James Delingpole

by Coward on The Beach (epub)

  Chapter 4

  Band of Brothers

  Doctor's orders, it's lights out early this evening,' announces Patricia — aka the Angel of Death - drawing the black-out villains closed with a business-like tug. She turns around.

  'Books away, gentlemen.'

  From where I'm lying, propped on my pillow, I try to fathom what on earth Gina can have meant when she described this ashen-faced martinet as 'quite a girl'. The tightly bunned hair, Mack as a witch's cat; the pallid skin and prim, disapproving mouth, with its sharky array of funny, gappy little teeth. By Chaucer's account, having gapped teeth is a sign of lechery. He'd soon have changed his mind after a bed bath from Miss Sourpuss.

  ' That's a bit harsh,' I say, playing along as Gina has instructed.

  You're ruining poor Fred's eighteenth birthday.'

  'Which until now had been going so-o-o swimmingly,' says Fred with cool sarcasm. 'Oh and I never said: "Thanks for the presents, everyone.'"

  "The best present I can give you is a good night's rest,' says Patricia, turning off the light.

  No sooner has she closed the door than Fred hisses: 'Witch.'

  She speaks very highly of you,' I say.

  'I'd rather lose both my legs,' says Fred.

  Then, Sub-Lieutenant Richards, I have some excellent news for you.'

  'Oh, just turn on the light, will you?'

  'Better not just yet. She's bound to notice.'

  'And what's she going to do? Put me on a charge? Send me back to the front?'

  The easiest way to shut him up, I suppose, would be to tell him what Gina has arranged on our behalf while she stays behind to cover for us: rendezvous at 1850 hours behind the hedge by the tradesmen's gate; pick-up at 1900 by her father's driver, the earl's generous petrol allowance being one of his perks as colonel of his regiment; 1915 hours, section assault on the Ship Inn; 2200 hours, closing time - tactical withdrawal.

  Ideally, though, I'd like to keep it all a surprise. If, that is, Fred and his big mouth will let me.

  'No, no, forgive me, you're quite right, I'm being terribly unreasonable,' he's now declaiming in hurt, strident, quavering tones. 'Didn't I always dream I'd spend my eighteenth birthday getting legless . . . ?'

  'How about we jolly ourselves along with a game?'

  'You and Ginger can. Wake me up when it's all over.'

  'Come on. It's your last night before the firing squad, so who will it be: Patricia or Eva Braun?'

  'Eh? Oh. Eva Braun, definitely!'

  'Patricia or Adolf Hitler?'

  'Hitler, no contest.'

  'You're not taking this seriously.'

  'I would not touch that hag if she were the last woman on earth. Now, can you please stop talking about her, I'm going to sleep and I don't want nightmares.'

  'You can't go to sleep just yet,' I say, swinging my legs out of bed. I pad across the linoleum towards Fred's wardrobe.

  'Why can't I?'

  'If I tell you that, it will spoil everything.'

  'Oh God, not a surprise. I hate bloody surprises.'

  What with Fred's bloody-mindedness and the awkwardness of trying to fit a uniform over Ginger's bandages (we have to settle for just a greatcoat in the end), not to mention the difficulty of negotiating Fred's passage on crutches down the steps outside our French windows, over a gravel path, across a stretch of lawn, and down a rutted track, it's no wonder we arrive at our rendezvous almost fifteen minutes late.

  But still there is no sign of our transport. It starts to drizzle and, though the redwood tree behind which we've concealed ourselves offers reasonable defence against the wet, it doesn't protect us from the damp evening chill. Ginger feels it especially hard. He's soon shivering so badly that I have to take off my own greatcoat and drape it round his shoulders. Now it's my turn to feel cold. I wouldn't normally, I'm sure, but the malaria has weakened my constitution. And all I have on is my shabby, lightweight tropical uniform brought back from Burma.

  'I think I've worked out what the birthday treat is, Ginge,' announces Fred. 'Death by pneumonia, the sick man's friend.'

  'Look, if you'd rather go back to your room and sulk, feel free,' I say.

  Fred passes me a cigarette, which I smoke mainly for the glow of warmth from the stub at the end. Whenever I take it from my mouth, my teeth chatter audibly.

  'Come now,' says Fred. 'I would have expected better from the hero of Stalingrad.'

  'Who told you that?' I snap, though really it's Gina I should he cross with, because she's the only person I've ever mentioned it to.

  'You actually. Babbling away in one of your fever fits.'

  'Say anything interesting, did I?'

