Tommy Smith

It’s November now; I made it back to London today.  Me ‘ouse was hit sometime while we was away so I’ve to start writin’ a new one again; diary that is.  Apparently Jerry’s bin putting us in a right state; bombs at least once a night I’ve been told.  I’ve had a butcher’s in a few of the old ‘ouses down the road; there’s a killing to be had back ‘ere.  It’s a shame sis is staying in the country I wish I could look after ‘er; It ain’t for me though; living with some fogey while Mum fafs around in the factories. I turned 13 last month so there’s bugger all she can do about it, especially wiv Dad toes up, six foot under.  Still; it would have been nice to have somewhere to lay me ‘ead down for the night, not kippin’ in this ‘orrible Anderson shelter that we built.  Oh well; tomorrow I’ll start a fresh, the new Tommy Smith – the new man.
When dad died I realised that somefink had to be done.  Bugger staying around waiting for the war to end, for the money to be taken by some uver fella’. Tonight I hit the Johnson’s ‘ouse.  He was still there, Mr. J.  I found him in the kitchen - well what was left.  I reckon the wardens took the rest to be buried, poor bloke; his left hand was still clutchin’ the ‘eavy, steel kettle.  He was making a cuppa’ when the bomb ‘it.  I left his wedding ring.  Suppose the geezer hadn’t ‘eard the sirens I’m sure he was deaf; only fella who didn’t listen to his wireless on a nightly basis.  We could never afford one; Dad was out of work so damned long.  Still, fair play to Mr J.; he’d done a fair bit of ‘oarding himself; pearls from Arabia, gold from America, and cash from the Bank of England.  A fine prize for a privateer such as myself; “Tommy No-Beard of London” they’ll ‘ear of me from Hounslow to Tottenham.  We learned about Sir Francis Drake in that little school when I was there.  He was an ‘ero to the British, claiming back the treasures from the evil Spanish foe. They have only just stopped fighting in Spain. Bloody Pedros; don’t they know there’s a war ‘appening in the rest of the world?  It’s all just flamin’ started for us and now they choose to stay out of it!  My old man was a coward, and even he went away to fight... to die. 
When I’m old enough I’ll go to war, I’ll get myself sent to the front.  I’ve heard the Russians will push through any day now, and the General Monty’s Desert Rat’ll push those idiot Germans all the way from Africa back to Berlin!  I’ll rob every Jerry, ‘cause that’ll be right, not like what I’m doing now.  I’ll steal all the wonders of the world and bring it back to Blighty to start the last part of me life.  When I add it to the money I’ve already got! Course money’s useless now what wiv’ rationin’ and the like; but one day... one day I'll own me own pub.  Everyone’ll know me.  “Tom the bar keep, Pride of London serving the finest of London’s Pride,” but for now I’ve just got to keep me ‘ead down, do me work and wait, for the next raid to ‘it. Lay low, just wait.  The


The lock’s starting to rust.  If anyone goes inside I’m done for.  Some of this plunder ‘as engravings; names, initials some of the lockets even have pictures.  I’ve not plucked up the courage to empty ‘em yet but, I know I will.  I ain’t soft or nuffink. It does get personal though. I ‘ate raiding bedrooms.  Sometimes they’re on ground level, other times they’re still there, just with the roof missing.  Either way I ‘ate going through people’s kit, especially in the dark.  I picked up a worn sock the uva day, stiff wiv sweat.  It was horrid.  The kitchens are tops though, all sorts of grub.  I found Heinz Baked Beans, tinned sardines and one can on Canine Crumble...  Me mate Spotty Muldoon was full of old cobblers; I reckon dog food doesn’t taste any worse than luncheon meat.  Though ‘e said it did.  I’m running out of room for food at home now, the bottom bunk is even covered with booty.


