'Sergeant O.K.'

 

'Sergeant O.K.'

Let me tell you the story as old Thompson told it, for he was present and I was not.

When the 'Westminsters' went up to the front line in January, 1918, they had with them in No, 2 Company a great, big, red-headed fellow called Sergeant O.K. His name was not really O.K., but Smithies, but he was known as Sergeant O.K. by everyone for miles around, from the Colonel down to passing units who had lost the way.

Some said that the Germans opposite were aware of his nickname, and that one of them, coming face to face with him on a night raid, had at once shouted “O.K.”, and put up his hands.

For Sergeant Smithies said O.K. to everyone and everything: it was “O.K. Chief”, or “O.K. by me”, or “O.K. to you”, or just “O.K.” when he was in a hurry. Jenkinson asserted that he answered O.K. on his wedding day, when asked if he would take Elizabeth Anne for his wedded wife.

Be that as it may, O.K. was his one expression, and by the amazing variation of tone and stress he could put into it, he made these two humble letters of the alphabet as expressive as twenty good lines from Hamlet. Scrambling in over the parapet after a wire cutting expedition, he would hiss O.K. in such a way that the second letter cocked itself up into a question mark. An answering grunt would bring another O.K. as eloquent as Deo Gratias. In a word it was his signature tune.

Sergeant O.K. was the life and soul of the entire Company. Everyone trusted him. When one of us was seized with a fit of panic he relied on Sergeant O.K. to put him right. He would come scrambling along the duck-boards, smiling and dishing out O.K.s on every side, and the shivering men about him at once felt a sense of rest. Sergeant O.K. was so robust and generous in his outlook. I remember once when young Jackson said something about trying to get resigned to the noise and the dirt and the fear of wounds, how Sergeant O.K. ticked him off for it.

“Not so much of your resignation here, lads,” he said, “What we want is cheerful acquiescence.”

“Gosh, what swell words you do use, Sergeant,” chipped in Williamson, from the door of the dug-out, “do tell us what they mean.”

Sergeant O.K. blew out his lips.

“Mean?” he asked. “O.K., I'll tell you what they mean. They mean that you must go out to meet your troubles, and not just sit down with them all heaped on top of you. Pagans do that, pagans are resigned. But you are Christians, aren't you? Well, put your backs into whatever comes, unless it's a shell; co-operate with God as you might say. After all He loves you, doesn't He?”

Some of the men used to envy Sergeant O.K.

“It's all right for blokes like him to talk about acquiescence, he hasn't got a nerve in his body; he hasn't got a wife and kids at home to dream about; he hasn't got sore feet. It's alright for him to jaw away about God, just because he's a blooming Papist and believes in God, but what do we know about God?”

Sergeant O.K. was always roused to eloquence when he heard such remarks.

“O.K.,” he'd say, pulling at his eyebrows, “just you listen to me. I've got as pretty a wife as any of you, and two little girls and a motor bike as well, and I dream of them all. And if I have not got sore feet, I've got a mighty tired jaw from arguing with you blancmanges; forgive my accent. As to God, I'm not for monopolising Him, for He made and loves you all, though why He did the one and still does the other beats me. But I'll say this, that to my mind it is a proof that there is a God, that those who trust in Him can go through this beastly war without sulking, as you pagan chappies do. Bless you, many a time I've felt like running away or pretending illness; many a time I've had twinges of pain in my tummy, which were not caused by bully beef. But I say to myself: 'Smithies, if God wants you, He'll find you even if you are under twelve layers of sandbags, and if He does not want you then the Bosch will miss you point blank with an 18-pounder.' You and I do not judge this war so very differently, save that you can't see the love for all the hate. For you we are slaves of a hard fate, but I remember something about Christ not calling us servants but friends.

Besides you are not so certain that you aren't wrong, whereas I know I'm O.K.”

I have no doubt now, looking back after thirty years, that Sergeant O.K. was the greatest influence for good that I have ever seen. We Catholics felt his faith driving out our fear as we watched him going about the lines. He was just normal, not foolhardy not strung up, but a little piece of normal civilisation introduced into the chaos of Flanders. Even the pagan fellows all around us began to wonder if there was not a God of love after all. A man does not laugh and joke and carry the fears of grown men for them unless he is pretty sure that all is O.K.

