‘You’re going back to your own people . . . and we’re getting one of our own back in return. I’ve done this sort of thing before; don’t worry.’
‘You keep saying that, sir. Don’t worry about what?’
‘Don’t worry about the fact that when your people found out you’d been arrested by mistake, they kidnapped an Army Colonel from out of an off-limits cat-house, and threatened to go international with the fool unless we produced you. The Army is very good at creating diplomatic incidents, you see . . . aargh . . . but never as creative about solving them.’ I found that his voice had a calming effect on me. I wanted to be his friend.
I asked him, ‘Haven’t I seen you in films?’
‘Might have done.’ He went on to tell me, ‘It helps with this sort of thing.’
‘What have you flown?’ That was me again.
‘B-17s and B-24s. Big bombers. Over Germany.’
‘Me too. Lancasters.’
‘Interesting, wasn’t it?’ That’s not how it sounded. It sounded like a sentence of twice that length.
‘What happens to me now?’ A thousand ideas were seething in my mind, but I was strangely unafraid. Gott mit uns, this time: definitely.
Kilduff said, ‘We get to give you back to your own people, and I hope they throw the fucking book at you.’
He was a bad loser. Real men are bad losers. That’s what they say, anyway.
‘When I walked into your place I had ID tags, and a pay-book.’
Kilduff said, ‘We’ll give them to the officers they send to collect you.’
‘. . . and my wristwatch and flying jacket. I’m not getting out of the car without them.’
‘You’re being very awkward, son,’ the Bird Colonel told me, but then he spoke to Kilduff. His voice was suddenly sharp and curt and commanding. Someone you didn’t fuck with. ‘Give him your watch, Lieutenant.’
I felt bold enough to break in with, ‘No. I’ll take the nigger’s watch. I’m already wearing one of the Lieutenant’s shirts. That just leaves my flying jacket. I was attached to that.’
McKechnie said, ‘I wondered when the N word was comin’. Someone always has to remind me. Sometimes I think that white folk are on a duty from God just to remind us blacks that we are black. In case we missed it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and, ‘What about my jacket?’
The Colonel said, ‘I don’t suppose you would consider accepting mine in exchange? I get them made privately, and flown over. Quality’s good.’
‘So’s the exchange,’ I told him, and shook hands on it.
You’ve seen the film. The two cars drawing up on the country road a hundred yards apart; the space between lit by their searching headlights. Part of me was asking, Haven’t they heard of the fucking blackout? There was a big black mass on the side of the road where the headlights met. After a few seconds I realized that I’d seen it before, and that there were the bodies of dead German soldiers in it, and maybe a couple of dozen rats. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when Cain and Abel stepped into the light alongside it. Cain had the Sten around his neck on its string, and his right arm was resting on top of it, as if it was a sling. The USAAF Colonel stepped out to meet them, handing his leather A1 jacket back in to me as he did so. He took McKechnie with him. I thought that that said something. I asked Kilduff what they were doing. He said, ‘Negotiating.’
‘Is there anything to negotiate?’
‘Nah.’ He was turned from the driving seat to look at me. There was less anger in him now. ‘It’s just form really. We been doing this a lot longer than you Brits. Capone an’ Legs an’ Lucky: they been doing it all the time till they got caught.’
‘Who’re they?’
‘Charlie,’ he asked me, ‘where you been all your fucking life?’ There was genuine pity in his voice.
The Chevy engine rumbled on, so I couldn’t catch what was being said: perhaps I wasn’t supposed to – you never know. Eventually the Bird Colonel came back to me and drawled, ‘It’s all right now. Just get out, and walk up to the light. You’ll find a US Colonel there. Stop, shake hands with him, then walk on by to your own folk.’
‘Why shake hands?’
‘We . . . ll.’ It sounded like waal. ‘I don’t know, rightly. Perhaps it’s just a matter of politeness, and no one will shoot you if you do that.’
‘I’d better do it then.’ Then I said, ‘Goodnight, Colonel,’ as I scrambled out into the night, and, ‘Thank you.’ Although I don’t know why.
