Every day bar ‘tea day,’ a deaf, stooped, bomb blasted crooked figure dressed in a filthy woollen trench coat and wearing hobnail boots, its vision obscured by two long strands of unwashed hair hanging from a pockmarked palate, coughed and phlegmed its way to collect a morning “propaganda sheet.” Its hands quaking so uncontrollably, that Frank Booth the newsagent risked infection, rifling through its pockets to locate payment.
Frank apologised to waiting customers for the inevitable delay, offering one of two alternate explanations, “the poor bugger was gassed in the trenches,” or “the poor sod never recovered from shellshock.”
Reg left the shop running a gauntlet of youths full of sophomoric insults and acne vulgaris. A lack of love, education, and a decent upbringing compels them to shout, “smelly old bastard.”
At precisely three o clock, that ragged trousered figure transformed into a noble elderly refined gentleman on the third Sunday of the month, its hunched frame straightened in a clean dark suit and a freshly laundered crisp white shirt several medals clanging against its breast.
One, a 1914 Star, also known as the Mons Star, issued to British soldiers who had served in France or Belgium from the fifth of August Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen, the declaration of war, to midnight on the twenty-second of November Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen, the end of the First Battle of Ypres.
As expectant urchins waited impatiently for old men to empty the urn and to chew odd sandwiches that played havoc with dodgy dentures, Reg performed a trick of flicking a George V British Silver Shilling from his forearm high into the air, before catching it in his toothless mouth.
A performance that concluded with the distribution of sweets and coins amongst his enthralled audience.
Saluting the troop of snotty-nosed kids who followed him like the Piper of Hamlyn, he shouted, “What would you have me do? Go to the wars, would you? Where a man may serve seven years for the loss of a leg, and have not money enough in the end to buy him a wooden one? Hurrah for the Old Contemptibles.”
Then he briskly marched, “No shilly-shallying,” to a house hidden behind an enshrouding ivy hedge, that in his mind, afforded some protection from motorised columns of deathly angels.
When the week’s newspapers lay uncollected, Frank Booth called the Coppers.
They found Reg in full dress uniform stone dead in his armchair, a mouldy cup of Earl Grey tea and a digestive biscuit by his side.
The stench of death masked by a beautiful display of full and friendly thoughtful colours of Damask, Floribunda, Gallica, Hybrid Perpetual, and Marchen Rosen, grown to everyone’s surprise in a secret exquisitely tended Rose Garden to the rear of the property, where every secret summer Reg bathed in flowerish satisfaction.
A council worker tasked with clearing the house found what he described as “a piss pot with a spike on it,” under Reg’s bed. A less than accurate description of a Pickelhaube, later listed as lot number eight on page four of the Arms and Militaria Catalogue of one of the United Kingdom’s leading auction houses.
A unique piece of history
Original battle-damaged Baden Leib-Grenadier 109th Infantry Regiment Pickelhaube. Black lacquer finished leather. Silver front plate and other metal fixtures.
Distinguishing features include a small entrance hole and a large explosive outward hole caused by the entry and exit of a bullet. The holes align perfectly on the helmet bowl and are indicative of a grazing wound that dug a furrow across the top of the soldier’s scalp. The interior is discoloured by blood.
Crimping damage caused by the helmet’s cover clips is further evidence that it was worn on the battlefield. A Regimental and arsenal stamp mark of ‘R109’ is visible on the underside of the rear visor. The spike is removable.
The Pickelhaube was sold to an unnamed American buyer for several thousand dollars.
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