  'Not altogether sure. A lot of it sounded like German.'

  'I say, was that a car?'

  We listen awhile. Nothing.

  'Do you know —?' begins Fred.

  'Wait!' I say. 'I'm sure I —'

  From the road, there comes a faint squeaking noise and what might be the clip-clopping of horse's hoofs. But whatever it is is drowned by the sound of rapid footsteps on the driveway, and laboured breathing. We edge further behind the tree trunk, just in case. Then Gina appears, looking miserable.

  'I'm so sorry, boys,' she gasps. 'Daddy's driver has just been on. There's been some sort of rumpus, the roads are all blocked and they're not letting anyone through.'

  Fred, inconsolable, is on the verge of blaming me - I can just see it coming.

  'Then we'll jolly well have to walk it, won't we, Fred? Ginge?'

  'I'm game,' says Fred.

  'Don't be so silly, you're in no state to walk four miles, any of you. And Ginger, my goodness, you look so cold. And you, Dick, you're shivering. We must get you into the warm.'

  'Look!'

  The others look to where I'm pointing. Above the hedge, just visible in the fading light, is the shaggy head of a giant cart-horse and behind it, on his wagon, a farm labourer with a long whip.

  Without local knowledge we would surely never have found it, for the Ship Inn looks not remotely like a pub. It's a long, low whitewashed building - originally farmworkers' cottages, perhaps — with small blacked-out windows, and a rickety doorway with a lintel seemingly purpose built to bang your head on. If there was ever a sign, it must have rotted away years ago or been removed to fox enemy parachutists. The only indications of its current usage are the American military jeeps parked anyhow outside and the raucous laughter from within.

  We enter in pairs so as to support one another, first me and Ginger, then Fred and our new farmer friend Tom. No doubt we make quite a sight, as we negotiate the narrow entrance sideways and at a low crouch, me with my dark eyes and febrile pallor, Ginger in his bandages, but I still don't think it justi­ces the cry of 'Say. If it ain't Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi,' .is we stumble in, me calling back 'Mind the step'. Nor yet, the beery hilarity that ensues when, too late to catch my warning, Fred collapses on the floor, dragging Tom down on top of him. Tom must somehow have cracked his head on the way down, because he lies there motionless, Fred trapped help­lessly between the sawdust-sprinkled flagstones and the labourer's huge frame, flapping like a freshly pinned butterfly.

  The laughter is coming from two tables of extremely dishev­elled GIs. If I'd been their commanding officer, I would never have allowed them off base. Their faces are blacked as if for the exercise; their uniforms are filthy; and there's something in their expressions I don't at all like — something dark, aban­doned, menacing.

  'Are you Yanks going to give us a hand?' snarls Fred from the floor. 'Or is leaving your allies stranded till the very last minute written into your constitution?'

  Tom, thank heavens, is showing signs of life - rubbing his head, pushing himself upright.

  'Lundt. Kowalski,' commands an American from the nearest end of the snug. He's wearing a corporal's stripe. A tall, lean shaven-headed GI in olive fatigues stained with what might be congealed blood springs from the bench to help him. Another, even bigger, seizes Fred unde
r each arm and hoicks him on to a bar stool.

  'And now perhaps you'd like to apologise,' says Fred in a voice of icy belligerence.

  'Maybe when you thank me for picking you up off your ass,' says the GI.

  'Can it, Kowalski,' says the Corporal. 'Sir,' he says to Fred. 'I would like to apologise if my men have given you offence. May I say, sir, in their defence, that they have been training long and unusually hard today, though I realise that this is no excuse. I wonder, by way of apology, if you'd let me buy you gentlemen a drink?'

  Fred eyes him up and down for a moment.

  'Apology accepted, Corporal,' he says. 'But you can keep your money. An English gentleman is perfectly capable of buying his own drink.'

  The Corporal's once-friendly smile disappears. 'Enjoy your evening,' he says, and returns to his men.

  From that moment on, the atmosphere in the pub is decid­edly strained. In the snug at one end of the room, sit the GIs, ostentatiously chain-smoking their elusive American cigarettes, bragging and joshing and grumbling loudly: 'Uptight Limeys' and 'We come over to Europe to save their asses. But will they say thank you?', drinking the bar dry and generally acting like they own the place. At the other, as far from the Yankees as is possible in such a poky interior, sit the birthday party staring morosely into their half-finished pints of mild and bitter which, perhaps because we're with a local and are being afforded special treatment, have been served to us in pewter mugs.

