Instead, to my considerable relief, she stays where she is, forehead resting pitifully on the front of my bare calves as I stand there with my trousers round my ankles, my poor confused pecker at half-mast, racking my brain for something to say that might yet rescue the situation.
Well, what the girl wants is proof that I trust her, my brain decides.
'Do you know Port-en-Bessin?' I say.
'That is your objective? Port-en-Bessin.'
'Yes.'
And yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. 'What a damn, damn fool, blurting out military secrets for the sake of a woman's snivelling! Just what kind of imbecile are you?'
Well, I'll tell you what kind. A male imbecile. You show me a man out there who says he wouldn't have acted differently, in that particular situation with that particular woman, and I'll show you a poofter liar. And let me tell you, I know how to keep secrets. I've been tortured a lot more than you have, for one thing. By the Gestapo. By the Kempeitai. But it's one thing keeping secrets when you're under extreme duress: a sort of cold, they-shall-not-pass, self-sacrificial ruthlessness sets in, which allows you to allow them to inflict any number of exquisite vilenesses on your tender flesh. Quite another when the only thing that stands between you and nirvana is a tiny hyphenated three-word name, which most certainly won't be of any use to anyone, even if this girl does prove to be a spy because if she is, what's she going to do? Get on the blower and say: 'Watch out, boys. I've just fellated a commando and now he's coming your way'?
So that's what I do and there's an end to it. I've no regrets, even now I've had sixty or more years to think about it. One reason I've no regrets is because, if it was the wrong thing to do, I was soon enough punished for it afterwards. The other reason I've no regrets is because, damn it, it worked.
Yes. No sooner have I uttered those magic words than, with a little gasp of gratitude, she's on me like a leech. The very nicest sort of leech that you certainly wouldn't want to burn off with a cigarette like those bastards in Burma; the sort, rather, that you really wouldn't complain about if you had dangling from the end of your tadger for all eternity.
God, she's enthusiastic. The pumping of her mouth. The rolling of her tongue. Yes, I know, poor dear chap, this is far more detail than you need to hear. But you'll understand, one day. And I do think it's important that I convey to you just how marvellous was the bliss of that moment, in order that you appreciate the full dreadfulness of the plunge from paradise I was about to experience next.
So I'm standing there with this enormous satisfied grin on my face, thinking about battle drill, section assaults, speed marches because if I don't it will all be over very quickly whereas ideally I should prefer this to go on until at least June next year, when suddenly Virginie does the worst thing imaginable, and with a gentle release of pressure pulls herself clear.
'Ca va?' I ask, as concerned as you might imagine.
'Oh oui, tout va bien. I have had an idea. Stay there and close your eyes.'
I wonder what the minx has got up her sleeve. Something thoroughly depraved and disgusting, one hopes.
I close my eyes, not daring to open them again till I'm told, hugely tempting though it is, because I can tell she's watching me like a hawk. From the direction of her escritoire I hear a drawer being pulled open and the sound of rummaging.
Crikey, what was that? For a nasty second, there, I thought I heard what might be a male voice. And the sound of footfalls on the driveway. I strain to hear more, but just at that moment the Belfastor Erebusor Warspitedecides to fire another salvo at the Longues battery and everything is drowned in a succession of ground-juddering crumps.
Jesus, what if she's married? Hadn't thought of that.
What if, in the throes of passion, we're burst in on by some irate count wielding his ancestral halberd?
And if he did, would this qualify as Killed in Action?
Suddenly, I’m not sure I do want this business to last for ever. I’ve like it to get it over with, reasonably quickly, so I can head off and do something less dangerous — say, assaulting a heavily defended French fishing village, with an under-armed, understrength commando unit.
'Suives-moi, Deek,' says Virginie, leading me forward gently by the hand.
'Can I open my eyes, yet?' I ask.
'Patience, mon cheri.'
Mon chert. Well, that's something.
