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The Returned Soldier

The sign outside the factory read: NO HANDS WANTED. A tall shabby man stood gazing at the sign. He wore a threadbare overcoat, once black, but faded a dirty green with the years. There were no buttons on it. He held the coat close around him with one hand. His other hand was in its pocket. His dirty shirt was collarless. His grey trousers were grimy and frayed around the cuffs. Incongruously, he wore a pair of cheap, fairly new sandshoes. He needed a shave, and it seemed, a bath.

He turned and walked slowly away with listless gait, slightly stooped forward into the cold wind, with an air about him that indicated he had seen such a sign many times before, and no longer believed it to be fantastic that he wanted work and could find none.

I told Mary it was no use, he was thinking; no use to look any more. Just to be satisfied to rot on the dole. Yet she was right; I must find work. To pay the bills, the rent especially; to get some good tucker and clothes; to get the sewing machine back. Those reasons are easy to understand, but the main reason is not so easy to understand. I’m getting down, down... No fight left... no guts... Don’t bother to wash... shave... nothin’. Gotta get a job or I’m finished.

He walked on aimlessly. He passed many factories which had been forced long ago to put up signs to halt the streams of job seekers; until at last, he dully noted a large factory without such a sign. He went in, found the office, and approached hesitantly.

ENQUIRIES. PLEASE RING. He reached towards the bell, pulled his hand back as if afraid he might be electrocuted, then pressed it sharply.

The pretty young woman who opened the sliding window, eyed him distastefully and said: “Yes?”

Though he had asked the questions thousands of times in his periodic excursions looking for work, now he felt tongue-tied.

Finally he blurted out: “A job. Work. Any kinda work.”

She pursed her lips affectedly. “We have no vacancies.”

He hesitated as if to say more, to plead, to ask to see the Manager, but changing his mind turned slowly and walked away.

Outside, he stood as though undecided in which direction to turn, then crossed the road and walked down the opposite footpath with tentative strides.

He walked a long way, without looking either to the right or left, passed several factories with the forbidding signs outside, until he came to another without a sign.

A machine shop! In a man’s own trade with no sign outside. He entered quickly. Inside the factory, the familiar hum and whirr of the machines was as music to his ears. He watched a young man turning a motor car piston on a lathe.

He rubbed the tips of his left fingers on his right hand. He straightened his shoulders. Lathes to be worked and no sign outside! He walked briskly towards the office, wishing he had put on a collar and tie and spruced himself up a bit. He brushed his hair with his hands.

The man who came to the enquiry window was kindly looking and grey-haired. He wore a navy blue suit. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Er, yes. I’m looking for work. This is my trade. Turner and fitter. Good references. Work any of these lathes.” “I’m sorry. Business is quiet.”

“But you have no sign outside. You must need a good man. Top-line tradesman. Good references”.

The grey-haired man seemed to waver, as though it pained him to turn men away. His eyes ran down the shabby figure and up again, then surveyed the lapel of the old overcoat. “Actually, we only employ returned soldiers.”

“I’m a returned soldier.”

“Er, have you any means of proving that... You see, we get many...”

The shabby man put his right hand into his vest pocket then withdrew it. “Yeh, I’ve got proof that I’m a returned soldier, but it means nothin’ now, except on Anzac[1] Day...”

“Well, we have no vacancies at the moment, but if you submit proof that you are a returned digger, I’ll put your name down. Then perhaps later on...”

“Don’t trouble... Don’t trouble...” the shabby man answered. He turned on his heels and slowly retraced his steps.

Again he trudged aimlessly on, away from the city until he came to a wide bridge.

He leaned on the side of the bridge, looking into the murky, swirling water. He looked back the way he had come and saw the dingy houses, the factories, the shops, the smoke-stained drabness. Then he turned his head and gazed across the river at the lawns, and the mansions that looked down from the opposite banks, as if in silent gloating. Apparently struck by a sudden idea he crossed the bridge, and, limping now, he trudged up the hill and entered a wide concrete street skirted on either side by neat lawns and beautiful trees.

He stopped in front of the first house, then walked on. At the second big gate he hesitated, ran his hands down the sides of his overcoat and through his hair, then entered slowly, surveying the well-kept garden as he walked up the curved, gravel path.

He walked gingerly over the polished-brick front verandah and rang the door bell uncertainly.