He said, ‘You’re welcome, son,’ and, in a lower voice, ‘Why don’t you get away from these bums as soon as you can? They’re not your kind of people.’
‘I’ll remember that, sir,’ I told him. I had been right to say Thank you, after all.
‘If we meet again, you call me Jimmy, most everyone else does.’
‘Yes, Colonel.’
He was a big man, so his leather flying jacket fitted nicely over my battledress: I pulled it on as I walked. The man I shook hands with asked me, ‘Is that Jimmy Stewart back there?’
‘I think it was, sir. It is a film star, anyway. I’ve seen him.’
‘You don’t have to call me sir, boy: it seems to me that we’ve both been in the same boat.’
‘No, sir. Why are we having this conversation anyway, instead of just walking on?’
‘Just to irritate the mother-fuckers, son. I don’t suppose you know what the fuck this was all about?’
‘No; sorry.’
‘Thought not; me neither.’ He sighed, then he said, ‘Good luck, son,’ and walked on. I guessed that he’d be in trouble when they got him back, so I offered, ‘And you, Colonel.’
Out of the light was Kate, with a jeep parked up behind her. There were three men standing around her: England, Raffles and Cliff. Cliff moved out of the dark, and snarled, ‘Can’t you stay out of trouble for a minute?’ at me, before stalking off to the jeep without another word. He started it savagely, fucking up the gear change, and tearing off down the road behind the Americans, who had already turned the Chevy and powered away into Paris. I had to jump out of his way.
In the car I asked them, ‘Before I say thank you, would someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on?’
‘Say thank you first,’ Les advised me, ‘while we work out the rest. Nice jacket by the way.’
‘Was that bloody great charge sheet about me accurate? Kilduff said he got it from the RAF.’
‘I would imagine that the Yanks embroidered it a bit – just to make you talk. Did you, by the way?’
‘No. They gave me a bit of a beating first, just to encourage me. After that I found a stubborn streak I didn’t know I had. I told them Cliff’s name – I didn’t reckon I owed him any favours.’
‘He won’t like that if he finds out.’
‘He won’t find out.’ That was Major England taking part for the first time. ‘We won’t tell him, and neither will the Yanks. Who beat you up?’
‘Their thug Bassett, in the library, with a stick. He was careful to choose my shoulders.’
‘You need an MO?’ That was Raffles again.
‘No. Some American doctor at the hospital spread some jallop on them. They feel better than at any time since the accident. I must find out what it was.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m going to get a gun, go back and do the sadistic bastard in.’
‘No you’re not,’ the Major told me. ‘We’re off to Belgium before anything else goes wrong. Les and I have got to go back to work: the armies are on the move again. Let’s hope the Duke of York isn’t in charge this time.’
‘What about Bassett?’
‘We could always look in on the way back . . .’
‘And Grace Baker? I don’t suppose that Cliff would have left me here unless he expected me to finish the job.’
The road turned from cobbles to tarmac: the noise the Humber made on it changed from a rumble to a hiss. There was a gentle drizzle falling,
which reminded me of Cambridgeshire. Les’s left hand lifted from the steering wheel from time to time to activate the screen wipers. The car lights showed against the straight tree-lined road like narrow pencil beams. Into the silence he said, ‘We asked around a bit. I don’t think she’s in Paris. The American bird you wanted to see about her certainly isn’t. I don’t even think the Yanks have told her that you’re here. That leaves the American tank crews you told us about. You said she might have contacted them again.’
‘Did I?’
‘Someone did,’ the Major told us. ‘Anyway. They took a bit of a hammering from the Jerry apparently, and they’re back in a rest area . . . and that rest area is directly on our route to catch up with Monty’s finest, who’re probably racing across Germany at this very moment. At about two miles an hour.’
‘Oh, what a coincidence!’ I told him.
‘ ’tis rather. Lucky. Maybe you’re a lucky soldier, Charlie.’
‘I’m not a soldier at all.’
‘I rather think that you are now, old son.’
I believed him. Bastard. I couldn’t see that he had any reason to lie about it.
