Over The Wall

As views went, this was one that went nowhere. Just a few yards from her bedroom window, across the narrow street, the light was blocked by a massive brick wall thirty feet high.

This was the rear wall of the city prison, built in Victorian times to keep people like her safe from the worst examples of human depravity. Beyond that wall were armed robbers, murderers and rapists who could harm no-one – apart from each other, if they had a mind to. The view from the window might have been depressing, but it offered a high degree of reassurance. It also kept the rent low on her tiny terraced house built in the shadow of the prison.

As she got ready to go to bed at about ten o’clock she did what she did every night – turned on her light and drew the curtains before getting undressed. Her eyes did not usually do more than take in a cursory glimpse of the prison wall, which had after all looked exactly the same for far longer than her lifetime, but tonight there was good reason for them to take a closer look, aided by the streetlights that were now flickering on. Surely there was something moving on the wall, almost exactly opposite her house?

She stopped still and watched as her suspicion was confirmed. Something was dangling from the top of the wall. It looked like a length of rope, getting longer by the second and reaching further and further down the wall. She had scarcely taking in this extraordinary fact when she saw something even more remarkable – a figure of a man had appeared at the top of the wall and was now descending the rope. She realised to her horror that she was witnessing a prison escape, right outside her house.

Her first thought was that she had to phone the police immediately to report what she was seeing, but two things held her back. One was the belief that the prison authorities must surely know that an escape attempt was being made – the place bristled with TV cameras, including ones that scanned the entire length of the prison walls, inside and out – but the second reason was sheer fascination at what she was witnessing. Any move away from the window to grab her phone would mean that she would miss seeing what must surely be a once-in-a–lifetime experience, namely a real live prison breakout.

She was therefore able to see the man on the rope get to within ten feet or so of the ground when a second figure appeared at the top of the wall. This must be the first man’s companion. No doubt the two had been planning this escape for months - getting hold of the rope, working out how to fix it on the other side of the wall, not to mention contriving to be out of their cells at a time when their presence near the wall would not be detected.

She was still watching and working out the scenario when things took an even more dramatic turn. Something must have gone very wrong on the inside of the wall because suddenly the rope broke loose and both men fell on to the pavement. The man who had fallen nearly the full height of the wall lay motionless on the ground, but the other one was soon on his feet and looking wildly about him. He was clearly in two minds about what he should do – help his companion or make good his escape.

The woman at the window could work out for herself that there was little to be gained by trying to get the man on the ground to get up – in what light there was she could see a dark patch spreading from where his head must have been. It was clear that the other man had come to the same conclusion, although as he moved away it was also obvious that his shorter fall had had consequences – he limped badly, possibly the result of a broken ankle. He must be in considerable pain, thought the woman.

And then her emotions did a U-turn. Whereas she had always felt immense gratitude that the dregs of society were safely inside the wall and she was on the outside, now that one of their number was no longer inside she found herself hoping that he would get away. It had been like the time she had visited a turkey farm and one of the birds escaped through a hole in the fence – although no vegetarian, she could not help but wish that somebody’s Christmas dinner would be denied them.

It was now clear that the escape had been noticed by the prison authorities. Sirens wailed inside the prison, lights blazed, and police cars could be heard approaching from several directions. The escapee could hear these too, and the woman could see him panicking over what to do next. The police would surely seal off both ends of the street within seconds, so he took the only course open to him, which was to drag his injured foot though the tunnel passageway that separated the woman’s house from that of her neighbour.

“Oh my God”, she thought to herself, “did I remember to lock my back door?”

She rushed downstairs and into her kitchen, but a few seconds too late. Just as she reached it, the back door was thrown open, knocking her to the floor. When she got up she was face to face with the prisoner.

The man she saw could best be described with the word “vulnerable”. If you had asked her to sum up an average inmate of the prison, in the days before the escape, she would have produced all the usual clichés – dangerous, desperate, dregs of society, getting their just desserts – but seeing one of them in her kitchen produced very different emotions in her.

Before, when she had seen the men fall from the wall, she had empathised with them as escapees, but with no more fellow feeling than she had felt for the escaped turkey, but now she was seeing an individual person. All turkeys look alike, but this was one man, and one who was in pain and afraid.

He was also very young. There was little time for analysing the situation, but the woman could not help wondering what story lay behind this young man ending up behind bars.

They stared at each other, but he was the first one to speak.

“I didn’t do it”, he said.

And that was all he said. As might have been expected, the whole area was now awash with police and prison officers, who had wasted little time in following the young man down the passageway and to the woman’s back door. He was soon in handcuffs and being dragged away, screaming with pain as his damaged ankle was given little sympathy.