  'Your decision and all that,' I say to Fred. 'But I'm not sure that it would have been such a bad idea, letting our American chums stand you a round or two.'

  'I have my reasons,' says Fred, still peering into his mug.

  'Just occurs that one ought to take any chance one gets to even out the quite disgraceful pay differential between our two armies. I have one or two cousins in the US military. Do you realise that their lowliest private earns more than a British lieutenant?'

  'Overpaid, oversexed and over here. That's what Jim's always saying. Ain't it, Jim?' says Farmer Tom, who clearly shares Fred's knack for tact and international diplomacy. He cocks his head towards the landlord, the better to bellow this hilar­iously original apercu.

  'What's that, Tom?' says Jim the landlord.

  'Oi says —'

  'Four more pints of mild and bitter please, landlord,' I chip in quickly. 'And please, while you're about it, one for your­self.' Dropping my voice, I say to Tom: 'Sorry to interrupt you but I thought that with there being only four of us and — seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven of them, this might not be the moment.'

  'What? Even with three and a half of us, I wouldn't fancy their chances,' says Fred. He drains his mug, slams it on the table and glares across at the Americans.

  'Now, come on, birthday boy. You've got some drinking to do.'

  But even as I say it, I realise that's exactly what birthday boy shouldn't be doing. In our convalescent state we none of us have much of a head for alcohol. After only one pint, I'm feeling decidedly mellow and blurry; Ginger is virtually comatose. But with Fred it appears to have had quite the opposite effect.

  'And what exactly do you mean by that?' he says, jabbing a finger in my face. 'You saying I'm not up to defending my country's honour?'

  'Fred, I -'

  We're interrupted by the creak of old hinges. A welcome draught of clean air penetrates the fug. From the American tables there are whistles and a 'Hey, nice dress, lady'. Turning round I see a young woman standing uncertainly inside the doorway, as if she's debating whether to brave the catcalls or make her exit while the going's good. She looks half familiar, though I'm not quite sure why. And yes, it is a nice dress - rose-patterned and shapely, demure yet leaving the observer in absolutely no doubt as to the splendour of its owner's slender legs and rather magnif­icent breasts. Mind you, under the circumstances, perhaps a veil and wimple would have made more sense.

  'Now, Kowalski, weren't you saying to me only a moment ago that you had as fine a selection of nylons as can be found anywhere in England?' says a loud American voice.

  'Why, indeed I was, Barnhardt. And wishing I could only find a pretty lady to share them with, in exchange for the pleasure of a drink in her charming company.'

  'And maybe afterwards a damn good scr—'

  'That's enough, Johnson,' snaps the Corporal.

  'I should bloody well say it is,' says Fred. 'Please, miss. Will you join us?'

  The woman looks directly at us for the first time, smiling awkwardly. With a jolt, I suddenly realise why I half-recognised her. She looks quite different with her hair down, her make-up on and a smile on her face — much prettier too. But still there's no mistaking that wide mouth and those gappy teeth.

  Fred, though, has apparently yet to notice. 'Landlord,' he calls. 'A drink for this delightful young lady.'

  Patricia removes something from her handbag — a glass object? — and passes it across the bar to the landlord, murmuring her order as she does so. Then she moves towards the chair that Fred is patting. 'Would offer you my knee, but as you can see . . .' says Fred, with a sozzled grin. Patricia settles down next to him.

  'Now. Introductions. That handsome chap underneath all that wrapping there is —'

  'Fred. Patricia knows us already.'

  'Eh? You've met before?'

  'We all have. Patricia's our uh — night nurse.'

  'No, not the night nurse!' says Fred theatrically, rather as one might announce a pantomime villain. He thinks I've made an in-joke, I suppose. Then, seeing nobody smiling, he turns to look at Patricia closely just in case. 'Not . . .' He trails off .is the truth begins to dawn. 'But.' He shakes his head. 'I'm awfully sorry, Patricia. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that you look so, so very different.'

  'Should I take that as a compliment?'

  'Oh heavens, yes, you should. You very much should. I mean, if you had any idea just how, well, how ravishing you look now and how, um, now how can I put this delicately?'

  'By leaving it at ravishing?'

  'Good idea. Excellent idea. Ravishing, Patricia, you shall remain. Gentlemen! A toast! To ravishing Patricia.'

  Ginger, Fred, Tom and I raise our glasses. 'To ravishing Patricia!' we say.

