I
don’t honestly know what attracted me to it, well perhaps deep
down I do, but once I had seen it close up I knew I would buy
it. The shop-keeper was quickly twenty-five pounds better
off and I the same sum poorer.
“Genuine First World War,” I was assured.
“That makes it close to ninety years old.”
I unfolded the stiff canvas of the army kit-bag and looked at it
closely. Faded yes, but it hadn’t gone frail with the
passing years. I looked at the name stenciled down its
length.
Pte Thomas Bird
“There’s real history in that,” the shop-keeper
said.
“I wonder ?” I said. “I wonder ?”
“I’m sure you could find out who he was.” He
continued, now in the final stages of clinching the sale. “So
many of the old military records have now been put on the
Internet. It could make an interesting project.”
Yes it would.
I tried offering twenty pounds but my interest was all too clear
and the shop-keeper knew I would pay the full sum if he held his
ground.
The door of the antique shop rattled close behind me as I left.
I walked back to the car clutching the army kit-bag, once the
property of Private Thomas Bird, in my hand. At home I
placed it on the table and rolled it out flat, it had an old
smell about it – not musty or damp but the kind of smell that
had gathered decades of years about it.
“Tommy Bird,” I said aloud to myself. “I
wonder ?”
I had the afternoon free so I would surf the Net and see if I
could find any army record of the man. I wonder ?
But first I examined the bag more closely. Not that there
was anything, much to see about it. A cylindrical
construction perhaps three, three and a half, feet long. It must
have once been a deep bottle green but now it was several shades
lighter. A frayed draw-cord at the top and a handle on the
side. And the name: Pte Thomas Bird. White
lettering, still perfectly clear.
“Tommy Bird,” I said again. “I wonder ?”
I reached inside to examine the interior, not that there was
anything to find and I certainly did not expect anything.
I patted the sides, there was not even any dust – the canvas
was too thick. But there was something at the base !
I felt about, something was stitched in there. Quickly I
excitedly turned the old kit-bag inside out. The stiff
canvas resisted and fought to hide it’s long-held secret.
I felt decidedly thrilled as I discovered a roughly stitched
patch covering part of the circular base. It had been
there for nearly a century than not and I was the first to find
it. Turning the bag back to it’s proper formation the
stitching was clear from the outside, so why hadn’t anyone
found it before ? What did it contain ? I found a
pair of scissors and carefully un-picked the stitching. My
heart was beating ten to the dozen in anticipation of my find.
Inside was a brown manila envelope. I pulled it clear of
the bag and looked at it. What secret did it contain ?
My adrenaline flowed with an excess of excitement as I looked
inside the time machine. The envelope contained just three
sheets of paper, they had not stood the test of time as well as
the bag and so with great care I placed them flat on the table
and began to read.
Private Thomas Bird
1706589 The King’s Own Infantry
Western Front July 19th 1917
My name is Thomas Bird, Tommy Bird or more likely called amongst
my friends Tommy The Tommy – sometimes Three T’s.
I was born in London, England, on April 4th 1898 and that makes
me 19 years old. I wonder if I will ever see 20, the odds
are not in my favor. I write to here share something that
happened to me two nights ago, I don’t know why I am writing
and I hope nobody ever finds these words. I guess I am
writing for myself and that’s all.
I paused. What was this man’s secret ? A secret he
had concealed for so many years ? Why did he not want
anyone to read what he had written ? But if he hadn’t
want anyone to read it why did he write it down in the first
place ? Should I continue to read it should I replace the
papers, throw them away even. NO, I would read on.
Two nights ago I was on sentry duty at the end of our line.
There had been little enemy activity for more than twenty-four
hours and a quiet night was expected. It was a clear sky, bright
moon and warm but you would never have known it was summer.
No birds ever sing here, no trees rustle in the breeze, no
flowers turn their faces to the warm sunshine. This must
be what Hell is like.
I was watching my front when I heard someone approaching from
behind. I turned, it was the lieutenant.
“Good evening Sir,” I said.
“Good evening Soldier,” was his reply.
Then this officer asks if I would like a cigarette. I
thanked him and took one.
“What’s the matter Sir ? Can’t you sleep ?”
“Something like that.”
He lit his own cigarette and then offered me a light from a
silver lighter. In the moonlight I could make out some
kind of crest on its side but no real detail.
Of course we all knew about our company lieutenant, was the
grandson of a duke and that made him a lord but at the end of
the day he was going to die every bit as much as the rest of us
in this god-forsaken war. I don’t hold with aristocracy
myself, we should have done away with them a hundred years ago
just like the French did.
The lieutenant drew deeply on his cigarette. “What’s
your name ?”
“Tommy Sir.”
“Can I call you Tommy ?”
“If you like Sir.”
“Thanks Tommy.”
This was all a bit weird, the man wanted to talk but he was not
like myself and I was hardly the kind of company he would have
sought out by natural choice.
“Something troubling you Sir ?”
“Yes, indeed. How old are you Tommy ?”
“Nineteen Sir. Nineteen and three months.”
He drew deeply again on his cigarette. “I’m twenty-two
Tommy. Do you think we’ll either of us see our next
birthday ?”
