Truckerson (The Missing Chapter), Page 2

was quiet, ice-cream ignored, gazing out to sea. He stayed like that for a while, until Truckerson became somewhat concerned. His ice cream was sliding down the cone, clearly with the intention of joining Truckerson's.

  These boffins, Truckerson thought, they're all the same. Queer blokes altogether.

  He decided to start a conversation. 'Are you a marcher, sir?' he asked pleasantly, peering into the man's face. Whittle came back to reality with the boy's large face filling his vision. For a moment he was surprised, and hurriedly sat back.

  'What? What did you say?'

  'A marcher, sir. Are you a marcher?'

  Whittle's face beamed. 'Of course, son, of course.' Looking down, he noticed the two blobs of ice-cream on the knee of his trousers. 'Oh dear,' he muttered as he wiped the cloth, 'we'd better get some more.'

  'Rather!' Truckerson agreed enthusiastically.

  As they marched together, Truckerson showed Whittle Watson-whatsit's 'oompah' trick.

  'Brilliant.' Whittle said appreciatively.

  They arrived at the kiosk out of breath and flushed. The woman looked at them curiously. 'What you been up to?' she asked, smiling.

  'Marching,' they said in unison.

  'Why on earth d'you want to do that? You boys, always playing games.'

  As she cheerily prepared their ice-creams, little did she know that in just a few short years she would be thanking providence for the marching and marching-related abilities that would win the war for Britain. Yes, the Germans were fine marchers, but maybe their style was too rigid, too regimented? It could be that the more flexible and imaginative marching skills of the British would prove superior in the long term. Only time would tell.

  'You've got raspberry again! Why didn't I get any?'

  'Dunno sir,' Truckerson said sheepishly. Ladies, why were they so funny?

  'Anyway, let me take your name, son. I'll write it down.'

  'Why, sir?'

  'Because ?' Whittle's eyes fixed on the far horizon. Truckerson instinctively began to hum gently. '? you have given me a great idea, one that may help us win this war; one that may result in a new engine for our aeroplanes that will enable them to knock Johnny Hun out of the sky.' Truckerson's humming crescendoed as Whittle flung his arm upwards, propelling his ice-cream into the path of a passing gull.

  'Hang on, sir. What war?' Truckerson stared at the man.

  'Ah ? Well, don't tell anyone I told you this, but it is likely we shall be at war with Germany again. It may be several years, but ?' The man's head dropped, then rose again. His gaze bored into Truckerson. 'But with a generation like you coming along, we shall not want for brave men. It's you, son, and chaps like you who will save our country and keep it great!'

  This was a turning point, both for Barry Truckerson, and the world. No longer did Truckerson wish to be a fireman. His resolve was set. He would join the Royal Air Force and become a flyer.

  'I'll fly your planes sir! I'll whiz around the sky and knock the bloody Jerries for six!'

  Looking at the boy's honest expression and keen, eager gaze, Whittle was reassured. The future was indeed safe. All he had to do was get the job done, and give this boy and others like him the tools to do theirs.

  'I'm sure you will, Barry, I'm sure you will. Now, how about a march and another ice-cream?'

  'Rather, sir. And ? you can call me "Trux" if you like, all my pals do.'

  'An honour, Trux, an honour. And by the way, never tell anyone what I said about the war or what we talked about, promise?'

  'Scout's honour, sir.'

  Truckerson arrived back at The Grand, late for afternoon tea, and curiously had little appetite. His father looked suspiciously at him. 'What have you been up to?'

  'Marching, sir. And I met a man who makes 'plane engines.'

  'Not another one of your "Boffins"?' his mother sounded amused.

  'Yes, Mum. And I'm going to join the Air Force.'

  'I thought you were going to be a fireman,' his father queried.

  'Well, for a while, but now I see flying's what I want to do, really want to do. I'll be bally good at it.'

  His mother shushed his language and looked around, but his father tousled his hair and said, 'That's good, son. I'm proud of you. We may need boys like you soon.' His mother gripped his father's hand and they glanced at each other. Truckerson felt they had some secret that he did not share. He suspected he had an inkling, but he couldn't reveal even to his parents what Whittle had told him.

  *

  The sun shone brightly as Squadron Leader Truckerson hauled himself out of the back of the car and greeted the assembled crew.

  'So this is it, the top-secret plane?'

  They nodded, and ushered him into the hangar.

  'It's got no propellers!' Truckerson was surprised. Then he remembered.

  'Who invented this?'

  'Chap called Whittle, I think.' The Flight said.

  Truckerson said nothing, remembering his vow of silence all those years before.

  'And what's this?' There was a small plaque on the nose.

  'Oh, it's a dedication to someone he knew, said he was instrumental in getting him to clarify the idea for it. Some chap he met at a conference once.'

  Truckerson swelled with pride. Getting close and peering at the small, engraved plate, he read: 'Dedicated to the schoolboy who helped me achieve this: Harry Parkinson.'

  Well, thought Truckerson, you can't win 'em all. I've learned a lot about history today.

  And he had.

  That's all for now!

  To see my writing and cartoons, comment on Truckerson, and maybe read more, visit my website at:

  www.e-griff.com

  About the Author

  John Griffiths is a retired executive who shares his time between England and France. While Truckerson shows the 'schoolboy humour' side of his writing, his range of styles is wide: moving, serious, sinister, Victorian melodrama and sci-fi, plus poetry, all of which can be read in his collection:

  'The Clam before the Storm'.