  The mood perks up considerably after that. Further toasts .ire drunk. Patricia's beauty is praised. More astonishment is expressed at her Cinderella-like transformation between the hospital and the pub. Fred's hand strays on to Patricia's knee and is not rebuffed. But then, quite without warning, Fred explodes in outrage once more.

  'Good God, Patsy, what the devil does that man think he's doing?' he says, blinking in disbelief at Patricia's drink.

  Landlord! LANDLORD!'

  'Fred, please, it's perfectly normal,' says Patricia nervously, as the landlord lollops over.

  'Is it, hell!' says Fred. 'Landlord, can you kindly explain to me why this young lady is having to drink out of a jam jar?'

  'It's the war, sir,' says the landlord, wearily.

  'What? There's a war on? Oh well, that excuses everything. The weather. Our failure to regain the Ashes. Half-baked service in public houses . . .'

  'No, really, Fred. It's the same in Dorset, Wiltshire, the whole of the south coast. England has changed since you went away. There's less to go around and there are a lot more people.'

  'The wrong sort of people,' says Fred, glaring towards the GIs.

  'Overpaid, oversexed intones Farmer Tom.

  'Look, they didn't choose to be here,' I say, glancing anxiously towards the GIs, whose looks suggest they are in no mood to take much more of Fred's barracking. 'They've come to help us open a second front. To give their lives so that Europe might be —'

  'Give their lives? Drink our beer, more like. And steal our drinking glasses. And corrupt our women with their disgusting chocolate and their filthy nylons and their hideous Yankee -'

  And all at once there are four of them, looming over us. Kowalski has seized Fred by the scruff of his collar. Lundt has his hand placed firmly on my shoulder. T
wo more GIs, even bigger, are standing either side of Tom.

  'I'll call the police,' says the landlord.

  'With your telephone network?' scoffs Lundt.

  'How dare you threaten a man with no legs.'

  'Lady, I ain't just threatening,' hisses Kowalski, tightening his grip around Fred's throat.

  'I know your names. You'll be court-martialled for this,' says the landlord.

  'Sir, you are talking to men who are way beyond caring about shit like that,' says one of the GIs menacing Tom.

  'Do to me what the hell you like,' rasps Fred, his face turning red. 'You've done your worst already.'

  'Jeez, what is your problem, Limey? It wasn't any of us who did this to you.'

  'Someone - like - you,' gasps Fred.

  'We're your allies, you ungrateful jerk. Your allies,' calls a GI at the back. Kowalski is not so sure. He has loosened his grip enough for Fred to speak.

  'One of your aircraft. A P-47. Bloody good shot, I'll give him that. First pass he took off my legs. Second, he destroyed our MTB. Third one - a nice touch, this — he flew over us low and dipped his wings, just so we could be sure to admire those friendly Yankee stars. Then came the fourth, the one that really endeared me to your people for ever. That was the one that took out our life raft, and my commander, and the rest of our crew.'

  There is a long silence and, for a moment, no one can meet each other's eyes. But when I look up, I see that Kowalski has once more tightened his grip on Fred, his jaw set firm, his whole body trembling with rage. 'Oh, Lord, here we go,' I think to myself, scanning the room for the best defensive position while my hands instinctively fumble — commando training, don't you know — for the nearest available weapon which, they appear to have decided, is a leg of the oak cricket table I'm about to smash.

  Then, all of sudden, something quite extraordinary happens. Instead of throttling Fred, the American pulls him forward and locks him in a tight embrace.

  'Those bastards,' he mutters. 'They never know when to stop!'

  From somewhere across the room there's a sob. Then another sob. Now Kowalski has buried his face in Fred's chest, Fred is blubbing his eyes out and Patricia, her arms round both of them, is heaving silently. I bite my lip hard and look to Tom for a sense of proportion. But tears are streaming down his cheeks, too. Only Ginger, flopped against the wall, grinning sloppily, seems immune to the general hysteria. I bite my lip harder but it's no damned use. Within a moment, I too have succumbed to this orgy of lachrymosity. And I must say, part of me - the deep buried American part, I suppose - rather enjoys it. When you've had the sort of family upbringing I have - emotions are nasty, dirty things reserved for foreigners and the poorer class of servant — it makes a pleasant change to be among big-hearted, straightforward people who aren't afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves. But there's one thing that worries me: if this is how your average GI responds to a story which, sad though it is, is not untypical of the ones we in England have been hearing almost every day for the last five years, then how in God's name are they going to cope when they come up against real bullets?