THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND

Chapter Twenty-two: Tunnel Vision

There were no trees on Spike Island, at least, I don't remember any being there; if there had been it is certain we would have climbed them and perhaps have built a tree-house, or erected a swing from one of the boughs. But since there weren't any we had to find other diversions with which to amuse ourselves. (The desolate nature of Spike Island may be seen in this view, below)

I mentioned earlier that we had formed the Spike Island Gang and that each week we had to undergo certain rituals or tests of courage in order to remain in the gang. I revealed also that the leader of this famous band was none other than my brother, Mike. He was the generalissimo, the supreme commander, indeed, the brains behind it all. It followed, therefore, that such an august figurehead should have his own HQ, his own strategic operations room, in which to plan future campaigns.

Together with the Masons and myself, he held a council-of-war to discuss, amongst other urgent business, the deplorable lack of military facilities. It was utterly disgraceful, we were informed, that a general should be reduced to such paucity of comforts due to an officer of his high rank.

When we heard this we were thoroughly ashamed of ourselves. How thoughtless of us that we should have allowed this state of affairs to come about.

"What should we do, sir?" we all asked eagerly, and saluted smartly.

"Well, men," he said, beating his swagger-stick crisply against his riding-boots (actually, it was just a stick he had found lying around, and the boots were more of the hob-nail variety - I'm sure you get the picture) "I propose that we build a headquarters, somewhere over there," he continued, pointing vaguely over to the bombed ruins.

"Right away, sir. Do you want it now, or yesterday?" we replied, eager to please.

"Today will do fine, thank you, lads," he answered, condescendingly.

With that we all ran off to look for a suitable site on which to build this great edifice.

Away we scurried over the hills and dales of the ruins, shouting at odd intervals that this site was "great" or that site was "fantastic". And each time Mike would give his close, critical scrutiny, casting a professional eye over the proposed location. At last we fell upon the ideal place, one which would not only provide us with shelter and privacy, but also be out of sight of any low-flying German planes. Well, you just never know, do you?

The site we had selected, or rather, Mike had selected, was at the side of a hollow which was all that was left of the cellars of one of the flattened buildings. The hollow itself was the length, breadth and depth of a good-sized swimming-pool and it was in one side of this depression that we decided to dig a tunnel.

Day and night for twenty years we dug as the tunnel lengthened and broadened to our satisfaction. Few people know this but if we had continued for another day we would have been the first to have completed the tunnel under the English Channel, but since none of us spoke French we came to a halt about three feet away from the Calais coast.

Perhaps I stretch the point a little but we did indeed work jolly hard to make this tunnel into a comfortable headquarters. We propped up the roof and some parts of the walls too, and flattened the floor down to make it nice and smooth in case any visiting officers should call. Around the sides shelves were erected on which we stored the provisions to last for a long campaign: half a chocolate bar, some bubble-gum, two or three bananas; the usual field-rations a soldier would expect in any war. We fashioned a few benches from scraps of wood we'd found lying around and in one wall a safe was cut to store the secret battle plans.

Sentries were posted at the entrance to guard against enemy intrusion and each man was expected to do his stint of duty marching to and fro across the doorway. Everybody, that is, except Mike who was the officer in command and as such was spared this menial task.

We spent a great deal of time in this magnificent military hide-away discussing the course of the war and generally being awfully brave in the face of our foes. On the odd occasion, that is, if the sentry was alert, stray German patrols would be spotted and from our hidden vantage we would watch their progress as they searched the terrain for us. We discussed what action we were obliged to take if any one of us were caught and it was decided that no matter what tortures were perpetrated upon us only our name, rank, and serial number would be offered. Fortunately, it never came to that because our headquarters were so well hidden that the Krauts would literally have had to stumble right on top of us just to see us.

One day Mike and I were in the bunker, the Masons' had gone a.w.o.l., and we were making the final preparations for the assault on the Reich Chancellery. Mike went outside to check on the ammunition supplies and I stayed behind to study the battle plans.

As I was grappling with the intricacies of the plan of attack I happened to be pulling on one of the support beams - there was no particular military reason for doing this and it certainly would not have enhanced our strategic operations one jot - but there I was pulling away at it and being generally useless. Suddenly, from out of the blue, we took a direct hit from a lone German bomber. The roof caved in and everything went black. I was completely buried and quite unable to move. Breathing now became somewhat of a problem as there was a distinct lack of air and if I didn't get any soon, me Dad'd kill me!

