The Forgotten War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘I’m not prepared to let Tim die for dropping a box of Bibles into Soviet Germany. There are nobler causes to die for than that: we should save him for one of those. If the Boss Class wants to court-martial me for that, it’s up to them: I don’t care. It’s not Tim’s fault that the blokes in charge don’t have a spare brain cell between the lot of them. What happened to you, anyway?’

  ‘I was blundering around in a wood and stepped into a snare. Then I was caught by a gamekeeper looking for poachers. He had a bleeding great blunderbuss: I thought I was a goner for a moment.’

  ‘Charlie was captured by a kid who stole his parachute,’ Neil said. ‘I was nearly shafted by a ruddy great pig. Do you think they’ll let me sponge my clothes down? The stink makes me want to throw up. Does anyone know what happened to the others?’

  ‘Walters blew up,’ Morgan said. ‘I still can’t believe that I saw it without getting hurt myself. I had just leaned back, and was looking forward. I could see through the office to where Walters was sitting in the greenhouse with his back to me. There was a sudden flash – not a very bright one – and everything else happened in slow motion. Walters’s body just seemed to get bigger and bigger. Then he exploded. I think that the shell actually exploded inside him. He went everywhere. Christ, I’m thirsty – have they given you anything to drink yet?’

  ‘Walters, Walters everywhere,’ Neil said, ‘and not a drop to drink.’ It was just the way he was. I should have seen that one coming. So should you.

  ‘What about Dai?’ I asked.

  ‘He passed me on the way down,’ Morgan said. ‘His parachute had candled, and he was doing a couple of hundred miles an hour. He looked as if he was singing.’

  ‘That’s the Welsh all over.’ That was Neil again. ‘Any excuse for a song. He didn’t make it, then?’

  ‘I don’t see how he could. What about old Tone?’

  ‘Never saw him.’

  Tony: the mid-upper’s name came back to me. ‘Neither did I,’ I told them. ‘What about what’s-his-name, the engineer?’

  Neither had seen him.

  I sat on the floor near the bars and contemplated my future. It had just disappeared on me – but at least it had lasted longer than Walters’s. I thought of the uncomplicated girl I slept with once, in that room over the garage near Oxford. I missed her already. It’s a funny old world.

  My little captor turned up at noon and brought me some dinner: a hunk of grey cheese, a rough loaf of bread and half a bottle of an even rougher red wine. I thanked her gravely, wondering how I was going to divide it into three, when Neil’s pig farmer walked in. Neil got the same sort of bread and the same sort of wine, and a paper poke of ends of ham. The gamekeeper brought Morgan a couple of slices of cold game pie. When the doctor looked in on us after lunch I asked him, ‘Why are those people being so kind?’

  ‘They’re not. Under French law the person who apprehends a criminal is responsible for their well-being until the examining magistrate brings a charge. They are only doing their duty.’

  ‘I shall ask the King of England to send them a personal note of thanks.’

  ‘You shouldn’t laugh at them.’

  ‘No. I shouldn’t laugh at them.’

  ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’

  ‘All of us?’

  ‘No – just you.’

  I glanced at Morgan. He nodded. ‘OK.’

  There were no handcuffs or anything like that. The copper was eating at his desk as we went past him. He too had bread and ham, but he was spreading marmalade on it and was making a bit of a mess. He just waved a hand and nodded. Outside in the street only the children stared. The adults flicked quick glances at us and then looked away. I asked, ‘Aren’t you afraid I’ll run?’

  ‘You wouldn’t get far with feet like that. Besides, you wouldn’t desert your comrades, would you, comrade? Why don’t we walk down to my house? It’s just down there.’

  We sat in the doctor’s small consulting room and drank brandy from small glasses. He had two dark wings of hair below a shiny bald pate, although he wasn’t an old man. With his large black-rimmed pebble specs and strangely formal clothes he looked as if he’d walked in from the last century. I don’t know much about brandy, but it tasted all right to me. He called the small glasses his ‘day glasses’. He also showed me his other brandy glasses: great bulbous bowls that could take about half a pint.

