flight from Singapore. Then, at a more leisurely speed, it takes a turn to port, exiting the runway before working its way along to the dispersal area. With a proud sweep of its tail, the Vickers Valetta showers the solitary, corrugated-iron servicing shed with a huge cloud of dust before coming to a halt. Inside the shed, with the temperature gauge nudging 95 degrees Fahrenheit, a servicing crew of four wait for the dust to clear. Shortly, they will emerge to carry out the re-fuelling before the ’plane continues its onward flight to Clark Field Air Base in the Philippines. But for one of the passengers on board, 2752776 Leading Aircraftman (LAC) Andy Marshall, this is as far as he goes. The slim, dark-haired, eighteen year old National Serviceman leans forward anxiously in his improvised seat unit to catch a first glimpse of the Island that will be both his workplace and tropical home for the next nine months.
The propellers spin to a halt. Almost immediately, beneath the fuselage, chocks are being slammed against the wheels. “This is it, young man,” shouts the Signaller from the front of the ’plane. “Out you get!”
Andy exits into blinding sunshine, kitbag slung uncomfortably over his shoulder, and is directed across a patch of arid, stony ground, towards a waiting jeep. The driver, stripped to the waist, is staring straight ahead, engine running, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. There is no welcoming eye contact as he speaks.
“Are you Finnegan’s replacement?”
“What?”
“Are you – or are you not – the fireman taking over from Finnegan?” comes the sharp reply.
“Not likely, I’m replacing the admin bod!” smiles Andy.
“Great! That’s ten dollars I’ve won from the Irishman.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow.”
The driver grins. “Forget it, just get in.”
“Christ, it’s hot,” Andy mutters with a grimace, as he climbs into the passenger seat.
“You’ll get used to it,” comes the abrupt response. With the help of a clumsy gear change, the jeep lurches forward and is soon bouncing along the perimeter of the airstrip.
Andy struggles to take in the surroundings. In front of him, the only building is a modestly built white, wooden control tower. But for a pair of sparkling, silver aerials sprouting from its roof, the construction could so easily be mistaken for one of the many village green cricket pavilions to be found back home in England, now some seven thousand miles away.
Above, hangs a cloudless, powder blue sky. The area cleared for the airfield is bordered completely by clusters of palm trees and bush which, in the absence of any wind, stand motionless. The only movement is from the heat waves, shimmering at the far end of a runway, now lying silent between two lines of white-washed stones trailing into the distance.
“Is it true some of the chaps here are rejects from other camps in the Far East?” enquires Andy, as his driver struggles to negotiate the rutted track. “You know, the oddballs who…”
“What d’ya mean?” interrupts the driver, adjusting his sunglasses and tilting his head towards his passenger to catch the conversation above the engine noise.
“So, what’s it like here then?” asks Andy, anxious to change the subject while rising in his seat in an unsuccessful attempt to ride yet another hump.
“What you make of it. Some don’t get on, don’t get accepted. Others love it, sign on for another tour, can’t get enough of the place. Don’t forget only some thirty of us here, so everyone knows everyone. Some say it’s the remotest outpost in the Far East.”
“And you’ve been here for…?”
“Coming up for two years,” comes the casual reply.
“Should’ve known that from your tan.”
Andy lurches forward in his seat as the driver fails to negotiate the vehicle around a series of potholes on the dusty track.
“Hope you don’t suffer from the heat. We had a ginger-haired wireless operator flown out last week, horizontal on a stretcher – just three days after he arrived! Saw him being lifted into the plane, the colour of a flaming lobster.”
“That’s horrible,” says Andy.
“Silly sod brought it on himself. Second day here he went sunbathing.”
En route, Andy casts an anxious eye at the modest collection of single-storey stone buildings and wooden huts, reminding him of the prefabricated bungalow-style dwellings that had sprouted at home immediately after the War.
The jeep comes to an almost emergency-style stop outside a wooden billet, which is long overdue for a couple more coats of green paint. A desperately thin, grey coloured dog, with a leg cocked up against a fire extinguisher at the side of the hut, throws a furtive look at the couple before scurrying out of sight.
“This is it, lad, your new home. Well, yours and the others you’ll be sharing with. Don’t forget your gear in the back. Jock, the storeman, is in there and he’ll fix you up with bedding and a ‘mossie’ net. Make sure you get a good one, we’re very close to the swamp. Get some nasty bites in this place. Oh yeh! don’t forget to see the medic first thing in the morning to get your paludrine tablets. Those are for your malaria.”
“But I don’t have malaria! Might have picked up something in Singapore but it ain’t malaria,” Andy grins.
“Tell that to the Doc,” chuckles the driver, working noisily through the gears before completing a laboured u-turn.
“Thanks for the lift…” Andy’s words of appreciation are lost in an engine roar and a cloud of exhaust fumes.
Stepping over a couple of planks that straddle an empty monsoon ditch, the new arrival enters his new home, casting an anxious look around him.

*

Despite the laboured efforts of the creaking overhead fans, and the open wooden shutters, doubling up as ventilation, there is a musty, stale smell about the place. A few prostrate bodies, one totally naked, lie motionless on their beds. The walls are decorated with pictures of glamorous, scantily-clothed female film stars, a few instantly-recognisable professional footballers and a host of calendars carrying clearly-ringed dates. Positioned on the stone floor at the foot of most of the beds is a black-painted, wooden deep sea box, carrying the stencilled rank, name and service number of the owner. Boxes destined to be shipped back to the UK at the end of each Airman’s tour of duty.
Raffles, this is not, thinks Andy, throwing his bag down onto a vacant bed.
He wonders why, in mid-afternoon, the prostrate Airmen are not working.
“You’ll never get off the island!” comes a sudden cry from immediately behind them.
Andy spins around to catch sight of an overweight figure, stripped to the waist, breaking into a bout of uncontrolled laughter. A well-soiled apron hangs over a baggy pair of white trousers. His footwear consists of a pair of flip-flops, non-Service issue. Sweat has matted what remains of his thinning hair and he sports a complexion which suggests he is in permanent hiding from the sun.
“Christ, you made me jump!” recoils Andy, slapping a sticky right hand across his chest.
“You the new boy? ’Cos I’m one of the camp cooks. The name’s Ken. Always ready to do something for a birthday special, anniversaries and all that. Not the usual stuff I serve up in the Mess, though. Couple of dollars on the side will do it. Don’t forget now. But I’ll need a day’s notice.”
“What’s that about never getting off the island?”enquires Andy, ignoring the sales pitch.
“Only joking,” comes the laughing reply. “Oh yes, grub at six in the Mess – and that’s for free, every day, just like breakfast. Don’t listen to what the others say about my grub. Innocent till proved guilty is my motto. Forget anything else you might hear.”
“What you got lined up for us tonight, then? I’m hungry already,” says Andy.
“If I can borrow a boat, it’ll be fish and chips,” comes a straight-faced reply, followed by a weakly suppressed grin.
“Usually count on me to come up with a surprise or two!”
Andy watches in silence as the cook turns and waddles out of the billet and into the blistering sun.
Late afternoon sees the return to the billet of other Airmen at the end of their working day, flopping out onto their beds to a musical accompaniment of singing and whistling from the outside shower. Strolling past, a few throw a nod in the direction of the new arrival, as if in token acknowledgement of Andy’s presence.
One breaks from a group and ambles back. “Are you my relief, fireman Henry For