Chapter 35

There is a satisfaction in a job well done ... personally, Mick preferred his burger that way ... well done. Jobs? When he was working ... yes.

Remembering ... far too realistically ... the time from leaving Singapore until he was on the HMS Sussex, in the sea off Keppel Harbour, when the Japanese surrendered Singapore, September 4th 1945. It was a pretty good day ... but not the best. He had left friends behind ... and they never reappeared. The Nips weren't all that good about keeping track of where who was buried and the records available at the time never mentioned WHY they were buried.

Sussex, a County class heavy cruiser, was heavily damaged during a 1940 German air raid and sunk at her dock. Restored, with new anti-aircraft mounts, up to date radar and anti-submarine warfare equipment, she was recommissioned at the very end of 1942. She was to be stationed with the Eastern Fleet. In a rare act of kindness, Leading Seaman Mick Jagger, (No relation.) was assigned to her crew. Sussex was redeployed with the 4th Cruiser Squadron. On her way she intercepted and sank a German tanker just south west of Finisterre on the 26th of February, but was then attacked by an accompanying German U Boat. Sussex she avoided the four torpedoes fired at her.

Sussex spent 1944 in the Pacific, and covered operations in the NEI, (Netherlands East Indies) following the cessation of hostilities. On 26 July 1945, she was attacked by Kamikaze aircraft, and shot down two. On Wednesday, 5 September 1945 at 1130am., HMS Sussex entered Singapore Harbor carrying the Flag of Rear-Admiral Cedric Holland. General Seishiro Itagaki, the commander of the garrison at Singapore was brought on board, where he signed the formal surrender of the army, thus completing the allied plan to recapture Singapore. (Just a little history lesson thanks to Wikipedia.)

After it was all over, discharged, ships scrapped by the hundreds, Mick found himself on the beach. The minor shrapnel wound he had received in his right buttock had festered, and suddenly Mick was one of the great unwashed ... on the dole. He had applied ... everywhere ... the Brits were notorious in their handling of wounded veterans. He even applied for aid to the Department in charge of the implementation of the 1944 Disability Employment Act. The Act promised sheltered employment, reserved occupations and employment for disabled people. There were over three hundred thousand disabled War vets. After a few months in operation, the Vets had a different name for it.

The Department for Dirty Tricks and Seldom Miracles had an annual drawing to see who was fucked and who wasn't. The busty eighteen year old secretarial pool bimbo stuck her hand in the black hat and pulled out the 'You are Sooo fucked' group of the month. She was instructed to cram as many slips as possible in her hand. The slips were passed out to her 'never served' fellow employees ... who all gloated. They gloated because these slips represented the reason there was no butter, little meat, no stockings, no chocolate, no petrol, no men ... soldiers, sailors and airmen.

She stuck her hand in the white hat and pulled out just one slip. If your name was one of the previously drawn fucked ... well ... too bad ... your name had been previously drawn. Your chance for the year was over. The only way to have another chance was to go to the local office and submit the paperwork ... again. If you did ... your name was submitted to a list and everyone on that list had pages added to be filed out in Black ink ... no smudges.

Vets gave up ... lived on the dole and eventually died. "Of war wounds' was a complete heading in the Obituaries.

This time it was Mick Jagger who was the winner. Oh, people crosschecked, double checked and triple checked ... his paperwork was perfect ... even though it was done standing up. Mick had dne everything right. The employees of the Department of Seldom Miracles ... both of them doddering old idiots sent for Mick.

"What do you want?" they asked like twins. No one had ever descended to the level of their trollship. The door was marked 'No!' 'Never!' 'Death' 'Verboten' ... even 'Exit' ... but here was a supplicant.

"You sent for me."

"We did?"

"Yes," he handed over certified copies of their request letter.

They shredded them.

"I have others."

"Don't you trust your government?"

"Fuck no! ... do you?"

"Errm..."

"I see."

"Hrumph ... yes."

They hemmed and hawed ... procrastinated ... waffled and minced and obfuscated.

The eldest looked up, "You're still here."

"Yes."

He gave a much sigh and said, "What do you want?"

"What can I have?"

"Damn!"

They summoned minions and repaired to the inner sanctum ... the safe. There was much groaning and gnashing of teeth. The eldest placed a sheet of paper on the counter ... it was the deed to an East End Pub.

"And," said Mick.

The minions opened a chest ... the younger of the two old men threw a bag on the counter ... it was the smallest bag in the chest. It clanked.

"And?"

A second bag was added to the first.

"And?"

"All right, all right, all RIGHT! Step behind the counter."

Mick read the fine print, he said, "The sign plainly states trespassers will be shot ... put the chest on the counter."

Grumbling, the minions did. The chest was very heavy.

"Anything you drop stays here." The oldster said.

Mick shook bags and felt contents ... some bags were washers ... he chose the gold. Some bags were newsprint ... he sniffed, "I always had a nose for money ... he chose the only bag of fifty pound notes. Lumbered down with everything he could carry and still make the stairs, Mick left. A cab had just let out a Peer ... Mick settled in and waver a fiver.