of harness and accoutrement.
They heard the heavy trundling roll of artillery pieces hauled by half tracks and motor lorries, and later the characteristic clanking rumble and thunder of the tanks. Music never ceased now. Fife and drum calls interspersed with the brass of the military bands, to be replaced by the drone and squeal of the pipers, or the bugles and kettle-drums of Lancer or Hussar.
Sometimes there would be a pause and to the listeners penetrated the whap-whap-WHAP of arms being grounded as the parade came to a temporary halt. Then the cries of the officers would come floating across, fading into the distance, each command igniting the one behind it. Again there would be the slap and rattle of rifles being shouldered, another mournful call and the threshing rhythm of trained feet stepping in unison.
In this manner, regiment by regiment, the sounds made by the armed might of Great Britain and the Commonwealth on parade crested the wall, while overhead the bombers and fighters of the Air Force added their blasting, crackling roar of the fly-past to the grand military symphony.
And through it all a small boy, hidden and unnoticed by those packed closely about him, endured torment unspeakable.
For this was what Johnny Clagg had come for, a glimpse of those uniformed and glittering marchers on the other side of the barrier. For this he had willingly surrendered his cherished holiday. Never again during his childhood would all of the soldiers, sailors and airmen of what had once been the greatest empire the world had known be gathered to march together.
They were passing by now, steel-helmeted, pith-helmeted, bearskin-topped, capped or cuirassed, in uniforms of white, blue, green, khaki or scarlet with skins of every shade from northern white to golden tan to tropic black.
Besides the smashing British regiments where Johnny’s heart lay, there would be Fiji and Solomon Islanders, brown men from Borneo, Jamaica, Ceylon, Malay and Somaliland, regiments from Sarawak, the Bahamas, Kenya and Pakistan and the West, East and South of Africa. He should be looking upon contingents from Hong-Kong, Papua New Guinea, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and Rhodesia. When ever again would a boy be able to gaze upon the famous green-uniformed Gurkhas with their kukris , or the red coats and stetsons of the equally famous North-West Mounted Police?
With them would be rolling the mechanical monsters to enchant the heart of a boy, all the enthralling hardware of war: howitzers with black, gaping mouths, anti-aircraft cannon pointing admonishing fingers to the sky, Long Tom rifles capable of hurling an atom charge, machine-gun and mortar batteries, Bren-carriers, half tracks, field and mountain artillery, flame- and rocket-throwers, and the great land battleships, the monster tanks. All these were passing by now while Johnny stood silent and shivering in the cold and rain.
Will Clagg dared not look at his son. Another day, he promised himself, he would take him to the pictures, where he would see in colour, to be sure, what he was missing now. Yet the father knew that it wouldn’t be the same, could never be the same for the child as seeing it accompanied by all the noise and thundering of reality.
And if his son was suffering, what must yet be endured by the child who touched his heart the most, for whom he had the softest feeling because she was his daughter? What could he do when the time came for which he knew she waited – the passing of the Queen? What would he say to her? For over a month, ever since the trip had been planned, her whole life and being had been bound up with the excitement of this moment. Now he felt his own anguish to be almost unbearable.
He was holding his daughter in his arms at this point, her head resting on his shoulders, and he risked a glance at her. Her eyes were open, but her thoughts, he could see, were turned inwards as they so often did when she would retire from the external world. It was as
They heard the heavy trundling roll of artillery pieces hauled by half tracks and motor lorries, and later the characteristic clanking rumble and thunder of the tanks. Music never ceased now. Fife and drum calls interspersed with the brass of the military bands, to be replaced by the drone and squeal of the pipers, or the bugles and kettle-drums of Lancer or Hussar.
Sometimes there would be a pause and to the listeners penetrated the whap-whap-WHAP of arms being grounded as the parade came to a temporary halt. Then the cries of the officers would come floating across, fading into the distance, each command igniting the one behind it. Again there would be the slap and rattle of rifles being shouldered, another mournful call and the threshing rhythm of trained feet stepping in unison.
In this manner, regiment by regiment, the sounds made by the armed might of Great Britain and the Commonwealth on parade crested the wall, while overhead the bombers and fighters of the Air Force added their blasting, crackling roar of the fly-past to the grand military symphony.
And through it all a small boy, hidden and unnoticed by those packed closely about him, endured torment unspeakable.
For this was what Johnny Clagg had come for, a glimpse of those uniformed and glittering marchers on the other side of the barrier. For this he had willingly surrendered his cherished holiday. Never again during his childhood would all of the soldiers, sailors and airmen of what had once been the greatest empire the world had known be gathered to march together.
They were passing by now, steel-helmeted, pith-helmeted, bearskin-topped, capped or cuirassed, in uniforms of white, blue, green, khaki or scarlet with skins of every shade from northern white to golden tan to tropic black.
Besides the smashing British regiments where Johnny’s heart lay, there would be Fiji and Solomon Islanders, brown men from Borneo, Jamaica, Ceylon, Malay and Somaliland, regiments from Sarawak, the Bahamas, Kenya and Pakistan and the West, East and South of Africa. He should be looking upon contingents from Hong-Kong, Papua New Guinea, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and Rhodesia. When ever again would a boy be able to gaze upon the famous green-uniformed Gurkhas with their kukris , or the red coats and stetsons of the equally famous North-West Mounted Police?
With them would be rolling the mechanical monsters to enchant the heart of a boy, all the enthralling hardware of war: howitzers with black, gaping mouths, anti-aircraft cannon pointing admonishing fingers to the sky, Long Tom rifles capable of hurling an atom charge, machine-gun and mortar batteries, Bren-carriers, half tracks, field and mountain artillery, flame- and rocket-throwers, and the great land battleships, the monster tanks. All these were passing by now while Johnny stood silent and shivering in the cold and rain.
Will Clagg dared not look at his son. Another day, he promised himself, he would take him to the pictures, where he would see in colour, to be sure, what he was missing now. Yet the father knew that it wouldn’t be the same, could never be the same for the child as seeing it accompanied by all the noise and thundering of reality.
And if his son was suffering, what must yet be endured by the child who touched his heart the most, for whom he had the softest feeling because she was his daughter? What could he do when the time came for which he knew she waited – the passing of the Queen? What would he say to her? For over a month, ever since the trip had been planned, her whole life and being had been bound up with the excitement of this moment. Now he felt his own anguish to be almost unbearable.
He was holding his daughter in his arms at this point, her head resting on his shoulders, and he risked a glance at her. Her eyes were open, but her thoughts, he could see, were turned inwards as they so often did when she would retire from the external world. It was as
Similar Books