Terror is a terrible thing, don't you know? It can turn a brave soldier into a blithering wreck in a matter of seconds. I tried to shout for help and immediately dined on a good helping of earth. The important events of my life began to sweep before my mind's eye: the "ice-breaker", the whale, the jam butty I'd left half-eaten on the bunker shelf; all these and many much more important images came rushing to me.

Hours later, when I had all but given up the struggle, I felt a gritty hand on my arm. "Oh!" thought I, stupidly, "Someone else is in here too!"

But it was not another resident. No, it was none other than General Michael Joseph Riley himself and he had come to rescue me. Out of the rubble he dragged me, tearing one arm off at a time to make my exit easier and in the process removing any surplus skin from my body. He sat me up and asked me if I felt like breathing now and I was fairly quick to reply. There was grit and dirt all over me; heavens above, I must have looked like Al Jolson at Carnegie Hall.

"You'd better dive in the cut (the canal) and get cleaned up before me Dad sees yer," Mike advised me.

How frightfully charming. Yes. Super. What a good idea! The state I was in I'd probably sink to the bottom anyway. "I say, old chap, do you have any other bright ideas?"

That episode saw the end of our headquarters. The Germans had won that particular round and we were forced to search for other quarters. But we'd get them in the end, by Jove!

A year or two later an incident occurred which, although it happened thousands of miles away in Wales, did have a direct bearing on what had happened in the tunnel. During the summer holidays Dad used to take us to a place called Talacre on the coast of Wales for a couple of weeks. We would travel by train free of charge because of Dad's job with the Railways and Waterways and would stay in his son-in-law's (from his first of several marriages) bungalow or caravan also without cost.

This was always a great time to look forward to for Mike and me. We would go rollicking over the sand-hills from dawn till dusk and come back to base exhausted and hungry. Some nights we would camp outside the caravan, or the bungalow if we were lucky enough to score it for that year, and we would pretend that we were out in the jungles of Africa surrounded by Zulus.

One summer Dad took us to the local fair and entered us into the children's sports events. Mike went off to do his thing and I was gazetted for the obstacle-race. Dad stood on the side-lines along with a million or so other parents to watch as this great Olympian event got under way.

A man in a white, official-looking coat lined all the kids up, there were about twelve of us, and told us what we had to do. He got us ready, then set, and finally, let us go. There was a great uproar from the crowd. People from all over the world had come to see this famous contest. The press-gallery was crowded around, competing with each other for vantage spots from which to take photographs. Members of the International Olympic Committee stood by to see that all the rules were strictly adhered to. Fathers screamed at their proteges to exert themselves. Dad alone stood silently. Not for him the disgraceful show of indecorum.

Well, we jumped over things, ran round things, swung on ropes, climbed up and down ladders, tripped over everything in sight. It was a great old race and everyone was excited. I was well up with the leaders and looking pretty much a safe bet for a place. The second-last obstacle came into view; it was a huge tarpaulin stretched out on the grass. It was under this great canvas that we had to crawl to get to the other end where, lying in wait, were sacks in which to hop to the finishing-line. That was where my problems started.

As soon as I got myself under the tarpaulin and the darkness surrounded me, an uncontrollable panic set in. It was the tunnel all over again. I couldn't for the life of me figure out which way was forwards or which way was backwards. Bodies bumped into me, sending me into deeper frenzy. I clawed at the canvas to try to free myself but it was too big and too heavy. The grunts and groans of the other kids gave me some idea of where I should be headed and, listening with all my being, I followed their sounds.

Eventually, with the help of the other kids' noises, I managed to reach the edge of the tarpaulin and scrambled out as quickly as I could. All the others had found their sacks and were hopping madly towards the finish. I looked round for my sack but there was none to be found! Someone had miscounted.

It was then that the tears began to flow in shameful drops down my cheeks. I turned and ran towards Dad for comfort but as I reach him he gave me a back-hander across the face and walked away. And why shouldn't he? He did not want to be associated with a loser, for crying out loud!

All in all, those two episodes served well to explain the meaning of that well-known expression: tunnel-vision.

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