This is the second part of Jimmy Morgan’s story, to be updated month by month, until 1918, if Jimmy survives that long.
While you’re here, I’d be very grateful if you’d glance through the site and take a look at my books, too. After all, writing is what I do (that was the ad segment).
It had been a piss poor month. The only good thing was that so many had joined up at the factory that he’d been promoted to fitter. Another shilling a week in the pay packet. But that went to his mam, anyway. And not as good as a uniform and a rifle. He’d had letters from his mates, already off training, saying how good the grub was. Everything found.
Another month and he’d be eighteen. Jimmy Morgan, private. It had a ring to it.
‘Don’t be so bloody daft,’ his father had said. ‘They can’t send you overseas until you’re nineteen, anyway. Don’t you know owt?’
‘Where does it say that?’
‘It’s the law,’ Terry Morgan told him as he put on his cap and left for his evening drink.
‘Don’t you go doing it, Jimmy,’ his mother said as she sat down on the other side of the table. ‘It’ll break your da’s heart.’
‘Him?’ He laughed. His father was made of stone. Ale, fists, and anger, that was all he knew.
‘He’ll not say it, but it’s true. He’s been that worried since you tried to join up.’
‘I’m eighteen soon enough.’
‘I know, luv.’ She reach out a thin, worn hand and took his. ‘And I know it’s a good thing to do. Someone has to defend the country. But just think on it first.’
There wasn’t much thinking to do. Though. Not when you were out of an evening and all the lasses looked at you, wondering why you were still here, if you were a coward. He tried to explain a few times, but it was all wasted words. They didn’t want to listen.
Still, not long until he was eighteen now. Then he could look everyone in the eye.