The Salvation Army Officer

The sun filled the sky, a vault of heaven painted a deep, rich blue. The air was clear and filled with the sweet scent of summer. The only sounds were those of the long grass rustling in a perfect, warm, gentle breeze; the soft creak of a long abandoned water wheel still turning on its spindle and the drone of insects going about their insectly business. It was a shining moment and it seemed as if a stretch of hearing would pick up the sounds of angels singing. Lazily curious, Maxwell strained his ears and did hear an odd, out of place noise on the edge of hearing. But it didn't sound like a choir of the celestial hoards, it sounded very much like a telephone. The sound jerked Maxwell out of his sublime dream and into the world of waking. He allowed himself a brief moment to adjust to his dark, untidy bedroom in the on-call flat then he reached over and snatched up the receiver.
"Yes?" He said into it, the perfect dream fading and leaving Maxwell feeling slightly depressed that the world was so much more flawed.
"Captain? Are you awake?" A stupid question, Maxwell thought and wanted to say so.
"Yes, I'm awake." He replied instead, "What's happening?" He listened as the night receptionist explained that a fight had broken out and he'd had to call an ambulance and the police but he should probably come down himself. Maxwell said that he would then crawled out of his uncomfortable bed. He was already wearing his uniform trousers so all he had to do was pull on the shirt hung up on the back of the door before he left the flat. Maxwell had been a Salvation Army officer for more years than he cared to count, always on social. He'd made a choice after training college, as everyone had to, and he'd decided to embrace the Salvation Army philosophy of 'heart to God, hand to man' and ply his trade on the homeless men's centres that were the practical world of a Christian organisation. In a fog of naivety he'd thought it would be inspirational speeches and unending gratitude and blazing moments of redemption and salvation. What it was, mostly, was a lot of hard work for very little money. Any gratitude was so the opposite of effusive it took a great deal of concentration to spot it and taking abuse had turned out to be a more useful skill than graciously, but humbly, accepting thanks. Maxwell left the on-call flat and headed downstairs. Halfway down he could already hear the dying shouts of the fight. The shouts got louder not quieter when he, in his uniform, made it into reception. Everyone wanted to state their case.
"Shut up!" Maxwell barked, "Or I'll chuck you all out." This was met with silence, but not one of them believed the good Captain would carry out his threat and they were dead right. Maxwell was firm, but he was fair. If he threw someone out it was because they bloody well deserved it not because they'd pissed him off. Occasionally Maxwell wished he could throw them all out and tonight was one of those times. He contained his temper and frustration while he surveyed the scene. The night receptionist, Dion, was back behind the glass but had been adding his own two or three cents. The two men who'd been fighting were both bleeding in interesting places and there was, of course, an audience of several other residents who had come to watch.
"He started it, Cap." One of the fighters said.
"I don't care who started it." Maxwell said, feeling like a school teacher, "I don't care what it was about. Let's just wait for the emergency services and all go back to bed." Everyone could hear the irritation in his voice, even Maxwell himself. Out of the corner of his eye Maxwell saw Dion cast a sidelong glance at him and the Captain knew that the big man knew. The Captain was in one of those moods. The ones he got when he started thinking too much.

This was a world of darkness and vice. Simply walking in it made you a part of it. Maxwell had intended to be a beacon of light in a bleak night but every step deeper tarnished his light a little more. It was difficult enough to get from one end of the day to the other; hearing all those stories; watching lives crumble and waste away; seeing the very ugly side of human nature. Its deprivations, its vices, its addictions and destruction. And, all the while, seeing that these men were just men. Men who told stories of school boy adventures and first kisses. Men who paid attention to politics and didn't swear in front of women or children. In this, the depths of poverty and penury, things were terribly normal. Somehow, that made it worse. Because the people who lived in riverside properties and owned umbrella stands were basically the same as the people in homeless men's hostels. It didn't seem fair that some people toiled through darkest night while others watched them do it and felt good it wasn't them. Maxwell was guilty of being both sorts of people. He spent his days with people who weren't even on the bottom rung but he was never one of them and could try and feel the warm glow of altruism. Sometimes it was just a chilly realisation that nothing he did would make a difference. There would always be homeless people, there would always be those who were seduced by the darker side of life. And whether Maxwell worked for the Salvation Army or for Debenhams the world would continue to turn for better, for worse, for everybody.

The blue lights washed through the reception area and the shouting started again. Maxwell barked a warning again as Dion let the police and the paramedics in. Reports were taken by the police, questions asked by the paramedics. Maxwell let it flow over him. This happened so many times that he could almost do it on auto-pilot. The same questions, the same answers, different people but always the same and him in the middle. The two men were taken away, both in the ambulance and Maxwell suspected the police wouldn't bother them too much. Fights in hostels were par for the course. The police had other things to think about, more important things. But to Maxwell this was his life, his whole life and nothing but. He knew many other Salvation Army officers had children and families that were exposed to hostel life. Maxwell didn't know if he could do that. Giving up his life was bad enough, but giving up the lives of his children would be a different matter. Children who hadn't chosen this calling but would sacrifice everything that Maxwell did. In more positive moments he would have had to admit that the Officers' Kids he had come across rarely regretted their unusual upbringing but felt it had given them a dimension to their personalities that few could hope to achieve even in adulthood. But Maxwell was not in a positive moment. In this moment Maxwell couldn't even remember why he had chosen to serve and to sacrifice. The police left after taking final statements and Maxwell retreated into the reception room to help Dion fill in the reports for their own records. The sun had started to rise while Maxwell was repeating the story for the umpteenth time for the bored and tired boys in blue. As Maxwell and Dion were reading through their report the postmen came and handed the package of mail over to Dion who began to sign it in to the post book. Maxwell waited while he did this, thought he may as well get the mail that was due to him and read it over breakfast. Dion handed him over an A4 envelope from Divisional Headquarters. Maxwell opened it while Dion sorted through the rest of the mail. Inside were the nuts and bolts of divisional paperwork. Memos, reminders, end of year notices. But inside was a green sheet, the divisional newsletter. Maxwell scanned it quickly and his eye fell on the obituaries column. Somebody had died, somebody he knew. Colonel Barker had been Maxwell's first commanding officer. Barker had been one of those officers who got on with things and didn't expect praise or gratitude. He had been a bright and capable man, a funny and popular man. But there was nothing else Barker could have done, no other job that Maxwell could have seen him fitting into. Barker's calling was to serve, to sacrifice and to want to. Maxwell thought back to his own depressive ruminations. Had Barker made a difference? Probably not. There would still be homeless people, there still were. If Barker had worked in Debenhams or McDonalds the world would be pretty much the same today. But the point was Barker hadn't done it to change the world, he had done it because that's what he did. Simple. And he had changed some things, some lives. Small miracles, every day, barely noticeable but still there. Some people work in supermarkets or department stores and their contribution to the economy is negligible but the world needs them. And some people work in Salvation Army hostels and toil through darkness into light. Their contribution doesn't have a worldwide impact, but if not them then who? The world continues to turn, for them, for Maxwell, for everybody.