‘Does that mean that the charges the RAF might be alleging against me can’t be proceeded with?’
‘I hadn’t thought about that.’
‘What’s this garbage about stealing a Stirling? I’ve only been in two. One crashed and burned, and the other was flown by Cliff: rather well, as it turned out.’
‘It was something to do with a bunch of conchies from Tempsford who nicked their aeroplane and pushed off out of the war. Clever sods.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Friends of yours, apparently. Your old CO, Goldilocks . . .’
‘Goldie.’
‘Goldie, then . . . he thought it must have been something to do with you because no one would tell him where you’d gone. He reported you. Cliff thought that it was very funny until you were lifted. So did we, afterwards.’
‘I really appreciate your worrying about me, you and Les. Do you know that?’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Anyway, if you hadn’t left me in that Yankee loony bin for twenty-four hours I don’t suppose that I would have got to meet James Stewart.’
The Major smiled. ‘Is that so? Pansy, was he? Most of them are, you know.’
‘No; he flew bombers. Probably with the 8th Air Force: that’s their Bomber Command.’
Les said, ‘I’d always wanted to know how to tell Pansies from other men. Now I know.’
I felt too tired to tell them to fuck off.
Les drove through the night. I slept. At one time I awoke as the car lurched, and found my discs and pay-book in my hand. One of them must have given them to me.
Les muttered, ‘Sorry. Shell hole, I think.’
I asked him, ‘What month is this?’
‘February, March or April. Does it matter?’
‘No. Do you want me to drive?’
‘No. I’m fine. I’ve got some blue peters to keep me up to the mark. When we reach our next stop I’ll bomb for twelve hours. Go back to sleep.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Still in France, heading for Belgium and Holland. You’ll be safe when we get you over the border.’
It hadn’t occurred to me that I wasn’t. The Major groaned and moved in the back seat,
‘Belt up, you fellows. Let the only brain the outfit possesses get some kip.’
‘You heard him, Les. Get some sleep.’
We both laughed. It was companionable. I slept again soon after that.
Ten
I woke again in daylight when the car stopped moving. Les was stumbling around outside like a man in a dream. Major England was snoring in the back with a splinter-camouflaged cape pulled up to his neck. I think that it was German. We were parked up against a brick wall, out of sight of the road, in a shell-shocked farm courtyard. The three-storeyed farmhouse which formed one end of an open square was burned out; its roof caved in. I extracted myself with difficulty: the running board was almost up against a wall. Les was piling pieces of wood and dead branches around the car, mumbling to himself. He noticed me – a bit late, I thought – and said, ‘Camouflage. We don’t want the jabos to spot us.’
‘What are they?’
‘Jagdbombers: fighter bombers. They can be a bit of a nuisance.’
‘They won’t attack us, Les. There’s a fucking great white star on Kate’s roof. You could see it for miles.’
‘Not our jabos: theirs. Welcome to the real war, Charlie.’
Even the last sally had almost been beyond him. He was out on his feet.
I said, ‘Get in, and get your kip, Les. You’re beat. I’ll finish this. Where are we?’
‘Still in France. I had to make a couple of diversions in the night. Look . . .’ He pointed vaguely forward and upwards as he slumped back into the driving seat. The farmyard appeared to be set at the bottom of a small fortified mountain: a massive castle wall ran around it in both directions, climbing out of sight.
‘Windsor Castle,’ I told him. ‘I’ve seen pictures of it. You’ve taken us home again by mistake.’
Les yawned. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He said, ‘Laon. About eighty mile north-east of gay Paree. Don’t go up there; we’re still in France, and I don’t know if the natives are all that friendly.’
‘Couldn’t be less friendly than the fucking Americans, could they?’
‘Wanna bet?’ Les yawned again, collapsed down behind the steering wheel, and pulled his beret down over his eyes. He was snoring before his hands had fallen back.
