The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders (Princess Louise's)

Gunner Thompson © Tom Barker

"Oh, Lord! Preserve us from our sorrow!
And that includes the wily Tommo!"
H Marshall

Thompson always reminded me of Sweeny Tod, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, London, who used to get someone into his barber's chair then tip him or her ass over tit into the cellar below. Since the victim would be taken completely by surprise, he or she would be turned upside down as the chair in which they were sitting would swivel on an axle built into the wooden floor, and another empty chair would swivel up in it's place and be locked there until the next victim sat down in it.

Since Sweeny was dead crafty, but aware of his own failings and very fond of his own skin, deduced that he could see if anyone was approaching his shop, he would glance left and right through his front window, and if the muddy lane was clear he had ample time to operate the foot pedal that activated the wooden tongue of wood that held the Barber's chair stable to the wooden floor.

Once the victim was in place, to get a short back and sides or a quick perm, it only needed the quick stomp of the Barber's foot on the trip lever at the bottom back of the chair to send them hurtling into eternity via the cold dark cellar beneath the Barber's shop. The unfortunate victim would leave the chair due to gravity and would land on their heads on the brick floor of the damp dark cellar. Then the Barber would run down into the cellar via a small trap door hidden beneath a wardrobe in on corner of the shop and once down in the cellar, he would finish them off with his cutthroat open razor before they came round - if they survived the fall.

If some happy wanderer should enter his shop while Sweeny was busy in the cellar, the Barber would hear him on the wooden floor above, and nipping nimbly up the steps, would surface inside the wardrobe and look through a tiny peep hole. As soon as the person turned their back, trying to find the proprietor, he would nip out and smartly shut the door, then be leaning against the wardrobe beaming and warbling, "Yes Sir/ Madam, and how may I help you?"

People went missing in those days and most people surmised, since the local transport was shanks pony or a carriage pulled by a gee gee type quadruped, it took some people a week just to go visit their Granny in the next village. It was not until it was too late to find any accidental clues that might have been left, was it discovered that someone was actually missing and could no longer be found. No clues were found for such a long time, because of the agreement between the owner of the pie shop directly next door and Sweeny, and both agreed, if one got caught, both would swing from the jibbet.

Sweeny was versatile, in that he cut hair, fingernails and corners. He was also a blood-letter extraordinaire, because unlike most who opened a vein in the arm, and took about half a pint, Sweeny saved a lot of time by just slashing the victims throat and taking the lot at one go. After searching all the pockets of the victims and hiding all the loot, the door between the two cellars would be unlocked and Sweeny would drag the body next door and return, locking the door again.

Clothing and footwear left by the victims were used as fuel in the baking ovens, once they had been searched and relieved of anything of value, so there would be no evidence left to alert the Bow Street Runners of foul play. Any gold or silver was melted down and hidden underground by the cunning Sweeny. And the pie shop people were complimented on such succulent fresh meat pies that were selling like there was no tomorrow. And for the contents of the meat pies, there wasn't, give or take a day or two. It was a tiny fingernail in a pie that tripped up Sweeny and the pie maker. The Bow street runners pounced on them and a bit later on, they both decorated a gibbet side by side to rot.

In my view, Thompson could have been a re-incarnation of old Sweeny Tod. When there were any chores to be done, like sweeping the floor, or cleaning the windows, he would take a hike if it was a nice day outside and go lay in the sun reading a grubby crime novel. Even when it was his turn to fetch the soup ration with another bloke and a dixie, he would be missing.

The bloke was a dodger, cadger, and slick with his tongue and his fingers. If someone put down a bread ration for a second, a voice from a bed would warble,

"If thee is goin' fer a leak (toilet) owd mate, tha'd better tek thi bred wi' thee, or nail the bugger tu the chuffin' bench top till thee gets back."

At six in the evening, when all the work parties had returned to camp, we would have two men at the gate waiting for it to open. Then two men from each barracks could go up to the cookhouse and collect a Dixie that contained enough soup for that particular room. The only fly in the ointment - so to speak, was when one day, one of the lads was bemoaning the fact that his stew was so weak and thin, when suddenly all the others began to chant,

"Oh, why are we starving?"

