Smorgasbord Short Stories -In Remembrance – What’s in a Name? – Walter.

I wrote this story for volume II of What’s in a Name and share it here for the first time. It is estimated that 10 million soldiers from all sides, like my grandfather, did not return from the First World War. This was trebled in the Second World War leading to an estimated total loss of over 40 million young men and women. This number has been increased significantly in all the global conflicts since.

This overwhelming figure does not include the wounded who did return, scarred for life physically and mentally. According to the statistics, despite the best efforts of the veteran assistance organisations, it would seem that we are still not doing all we should for those who have served their countries and returned home.  There are an estimated 10,000 veterans living on the streets in the UK and 50,000 in the US.

There is no reason that I can find to glorify war, but it is important to remember those that served and gave their lives, and those who returned but carry the weight of that service their entire lives. We also need to spare a thought for the millions of families who lost loved ones, are still uncertain of their fate, or who have watched as those who returned, struggle to return to their previous lives.

Walter by Sally Cronin

Somebody mentioned that they had heard that his name was Walter. He was a funny old duck who said little, giving you a discouraging look if you passed the time of day, or suggested sitting with him in the pub. He would nurse his pint of beer, the only one he would have for the two hours he visited The Crown each Friday, and he spent that time staring at the door as if waiting for someone he knew.

With his scruffy appearance and lack of hygiene it was difficult to determine Walter’s age. Some said he was in his 80s but others thought he might be even older than that. He didn’t bother anyone, although the landlord would have liked a little more custom from him over the two hours. However it would not be good for business to be seen ejecting a frail old man; despite his musty odour. That was until he ambled in one day with his stick in one hand and a filthy mongrel on a lead in the other.

Bill, who had run The Crown for twenty years, didn’t have a problem with dogs coming into the public bar, but this one felt the need to cock his leg against the first table leg he came across; marking his territory. Diplomacy was required, and being the summer months, Bill suggested that Walter and his new companion take their business outside to the beer garden, where there was a very nice table facing the back door to the pub.

Walter gave Bill one of his looks; led the scruffy mongrel outside and parked himself; indicating that he required his usual pint to be brought to him. Resigned but happy that this matter had been resolved peacefully, Bill brought out the pint and commented that it was on the house. He received a curt nod in return and shaking his head in exasperation he returned to the bar where his staff were mopping up the offending yellow puddle with some bleach.

Bill was a good man and he made enquiries of other locals as to where Walter lived, and if they knew of his circumstances. It was thought that he rented a small terrace house two streets over, and some commented that they had seen him in the corner shop and post office from time to time, collecting his pension and buying a few staples such as bread and jam.

Thankfully the weather was dry for the next few weeks and Walter and his new friend would now enter the beer garden from the side; sitting at their table waiting for the requisite pint to be delivered. The old man would carefully count out some silver and copper coins to the exact amount of the pint to indicate that he was intent on not accepting it for free.

Bill noticed a slight difference in Walter’s appearance, and in fact the dog looked a little more nourished and cleaner than during his first visits. He wondered who was having a good influence over whom in this partnership; suspecting the dog was responsible. The pub had a thriving food business and there were always scraps left after lunch. Bill began taking out a bowl of these bits of meat and vegetables; putting them down under the table much to the delight of the dog who dived right in. Walter said nothing but he did offer a brief nod before Bill returned inside to the bar.

The weather began to turn into autumn and Bill knew that it was going to start getting too cold for the old man to sit outside. And sure enough the following Friday Walter walked into the bar with his dog and sat down at his usual table. This time the dog behaved itself and lay down by his owner’s feet. By now there had been a marked improvement in the scruffiness of both man and beast and Bill resigned himself to their presence in the bar. He smiled to himself as he pulled the pint of beer, thinking that the old boy was to be admired for his tenacity and spirit.

Regulars to the bar began stopping to talk to the dog who responded politely whilst leaning back against Walter’s legs. Soon patrons were slipping the odd piece of steak or chicken to the animal who took the offered titbit daintily, licking the proffered fingers. Although Walter had tidied himself up considerably, he still looked too scrawny, and Bill came up with a plan. As Walter was getting up to leave he handed him a carrier bag with some cartons inside.

‘Something for the old dog over the weekend Walter,’ he smiled at the stony face in front of him. ‘Just some leftovers from lunch that will only go to waste.’

With a quick nod, Walter took the bag and with the dog eagerly nosing the plastic, they walked out the door and into the wintery weather.

On the following Friday, Bill’s mother, a spritely 85 year old arrived for her annual two weekly visit. Ethel had left the town some twenty years ago to live with her sister in Margate, but she loved coming back to the pub she and her husband had run for 40 years; taking it over from her parents when they retired. The place held happy memories and apart from Bill, she had brought up four other children in the small flat above the bar. They were all dispersed around the country, but they would all take the opportunity to visit whilst she was here to have a family party.