She was left with a general feeling of helplessness. She also wanted to know so much more. Perhaps every escaped prisoner claimed to be innocent, but the look in that young man’s eyes, during the brief moment they were in communication, seemed to be telling the truth.

© John Welford

Vote For Me!

Vote For Me – you know it makes sense

I’ll scale every wall and climb every fence

I’ll swim every moat and fight every foe

I’ll take on your fears and lay them all low

There’s no noble deed that I wouldn’t do

And, needless to say, you know it’s all true

Vote For Me – I’m pure as the snow

When temptation comes I always say No

My record is free of sordid affair

In skeleton terms my cupboard is bare

My years behind bars stand proudly at nought

Well, let’s just say that I’ve never been caught

Vote For Me – the other lot’s worse

None to be found in the whole universe

They’re cads and they’re rotters – not very nice

Murder your granny? They wouldn’t think twice

They’ll take all your cash and land you in debt

Which I wouldn’t do, so never you fret

Vote For Me – the obvious choice

Loudly express your political voice

Turn out in numbers and give me your Yes

What I’ll do with it is anyone’s guess

When I’m in office what good will I do?

Frankly, dear voters, I haven’t a clue.

© John Welford

Remember, remember

I have never served in a military unit or had direct experience of warfare. There are no war memorials that bear the names of family members from past generations, because all those who served came back to tell the tale. Remembrance Day does not therefore have a direct impact on me.

However, that is not to say that there was no family involvement in the wars of the 20^th century, because my father’s two older brothers served in World War I, and one of these uncles lived in the family home when I was growing up. Uncle Frank, who was 56 years old when I was born, was not like many veterans who refused to speak about their experiences – instead, he was more than happy to tell me about what happened to him during his early 20s on the Western Front.

Apart from that, he kept diaries for the time that he served in the Army, and those diaries have been preserved to the present day. They were written in pencil that has become smudged over the years and are therefore difficult to read, so it is fortunate that in later life he summarised them in ink and this summary is much more accessible.

When war was declared on 4^th August 1914 Frank Welford was 18 years old and living with his parents and brothers in Frome, Somerset, where his father was the Methodist Minister. The diary entry read: “Saw water polo at Baths – Frome 6, Gloucester City 2. Standard very high – match very exciting”. His later comments were: “No mention of War declaration in diary. I had no idea then that it would affect me”.

Soon afterwards he started his student life at Reading University College, his intention being to qualify as a teacher. However, during his second term (in March 1915) he volunteered to join the Army but was rejected on the grounds that he wore glasses.

The following year he volunteered again and was accepted under a scheme that allowed students to defer their service until they had finished their exams.

In July 1916, having passed his second year exams and gained a teacher’s certificate, he joined up and began his Army training at Plymouth. His medical category was B1, which was defined as “fit for Garrison duty abroad”, and he was promptly assigned to the Royal Garrison Artillery.

His first experience of Army life was on Spike Island in Queenstown Harbour, southern Ireland, during the tense period following the Easter Rising, although he stated that he “wasted a month or so as Library and Post Orderly”.  There were also gun and shell drills to be undertaken, but no shots were fired in anger at anyone.

In January 1917 he was moved back to England (Prees Heath, Shropshire), joined the 321 siege battery and trained to become a “Battery Commander’s Assistant”. After more firing practice in March at Lydd in Kent his unit was mobilised and sent to France on a troop ship that sailed from Southampton to Le Havre.

He was stationed near the Lille Gate in Ypres, a city that was largely in ruins. On 2^nd June an enemy shell landed uncomfortably close to him as he crossed the town square and he suffered three puncture wounds to his leg. He was transported back to England for treatment and recovery and in September was sent to Catterick Camp in North Yorkshire. His duties, due to his low medical status at that time, were light and consisted mostly of playing the piano in the concert party that entertained the troops and performed at dances and other musical events.

He returned to active service in March 1918 as a member of the 179 siege battery at Agny, near Arras. After serving as a gunner he became a Battery Commander’s Assistant, positioned near the officer’s mess, and described his fighting from that point on as being done “with maps, range tables and slide rules”.

As the war progressed towards its conclusion, the battery was constantly on the move as it took up fresh positions in order to provide artillery cover for the advancing troops. However, Frank had another spell of incapacity in October, this time due to a skin infection that was probably caused by lice. By the time he had recovered and rejoined his unit the war was nearly over and the battery’s last rounds were fired on 25^th October.

After the Armistice was signed on 11^th November the Army had to stay where it was for several months. Frank was lucky in that, as a student, he was in a high category for demobilisation. Even so, it was not until late January 1919 that he was able to return home, which was now in Blandford, Dorset, and his official date of discharge was 25^th February.

