Hope and Glory Page #9

A shell bursts right overhead and they duck into the open

doorway. The four of them are framed there, looking up at

the savage sky where the Battle of Britain rages. BILL

watches enraptured.

EXT. THE CITY OF LONDON - NIGHT

BLACK AND WHITE:

St. Paul's sites at the heart of the blazing city.

EXT. STREET - DAY

COLOUR:

DAWN, in school uniform, rides off on her bicycle. BILL and

SUE come out with satchels and gasmasks. GRACE watches them

making their way along the street scarred and damaged by

the night's bombing. PEOPLE scratch in the rubble to

salvage their belongings.

BILL'S eyes are fixed on the ground searching from

shrapnel. Now and then he stops to retrieve a piece. SUE

dawdles along behind him, one foot in the gutter, the other

on the kerb.

BILL looks up as he hears a voice groaning from a bomb

site. SUE is now some way ahead. The street is suddenly

deserted. He looks back at the bomb-scarred house. The

front of the house is gone and flowery wallpapers are

revealed. The voice cries out again, a panting, rasping

moan. BILL ventures forward. Now a WOMAN'S VOICE, groaning.

MAN'S VOICE (O.S.)

Oh f***... oh f***... oh f***...

A white hand and forearm stretch up from the debris. BILL

shifts position until he can SEE TWO HEADS, a MALE and

FEMALE, pressed against a mattress which is leaning against

a broken wall. He darts back on the street and looks for

help. The street is still deserted. He hesitates, then runs

up the street for all he is worth.

EXT. SCHOOLYARD - DAY

BILL and SUE are late. They run into the yard where the

other children are already lining up in their respective

classes. The HEADMASTER is a wizened Welshman, too old for

military service. He struts up and down.

HEADMASTER:

Dressing from the right!

He points an accusing finger at BILL.

HEADMASTER:

Late! My study before prayers.

They shuffle into their correct spacing.

HEADMASTER:

Eyes front! Keep still down

there, you little ones. It's

discipline that wins wars.

Inspects his troops.

HEADMASTER:

Now quick march. Left... right...

left... right. Swing those arms.

FLASH CUT:

INT. HEADMASTER'S STUDY - DAY

BILL flinches and winces as the cane strikes his hand.

INT. SCHOOL ASSEMBLY HALL - DAY

The children are praying, eyes closed, hands joined. On the

dais, the teachers, mostly women, are lined up.

HEADMASTER:

Oh God, bring destruction to our

enemies. Make these young one's

true soldiers of the Lord. Guide

Mr. Churchill's hand in the

cunning war.

Some of the boy's covertly swap pieces of shrapnel and

cigarette cards as the HEADMASTER'S tirade grows in

passion, but BILL is mesmerized and fearful of this daily

rhetoric. He blows on his hands, shakes them to alleviate

the pain inflicted by the caning.

HEADMASTER:

Let our righteous shells smite

down the Messerschmitts and the

Fokkers.

FLASH CUT:

INT. HEADMASTER'S STUDY - DAY

BILL'S face, twisted in anxious anticipation, awaits the

next blow.

INT. SCHOOL ASSEMBLY HALL - DAY

HEADMASTER:

Lord, send troublesome dreams to

Herr Hitler. Let him not sleep

the sleep of the innocent. And

comfort our warriors at the

fronts. Brighten their swords,

burnish their bullets with your

fire.

FLASH CUT:

INT. HEADMASTER'S STUDY - DAY

BILL jerks convulsively and grins as the cane connects.

INT. SCHOOL ASSEMBLY HALL - DAY

The HEADMASTER reaches a climatic peak, then is silent,

head sinking to his chest. He continues, very quietly.

HEADMASTER:

We beseech Thee, Oh Lord, to have

mercy on these Thy children.

FLASH CUT:

INT. HEADMASTER'S STUDY - DAY

BILL suffers another whack.

INT. SCHOOL ASSEMBLY HALL - DAY

HEADMASTER:

We dedicate our studies this day

to the war effort.

INT. CLASSROOM - DAY

BILL covertly shows the welts on his hands to his neighbour

as he and thirty other nice-year-old children are harangued

by a large red-faced woman, their TEACHER. She sprays a lot

of saliva as she speaks. A coloured linen projection of the

world is hung over the blackboard. She slaps it with her

cane, pointing to many countries .

TEACHER:

Pink... pink... pink... pink...

What are the pink bits, Rohan?

BILL stands up, still seeking balm for his hands - he has

them tucked under his armpits.

BILL:

They're ours, Miss.

TEACHER:

Yes, the British Empire.

A boy, HARPER, sits in front row and is in saliva range.

Each time the TEACHER turns back to the blackboard, the boy

wipes his desk flamboyantly with a cloth, much to the

spluttering amusement of his classmates.

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