Divisions [The Who]

Chapter 1

“We have met our day of death, but from the ashes, we will rise young, more powerful than before.”

CHAPTER 1

            He had never been fond of his father, but their likeness in attitude was uncanny. Being sent away was distressing and dreadful for he and his mother, but with his father, it was all mirrored words and a final salute.  He could remember every fragment of his departure, even that it was raining that day, but when he came to the memories with his father, it was all too vague, and disinterested him without delay.

        “I’ve got to go now mum. The busman is waitin’.”

        “John Alec Entwistle, don’t y’dare forget me. I’ll be ‘ere when y’come back, and I’ll make you a nice cuppa, an’ you can play yor bass in th’livin’ room as much as y’want.” John’s mother stroked her son’s cheek with her thumbs, smudging his tears into his skin. But she wasn’t aware that he was crying. Rain streamed down John’s face, his pale eyelashes sticking together, dirty blond locks pasted to his forehead. He kept his face unbroken and masked, but he was crying. It was tolerable to cry when no one could distinguish your tears from rain. Father must have been standing nearby, as there was a dark form behind her, stiff and unmoving.

        “Ollright mum, it’s ollright. I’ll be home soon enuff, don’t y’worry,” John said calmly, but even he knew that he might not ever return. He stepped forward, lacing his arms over her shoulders, drawing her into an undying hug. When they pulled away, she held him at arms length, and her eyelids fluttered when she spoke, as if she was disappointed with him.

        “Now go say yor goodbye to yor father like a good boy.”

John kissed the crown of his mother’s dark hair, held in a precarious bun at the top of her head. It was heavy and falling apart from the downpour. Passing her reluctantly, he stood in front of his father. Just an ashen figure with two shadows for eyes.

“John! John! Charlie’s just been washed down in the lavatories! You shoulda seen his face, the poor buggah!” Little Bartie stirred the taller boy who was sleeping. Bartie was by no means going to grow; all the other boys told him. He was undersized with lanky arms at 13, with a ginger mop of hair, a smile that held numerous crooked teeth, and had enough freckles to look like he had dirt dusted on his nose and cheeks.

Almost completely reverse to Bartie, John was a giant, being six feet tall at 14, with a broad barrel chest, and had short, cropped dirty blond hair. He was the strongest in his division. And probably the only big teenager with mercy and understanding; if Bartie had roused anyone else, he would have received a fist in the teeth for an answer. But this was John, who peacefully pushed himself into a seated position, not forgetting to give the smaller boy a little playful shove.

        “You’ve got t’be kiddin’. You wake me op to tell me that! Charlie’s been washed down the loo about thirty-four times since I got ‘ere. No news there, Bart Fart.” John rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, then stretched his arms with a gaping yawn, settling back in his pillows as he looked at the ginger boy.

        “Well,” Bartie began, folding his arms as his eyes flitted around at the room, which should have been housing about 24 teen boys in cots, but at the moment was clearly empty apart from themselves, “You’re late to Mess Hall. You’ve never been this late before—what’s gonna be your excuse this time?” Bartie wheeled back to John, who was already out of bed, his bare backside wriggling into his practice suit. Everyone had to wear those outside of the dorms, even though there were always a few moans and groans about how loose and awkward they were. When John had first arrived, he felt peculiar wearing something that looked like footie pyjamas, but had the texture of scratchy, stiff linen cloth. However, after some time, it became bearable.