Ethel had been born in the main bedroom upstairs along with a twin brother. He had not wanted to stay in the town or follow his father into the family business. He had chosen to leave instead. Joining the army in 1952 and being deployed to Korea shortly afterwards. As she sat on the edge of the bed in that same bedroom, she ran her fingers over the black and white photograph of the two of them sitting at a table in the back garden. Her brother Donald had a pint in front of him and his arms around her shoulders. They were laughing and playing around for the camera, a gift to their father for his birthday. That was the last time she had seen Donald. They had a few letters during the next year but they revealed little but basic daily life in the army. After the war ended in 1953 they waited to hear about his next leave but nothing arrived.

Eventually Ethel’s father contacted his regiment only to discover that Donald had received a medical discharge three months before and that they had no forwarding address.

The family had searched for him everywhere and even got a private detective involved. Eventually, after two years, they found out that he had immigrated to Australia where all efforts to find him proved futile. It broke their hearts and they spent the rest of their lives wondering what had happened to him.

Ethel sighed as she remembered those tough days. Of course so much more was known about PTSD these days, and the doctors she had spoken to felt that was probably the reason for him shunning his family. Sorrowfully she placed the photograph back on the dresser and prepared to go and greet some of the old regulars who were coming in to join her in a drink.

Sure enough, when she arrived in the bar, there was a warm welcome from her old friends. Bill looked on smiling as he saw his mother embracing the people she had grown up with and served for all those years. The door opened and in walked Walter and his dog, clearly unsettled by the crowd of people gathered in their path and the noisy celebrations going on.

He looked like he was about to turn around and leave, but Bill knew that both he and the dog would probably go hungry over the weekend without their normal leftovers. He stepped out from behind the bar and circled around the group greeting his mother; clearing the path to Walter’s usual table. Hesitantly the man and dog navigated their way across the room and sat down warily; the dog leaning protectively against his companion’s leg.

At that moment the crowd parted and Bill saw his mother smiling across at the three of them. Then she grabbed the arm of one of the people next to her and looked as if she was about to faint. Bill rushed across and grabbed a bar stool for her to sit on.

‘Mum, whatever’s the matter, don’t you feel well?’ He put his arm around Ethel’s shoulders, but she pushed him gently away and pointed across the bar.

‘That’s Walter and his dog Mum, you don’t know him. He has only been coming in for the last few months.’ He followed Ethel’s gaze and was amazed to see Walter on his feet, tears pouring down his face into his newly trimmed beard.

As the crowd of people moved back, the old man with his dog at his side, walked slowly across the carpet to stand before Bill and his mother.

‘I came to see you but you had gone and I thought you were dead.’ The regulars looked at each other in astonishment at the first complete sentence they had heard from Walter.

Ethel moved away from the protective arms of her son, and reaching out a trembling hand, she gently touched the front of Walter’s wrinkled jacket.

‘Oh Donald, you have come home love, you have come home.’

©SallyCronin 2017.

Thank you for dropping in today and wherever you live there will be veterans who need a helping hand. There are a number of excellent organisations who are there to support them and it would be great if you would buy a poppy or contribute money and importantly time to help them.

Some useful links.

Veterans UK: https://www.gov.uk/government/organisations/veterans-uk

Veteran Assistance organisations: http://www.veterans-assist.org/home/veterans-organisations

British Legion: http://www.britishlegion.org.uk/

47 thoughts on “Smorgasbord Short Stories -In Remembrance – What’s in a Name? – Walter.

  1. Oh wow Sal. I loved this story, and so appropriate for today. I always know to keep the Kleenex nearby when I’m going to read one of your stories. 🙂 ❤ Can't wait to read the rest of them soon. ❤ xx

    Liked by 2 people

  2. A beautiful and touching story, Sally. I wish more people would separate the person from the cause and see veterans as people who gave selflessly to ensure freedom. War is antithetical to my beliefs, but I’m grateful to those who serve. Thank you for sharing this with us ❤

    Liked by 2 people

  3. What a wonderful post for Remembrance Day, Sally. I’m sorry your grandfather didn’t return from war. It was so, for far too many families. I agree with your sentiments about not glorifying war, but being grateful to those who served, many to be scarred for life. My Dad and many of my uncles fought in WWII. They hid so much of their suffering inside and received little recognition when they got home. They were meant to just get on with their lives as if nothing had happened. I’m pleased that situation is changing a bit, but the veterans still don’t receive enough recognition or support.
    I really enjoyed your story about Walter (Donald). I was crying as soon as you began talking about Ethel and her lost twin, predicting the conclusion. I wish I’d been prepared as Debby says she was. I hadn’t read this far into your Volume 2 stories yet, so it was quite a treat to read it here, and very appropriate for the day. Thank you.

    Liked by 2 people

      • My Dad was similar too, Sally. He wrote a lot of stories about the war in his later years. I typed them all up for him and collected them into a book which he distributed to family members. He wrote poems as well as stories. I think writing it all down was good for him too, and helped him share a window (clouded though it be) on the horrors.

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  4. Pingback: In Remembrance: What’s in a Name? Walter. – The Militant Negro™

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