“I doubt it Sir but we can always hope.”
“Where did you go to school Tommy ?”
“East Acton Board School, Sir,” I replied.
“Look Tommy would you mind not calling me Sir ? I mean I
know I am your officer and regulations and all that, but for now
could you just talk to me as if I was an ordinary bloke ?”
Strange this. Very strange.
“If you wish but you are the grandson of a duke aren’t you
?”
“I am for what good it may do me. Guns do not
distinguish rite of birth, at least not in this war. So
you went to a board school in Acton Tommy, I was sent to
Marlborough College.”
“I see Sir.”
“No you don’t Tommy, and my name is Charles, please call me
Charlie.”
I nodded.
“School was hell Tommy, bloody hell. I got thrashed so
many times. Almost every week you know.”
“We all got the cane Sir – I mean Charles – Charlie.”
“What did you get it for ?’
“Oh all kinds of things,” I told him. “For
spelling word wrong, untidy writing, everything.”
“Where did you get it ?”
“On the hand most times but I have been caned on the bottom
?”
“Ever been thrashed with your pants down ?” He asked
me.
“No, never that.”
“I have. At Marlborough the prefects were allowed to
beat the younger boys and their canings were worse than those
dished out by the masters.”
I told him we didn’t have prefects in Acton. I don’t
think he heard me.
“I was fifteen Tommy and I was thrashed six times on my bare
behind by a prefect. I hadn’t even done anything wrong.
And then do you know what happened ?”
I shook my head.
“That prefect fucked my arse Tommy”
I didn’t know what to say to him. What could I say ?
So I said, “But that’s against the law isn’t it ?”
“Homosexuality you mean ? Yes. It is but who would
bother ?’
I didn’t know, it was not something I had come across.
“Are you a virgin Tommy ?’ he asked me. “Would
you tell me ?”
“I am Sir,” I answered honestly.
“Call me Charlie please Tommy.”
“Sorry Charlie,” I said and then with great courage,
after all I was speaking with the grandson of a duke, somebody
who would be a duke himself one day, “Are you ?”
“I am in the main sense of the word, twenty-two and a virgin.
But in the other sense I lost my virginity to that prefect when
I was fifteen. He fucked me every week for a term.
And do you know what Tommy ? Do you know what ? I
liked it Tommy. Does that shock you ?”
“No.” It was a single word answer, I could have
elaborated but it didn’t shock me. I don’t know why
but it didn’t.
He smiled at me. “Do you understand ?”
I think I did. War fractures a man’s nerves and our
company lieutenant was pretty shaken up I could see. I was
pleased he was confiding in me and you know I was kind of
curious to know what it was like for one man to have sex with
another. In my class it wasn’t ever spoken of but I it
happened in the higher orders of society. True it is
against the law and Oscar Wilde went to prison for having a
relationship with another man but that was only because it
became public knowledge and the authorities had to act.
“I haven’t been fucked since then,” Lord Charles
said, “but Tommy I want to be fucked again before I die.”
I understood and told him that I understood.
I paused again in my reading. Wow ! I hadn’t
expect this. This was fascinating. I am bi-sexual
myself, well gay if I am honest but I am real straight looking
and acting, and I have had a few man-encounters. Today, of
course this is fine but back in the early years of the twentieth
century it was a crime and here was a guy, a member of the
country’s ruling class no less, confessing his sexuality to
someone who was from the lower working class. This sort of
thing just didn’t happen. And why had Tommy written it
down ? I read on.
He offered me another cigarette. “Thanks.”
“Tommy would you do something for me ? Would you grant a
condemned man his wish ?”
I knew what he wanted.
“Tommy would you fuck me ?”
“Yes.” What made me say that ?
I don’t like the aristocracy even if I was brought up to
understand that they were my betters. I’m a socialist me
and I would gladly shoot them all but I liked Lord Charlie.
If society were different I think he and I could have been
friends in spite of our differing backgrounds. And as for
the sex, well I had never had a woman, I was a virgin in every
way. Why not have sex with Lord Charles and not die a
complete virgin ? If there were a god I suppose it could
be a sin but as there isn’t any god so what would be the
difficulty ?
“Thank you Tommy, you are a good sort. If we both come
out of this wretched war I’ll see that things are right
for you.”
“No need to worry about that.”
He smiled. “Thank you Tommy.”
And so it was that night in my sentry post on the Western
Front with the company sleeping behind us and the enemy sleeping
ahead of us I fucked Lord Charles Atterborough, the future duke.
I fucked him good and I loved it.
Tommy had then signed his account.
“Fucking Hell,” I called out loud then smiled at the
pun. “Fucking, Fucking Hell.”
I wondered what had become of Tommy, of course that had been my
thought when I paid twenty-five pounds for the kit-bag but what
now of Lord Charles Atterborough ? Had he become the duke
of his family estate ? Not difficult to find out. I went
to my computer and within fifteen minutes I had found the family
tree. I would rather not here record the correct name of
the dukedom, god knows what libel laws that may break, so I will
use a fictitious name – how about The Duke of Wycombe ?
Yeah, that’ll do.