I’ve never felt too comfortable being led around when I can't see: too often it's the precursor to prison or the firing squad. But in this case I’m prepared to make an exception. Especially when her warm wet mouth closes once more round my you- know-where.
Well, surely it must be safe to look now, the position of her head at this point rendering her in no way capable of seeing whether or not my eyes are open.
It turns out she's got me facing the bedside cupboard. At first all I see is the blur of flickering orange light from the gas light on top of it. But, as my eyes become accustomed to the glare, I see a framed portrait of a soldier.
An officer.
A German officer.
An SS officer.
The SS officer who, not two hours ago, was so expertly drilled by my sharpshooting comrade, Marine Jones.
Her lover.
In moments of extreme danger everything starts to happen in slow motion. It's the brain's cunning method of giving you that extra burst of mental agility with which to think your way out of trouble. There are some times — when, say, your Spit's in flames or your tank's brewing up and you need to bail out sharpish - when it can serve you very well. But there are others when it serves you no bloody use whatsoever. Makes things almost worse, in fact. Because instead of getting the business over nice and quick, it merely drags out the agony.
All at once I have come to understand everything: I realise the SS officer was Virginie's lover; that he was the man she was expecting for tea, for what they both knew would be their last tryst; that the horse found its way to Virginie's chateau because that is where he lived; that the reason Virginie looked so shocked on my arrival was because she recognised her dead lover's coat; that the reason she positioned me by his portrait was so that I could work this all out for myself, in my brief last moments before she killed me.
How do I know she plans to kill me?
Because poking up between my legs, its tip pressed eye- wateringly hard against my perineum, the woman with my little chap in her mouth is holding something very sharp and very horrible. Her SS boyfriend's dagger? My trusty Fairbairn- Sykes? It scarcely matters. The point — God, what a point - is that she's got me on two counts. The slightest false move, now, and either she'll bite my tackle off or thrust eight inches of steel right up into my privates. And there is nothing I can do about it.
Nothing.
That's what I mean when I say I wish my brain hadn't gone into slow-motion mode. Because how in hell am I going to get out of this one? How would you get out of it?
You couldn't.
All that's left for your brain to do is go: 'Why me?' You can't live through a war without witnessing a pretty rich selection of horrible ways to die. But try though I might, I find it hard to conjure up one that outgrizzles the end that is facing me now.
My only slight chance might be if Virginie pulls away to give me a final lecture on how vile it was of me to have killed her boyfriend and how much she's going to enjoy killing me. Unfortunately, in real life, would-be killers tend not to behave like James Bond villains. Real killers, successful killers, just get on with it.
Besides, she knows she has made her point well enough. She can easily tell by the fact that the once proud and magnificent specimen clasped between her lips has now shrivelled smaller than a starving shrimp.
The knife's going to go in now. Any second. And as my eyes search the room wildly for something (though God knows what) to use (though God knows how) to spare myself, I notice the strangest thing.
The bedroom door is now ajar.
In the gloom behind it is a m
an. In front of him, in his outstretched hands, is a .45 Colt pistol down whose barrel he is taking very careful aim.
I wince and close my eyes just as the shot rings out.
I feel something splat against my chin; there are spongy, salty, strands between my lips. The pressure between my legs has gone.
But oh my God. What else has gone?
I scarcely dare look down. I daren't not look down.
I look down.
Then feel for confirmation.
Glory be!
It's all there.
Price is beside me now, standing over Virginie's headless body. Next to him, Hordern is clutching at his mouth and making gurgling noises, apparently uncertain whether to vomit or piss himself laughing.
With my sleeve I wipe the gobbets of brain and hair and skull from my lips, quite speechless with shock and relief. Price fills me in on the background to my remarkable reprieve. A French schoolboy approached our unit, demanding cigarettes and chocolate in return for information regarding the whereabouts of a horse-riding SS officer and his filthy whore. He was about to be sent packing when Price stepped in and questioned him further about the horse. Realising I might be in danger, he volunteered Hordern to help him come and rescue me.
