The North Sea

The smell of the brine has always made me uncomfortable. As a boy I would ride my bicycle along the streets of the harbour town in which I was born and raised. The reeking hauls the fishermen would sell in seaside stalls was more than I could bear and I would always keep my head down and plug my nose.

When my younger brother and I were small children, mum and dad brought us on holiday to France. We caught the ferry in Dover and I remember being violently ill over the rail of the barge as it rocked upon the tumbling waves. I've never been much of a sailor--a source of continuous disappointment to my father, a former petty officer in the Royal Navy. We arrived at the Port of Calais, and I can't remember having been happier to see land in my life...at least until the War began.

I was seventeen when the Germans invaded Belgium en route to France. We were in the middle of a History lecture on the Napoleonic Wars when the lanky Mr. Percy Staunch, the head of English walked in and announced impassively that Old Willy "had finally done it."

The following weeks were surreal. Suddenly the streets were filled with Union Jacks and propaganda posters showing demonic figures in black uniforms and spiky helmets grimacing ruthlessly. My friends and I would spend our evenings in our common room listening intently to the radio reports as the Germans finally toppled the last of the Belgian garrisons and moved into France.

The excitement the War generated created a massive stir at my school. The boys in their final year had all begun signing up for service. I remember listening raptly to speakers from the Army and Navy coming and talking of our duty to King and Country.

Two years later I'm writing from my division's camp in Dover. At 19, the prospect of crossing the Channel again can hardly be called bright. The war has not been going well for our side, and my division has been ordered to refresh a worn out stretch of the front lines.

We leave tomorrow morning for the gloomy coast of France and God only knows what else.

Because I went to Public School, they've given me a wartime commission as a lieutenant. The men in my platoon look ill equipped and nervous, but they are eager to join the fray. None of us knows what to expect, having never seen combat. I feel embarassed and ill-prepared in my position as platoon leader. Some of the men are in their forties: butchers and fishermen from the coastal towns.

When I left my home in Brighton my mother was crying and my father, his arm around her, sternly saluted and said, "Good luck, son." My younger brother said, "I'll be listening to the radio for you Thomas, I can't wait until my eighteenth birthday so I can come and fight with you." I waved goodbye before I rounded the street corner down to the bus-stop.

Now, as I look out onto the slim stretch of the North Sea between our camp and what is certain to be the defining experience of my life, I cannot help but feel apprehensive. I cast my gaze to the foaming waves and think of my childhood.