After a while he rang again, then the door was opened by a well-dressed woman. She was elderly, but tried unsuccessfully to disguise her age with powder and paint and a ridiculous hair style.

She started a little when she saw him, and said tartly: “What do you mean coming to the front door?”

“Er, sorry, madam, I didn’t think... You see, I thought perhaps you wanted a gardener; just the lawns cut, perhaps. Just an hour or two’s work, or something...”

“We have a professional landscape gardener. In future, learn your place and go to the tradesmen’s entrance. Not that we want any tramps around here.”

The man’s abject, servile manner changed. His eyes gleamed, his fists clenched.

Suddenly he threw his overcoat open wide, unbuttoned his vest with savage fingers, pulled his shirt out of his trousers and, drawing it up, bared his white stomach.

“See that? See that scar! A bullet went through there and out the other side. I fought for bitches like you!”

The woman shrank back, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. She screamed piercingly.

The man turned without waiting to tuck in his shirt, and ran frantically out the gate down the hill across the bridge.

There he stopped, panting, out of breath. He looked around furtively, tucked in his shirt and walked back towards the city. He seemed to have stooped lower and his limp was more marked. His sandshoes were too small for him, his toes were skinned, his feet blistering.

He walked on for block after block without raising his head, sometimes bumping into people, until he reached the outskirts of the city, near a public park.

From the lawns nearby he heard animated voices. He looked and saw three bedraggled men sitting on the lawn; one of them was drinking from a bottle.

“Hello, Collins, ‘ave a drink,” one of them called out, holding up a wine bottle.

He hesitated, crossed the lawn and joined them.

“How are yer, Sam? Don’t mind if I do.”

He took the bottle, wiped the top and gulped a few mouthfuls. He shuddered, and handed the bottle back. “Thanks.”

The other three men had the ragtail appearance, blotched skin and bleary eyes of the plonk-drinker. One of them began to tell a story in a croaking voice riddled with lunacy. They all laughed heartily.

Sam and these other two have the solution, Collins thought. Drink and drown your troubles, no use to worry and look for work. Sam’s given up lookin’.

“Yup,” the storyteller continued. “One of the gardeners tied me and Jack’s legs together while we was sleepin’, see? When we woke up I stood up and tried to walk away and fell over; then Jack stood up and he fell over... They was watchin’ us from behind the bushes. It was funny all right. I laughed till I thought I’d kill meself.”

Till I thought I’d kill meself, that’s what he said. Collins’ distraught mind gripped the phrase. Thought I’d kill meself.

He turned and walked away from them without speaking again.

“Thanks for the drink, mate,” one of them called after him in a sarcastic, high-pitched voice.

But he did not hear. He limped off thinking: Man’s going silly. Thought I’d kill meself. The plonk-drinker’s words kept ringing in his ears.

As he walked into the city, black clouds came up suddenly and heavy rain began to fall. He put his hands in his overcoat pockets and drew it around him. The rain soon soaked through his sandshoes and aggravated his sore feet. He limped on into the rain. The cheap wine had turned sour in his empty stomach. He felt sick.

What’s the use. How long now? Since thirty-one; three years without more than a few days’ work at a time. Only the susso and ten bob a week pension.No good tucker, no good clothes, rent behind — get kicked out — and debts — plenty of ‘em. The light cut off, sewing machine repossessed. Mary gone scraggy and skinny, and the kids at school without boots. On the last of the wood... Thought I’d kill meself!

Night fell suddenly, and lights came on shimmering in the rain. Cars swishing and splashing by, the rain and the cold wind.

He walked, not knowing or caring where he was going, until he found himself in a city arcade on the corner of a lane.

He turned into the lane and huddled against the wall. Better go home for tea.

He could smell food. Saliva filled his mouth. The back of a cafe somewhere. Told Mary not to worry if I was late. Would take any work offering, would start right away, night shift, anything. He laughed aloud and his laughter echoed down the lane.

The sickly feeling in his stomach vanished and was replaced by gnawing hunger. He had not eaten since morning, and then only fried bread and dripping with tea.

The back of a cafe. Here some are getting a feed this way. He walked slowly up the dark lane. He heard voices. He saw about a dozen men huddled round a doorway, near two large scrap bins.