Lord Charles survived the First World War, it appeared that
shortly after Tommy’s account he was promoted to Captain and
given a staff job behind the lines. His own father, who
was a senior officer in the conflict although based in The War
Office in London, was not so lucky and was killed in a car
accident 1917. Charles then became on his death The
Marquis of Wycombe and finally the Duke of Wycombe on the
passing of his grandfather in 1921. Charles survived until
1950 with his son now the present duke. His grandson, born
in 1950, was the Marquis with the latest generation, another
Charles being the same age as myself.
The house and grounds of the Wycombe Estate are famous and open
to the public. I decided to visit. But first I
brought up their website on the computer.
But what … ?
Tommy’s name was all over the place.
The Thomas Bird Plantation – Tommy’s Lake - Sir Thomas
Bird’s Library !
I needed to know more.
The public tour and guidebook told me a little. Tommy had
apparently returned to England with Lord Charles at the end of
the war. When Charles took on his staff job he had taken
Tommy with him as his batman. Back at the estate Tommy
became His Grace’s Personal Secretary and Estate Manager.
He had even been given a knighthood by the queen for his
services to the family. Bloody hell what a payment for a
quick fuck in the trenches of the first world war !
Not only was I curious I needed to know more about Tommy.
I asked the guide countless questions.
“Tommy the Tommy he was know as,’ the guide explained
to me. “Tommy being his name and Tommy being the word
for an ordinary soldier in the Great War. He was part of
this estate for more than eighty years.”
“How can I find out more about him ?’
She smiled kindly at me. “Wait behind after the tour and
I will see if I can find someone who will help you.”
Tommy the Tommy, the one time owner of the kit-bag I now had in
my possession – how many knew of his night of man-sex in the
trenches ? Was I the first to know his secret ? The
private soldier who did not approve of the aristocracy had
served one of the country’s most famous families for the
greater part of his life, AND he had been given a title, OK a
lesser title, himself ! Tommy the Tommy.
The guide was gone for an age and I meandered about looking at
paintings of ancient faces on walls in a vast room of antiquity.
Eventually a young man of similar age to my own entered. He
strode towards me with a hand outstretched ready to shake mine.
“I’m Tim,” he smiled. “You were asking about
Tommy.”
I explained briefly my curiosity and about the kit bag although
I did not mention its contents.
“Tommy came here at the end of the First World War,” Tim
began. “He was my Great Grandfather’s batman in the
army. He came to Wycombe as his private secretary but was
soon appointed estate manager. I never knew my great
grandfather but I knew Tommy. As I child I knew him well,
he only died a few years ago.”
“Could you tell me about him ?”
“Of course. Why don’t we go to my rooms, we can talk
more comfortably there.”
Tim, Lord Tim, told me how he was descended from the Lord
Charles Atterborough and now held that same title himself.
Tommy turned out to be a larger than life character who filled
every inch of the estate with his presence.
“He was largely responsible for maintaining the family’s
fortunes during the twentieth century. As the aristocracy
declined his careful management served us well. He was
very, very highly respected and it was my grandfather,
Charles’ son and the present duke, who persuaded the prime
minister to put Tommy’s name forward to the palace for a
knighthood.”
I wondered if I should tell Tim about the secret letter in the
kit bag. Perhaps not yet.
“Tommy never married,” Tim went on with his
explanation of Tommy’s life, “ and although we know he had
brothers and sisters he never talked about his family and none
of them ever came here.”
I guessed as much.
“I remember Tommy,” Tim smiled as he recalled the fond
memories. “He was like another grandparent to me.
I loved him as if he was part of our family, I guess in every
sense other than birth he was.”
“Do you have a photograph of him ?”
“Sure I do,” Tim pointed to a frame on a table at the
side of the room.”
I looked at it and recognised so much in the face of this man.
“He and my great grandfather were lovers,” Tim said.
“It’s not exactly a family scandal, more of an open secret.
My great grandfather died way back in 1950 and Tommy outlived
him years.”
I felt I could tell him about the account left by Tommy in the
kit-bag.
“I don’t think he was gay,” Tim said. “And neither
was my great grandfather, he married and had children of course.
They just cared so much for one another. Or it could have
been, I suppose, that my great grandfather, what ever his
sexuality, had a duty to continue the line.”
I nodded my understanding.
Tim laughed uneasily. “But the line will end with me I
am afraid.”
“How ?”
“I am the only son of an only son so when it comes to my turn
to be the Duke of Wycombe that will be the end of three
centuries of the family. I shall not be getting married,
you see I am gay.”
“So am I,” I said a little shyly.
“I know,” Tim replied. “And I know that Tommy was related
to you.”
“How did you know.”
“Call it a good and and educated guess.”
“His brother was my great grandfather,” I said, “so
he would be my great-great-uncle.”
“Destiny is a funny thing,” Tim said. “I
wouldn’t mind betting that Tommy himself had a hand in our
meeting.”
“How ?”
“Why else would he have written those pages all those years
ago and hid them in the kit-bag ?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something else,” Tim said. “Tommy’s title
was that of a baronet which means it passes on his death to his
closest surviving male relative. I guess that could be
you.”
