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Joshua Margerison Signals
British Army Royal Engineers
This is the story was told me by my father pictured above, I have used poetic licence in telling it, but it truly happened.
Boots, Boots, Boots.
Bloody boots! Thought John as he stamped his feet. They were hurting him badly where the leather had rubbed the skin from his heels. He'd tried every trick in the book to make the leather softer, including peeing in them and leaving them to soak all night, but they still hurt. He wriggled his toes and stamped his feet again. He ought not to grumble. His platoon had drawn a week behind the lines and all he had to do was make sure the colonel's horse was groomed and ready for its owner. But even on a cushy job like this his feet gave him gyp. Like a lot of the lads he was convinced that the only cure for his foot problems was to find himself a pair of decent boots, and by decent boots he meant a pair of German officer's knee boots. Some of his mates had managed to get hold of a pair and to hear them talk you would almost believe that such footwear was created by God's Holy Angels.
He heard the colonel approaching so he put down his currycomb, straightened up, and saluted. The Officer smiled at him as he took the horse's reins.
"You've done a good job there, Private, but it's time you were off to breakfast. I won't be needing you for the rest of the day."
John put away the curry brush and walked quickly across to the barn, which served as mess for his platoon. He pushed open the door and was greeted by a loud shout of laughter which came from his mates who were sitting round inside. Quickly he held out his mess tin to Cookie, who slapped in a dollop of porridge and two thick slices of bread, which looked stale as usual. He longed to be home enjoying an oven bottom cake straight from his mother's oven. Army bread was always stale. He made his way to the table he raising an inquiring eyebrow to ask what the laughter was about. His expression was enough to set the men off spluttering again.
It turned out that they were laughing at Alf, the platoon scrounger, who'd been to the nearby farm to try to beg, borrow or steal a fresh egg from the French widow woman. As he'd gone through the gate he'd noticed two of her cows were loose. Slapping the nearest one on the rump he'd attempted to drive them back into the yard, all the while yelling at the top of his voice, "Madam, la leche promenade, la leche promenade." Despite his muddled French Madam knew exactly what he meant. She'd gathered her long skirt up at the waist and yelling French swear words at the top of her voice joined in the chase. Once the cows were behind the rail the widow had shown her gratitude with a fine reward.
"She gave him that egg there," shouted Taffy pointing to Alf's mess tin, which was smeared with the remains of an egg yolk. "Lucky bastard."
John finished his porridge and reached for the tin of Tickler's raspberry and apple jam; a jam that owed its existence more to turnip fields than the raspberry canes. Some of the lads reckoned the pips were made from bits of wood. He chewed with a gusto, it softened the stale bread and filled the emptiness in his stomach.
His best mate, Bert, was nattering about some German boots he'd spied as he was coming away from the trenches that morning. Bert, the company dispatch rider, had owned a market stall in civvy life, and he still kept his eyes skinned for a bargain. It was amazing what he 'found' on his errands. He spent most his time with his head down looking for something to half inch. It was a wonder he didn't crash his bike. Though to be honest you couldn't really blame him, there's nothing more enticing to a sniper than a head in the sights of his gun.
Bert described how gob struck he'd been when a fine pair of German boots lying side by side in a rut at the edge of the track. He reckoned he'd get at least five bob for them from one of the lads. He'd balanced the bike and rushed across to grab them.
At this point Bert's story came to a sudden halt. He reached for his mug and took a great gulp of tea.
"Get on, with the story, lad," begged Taffy. Like all the rest he was determined that one day, he too, would own such a pair. John was busy working out whether he'd enough money to make a bid. Pay day was tomorrow, surely Bert would wait till then, after all they'd been best mates long before they left Blighty. He just hoped they'd fit him.
Slowly Bert lowered his mug and gazed one by one at the men sitting at the table. "Don't get too excited like," he announced, " I ain't got no boots."
A groan went up from the group.
" But, you said you found some this morning. Where are they? Why haven't you got them? Oh, don't tell me you've sold them already?" shouted John in disgust. "Some pal you've turned out to be, you could have given me first chance at them. I thought we was mates."
"Now hold on a minute lad," replied Bert. "I haven't finished yet. I haven't sold nothing, them boots are still where I saw them. If you're that damned keen to have them go and fetch them yourself."
The men at the table fell silent at this remark; it wasn't like Bert to get shirty, he was usually the most placid of men. It took the Duty Sergeant's cry of, "Any complaints?" to rouse them, and for once there were no smart Alec replies.
"Well if you've nothing to complain about you'd better get the hell out of here. You're like a lot of Chelsea Pensioners sitting around enjoying retirement. Get a shufti on or I'll arrange for some pack drill keep you busy."
As they piled out of the barn John caught up with Bert.
"If they didn't fit you, you could have brought them back for me. You know I've always wanted a pair."
"Brought them back for you," echoed Bert as he kicked the dust up under his feet and looked anywhere except at his mate. "If you want the damn things lad, you can fetch them for yourself. I don't mind saying that you're welcome to them! They'll still be there, if you want them, about half a mile back down the track. I don't think they'll have walked away on their own."
"Thanks for nothing." shouted John looking back over his shoulder. "Don't count on me for any favours in future."
Bert's choked reply brought him to a sudden halt. "Ah, John, believe me, I'm still your mate lad, but for Christ's sake watch out. Treat them with respect. You see the poor bugger's feet and legs are still inside them!"