I’m on my way to the Barker’s, they truly were minted.  They have all sorts of expensive, shiny treasures.  The road is light but it’s almost supper time, a growl of anger from my stomach reminds me of ‘ow ‘ungry I actually am.  Not eaten since yesterday and even then it was nought but a jar of pickles.  My rear end has been like a military bugler today, I used to find trumps funny.  But I’m too old now, too mature.  Reckon I’ve got stronger and all.  I can see a reflection of myself in the mucky water to my right.  I like ’ow I look now. 
The grey streets are cold; but a Great British air o’ colour smacks through.  Pride and courage are the fings around me.  There’s a basement pub down the road with a building on top that looks like it’s almost intact, a beautiful building, warm red bricks and small covered windows.  The pub is safe and absolutely full o’ drunks. “Rule Britannia,” the words fill me ‘ead like water. I put me noggin down as I pass the tavern the stench of alcohol is missing the smell of tobacco that used to ‘old hands wiv it; some fings are really ‘ard to get ‘old of. It’s good that they’re ‘ere, if anyone sees me in the ’ouse they’ll just fink I’m drunk and having a piss or somefink.  This couldn’t be more perfect. 
The ‘ouse is exactly where I remember.  Empty and ‘alf ruined o’ course but that’s common these days.  Barker was my croney, though cos of ‘is spots we all called ‘im Spotty Muldoon.  E’ was full of rubbish but a nice bloke besides it.  ‘E was a bit ginger and that, but his old man ‘ad a real gun; so I liked ‘im.  War was wiv’ ‘is family long before ’39.  Mr. Barker was ‘avin trouble through ‘is business associates that’s why there’s the gun; Spotty showed us it, so Mr B. cuffed ‘im.  I laughed.  It’s a funny sort o’ fing, war is.  Countries ‘av wars but I reckon we all ‘av em too. Wars.  Hatred.  Enough to kill a man.  I’ve got what it takes.  Maybe Dad didn’t. Maybe that’s why ‘e died.  The bloody Yanks definitely don’t.  Those gits do bugger all, I’ve heard the men say it, and they know stuff.  “Over paid, over sexed and over ‘ere,” those lazy bastards, taking all our birds in their flash uniforms, not trainin’ and fightin’ like King George’s boys who are protecting the skies above the us, them real ‘eroes like Sir Francis Drake.
For now I’ve just gotta keep me ‘ead.  There’s an ‘ole in the rubble, almost like a gate.  Inviting me in, I know exactly what I want first.  I want that bloody gun.  A revolver, a smooth black Enfield... Mark 2... cold and deadly.  It would be where Mr. B left it, the cupboard upstairs.  Up, through razor rubble I climb. Hand over injured hand.  The stairs are still there, brick, mortar and British builders kept ‘em strong.  Silently I creep up, keeping set on my goal, the wall behind me is missing but it’s getting darker now. I’m sorted, hinges creak as I slowly open the door, but it could be any noise.  There she is, bold but dull.  6 bullets in the breach and a small few more rollin’ around it.  I place the bullets in my satchel, the gun itself in the top of me trousers, to keep it secure by my belt.  Now I actually am a pirate. 
Me stomach’s so empty it’s turnin’ somersaults and makin’ more noise than a dive bomber.  I’m so hungry; I was so caught up on findin’ this blumin’ gun.  Right, to the kitchen.  Down the stairs I go, louder this time.  I don’t care; I’m on top of the world.  A noise.  I stop, dead.  Rustling... a rat, that’s what it’ll be.  In the kitchen, I’m going in there anyway; top munch ‘ere.  Target practise, I can’t help but smile.  I pull the loaded weapon from its keep.  Safety off.  6 bullets all ready and waiting, this rat is going to get it.  I creep to the door, my feet delicately avoiding rubble. I stick to the edge of the doorway to my left, I hug the wall, gun loaded.  For you, Dad. I’m about to turn.  Breavin’ steady as I can. 3, 2, 1... Voices.  That’s no flamin’ rat! wait... it’s an American accent;  I’ll show that arrogant mug. “Freeze!” I shout in a deep, husky voice. In the scullery in front of me I see a girl’s soft blonde hair; like Sis’s.  A tall American between the slut’s legs, his trousers round his ankles make ‘im lose his balance.  I widen my stance, my revolver pointin’ straight, between the dirty soldier’s eyes. The girl turns around in shock.  I know her face; I stopped breavin’ when it struck ‘ome...  She ‘ad also left the temporary home in the country.  Everyfing goes in slow motion; my eyes turn red, I taste metallic anger and blood in my mouth, the bang deafens my ears as screaming drowns out.  Barstard.