  I asked him, ‘How’s Tim?’

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘My Skipper. My boss.’

  ‘Ah. Boss. So he is the pilot. You were right, of course. The swelling has been drained, and he is conscious. I believe he will make a full physical recovery.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  The doctor paused before he said, ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it would do neither of you any good. He is talking fluently, but in a sing-song accent – you say that? Sing-song?’

  ‘Yes. We say that. What do you mean?’

  ‘He sounds like a Caribbean calypso singer. It is very entertaining. We haven’t seen this before: he is very convincing – already a celebrity in the hospital.’

  ‘You mean that he’s gone barmy? Mad?’

  ‘Yes. It is exactly what I mean. I wouldn’t let him near an aeroplane for the time being. You say time being?’

  ‘Yes, we say time being too.’

  ‘Shall we have another glass?’

  ‘Why not! Cheers. Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘The officers from the ministry will not arrive until tomorrow. You offered information in exchange for your comrade’s life, but, alas, our gendarme has very little English and has asked me to interrogate you. The Interior Ministry gave its permission.’

  ‘So here you are, and here I am.’

  ‘However, I made a telephone call to someone of my acquaintance before I came to get you, comrade. He asked me to cooperate with you.’

  ‘With me? Not the gendarmes, or the ministry?’

  ‘That is correct, comrade.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think, comrade?’

  Sometimes I have these slow days: days when my brain never gets into gear. The day after an aircraft accident is often a slow day, in my experience. He had had to use the word four or five times before the penny dropped. He was looking into my eyes as it did, and leaned over to offer me his hand. ‘Welcome to France, Comrade Bassett.’

  My brain stopped altogether. All I could think of saying was, ‘I was in France before: in early 1945 before the surrender. I met Picasso in Paris.’

  The doctor smiled, and shook his head. ‘Do not tell anyone else; knowing an artist is not a thing to be so proud of. I was with the Maquis.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Am. As you see, there is still work to do. Keeping the comrades out of the clutches of that fat pig of a policeman, for instance. I will relish his first heart attack.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you much.’

  ‘I don’t want you to tell me anything. I will make up a story to satisfy him, and you will refuse to say anything else. Perhaps then they will send you home.’

  ‘How did you discover that I was a . . . a comrade?’

  ‘The card you have in your wallet. I have a similar one myself, although I keep it in my safe. You should be a little more discreet . . .’

  ‘I will; but carrying it on my person seems to have worked out this time.’

  ‘But if I had been a Petainist? I would have shot you and claimed that you tried to escape – not so lucky then.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. After I saw it, I made a call to someone who can check the identities of Party members. I do not know how. You are a recent member?’

  ‘That’s right. London: a few weeks ago.’

  ‘In that case, congratulations.’ Then he said, ‘Excuse me,’ and belched. It made him more human. ‘Another brandy? In the old days, physicians swore by it.’

  We probably got thr
ough the best part of a bottle. His nurse joined us after half an hour or so, and brought a plate of pickled walnuts. We sang ‘The Internationale’ and the ‘Marseillaise’ with brandy glasses in our hands before he took me back to the lock-up. I wasn’t sure the two songs sat all that comfortably alongside each other, but I just la-la’d along with the tune. The nurse kissed us after that: I loved it. She had big soft rubbery lips. Then the doctor kissed me on both cheeks: that wasn’t so hot. He slobbered a bit.

  The copper was still eating when we got back. He wiped his moustache on the back of his hand as we walked in, and stood up. A shower of crumbs fell like snow.

  ‘ça va?’ he asked the doc.

  The doctor replied with six rounds of rapid Frog talk. He was too quick for me, but I knew enough by then to work out approximately what he was saying. Tim was the pilot, and I had cooperated, apparently. He said that he would put it all into a report for the next morning.

  Fatso turned and beamed at me. He loved me. He said, ‘Merci, m’sieur.’

  ‘In that case, may I have my possessions back?’

