As the Crow Flies by Jeffrey Archer Page A

durin’ my time with the Fussies,” he repeated pondering the words.
    “Bet
your family will be glad to see you when you get back to civvy street.”
    “Whatever’s
left of them,” said Charlie as he turnd to go. His final task was to report to
the paymaster’s office and receive his last pay packet and travel voucher
before relinquishing the King’s shilling.
    “Trumper,
the dory officer would like a word with you,” said the sergeant major, after
Charlie had completed what he had assumed was his last duty.
    Lieutenant
Makepeace and Lieutenant Harvey would always be his duty officers, thought Charlie
as he made his way back across the parade ground in the direction of the
company offices. Some fresh-faced youth, who had not been properly introduced
to the enemy, now had the nerve to try and take their place.
    Charlie
was about to salute the lieutenant when he remembered he was no longer in
uniform, so he simply removed his cap.
    “You
wanted to see me, sir?”
    “Yes,
Trumper, a personal matter.” The young officer touched a large box that lay on
his desk. Charlie couldn’t quite see what was inside.
    “It
appears, Trumper, that your friend Private Prescott made a will in which he
left everything to you.”
    Charlie
was unable to hide his surprise as the lieutenant pushed the box across the
table.
    “Would
you be kind enough to check through its contents and then sign for them?”
    Another
buff form was placed in front of him. Above the typed name of Private Thomas
Prescott was a paragraph written in a bold large hand. An “X” was scrawled
below it, witnessed by Sergeant Major Philpott.
    Charlie
began to remove the objects from the box one by one. Tommy’s mouth organ, rusty
and falling apart, seven pounds eleven shillings and sixpence in back pay,
followed by a German officer’s helmet. Next Charlie took out a small leather
box and opened the lid to discover Tommy’s Military Medal and the simple words “For
bravery in the field” printed across the back. He removed the medal and held it
in the palm of his hand.
    “Must
have been a jolly brave chan, Prescott,” said the lieutenant. “Salt of the
earth and all that.”
    “And
all that,” agreed Charlie.
    “A
religious man as well?”
    “No,
can’t pretend ‘e was,” said Charlie, allowing himself a smile. “Why do you ask?”
    “The
picture,” said the lieutenant, pointing back into the box. Charlie leaned
forward and stared down in disbelief at a painting of the Virgin Mary and
Child. It was about eight inches square and framed in black teak. He took the
portrait out and held it in his hands.
    He
gazed at the deep reds, purples and blues that dominated the central figure in
the painting, feeling certain he’d seen the image somewhere before. It was
several moments before he replaced the little oil in the box along with Tommy’s
other possessions.
    Charlie
put his cap back on and turned to go, the box under one arm, a brown paper
parcel under the other and a ticket to London in his top pocket.
    As
he marched out of the barracks to make his way to the station he wondered how
long it would be before he could walk at a normal pace when he reached the
guardroom he stopped and turned round for one last look at the parade ground. A
set of raw recruits was marching up and down with a new drill instructor who
sounded every bit as determined as the late Sergeant Major Philpott had been to
see that the snow was never allowed to settle.
    Charlie
turned his back on the parade ground and began his journey to London. He was
nineteen years of age and had only just qualified to receive the King’s
shilling; but now he was a couple of inches taller, shaved and had even come
near to losing his virginity.
    He’d
done his bit, and at least felt able to agree with the Prime Minister on one
matter. He had surely taken part in the war to end all wars.
    The
night sleeper from Edinburgh was full of men in uniform who eyed the
civilian-clad Charlie with