Presently, a door opened throwing a beam of light. The other men were even shabbier than he. They clustered round the man in a white coat who came out and tipped a tin of scraps into one of the bins without speaking to, or looking at, the scavengers. The light revealed cabbage leaves, half-eaten pieces of meat, chop bones, fruit peels, tea leaves — all churned into a disgusting mess.

The assembled men swarmed around the bin, jostling each other, grabbing handfuls of the scraps from the bin, nearly overturning it in their hungry eagerness. Collins joined them for a moment; then suddenly pulled himself clear. No! Not this! Like a dog! Never.

He ran from the lane, and continued his wanderings in the rain.

His stinging feet carried him to a wide bridge. He stood on its side-walk, thinking. Without looking for traffic he started to cross to the other side. As he reached the middle of the road, brakes screeched. A truck skidded and swerved, but by some miracle it missed him. He did not notice it. The truck stopped.

The driver stuck his head out and shouted: “What’s wrong with you? Trying to commit suicide?”

The shabby man did not hear him. He stepped on to the pavement and leaned on the side of the bridge, looking over to where he could hear the water lapping against the huge supporting pillars. He stood thus for several minutes.

Presently he felt in his vest pocket, and drew a small purse from it. He pressed the clasp, opened the purse and drew out a small object, which he threw with a flick of his wrist. It glinted in the dull light. It was a small bronze cross, with a ribbon attached. There was a plop as it hit the water. He stood motionless looking down into the river for a while, sighed, then turned and retraced his steps. The rain was falling in torrents now. He trudged on slowly, limping badly, through the city into a drab industrial suburb. He was shivering, his feet were squelching, his clothes soaked right through.

He entered a dark street. A shaft of light coming from a doorway attracted him. He stopped. It was the entrance to a hall. In the lighted lobby near the door was a sign: Meeting To-night. The Society Against War.

He squinted close to the sign. The Society against war. Against war.

He entered dubiously, blinking at the light. He saw a man on the platform addressing the half-filled hall.

Collins sat down in a chair in the back row. He leaned forward only vaguely hearing the speaker.

“Danger of war. A second world war would be a calamity.”

As the speech continued, the shabby man listened more intently, dwelling on every word with a puzzled frown.

The speaker concluded:

“We must tell the people of the horrors of war. We must warn them of the danger of war. We must tell the people that many of the heroes of the war are now walking the streets, war is not heroic, but insane. Our organisation will hold meetings everywhere, telling the people the facts.”

The speaker resumed his seat. The chairman stood up.

Suddenly Collins leapt to his feet and shouted:

“Listen, mister!”

The chairman looked in his direction with a startled air. The audience swung towards the rear of the hall.

Collins stood grasping the back of the chair in front of him tightly.

“Yes?” said the chairman, puzzled.

“Listen, mister,” the shabby man repeated. “Here’s something you can tell the people. Tell ‘em a man won the V. C.[2], and threw it in the river!”

Voices mumbled and eyes stared incredulously.

“It’s true, I tell yer. I won the Victoria Cross. I can prove it”.

He fumbled in his vest pocket, and took out the little purse and held it up.

“See that. That’s the purse I carried it in for seventeen years. I won the Victoria Cross and threw it in the river this very night, because there’s no work for heroes. I been outta work for three years.” His voice rose to a piercing yell, “Tell the people that a man won the Victoria Cross and he threw it in the river. Tell ‘em that!” A great sob broke from him. He stumbled from the hall into the cold, rainy night.

Collins walked towards home. His limp was gone. He had straightened up and walked briskly, head high, arms swinging. He seemed oblivious of the weather, his cold, blistered feet and the aching emptiness in his stomach.

1. Where and when do the events of the story take place? What are the indications in the text?

2. Introduce the protagonist of the story (age, occupation, background, marital status, etc.). Pay attention to the lexis used in the description of his appearance, clothes, in his speech. What tone does it create?

3. Examine the scenes and the atmosphere at each potential place of employment. How do the character’s manner, mood, the way he is treated interact?

4. Dwell on the mood and the atmosphere in the episodes of Collins’ conversation with the drunkards and his meeting homeless people at the back of a café. Since these scenes are not connected with looking for a job, account for their significance for the story.

5. Define the key of the story. Dwell on the role of weather descriptions: rain, wind, the sky.

6. When does Collins’ despair seem to reach its maximum? What to your mind is the climactic point of the story? Support your opinion.

7. Interpret the title and the central idea of the story. Is the theme still relevant in your opinion?

8.

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