The Balaclava Brigade Victorious

“Come here, boy!” bellowed a loud voice.

It was Friday afternoon, and crowds of noisy children were crossing the playground at Brinton National School. Everyone was excited because we had completed our first week back at school after the long summer holidays. My friend, Georgie, and I were making our way to the ramshackle old bus which was waiting outside the school gates. Since we lived in the neighbouring village we had to travel to and from school by bus each day.

“I said come here!” the stern voice yelled once more.

We turned quickly to see Mr. Hardcastle, our headmaster, standing in the school doorway. The playground had suddenly fallen still and silent. Mr. Hardcastle was a tall upright man, a hugely impressive figure with steel grey hair and a thin moustache.

The Head’s commanding voice rang out again even more loudly.

“You, boy! I said come here!”

All the children were rooted to the spot, totally motionless like marble statues.

Intense anger glared out from the Head’s face, and his tone of voice conveyed extreme displeasure. His eyes blazed across the playground, but his finger which was waving around aimlessly did not appear to be pointing at anyone in particular. Mr. Hardcastle had been an army officer in the blood-soaked trenches of the First World War where he had lost an eye, which had been replaced with a glass one. A puzzled expression stared out from every child’s face. The problem was that his two eyes always seemed to be looking in different directions, and therefore it was impossible to decide who he was actually looking at. Who was in trouble this time? That was the question!