Well, the day came when we had to fall back before the great German offensive, and in the bustle of the retreat with its panic and heroism, explosions and groans, no one noticed that Sergeant O.K. had been hit. He'd been seen at noon by Corporal Wilson, carrying a wounded Tommy to shelter, but, since then, no-one had laid eyes on him. Only in the evening, when we were resting wearily in our new positions, did we see a stretcher being carried back through our lines. The Padre went to see him as he passed his old Company, and we all saw him too with the blood soaking through his uniform, and the shadow of death upon his face.

“Am I going to die, Father?” he muttered in his agony, and when the priest did not reply at once he smiled feebly and said:

“It's O.K. by me, Father, but Lord, how I do love my wife.”

We never saw Sergeant O.K. again, for he died outside the dressing station, being too ill to make the journey to the base. The stretcher-bearers told us that he never regained consciousness after his arrival there, but this is not quite true, for the Padre who went back to see him, had another tale to tell. After he had lain delirious for some time, talking to his wife, and saying O.K. to imaginary officers, he suddenly became very quiet, and his poor haggard face lit up with a wonderful smile of recognition. He gazed thus smilingly before him for nearly a minute, then pulled himself half up on his stretcher with a last great effort, raised his trembling hand to his forehead in salute, and said quite audibly: “O.K., Lord.”

On Armistice Day each year, when everyone is silent, I always say a De Profundis for Sergeant O.K., and many a time in the face of difficulties I have remembered the cheerful acquiescence he so eloquently preached. I am sure that few of us who were privileged to meet him in the trenches will ever forget his example and his last “O.K., Lord”; for in it he translated the message of Gethsemane into the humble language of the Sergeant's Mess.

( Taken from 'The Seven Deadly Virtues and Other Stories' by Bernard Bassett S.J, published by Sands & Co.. These stories appeared first in Stella Maris and in the Southwark Record)

'The End of the World'

 

 

'The End of the World' 

For some time I had been wandering in quiet streets in the curious town of Besancon, which stands like a sort of peninsular in a horse-shoe of river. You may learn from the guide books that it was the birthplace of Victor Hugo, and that it is a military Station with many forts, near the French frontier.  But you will not learn from guide books that the very tiles on the roofs seem to be of some quainter and more delicate colour than the tiles of all the other towns of the world, that the tiles look like the little clouds of some strange sunset, or like the lustrous scalers of some strange fish.  They will not tell you that in this town the eye cannot rest on anything without finding it in some way attractive and even elvish, a carved face at a street corner, a gleam of green fields through a stunted arch, or some unexpected colour for the enamel of a spire or dome. 

Evening was coming on and in the light of it all these colours so simple and yet so subtle seemed more and more to fit together and make a fairy tale.  I sat down for a little outside a café with a row of little toy trees in front of it, and presently the driver of a fly (as we should call it) came to the same place. He was one of those very large and dark Frenchmen, a type not common  but yet typical of France; the Rabelaisian French man, huge, swarthy, purple-faced, a walking wine-barrel; he was a sort of Southern Falstaff, if one can imagine Falstaff anything  but English. And, indeed, there was a vital difference, typical of two nations. For while Falstaff would have been shaking with hilarity like a huge jelly, full of the broad farce of the London streets, this Frenchman was rather solemn and dignified than otherwise – as if pleasure were a kind of pagan religion.  After some talk which was full of the admirable civility and equality of French civilisation, he suggested without either eagerness or embarrassment that he should take me in his fly for an hours ride in the hills beyond the town.  And though it was growing late I consented; for there was one long white road under an archway and round a hill that dragged me like a long white cord. We drove through the strong, squat gateway that was made by the Romans, and I remember the coincidence like a sort of omen that as we passed out of the city I heard simultaneously the three sounds which are the trinity of France.  They make what some poet calls ‘a tangled trinity,’ and I am not going to disentangle it. Whatever those three things mean, how or why they co-exist; whether they can be reconciled or perhaps are reconciled already; the three sounds I heard then by an accident all at once make up the French mystery.  For the brass band in the Casino gardens behind me was playing with a sort of passionate levity some ramping tune from a Parisian comic opera, and while this was going on I heard also the bugles on the hills above, that told of terrible loyalties and men always arming in the gate of France, and I heard also, fainter than these sounds and through them all, the Angelus.

