The Redemption of 'Orrible Jones

Jones the fart sat on the firestep and cleaned his boots. Officially, he was Jones 29 but the boys of the Battalion found it easier to remember Jones the Fart. Besides, it was what he did. They always thought of Jones 53 as Wonky-teeth Jones and Jones 36 as Jones the Smell. Every Jones in the Battalion, and there were 279 of them at the last count, had an alternative name. This was just as it was back in the Valleys where they were known by their occupations or some noticable characteristic: like Jones the Bread and Jones the Meat or Jones the Nose. Informal naming even took root with the officers so that Jones the Lieutenant called Jones the Boots when he wanted a runner and Jones the Tea when he was thirsty. Captain Llewellyn at first eschewed such frivolities but even he couldn't remember all the numbers and eventually gave in and started to call the men by their trench nomenclatures.
Jones the Dig was excavating a site for the bombers to rest and be safe in. With him were Reece and Williams and Cotton and Jones the Bang, who was the Company Bomber and always to be found twirling his Tommy bar with a gleam in his eye or trying to learn how to juggle. He had been forced to practice with rolled-up socks for his own safety as much as for the safety of the others, but his ambition was to progress to entertaining the lads by juggling three Mills Bombs all at the same time.
Jones the Dig was only happy with a pick and shovel in his hands. Give him a hole to dig and he'd whistle away and have a fine hole for you in no time at all. Though he prefered to work alone he did have one mate: a scruffy terrier he called Nelson because of the black patch around the dog's left eye. Everyone loved Nelson when he caught and killed the fat rats in the dugouts. They didn't like Nelson quite so much when he passed wind, which was frequently.
"Bloody hell fire, that dog's worse than Jones the Fart, as I live and breathe!"
"Well, do neither," was Jones the Dig's reply.

Of all the men in his Company, Jones the Lieutenant found 'Orrible Jones the least likable. 'Orrible was the only son of a sheep farmer who lived inland from Aberystwyth. Philosophy Jones called him "A bloody cybydd!" meaning that he, 'Orrible, was tight with his money, amongst other things. After it became clear that Jones the Cybydd wouldn't catch on with the non-Welsh speakers it was eventually decided to call him Jones the Horrible for there was already a Jones the Miser and a Jones the Skinflint. Eventually it was corrupted to 'Orrible Jones.
"He'll never share a gasper with you," said Jones the Smoke.
"And you'll never get a drink our of him," said Rhodri Morgan, the Lance Corporal. "Not even if you're dying of thirst." Morgan would then draw deeply on his pipe before telling you some long and rambling tale of someone he knew back in the Rhonda who was just like Jones the Horrible.
Their four days in the front line was over and the Company was moved back beyond Reserve to billets several miles behind the lines.
Life away from the action quickly develops a life of its own: there's roll-call and sick parade and foot inspections all at regular times, and then there's training and kit inspections and more feet inspections and the occasional visit to the mobile baths and, if you're unlucky, uniforms will be taken and cleaned. It's the after-effect of the cleaning that's the problem... uniform is issued that never fits (so you spend half an hour or so in a near-naked state trying to swap for a better fit), then there are the lice (chatts as the lads call them) which should have been killed off by the cleaning but which survive and thrive in the seams of the tunics and trousers and need working on. So, you sit somewhere in the sun and chatt away with your mates and all the while pass a candle flame along the seams and listen to the tiss as the lice burn.
"They do say that Captain Llewellyn is due for promotion," says Jones the Boots, trying to maintain the illusion that Company Runners know everything first.
"Who is that then, who says the Captain is due for promotion?" asks Doubting-Thomas Jones.
"It's all over Battalion HQ. Heard it last time I was there," says Jones the Boots.
"That's only a latrine rumour," says young Lewis from Carmarthen. "I heard he was being stellenbosched for some discrepencies in the rations."
"Rubbish," says Jones the Fart. "That wern't the Captain's fault it were all that fault of the bloody Quarter Bloke."

