Good Day, Corporal (Erik)

[William Reid]

After several hundred flights, it was no surprise the rear of the Bristol Bombay had a permanent layer of sand and grit, the plane rattled constantly and the leather seats had holes in them. Currently, it was approaching North Africa, to an undisclosed airfield, on board several replacements for the 7th Armoured Division, and some much-needed supplies.

Stretching in the back, Lieutenant Reid awoke to an African sunrise through the small windows of the aircraft. The small plane was part of a formation going in to landing on the small sandy airstrip. The passengers were all stirring now, preparing to enter the new continent, very different from Mother England.

With a few final bumps, the aircraft kissed the ground, rolling to a stop off to one side. Pulling himself to his feet, the Lieutenant reached above the “first-class” seating at the front of the aircraft in an area where supposedly there were less bumps, and retrieved the sack containing his belongings – a few spare bits of uniform, maintenance gear and some books.

He stepped forward briefly in to the cockpit, where the pilot, Flying Officer Jameson was standing. He was good stock, from an upper-class family from the east-midlands of England. The two equal-ranked officers extended hands, shaking in mutual respect. ”Thank you, Flying Officer.”
”My pleasure, Lieutenant. Look after yourself down here.”
”You too.”

After the brief pleasantries, the officer stepped out of the door, on to the African tarmac. He knew he was looking for a Corporal Brentwood, a relation of the division commanding officer, no less, who was meant to take him to headquarters. All he saw, though, were a lot of men, several wearing Corporal ranks on their arms.

Affixing his black beret he readied himself for the salute that was sure to come from some direction. Obviously, these men would be doing things by the book.

[Tyler D. Brentwood]

A disgruntled Corporal wrapped his fingers around the small steering wheel, slowly working the wheel in a clockwise motion. Obeying his commands, the wheels of the vehicle shifted to the right and the Austin 10 HP veered to the right. Easing his foot off the pedal of the civilian vehicle turned staff car, the car slowly began to grind to a halt. The staff car was only a short distance away from the tarmac of the small North African airfield, resting on the side of the small two-way, dirt road that connected to the airfield. With a sigh of disbelief, he reclined in the driver's seat of the car and wondered what had earned him this mundane task. With a war going on, the young man had expected some excitement. Instead, he had been assigned to a unit in Egypt and spent most of his days in the divisional headquarters.

Silencing the car's engine, he yanked free the keys of the vehicle and dropped them into a pocket in his trousers. The beige staff car was practically on fire from the intense sun that rested over the desert, and the Corporal was practically melting in the vehicle even with the windows all rolled down. Atop the dashboard, his field service cap was resting neatly against the windshield. Scooping it up in his right hand, he tossed it into the passengers while he forced open the driver side door to let more air into the vehicle. A few more cars and trucks were scattered around the airfield, waiting for the newest arrival of aircraft that would be bringing in supplies and fresh recruits. A certain Lieutenant William Reid was to be the passenger in the cramped staff car; he was a graduate in the Sandhurst military who was unfortunate enough to be posted in Egypt like every other bloke on his airplane.

With his boots in the sand, he gently set himself down in a comfortable position across the front seats of the vehicle. Reaching backwards, he lifted his peaked cap out of harms way and placed it over his face to shield it from the nuisance of the sun's beams. Raising his arms over his head, his fingers interlocked behind his head and were sandwiched behind the back of his skull and the cushion of the passenger seat. A million thoughts passed through his head before his eyelids began to feel heavy and clamped close over his eyes. He drifted off into a peaceful, light sleep with his body hanging out of the side of the staff car.

About a half hour later, the Corporal woke up to the sound of a plane's engines. Feeling rather hot and groggy, he lifted his back off the seat hesitantly. Resting his face in his palms, he let himself get oriented to reality again. Hot and sweaty, Brentwood desired nothing more than an ice cold shower. His cap had slipped off his face when he brought himself into the upright position and had rolled underneath the passenger seat. Leaning over to his right, he searched the floor with the palm of his hand before the cap was back in his grasp. Digging his boots down into the sand, he exited the vehicle and slammed the door shut behind him. The landing wheels of the Bristol Bombay transport plane were just touching down on the runway when the Corporal was racing over to the runway whilst he adjusted his field service cap over his head.

Tyler Brentwood arrived on the tarmac just in time to witness the passengers of the Bombay exiting from beside the cockpit. Brentwood had enlisted as soon as he turned eighteen in May, 1939. He had attended basic training from the middle of June until the end of August. A Lance Corporal, he was assigned to his brother's unit in Egypt by September when the war had broken out. For the past seven months, Brentwood had been sitting on his ass in Africa while a war was apparently happening in Europe. Ever so slowly, he had begun to climb the rank ladder. Starting with Corporal a few months back, he had heard mumblings he was well on his way to Sergeant. From his short time in the military, he learned that these officers generally loved to be reminded of their superiority.

Spotting a man in a black beret with Lieutenant pips coming down the ramp, Brentwood stiffened up and brought his hand up to his forehead into a salute. He didn't exactly enjoy salutes, however. "Lieutenant Reid?" he inquired, waiting for the man to confirm his identity. "Sir, I am Corporal Brentwood. I will be driving you to divisonal HQ. Follow me please, sir." The rebellious nature of the young man had been concealed for his first seven months in the military, but with each day it slowly began to grind away. Dropping the salute, he lead the officer to the Austin 10. A four- door saloon car with five seats, the back of the car was spacious enough for Reid and his gear. He held open the door of the car, closing it behind the Lieutenant and climbing into the driver's seat.

[William Reid]

The Lieutenant's question upon where he would be leaving was to be quickly answered, as a young Corporal came briskly over the airfield. Putting down his sack of belongings as the enlisted man stopped a few paces in front of him, he snapped his left leg in to the position of attention, and quickly swung up his right arm, stopping it with his fingers in line with his eyebrow.

”Yes, Corporal, I am Lieutenant Reid,” he confirmed to the Corporal, who quickly introduced himself before leading the Lieutenant over to the car. Reid let out a small “oh,” noise when he realised the enlisted man wasn’t going to take his bag, but at this stage after the flight he still felt too tired to make a big deal over it. He grabbed the strap of the bag and walked over to the Austin 10.

At the very least, the back of the car had been opened, and he laid his bag across the seat before lowering himself in to the leather beside it. He whipped off his beret, slipping it under the epaulettes of his battle dress and shifted himself in his seat to make himself comfortable.

The Corporal climbed in to the front of the car, and started the engine. The car began moving, easily finding traction despite the thin layer of sand and dirt between the tyres and the road.

The first few minutes passed by in awkward silence, neither the driver nor passenger knowing quite what to say. After considering a few lines of conversation, Reid finally chose one that he hoped would open a discussion. ”So, you’re Captain Brentwood’s brother, no?” He knew that the answer was yes, but he hoped it would start something, ”How is the Captain as a Commanding Officer, what’s it like to serve under him?”