Our hut Rep decided to go next door and check what they had got in their dixie for soup. On finding their issue was as thick as bergoo, and many were gagging, attempting to swallow it without chewing, our mate came back and suggested we ask to see the Camp Commandant, Herr Montag, in the morning.

Thompson was sitting on his top bunk like a South African vulture, and peering from behind the thick lenses of his glasses that were a dead spit for beer bottle bottoms.

"Ere! Yu knaw wot? Youse blokes ain't gor a bleed'n' clue."

"O.K. smart ass. Wot yer bleatin' oan aboot?" snarled a big Geordie bloke from next door.

"Well, the way I sees it," warbled Thompson, "it's just a matter of getting' yer timin' right, right?"
"Them as werks in yon cook'ahs jus' chuck all the stuff intae 't vats an' don't stir 'em, an' all o't thick stuff stays on't bottom and 'em as is at front o't queue gets watter of'n top and them as is at back o' the bleed'n' queue gets all the thick stuff o'ff'n bottom, an' app'n if stew runs aht, they gits bugger all, naw warrah meen?"

Then he leans forward as if parting with state secrets, "Nah, eers wot ah wud do." he leered.

We listened and some blokes who had been reading a book or writing a letter home while sitting on their bunks, paused and listened to the pearls of wisdom dripping from the gob of this London Cockney.

"We goes 't gate wen triangle signals it's grub up, but we 'angs back so tuthers get there an' cos 't vats aint been stirred by them idle buggrs up theer. The fust lot get all 't watter off'n top an' wen us gets theer, us gets all the thick stuff off'n bottom 'alf o't vat."

Some of the listeners suddenly continued writing, and others re-opened books as if to ignore what they had just heard and passed it off as a sick joke. But some got into a heated argument, while the Ogre beamed at the furor he had created in the room.

That evening as the triangle sounded, "Grub up", the two lads with the dixie from our room strolled out and got into the queue that was waiting for the Guard to open the wired gate of our compound. The Guard came and opened the gate and our pair of lads lagged a bit, which was unusual for them, but it occurred to us that possibly Thompson's sick plan was being implemented or his theory tested.

About ten minutes later, the dixie lads were back and the stew was dished out. Instead of the usual half a dixie of hot water that had been drained off a boiled ham, the contents of the dixie could not be poured out and had to be ladled out, since it was almost solid with shredded potato, carrots and onion.

"Now this is more like it." warbled a voice.

All was well for about a week, then the manure hit the fan. The idea had not escaped some of the inmates of the other barracks, and in copying the system, they sort of cut their own throats, because now when the triangle sounded, "Come and collect your swill" some of the, "Pigs" were hanging too far back in the queue and Herr Montag got wind of what was afoot and put his foot down a bit sharpish, because now some were complaining they got no stew at all.

"The next day we had off was a Saturday, and instead of the usual lounging about or doing a bit of washing our clothes, whistles began blowing and we perked up and asked,

"Ayup, hez some bugger won a million on a Littlewoods footy coupon and is going to buy himself out of the P.O.W. camp and go home."

"Don't you wish?" replied Dicko.

Then about six German Guards entered our compound and began searching all our bungalows and gear. They got short ladders and looked into the roof space. One of our blokes, catching the eye of one Guard warbled,

"Wotcher looking for mate? Lost yer paper airyplane then, ave yer?"

"Halt die klapper!" (Hold your tongue!) snarled the Guard. And our mate, with a now tight mouth, silently crept away.

"Achtung!" and the Camp Commandant sauntered into our barrack room, like Claudius entering the Coliseum of Rome.

"If you people are going to behave like pigs, then we will treat you like pigs!" warbled our Camp Commandant.

"Some of you have decided to do some things your way, and where you come from, it may be acceptable, but in Germany we do things for the good of all and those who are responsible for the recent cookhouse debacle will no doubt regret it, since you all are guilty and no one tried to prevent it happening.

"There will be no cheese issue on Thursday!" and with that, he turned and stomped out to the derisive cheers of the occupants.

"Who wants the chuffin' cheese anyway?" sniffed one bloke, "It tastes like s**t, it looks like s**t, and it smells like s**t. App'n it is s**t, hidden under all that bike solution gunk it is covered with."