  The doctor translated for me. The gendarme shrugged, opened a table drawer and from it gave me back my wallet, my loose change, the usual grubby handkerchief and my tags. Then he had second thoughts, took the tags back and pulled one off. That went back in the drawer. He grinned and tapped his nose with a fat finger. He wanted me to know what a clever fellow he was. I smiled. I could go along with that. I held my hand out for the survivor.

  In the cell Morgan asked me, ‘What did they do to you?’

  ‘Bribed me with brandy.’ I breathed out, close to his face.

  ‘Jammy bastard. What did you tell them?’

  ‘A load of old tosh.’

  ‘What will happen when they find out?’

  ‘They’ll probably give us a bit of a scragging.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Morgan’ – that was Neil. ‘You’ll say nothing – even under torture or duress.’ Then he asked me, ‘Did they tell you anything about the boss?’

  ‘On the mend, apparently, but talking like a Jamaican.’

  ‘He’ll be having them on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that; the doctor isn’t. He thinks that Tim’s brain has been hurt.’

  I could see that Morgan was already worried about being questioned: he had begun to bite his fingernails.

  Our captors came back with supper for us: they’d obviously got together on it because we shared a decent rabbit stew, and one of those long narrow loaves of over-sweet bread. Fatso split us into separate cells for the night, and gave us blankets. Look on the bright side, Charlie: at least you’re full, warm and safe for the moment.

  Wrong.

  They came for us at about three in the morning. Like thieves in the night. That’s almost what they really were, I suppose. Fatso unlocked our cells. His white face was almost luminescent with fear. I had just about enough time to slip my feet into my soft shoes. We were ushered out into the gendarme’s office, blinking in the artificial light. I was right: he looked sweaty and scared. I felt that way myself. That wasn’t surprising because the three soldiers already there all had guns in their hands. I’ve told you before: there is something quietly impressive about these buggers in khaki who carry guns and walk everywhere.

  The biggest one, who appeared to be in charge, carried a pistol. The other two had Stens. I’d fired a Sten before: it could spit out ten bullets before you’d finished a decent fart. The big fellow looked at the copper, and deliberately cocked his pistol. I supposed that this sort of thing had been commonplace in the war, because the gendarme clearly knew what was coming next. He impressed me by drawing himself erect, and looking his executioner in the eye.

  Neil impressed me even more. He stepped between the two, and said to the pistolero, ‘I don’t know if you can understand me or not, chum, but there’s no need for that. If there is, then you’d better do me as well – and here, too, because I ain’t going anywhere if you have to kill him for it.’

  One of those frozen moments that I have come to treasure. The big man and Neil tried to stare each other down. Neither won, but the former broke the spell by snarling, ‘They told me that there was a mouthy one: you’ll be Bassett.’

  ‘No,’ Neil told him, ‘I’m t’other mouthy one: there’re two of us. I’m the compassionate mouthy one you haven’t been told about. Sorry.’

  ‘OK. It’s your funeral. Lock the cunt in his own cell, and then get yourself outside: your carriage awaits.’

  It took me seconds to take in that he was speaking English. Well . . . Novocastrian, which is more or less English. He was probably used to giving the orders. ‘Chop-chop.’

  I went outside with Morgan, and one of the Stens. There was an American Dodge ambulance at the foot of the steps. One of the things I’ve learned not to like is an olive drab vehicle smothered in red crosses. Too many people have bled too much in them. But I liked this one, because the guy standing at the open back doors was someone I recognized.

  ‘Good morning, Charlie.’

  It was Joopeman. He looked healthier than at our last encounter.

  ‘Hello, Ari. Where did you spring from?’

  ‘About sixty miles south. Sorry it took so long to get up; the roads are full of holes, and they still haven’t repaired all the bridges you lot knocked down in ’44.’

  ‘I mean, how did you know we were here?’

  ‘Some clever booger left his kit on transmit as it fell out the sky, didn’t he? I wonder who that was? Your office thought that I’d like to know where it landed. Gloria sends her love, by the way, and says get well soon.’

  ‘I’m not ill. Gloria?’

  ‘Third Officer Miller.’

  ‘Oh. Miller . . .’

  ‘She’s promised me a date if I get you home.’