After this coincidence of symbols I had a curious sense of having left France behind me, or, perhaps ,even the civilised world. And, indeed, there was something in the landscape wild enough to encourage such a fancy. I have seen perhaps higher mountains, but I have never seen higher rocks; I have never seen height so near, so abrupt and sensational, splinters of rock that stood up like the spires of churches, cliffs that fell sudden and straight as Satan fell from heaven.  There was also a quality in the ride which was not only astonishing, but rather bewildering; a quality which  many must have noticed if they have driven or ridden rapidly up mountain roads. I mean a sense of gigantic gyration, as of the whole earth turning about one’s head. It is quite inadequate to say that the hills rose and fell like enormous waves. Rather the hills seemed to turn about me like the enormous sails of a windmill, a vast wheel of monstrous archangelic wings.  As we drove on and up into the gathering purple of the sunset this dizziness increased, confounding things above with things below.  Wide walls of wooded rock stood out above my head like a roof.  I stared at them until I fancied that I was staring down at a wooded plain.  Below me steeps of green swept down to the river.  I stared at them until I fancied that they swept up to the sky. The purple darkened, night drew nearer; it seemed only to cut clearer the chasms and draw higher the spires of that nightmare landscape.  Above me in the twilight was the huge black hulk of the driver, and his broad, blank back was as mysterious as the back of Death in Watts’ picture. I felt that I was growing too fantastic, and I sought to speak of ordinary things.. I called out to the driver in French, “Where are you taking me?”, and it is a literal and solemn fact that he answered me in the same language without turning around, “To the end of the world.”

I did not answer. I let him drag the vehicle up dark and steep ways, until I saw lights under a low roof of little trees and two children, one oddly beautiful, playing at ball. Then we found ourselves filling up the strict main street of a tiny hamlet, and across the wall of its inn was  written in large letters, ‘LE BOUT DU MONDE’  –  'the end of the world’.

The driver and I sat down outside that inn without a word, as if all ceremonies were natural and understood in that ultimate place. I ordered bread for both of us, and red wine, that was good but had no name. On the other side of the road was a little plain church with a cross on top of it and a cock on top of the cross. This seemed to me a very good end of the world; if the story of the end of the world ended here, it ended well.  Then I wondered whether I myself should really be content to end here, where most certainly there were the best things of Christendom – a church and children’s games and decent soil and a tavern for men to talk with men. But as I thought, a singular doubt and desire grew slowly in me, and at last I started up.

“Are you not satisfied?” asked my companion. “No” I said, “I am not satisfied even at the end of the world.”

Then after a silence, I said, “Because you see there are two ends of the world. And this is the wrong end of the world, at least the wrong one for me. This is the French end of the world. I want the other end of the world. Drive me to the other end of the world.”

“The other end of the world?” he asked. “Where is that?”

“It is in Walham Green,” I whispered hoarsely. “You see it on the London omnibuses. ‘World’s  End and Walham Green.’ Oh, I know how good this is; I love your vineyards and your free peasantry, but I want the English end of the world. I love you like a brother, but I want an English cabman, who will be funny and ask me what his fare ‘is’. Your bugles stir my blood, but I  want to see a London policeman. Take, oh, take me to see a London policeman.”

He stood quite dark and still against the end of the sunset, and I could not tell whether he understood or not.  I got back into his carriage. “You will understand,” I said, “if ever you are an exile even for pleasure. The child to his mother, the man to his country, as a countryman of yours once said. But since, perhaps, it is rather too long a drive to the English end of the world, we may as well drive back to Besancon.”

Only as the stars came out among those immortal hills,  I wept for Walham Green.

G.K.Chesterton  (from 'Tremendous Trifles' - 1909)

 

G.K.Chesterton at Brighton seafront, October 1935.