'It was me who spotted you. Taking succour from the enemy, as you might say,' he jokes, and I'm still far too grateful to hold it against him.
At last, I manage to blurt out, 'Thanks. Thanks both of you.' Then I add to Price, 'You kept a damned steady hand there.'
'So I did,' he says. 'But, then, it wasn't my tackle.'
Chapter 14
Mont Cavalier
Now, in a minute, it's going to get confusing, so while there's time let me plant in your mind's eye a rough layout of the town we're about to attack. Imagine, if you will, a crab with his claws out in front of him and the claw tips almost touching to form a near-complete circle. These left and right claws are the two sea walls, and the sheltered area of sea between them and the town is what's known as the outer port.
On the outer port's landward side, about where the crab's mouth is, is the opening of the inner port. It looks less like a harbour than a fat canal — a deep-water channel which runs at an angle down the crab's back, half-way to its arse, and cuts the town in two. This is where the fishing boats go to unload their catch - those few small boats, that is, that haven't been requisitioned by the Boche.
There are only two ways across this deep-water channel. Either you skirt round the back, via the crab's arse. Or you use the retractable footbridge, near the crab's mouth. The body of the crab is, of course, the town itself, a modest, picturesque fishing port comprising a sturdy church, a handsome seafront hotel, a fire station, a cinema, and a motley collection of smaller buildings, grey stone fishermen's homes mostly, housing a population of around 1,600.
On top of that indigenous population, you can reckon on a garrison of maybe a thousand German troops from the crack 352 Infantry Division, manning an intricate network of pillboxes, trenches and deep bomb shelters which have been built into the 200-foot-high cliffs extending outwards either side of the crab's eyes. On his left, as he faces out to sea, is the Western Feature; on his right is the Eastern Feature. Both offer a commanding view of the port and the town, enabling anyone on top to pick off, almost at will, any troops trying to advance through the town. Both must therefore be taken, at whatever cost.
I can see them now, brooding darkly on the horizon, as the last of the sun dies in the sea beyond. There's a very good view from the hill where I'm standing, which is the top of what's known to our planners as Point 72 (in military parlance, hill features are designated by their height in yards above sea level) and which the more poetically inclined Frogs call Mont Cavalier. When I last came here, a few years back, it was a popular picnic spot. Now it's so pitted with holes, it's more like the Klondike in the second month of the Gold Rush.
Dig, dig, dig. Everyone's digging, with picks, with entrenching tools, with whatever they can lay their hands on. Digging as if their lives depended on it — which in current circumstances they very likely do. Save for the Eastern and Western Features themselves, Point 72 is the loftiest strategic point for many miles around. Scarcely the sort of place you can imagine any sensible German commander allowing to fall into enemy hands uncontested.
'Anything happened?' Sgt. Price asks one of the pickets as we broach the summit.
'Not a lot,' replies the marine. 'Jerry's been here all right. Defence works everywhere. But when we got here the place was empty. We took it without a shot fired.'
'Someone's going to pay dear for that,' says Sgt. Price.
'Yes,' says Hordern. 'Us.'
Word comes that Capt. Dangerfield wants to see me. It's almost dark when I find him, studying a map by torchlight. Lt. Truelove, who is with him, looks up and sees me first.
'Good ride?' he says with a smile.
'Christ, news travels fast,' I think. Then I realise it's the horse he's talking about, rather than Virginie.
I put on a very serious face. 'Not my best, sir,' I say, with what I hope is the right note of contrition. This isn't the moment for light banter and witty rejoinders. As, indeed, the expression on Capt. Dangerfield's face would seem to confirm.
'Ah, Coward,' he says. 'Can't seem to get rid of you, can we?'
'No, sir.'
'You were under orders to stay with the wounded.'
'I was, sir, yes but —'
'Right, then. Fire away. Tell me why it is you think you shouldn't be court-martialled for your tomfoolery back there, and make it good.'