As the day moved into evening and the lads' duties were over they drift in small groups and singly down the road, passed the row of red-brisk cottages with their green-painted shutters, to the end house where there is already a smell of fried cooking drifting from the open door. At the door a roly-poly French matron stands saying "Cheero, come in boys, come in" to everyone who walks by; and into her house go the boys to enjoy the cheap red wine and fried egg and chips.
"Pomfritz, my dear," says Jones the Fart to Madame's daughter; a sallow-faced girl sweating behind a large frying pan. She shovels the greasy chips into a fold of paper and he pays her a few sous. "What more could a man ask for other than a glass of vin blanc and a mouthful of pomfritz, eh?"
"It's quiet tonight Madame? No piano player?" Madame shrugs her shoulders. "Young Lewis'll do the business for you, won't you lad?" Lewis is dragged over to the piano and shoved onto the stool. It isn't long before the whole of the estaminet are singing and shouting for first this and then that particular favourite.
Sat in a corner, nursing a glass of white wine, 'Orrible Jones thinks about the last letter he'd received from home. He'd had quite a good job as a rent collector in Swansea but he'd volunteered despite the pleas of his wife. If he were honest then he'd been glad to escape. Rhiannon was pregnant with their first child and he wasn't even sure he wanted to be a father. She'd told him about the baby before he'd signed up and she was bitter at what she saw as this abrogation of his duties. "You're a bastard and a coward James Jones!" Those had been the last words she'd said to him. Now she'd moved and he had no idea where she and the baby were. He tried to pretend that he didn't care but the pain in his chest wouldn't budge.
"What's up, 'Orrible?" Rhodri Morgan slumps down on the bench next to him. "Look like you've lost a shillin' and found a penny, eh?" 'Orrible didn't answer. Morgan takes a box of cheap cigarettes out of his tunic pocket. "Fancy an 'orror, 'Orrible?" Morgan laughs. "I've only got Red Rubies and they make me cough but they're better than nothing, eh?" 'Orrible shakes his head.
"No thanks, but you can have one of mine." 'Orrible takes out a fresh packet of Woodbines and gives the lot to Morgan. "Keep 'em," he adds and stands up.
"Bloody hell! Wonders'll never cease, eh?" says Morgan, taken aback.

