“Ah, the Barcarole!” James smiled as he turned the corner onto New Bond Street and heard the music float in his direction. It had been quite a while since he last walked down that street. It reminded him that he had been away from London for about four months at Officer Candidate School in Aldershot. His smile grew wider as he approached the corner of Oxford Street where Douglas, the organ grinder, had stood guard for years in all kinds of weather. He got a glimpse of James and for a moment he didn’t recognise him in an officer’s uniform. The last time he had seen James, he was wearing what all poor university students wore, a shirt many too sizes big for him tucked into a pair of hand me down slacks and a large overcoat. But it was his smile. His unmistakable smile that gave him away.

Douglas, who didn’t like to be addressed by any other name than the name on his birth certificate, stopped playing for a moment and extended his right hand. James gladly shook it. “Where have you been guv’nor?” he asked, knowing the answer to his question. He took a step back and looked at James more closely. “My, you look quite proper, Lieutenant.”

James hadn’t spoken yet. He had been quite content holding his hand. Somehow it felt secure just doing that, especially in a world gone quite mad. It seemed reassuring to James that he was the one constant that remained. Douglas eventually slid his hand out of James’ and began to play the organ again. James was quite content standing there in the cold crisp morning allowing his mind to drift away wherever it wished.

Many people during their busy lives to and from work, purposely made detours just so they could hear him play. For them, he too was the only remaining constant in their lives. Douglas was a mysterious man. No one really knew his story. They didn’t know his full name or where he lived, nor were they curious enough to know how he had lost his right leg, though there were many guesses. Even though he wore civilian clothes, a somewhat threadbare black jacket about two sizes too big for him with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of old grey worn out slacks, he also wore what appeared to be a pair of well-worn army boots on both his real and wooden leg. On his jacket he proudly displayed a line of ribbons from the Great War including one for gallantry, but being it was winter, they were hidden by his large grey striped full length over coat. Other than that, nothing was known of Douglas.

“Are they sending you somewhere?” asked Douglas guessing they were.

“Eventually, I suppose,” replied James who was busy trying to absorb every note of the Barcarole, “first I have to go to the regimental centre and then from there, who knows.” Each note of the Barcarole sunk deeper into his soul. He could’ve stood there for hours but knew in reality that was impossible.

“I know the regiment you’re being attached to very well, guv’nor?” Douglas pointed to James’ cap with his free hand.

“Ah yes, The London Rifles.”

“So, you don’t have far to go.”

“No, no, I don’t suppose I do.”

“Just the other side of the Thames,” Douglas for a few precious moments was lost in his memories of old. But even then, the organ churned out the Barcarole without hesitation.

“In Dulwich,” finished James hesitantly. “How do you know where they are?”

“That was my regiment,” he replied without skipping a beat. He then stopped playing for a moment afraid he might make a mistake.

“I see,” replied James believing he was the first person to get somewhere with him.

“The Great War,” but before he continued his sentence, he stopped. Douglas the old organ grinder had come to attention, as close to it as he could with his false leg and saluted James. There were tears in his eyes. James had to look away for a moment to recompose himself. James turned back and returned the salute. “Corporal Douglas Raskind, Third Battalion the London Rifles, sir.”

By this time a small crowd had gathered. He had stopped playing the organ. The small crowd knew Douglas, or as much as he had allowed them to know him, but now they felt they were witnessing history. Each and every one of them had come by that corner for years. Some well-dressed, some displaying the best in clothes that money could buy, while others were dressed just one step above Douglas. Some were poor university students as was James until a few months ago. They had all collectively stopped and all had the same thought. Douglas Raskind, Corporal Third Battalion the London Rifles, had never complained about his obviously painful predicament. It was as if once invalided out of the army, at the end of the Great War, he had decided that for him his life wasn’t over, as did many who had been severely wounded. He had turned to playing the organ on the corner of New Bond Street and Oxford Street bringing joy to the hundreds who passed by him each and every day. The small crowd on that cold winter’s day in December 1939, realised they were witnesses to an extraordinary display of selflessness, from a man who had served his country and, in his mind, continued to do so.

In front of where he played the organ giving people so much joy, not only with this playing but also with this constant smile, he had placed small enamel mug, maybe one he had used in the trenches, hoping for a few pennies, but in all the years not many had stopped and placed a few coins in the mug.

After Douglas had lowered his right hand, the little crowd which had now ballooned, as it was the morning rush hour, appeared to be transfixed by the display before their eyes.

“And if I may ask,” ventured James, “the medal, the one for gallantry, where did you get that?” He pointed at Douglas’ chest with his baton even though the medals were hidden by his overcoat. Douglas smiled sadly.

“I’m lucky I’m alive, sir,” and that’s all he had to say.

“And may I add, so is everyone who passes by here every morning and evening.” James saluted Douglas, “God bless you sir,” he added.

Then one by one, each person reached into their pockets and placed a few coins in his mug. Douglas teared up and returned to playing the organ as he mouthed the words, “good luck, sir.” James turned and walked away with the sounds of Offenbach’s Barcarole following him all the way to Dulwich, and in his mind, they remained there for the rest of his life. James and Douglas never saw each other again.