I finished hiding Kate as well as I could. To my unpractised eye it still looked like a car under a heap of wood when I’d finished. Perhaps it wouldn’t look the same if you were overflying the farm at 300 knots. The morning sun was drying out a short dawn shower. The ground glittered with light reflected back from water. I sat on the thick greystone doorstep of the farmhouse, took out and filled my pipe, and smoked in great contentment. An hour later three Mustangs armed with rockets belted close overhead heading north. They curved around the walls of Laon and didn’t give me a glance.
It took me twenty minutes to walk around the wall of Laon, along a muddy farm track I chose to avoid the vehicular traffic. I had learned at least one thing from Les, and that was how to recognize the sound of a Sten being cocked as someone worked the bolt. My boots were heavy with mud, and I was passing between two dilapidated farm buildings. I froze. That may have saved my life, because the armed twelve-year-old in the doorway to my left didn’t seem to know what to do next. Maybe he’d only trained on moving targets. The old man behind him coughed, spat into the mud and said ‘Enough,’ in guttural French, and asked me if I was a deserter. I said, ‘No. RAF aircrew. I lost my clothes in a crash.’ I tried to make my French sound less efficient than it was. I remembered that the English were supposed to be cack-handed at European languages. He spat again.
‘You speak good French.’ So much for that.
‘My school was keen on it.’
‘You have proof of identity, of course, or did you lose that in the crash, as well?’
I moved my hand, and the boy twitched. The old man pushed him not too gently to the side. This time I fished my ID discs from around my neck. I told him, ‘I have a pay-book as well.’
The old man nodded, and didn’t speak for at least thirty seconds, then he sighed. Regretfully, I think. He would have preferred to have killed me. The interrogation took a new route. He asked, ‘You are a socialist?’
‘I am a nothing. I have no time for politicians.’
‘Ah.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘In Laon it is better that you are not a socialist in these times.’
‘Then I shall not be a socialist in Laon.’ I thought that I was being amusing.
‘So young, and so wise.’ He thought he was being ironic.
‘Can I take my feet out of the mud now?’ I asked
him.
He jerked his head. I moved. He asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘I was looking for the way into Laon. To buy food and drink, if I can.’
It must have been the word buy that bucked him up. His smile showed gaps in his teeth you could get a pipe stem into.
‘For one?’
‘For more than one.’
‘Ah . . . you mean the two brave British soldiers sleeping in the car you so badly hid in Modoc’s farmyard?’
The old man had me. I grinned.
‘Yes, those. One, at least, is a brave British soldier. He has fought in France, North Africa, Italy and now France again.’
‘I know a man like that. He says that he has been in every retreat the British Army has made in this war.’
‘That is cruel, M’sieur.’
‘But it is also funny.’
‘Yes,’ I told him, and grinned again. ‘How do I get into Laon? Is there a gate in this long wall?’
He said, ‘Uh,’ and, ‘We will walk with you.’
He joined me in the mud. So did the child. The child sank up to his ankles. When he smiled happily at me I saw he had the same gaps in his teeth as the old man. We squelched on together until we reached a metalled road; the old man alongside me, and the child behind. Even through the mud I could smell the old man’s feet. I asked him, ‘Is it still necessary to guard the track?’
‘No,’ he told me. ‘We stopped that the day we were liberated.’
‘What were you doing then; back there?’
‘Rabbits.’
‘With a machine gun?’
‘Big rabbits.’ It was all he’d say on the subject.
The road passed through the wall, and turned immediately to starboard, following the curve of the hill upwards. It had been constructed as a defended causeway: there was always a wall on each side of you until you climbed out into a square, and a couple of weird churches. One was as big as York Minster, made of gold-grey coloured stone and washed by the sunlight. It staggered under the weight of thousands of small Gothic sculptures of grotesque animals and mythical beings. The other was small and circular and squatted in its shade. It had an open porch with pillars. The old man rested us there. On a piece of level ground covered with coarse sand a group of men played bowls with stone cannonballs, and drank from greasy wine bottles. A lot of staggering about seemed to be going on. Finally a fat man with thick black hair came into the porch, and plonked himself down alongside me. He mopped his brow with a clean, red handkerchief, wiped his hands with it, and offered one to me. The ritual shake. He gripped my hand a funny way, and frowned when I did the wrong thing.
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