In October he returned to Reading to finish his degree, but was greeted with the news that he had been included on the college’s “list of the dead” – an error that he was happy to correct. He stayed at Reading until the autumn of 1921, taking his finals in November. Although he qualified to teach Geography, his interest in Music was unabated and he later recounted that rubbed shoulders at one time with the composer Edmund Rubbra and also met Gustav Holst.

In January 1922 he started his first teaching job, at Gillingham Grammar School in Dorset, and his post-war career was under way.

As we all know, another war came along in 1939, but by this time Frank was 43. He served in the Home Guard at Weymouth, where he was teaching at the time, but that was the closest he ever got to fighting an enemy.

As war stories go, Frank Welford’s was not the most enthralling. He never went “over the top” or even saw a German soldier except during his sojourn at Catterick where a number of prisoners of war were held in confinement. His actual time spent on the Western Front only amounted to a few months out of the four years of World War I. Nevertheless, he did serve his country and his story is just as valid as any other and deserves to be remembered alongside all the rest.

© John Welford

An Artist's Inspiration

(The idea was to imagine the events that might have led to what is portrayed in a well-known work of art. My choice here was one of the best-known of all, namely The Scream by Edvard Munch)

An Artist’s Inspiration

The day started off absolutely fine, but then I made a fundamental error – I woke up and got out of bed. Normally this is not too much of a problem; it is, after all, what I have done every day of my life for as long as I can remember. I knew from the outset that I would have one small difficulty to overcome, which was clearing up the mess that I knew the cat had deposited somewhere in the room when it was sick in the middle of the night. He’s getting on in years and his digestion is not as robust as it used to be, so this is not unusual.

All I have to do is grab a piece of kitchen paper, collect the mess, bin it, and then apply a wet-wipe to the affected piece of carpet. In order to do this I get out of bed, put on my slippers and go and fetch what I need. The difference today was that my beloved feline had decided to throw up not on the carpet but in my left slipper. As starts to the day go, I could have wished for better.

Another thing I have done with scarcely a thought for more years than I care to remember is wash, shave and get dressed. Today, for no apparent reason, my razor slipped sideways and I suffered one of those cuts that goes on bleeding for far longer than is either necessary or convenient. It seemed to take for ever to get things under control.

I had promised a friend that I would deliver a piece of work that I knew was urgent for him. His printer was on the blink so I said I would print it at home and take the sheets over to him as soon as I could. With time being a bit shorter than expected today, thanks to cat and razor, I needed to make short work of breakfast if I was going to catch the bus in time. One quick bowl of muesli plus a generous dollop of milk would fit the bill.

OK – I knew that there were two bottles of milk in the fridge and that one of them was somewhat past its use-by date. I had spotted that it was slightly “off” the night before, so why didn’t I chuck it out when I had the chance? You may well ask. Needless to say, I grabbed hold of the wrong bottle, splashed it all over the muesli and took a generous mouthful. It may well have been slightly off eight hours previously, but now it was completely off. It tasted so awful that in my disgust I spat out the mouthful and made a mess on the table that was similar in appearance to that produced in my slipper by the cat.

With breakfast abandoned I hurriedly threw feet into shoes and broke a shoelace. I couldn’t find a suitable replacement pair and so had to fasten my shoes with laces that were far too long. No matter. I still had time to grab the file of papers for my friend and rush outside to the bus stop.  I was just in time as the bus came round the corner.

I should have watched my feet more carefully, because I tripped over my too-long shoelaces and measured my length on the pavement. The file flew out of my hand and the sheets scattered in all directions, some of them landing in a nearby puddle. As I picked myself up and desperately tried to gather the papers, the bus tootled merrily on its way without stopping.

I had no choice but to rush back home and print off another set, with a view to catching the next bus twenty minutes later. Or at least I would have done if it had just been the papers that escaped from me as I fell. I hadn’t noticed that my front-door key had also gone missing, so I had no choice but to go back and search for it. Fortunately it had not disappeared down a storm drain, but it was at least five minutes before I found it.

Back home, I started to run off the second set of prints when the printer ran out of ink. I knew I had a replacement cartridge somewhere, but could I find it? The answer to that question was -Eventually, but not in time for me to catch the next bus.

It was therefore an hour after my intended arrival that I knocked on my friend’s door with papers in hand, ready to apologise profusely for the delay. The response I got was not exactly what I was expecting.

“Oh, that was so good of you to go to all that trouble”, he said, “but I managed to get the printer fixed last night and I’ve done everything I needed to do. I suppose I should have phoned you to tell you not to bother, but it completely slipped my mind.”

That was when I lost control. I ran down the road and across the bridge, where I saw an artist at work with his easel. I hope he didn’t mind when I let out a lengthy and ear-piercing SCREEEEAM!!!!!!

© John Welford