Outside, there is a three-quarter moon shining in a clear, indigo sky. Once free from the fried-fat stink of the estaminet 'Orrible can smell the grass and the residual heat of the day. From the garden of one of the cottages comes the sweet perfume of night-scented flowers. His mother had flowers like those, back in the village, behind the post office where she grew up. As he slowly walks along that French village street the nails on the soles of his ammunition boots click-clack on the pave. It's deserted and that suits 'Orrible's mood. So strong is the urge to keep walking that he is free of the cottages and well beyond the barn that is his billet before he realises where he is. Leaning against the parapet of the small bridge he regrets giving Morgan his fags, but only for a moment. The look on Morgan's face had been worth it.
Below him the oil-dark waters of the stream shush their way over the bed of stones. Occasionally, further down stream, there's a discernable plop as a fish rises to feed on some nocturnal insect. He misses his wife more than he ever expected to. Being a dad can't be that bad, he thinks. The little one'd be nye on a year old by now, and probably walking. There were mail calls and Jones the Post brings the letters in and there is never anything for him. Even Jones the Fart has letters from a wife and family. Jones the tea has seven children and the youngest would be the same age as his little Gwyneth. It made it worse knowing her name. Bugger, he could do with a fag!
Halfway back down the road to the estaminet 'Orrible spots the turd-walloper swaying down the road. "Well-met, well-met you horrible Jones, you!" calls out the latrine orderly as they pass. 'Orrible doesn't like the man but, for decencies sake, tells him his flies are undone. "You've got a Turkish medal showing," he says.
"No need to worry there my lad, I'm on the batter and it'll save precious time." The turd-walloper taps the side of his nose in a knowing and conspiratorial way and sways on down the street.
The desire for a cigarette has gone. Some instinct deep down in 'Orrible makes him turn and follow the drunken man. It isn't long before the attention of both men has been drawn to a lighted window. The shutters have not been closed and it is possible to see inside.
An oil lamp is set on a bare wooden table and casts a mellow light around the kitchen. An old woman sits in a high-backed chair by the open fire-place while a younger woman is at the table mending a blouse.
Distracted by a noise behind him 'Orrible turns but it's only a cat. When he turns back the turd-walloper has vanished. For a moment the quiet domesticity of the scene in the kitchen attracts 'Orrible's attention: the soft light from the lamp gilds the young woman's face and her thick mop of hair, piled high on the crown of her head, glows copper and jet. The grandmother is half in deep shadow and the glass of red wine on the table traps the warmth of the light.
A noise, cursing, comes from the other side of the house and the woman looks up. Fearing the worst 'Orrible runs round to the dark side of the house from where the noise had come. He's too late for all that he sees is the back door swinging open.
By the time 'Orrible can make his way through the door and along the passage all is confusion. Inside the kitchen he sees the grandmother sprawled on the flag-stone floor, inert, and the young woman cowering in the corner hugging a bundle close to her breast.
"I'll have you know that I'm a good boy, a very good boy!" The turd-walloper rocks on his feet and waves his arms. "I'm a good boy and every good boy deserves a treat, don't you know?" Tears well up in the woman's eyes and she looks terrified from one man to the other. "No need to be scared, I'm here to save the sacred soil of blessed, bloody France, so you should be grateful to your saviour. Tommy needs his treats!"
From the bundle in the woman's arms comes the whimper of a baby waking up.
"Got a little bastard have you? And whose little bastard is that eh?" The turd-walloper takes a faltering step forward, his right foot brushing the old woman's head.
"Stand clear!" 'Orrible speaks for the first time. The turd-walloper spins round and looks angrily at 'Orrible.
"Time to go," says 'Orrible.
"Time to bloody-well go, eh?" parrots the turd-walloper but a look of cunning spreads across his face. "Is the nice boy goin' to take me up the little wooden hill to Bedforshire, eh? And then come back to claim his reward from the little mam'selle, eh?"
"It late and the baby should be asleep," says 'Orrible in an effort to placate the other man.
"I spend my days shovelling shit... do you have any idea what it's like to shovel shit all day long?... your bloody shit! No, of course you don't! It's bloody horrible that's what it is." The turd-walloper has rocked his way back across the kitchen floor and is close to 'Orrible when he suddenly swings his right fist and catches 'Orrible a clean blow to the side of the face. 'Orrible feels the strength leave his legs as he falls to the floor.
"That's better," says the turd-walloper. "Time for a bit of fun before beddy-bies" as he aims his right boot at 'Orrible's stomach. But his timing is off and 'Orrible slides the old woman's chair in the way. Rather than 'Orrible's stomach the turd-walloper's boot catches the chair leg. A well-placed swing of his leg fells the drunken man and a right to the turd-walloper's jaw loosens a couple of teeth and renders the man unconscious.
'Orrible helps the old lady to her feet and then into her chair. She is further revived by a glass of wine. The younger woman remains cautious and holds the baby even tighter to her. 'Orrible's attempt at smiling are hampered by the bruising to his face and the swelling to his jaw. A few mumbled words are all he can manage before hoisting the comatose turd-walloper over his shoulder and walking out into the night.

There are the usual rumours circulating but the truth comes out when the turd-walloper is eventually court martialled for other assaults and, for a while, 'Orrible becomes a hero though no one ever thinks to change his nickname.

When their time in rest is over, and they parade ready to march back to the Reserve, the villagers line the street to wave them off. The lads of the Company sing a couple of songs for the entertainment of their audience and the roly-poly Madame of the estaminet cries. When time comes for the Company to march off some wag choses to start the singing of "We're 'ere because we're 'er because we're 'er..." and to this they march smartly down the village street. Names are called out and good luck wished and as 'Orrible passes the last cottage in the street an attractive French woman with a baby in her arms and her copper-coloured hair piled high on her head leaves the group of villagers and reaches out to 'Orrible and gives him a rose.