N.B. For those who are curious, 'Worlds End (England)' is a residential area  in South West London, at the end of the Kings Road, Chelsea. In the 1970s a number of high-rise 'affordable' flats were built, described by some as epitomizing the ugliest architecture of that 'progressive' era. These are in stark contrast to many older properties in the Borough of Chelsea, which are very expensive to buy but for which there is always a demand.

There is in fact, a Public House in Kings Road, called 'The End of the World'.

One other claim to fame of that area, is that Stamford Bridge, the home of Chelsea Football Club is close by!!

'Yet another small step for Life ................

Our Lady of Walsingham - pray for us

 For a very long time I have wondered whether it would be possible to ensure that  money taken from  National Insurance contributions and paid into NHS Funds, would not be used to fund 'legalised' abortions. When the National Health Service was created in 1948, there was no such thing as 'legalised' abortion. Abortion was a criminal offence, and remained so until 1967 when the Abortion Act,  introduced by David Steel, Liberal M.P. became law, with the National Health Service assuming  responsibility for its' administration and funding. In the early years the number of abortions carried out was a fraction of those performed today; in 1968 there were approximately 25,000, in 1970 about 97,000, and in 2019 more than 209,000. Abortion is a crime against humanity - Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 1948, and is abhorrent to many, many people, who under the present arrangement of National Insurance payments, and through no fault of their own, find themselves supporting a practice which they totally oppose.

This should not, indeed must not, be allowed to continue, and as a suggestion I propose that all working people who are liable for National Insurance contributions, be given the option that their money going to the NHS, not  be used for Abortion services, but instead go to say Mental Health. I believe that such a choice could be set up at relatively low cost within the system. Perhaps as simple as providing an appropriate ‘tick-box’ when a tax return is made, which can apply to both employed and self-employed.

I intend to write to the appropriate Government department regarding this, but before doing so have decided to post a petition online, to measure support for my proposals. I truly believe that given the support and the will,  the system could accommodate my proposal or one like it, as a matter of justice and good government.

The link to the Citizen Go Petition is:-    https://citizengo.org/en-gb/182029-choice-opt-out-funding-abortions-trhronat-ins-contributions       

Please support this Petition. It is but a small step, but it is perhaps, a start to greater things. AMDG - 'To the greater glory of God.'  I am aware that my proposal leaves much to be desired, but I see at as a start. I'm sure that there are many people out there who could improve on my suggestion, and I would very much like them to contact me through the 'Comment' box. Thank you.

Below is copy of proposed letter to Rt. Hon. Matt Hancock M.P.  Secretary of State for Health and Care.

                                                *****************

Rt.Hon. Matt Hancock  M.P.

Secretary of State for Health and Care

Dear Sir,

We all appreciate the need for and value of our National Health Service, to which virtually everyone owes so much. To enable the NHS to function, it has to be funded which is largely provided by National Insurance contributions paid by all working citizens within the UK. Over the years this has generally proved a workable and successful system, but it has its failings. One aspect, which is of considerable concern to many people, but about which they have probably felt that they could do nothing, concerns the question of ‘legalised’ abortions financed by the NHS.

When National Insurance contributions were first introduced in 1948, ‘legalised’ abortion did not exist. Abortion was a criminal offence, and until 1967 there was no question of funding it. Abortion is not an illness or medical condition, and it is a matter of dispute as to whether it should be included within the National Health Service. It involves the killing of the foetus or unborn baby in the womb, and is largely funded by the NHS with money received through National Insurance contributions.

  The latest official figures reveal that in 2019 in England and Wales, a total of 209,519 abortions were carried out.

Abortion is essentially a crime against humanity, (Universal Declaration of Human Rights 1948), and I, and I’m sure many others who share my views, strongly object to financing it through National Insurance contributions. I  propose that the system should allow a simple choice as regards the beneficiary of National Insurance contributions to the NHS, in other words, an alternative to funding abortion, for example mental health needs. I believe that such a choice could be set up at relatively low cost within the system. Perhaps as simple as providing an appropriate ‘tick-box’ when a tax return is made, which can apply to both employed and self-employed.

 As a matter of urgency and of justice, I respectfully ask that serious consideration be given to implementing the above proposal.

Yours faithfully,

                                                   *****************