I tell Capt. Dangerfield the story of the events in the farm-house, the killing of the SS officer, and my mad cross-country dash leading to my strange encounter in the chateau. In my new expurgated version, however, I discover Virginie hunched over a radio set, relaying
our movements to the Germans, and shoot her.
'But you warned her, first?'
'She was relaying dangerous information, sir.'
'You shot an unarmed woman without first giving her the chance to surrender?'
Oh God. Why didn't I just keep it simple and stick to the blow job?
'I think she had a knife, sir.'
'You think she had a knife?'
'She did have a knife.'
'But her back was turned, you say. You had the advantage of surprise. Yet still you took it upon yourself to play the role of judge, jury and executioner on a lightly armed Frenchwoman —'
'Sir, she was a spy.'
'Coward, I don't care whether she was Mata Hari herself. The right thing to do - the only thing to do - would have been to have detained her and pass her on to Intelligence.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Coward, you disgust me. I need hardly tell you that it is my intention to have you RTU'd the moment our task is completed. In the mean time, perhaps you'd like to hand me those documents.'
'Documents?' I say, patting my pockets, as my face burns an ever deeper red.
'Yes, Coward. The ones you liberated from the SS officer. The ones you felt it so urgent to bring to my immediate attention.'
By the time Capt. Dangerfield has finished his rocket, Hordern has spread his joke about my exploits far and wide.
Twice, while seeking directions in the darkness, I have been asked whether taking succour from the enemy is an experience I'd recommend. And on reaching my section, I'm asked it a third time by Dent — which is the last thing I'd have expected from such a sweet, quiet, unassuming fellow. But I suppose he's probably still elated after his first taste of real action at La Rosiere.
'Lively afternoon?' I ask him, as I begin clearing away the turf from a spot just ahead of him and Simpson. It's more exposed than I'd like, but the best defensive positions have already been bagged.
'I've had duller,' says Dent, like the bluff old veteran he thinks he's suddenly become. Normally, I'd expect one of the others to laugh at this, take him down a peg or two. But whatever they all got up to at La Rosiere seem
s to have induced in the section a new sense of cohesion.
It turns out to have been quite a ruck. Q troop lost two corporals and six marines wounded, two seriously, after being caught in the flank by an MG. X troop charged and overcame another German position, probably the one I jumped over on the horse. Our own troop acquitted itself pretty decently too, with Dent and Mayhew (cricketers both) hurling the grenades that took out yet another MG post while Simpson and Lt. Truelove personally captured three German prisoners.
Dent recounts it to me with a slight air of de haut en has. As if those who weren't there could never fully understand.
Then Simpson says to me with a snigger: 'I hear you had it pretty rough at your end, too.'
Much ribald laughter from the darkness.
'Aye, didn't you hear? He nearly got his DSO,' says Wragg. 'Dick Shot Off.'
More laughter.
'Save your energies, lads,' says Cpl. Blackwell. 'Those of you that ain't standing guard tonight are going to be out on patrol.'
'What about our beauty sleep?' says Simpson.
'There'll be time enough when you're dead,' says Cpl. Blackwell.
We're still digging well beyond midnight, hands calloused, bones aching and nerve endings frayed from the impact of endless juddering stabs into the unyielding, chalky soil. We're not allowed to smoke or brew up but we do at least get to scoff our rations from a self-heating tin. Then Lt. Truelove arrives looking for volunteers. He only needs two of us because recce patrols tend not to go out mob-handed.
'You and you,' he says, pointing to Mayhew and Coffin.
'Yes, sir!' says Mayhew eagerly.
Coffin suddenly develops a terrible cough, which no one has noticed until this second.
'Coughin', Coffin?' asks Lt. Truelove sardonically.
'It's nothing, sir,' says Coffin, coughing still more.
'Keep it that way,' says Lt. Truelove.
'Sir.' The coughing stops.
James Delingpole Page 20
