by Chris Ross

Jock the Lum arrived in a daze at High Blantyre Railway Station just in time to catch the last train to Strathaven. His body and mind were awkwardly unsynchronised but somehow he managed to pull himself up the steep step and fling his canvas bag with one hand into the compartment. It landed heavily creating a cloud of dust. Jock slumped into his greasy red velvet seat and wiped the filthy window with his coat sleeve just in time to see a guard waving his flag. A shrill whistle blew and dense white smoke belched out of the engine and was sucked into a Blantyre slate grey night. The lingering smell of a whole days discarded cigarette butts from previous passengers filled Jock's nose as he stared into a lonely, silent night. Nothing would ever entice him to light up again.

He stretched out his legs and rested his aching feet in ancient boots two sizes too big. He'd had a long tiring day travelling home from the crowds in Glasgow . His army demob clothes stank and he looked like a badly creased scarecrow. He got quite a shock when he saw his gaunt reflection in the window - he'd gone into the army a boy and returned a man - that's what his Auntie Minnie had said about his own father - but in his case he wasn't certain what had happened to him. Presently he was too exhausted to know how he felt and rubbed his eyes as the train began slowing down near Hamilton West station.

On the waiting room building Jock spied THAT face printed black on white paper and THAT hand pointing and saying YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU. His stomach churned and he winced - how many other fools had been persuaded to enlist like him? So many of the local handloom weavers had enlisted at a time when their jobs were being lost to highly mechanised factories. The unemployed men swapped their damp floors, noisy weaving rooms and destitution for the chance to go abroad........that was a laugh! He'd been of the same mind when he'd lied about his age to help his country.

Yes, at 16 and a half he'd gone to the front and just before his 17th birthday he was on his way home. The guilt jabbed his heart and he kept repeating it was an accident. It wasn't my fault. The steam train gave a loud hoot and juddered to a halt. It threw him forward and he strained to look through the mist to see where they were. They weren't at a station but a dark swirling expanse which looked just like the Somme . My God, it couldn't be! He pushed his nose against the glass and hot metal smells permeated the carriages which reminded him too much of spent gun powder. The sudden grind of metal on metal of the huge wheels on the track made him jump - perhaps it was an enemy tank sneaking by or a gun being dragged to a vantage point? His nerves still jangled from his battlefront experiences as the only survivor.

He was alone to carry his guilt. He stamped on the cigarette butts on the floor and swore . I didn't even want to smoke - they made me prove I was a man! I'd never tried one before so that's why I lit up - I swear to God ........... Jock wept into his hands. That is when he heard a noise in the distance. Something coming from the other carriages. A low mumbling, groaning, wailing like people in pain in the field hospital the day it had happened. For Christ's sake, they bloody forced me to light up - I swear I didn't want to! Then there were louder footsteps coming nearer and nearer with a dragging and shuffling of feet and a thumping of callipers. Jock stared at the oncoming wounded who now passed his carriage with their heads in bloodstained bandages, faces twisted with hideous injuries, torsos holed by shrapnel and eyes blackened and sightless trying to find him. He screamed with terror. Go away - go away. I'm just Jock the Lum who lied about his age to join up. I just clean chimneys and middens. How was I to know the enemy would see me light up. It was all a terrible mistake.

Hoards of bloody injured men piled up outside his window. They peered and clambered one on top of the next, pawing at the glass trying to get to him. Jock sweated and cried as toothless, gaping faces moaned and mouthed his name . Suddenly the hoards burst in and bloody groping fingers were almost upon him as he cowered in his seat. I was injured too. Look, I'll not weave again. Please don't kill me! He lifted a stump where his hand used to be. His whole body shook relentlessly. But then he heard a strike of a match beside him and he tried to calm down and cleared his watery eyes to see old Will the ticket collector standing in the doorway puffing his cigarette.

© Chris Ross

Chris Ross is a member of Strathaven Writers, a recently-established group, meeting fortnightly on Wednesdays to give mutual support and to set challenges for their writing