  My head had probably stopped spinning, because I told him, ‘I’d accept if I was you; I’ve been trying to get her to come out with me for months.’

  Joopeman smiled. ‘Get in the wagon, Charlie, you’re holding things up.’

  As I climbed in, half pushed by Morgan, Ari and finally Neil, I saw that Turnaway Tim was already there, strapped to a stretcher. His head was bandaged, but the bit of face I could see looked normal: he was snoring, and smiling like a cherub.

  ‘He’ll sleep until we’re in England,’ Joopeman said. ‘He had the big needle.’

  Dai was sitting jammed up into a corner. ‘I sprained me knee,’ he complained. ‘When I fell into a sewage farm.’ He’d managed to survive falling fifteen thou, with a fucked-up parachute, and somehow still saw the darker side of things. ‘Do you think they’ll give me a medal?’

  ‘I fell into a pigpen,’ Neil told him. ‘I didn’t exactly come up smelling of roses, either.’

  ‘How are you going to get us out of France?’ I asked Joopeman.

  ‘Piece of piss.’ His grasp of our vernacular wasn’t all that bad for a Dutchman.

  I might have worked out the exit strategy for myself, but I didn’t, because I was still having a slow day. I should have worried about that; they didn’t usually come in twos.

  They told me later that the pick-up was near a small town named La Petite Pierre. In 1947 we still had people who were good at that sort of thing.

  You’d have thought that the war hadn’t ended. We stood at the edge of a big grass field that was surrounded by trees. The Stens and their big man stood out on the field at the points of an imaginary letter L, and each turned on a torch aimed vertically into the sky as soon as they heard the aeroplane.

  It was a battered old Hudson, patched and painted black. It bore no national markings, and bounced only once as it was put on the ground. The pilot gunned it round for take-off immediately. Whoever the bastard was knew his business, and didn’t want to hang around.

  Joopeman drove the ambulance up to the aircraft. I sat beside him, and Neil and Morgan rode the running boards. I could tell that the pilot was desperate for the off by the way he gunned the moto
rs. We scrambled in, leaving Tim to the professionals. They shoved him onto the floor, and scrambled in after us. It looked like we were all going back together. After Neil had dogged the fuselage door shut, I pushed past everyone up to the office and took my seat behind the pilot and nav in the small radio bay. I did it by instinct. The only moment of misgiving I felt was when I saw the tree line rushing at us, outlined by the dawn behind it. The Hudson freed itself with a hop, a skip and a jump: not a conventional take-off, but any one that gets you into the sky is OK by me.

  We circled the field once as we climbed away: the ambulance was already burning. It looked like a bright orange beacon below us. The navigator mumbled to the pilot on his left. That was probably the first heading. He looked as old as Wilbur or Orville, and worked from creased old maps in his lap. You knew that he was one of those types who had been around for ever, and who did it the old way.

  There was something familiarly competent about the pilot. I waited until he had settled the noisy old bag into a gentle climb – to the east, oddly enough – and asked his back, ‘Excuse me, sir, but after I say thank you for the rescue I’ve got to ask you: have we ever met before?’

  ‘No, we ain’t, son: not unless you’re always getting into trouble. I’m forever pulling folks outta the holes they get themselves into.’

  ‘But we haven’t met before?’

  ‘That’s right, son, we haven’t – and we’ll never meet again. Even if we do.’

  I suddenly twigged. ‘Thank you, Randall.’

  ‘That’s all right, son.’

  It was like an old boys’ reunion.

  The French would be looking for us at the coast, the navigator told me, and he didn’t want to embarrass them. So they took us low-level back into Germany, and to Hamburg.

  When we refuelled, the same tired old Red Cross canteen wagon came out to the hard standing. The same tired German woman was trying to shift her hot dogs.

  ‘I told you we’d be back,’ I told her.

  ‘Yes, you did. But maybe you forgot your aircraft – and somehow there are not as many of you as went out, I think.’ She must have been psychic. I was the only one who had stepped down for a cup of coffee. She looked sad. Maybe she always looked sad.