by Brian Aldiss
You were in two minds about that. Killing in wartime was no murder. Indeed, your CO had commanded you, as a duty, to kill as many Germans as possible. Hatred and fear of the enemy would see to it that you carried out the order as thoroughly as possible. And yet, now that the war was almost won, these primitive drives, although fortified by official command, were losing something of their force.
‘Why should I not shoot you?’
He put a trembling hand up to his jaw as if to steady it. ‘I am family man, Sir. Please –’
Had you drowned as a small boy on the sands of Walcot, no murder could have been proved in the case. Nevertheless, your parents would have been guilty of murder. It seemed to you it would not be greatly different if you now despatched these old men standing helpless before you with their hands in the air: you would be guilty of murder, at least in your own eyes.
Trying to make up your mind, you stared at your prisoners. They had dropped their gaze to the trampled snow. Their faces were expressionless. One man had a trail of snot running from his nostril to his chin, about to freeze. A miserable group: conquerors turned victims.
Only a minute beforehand, you had shot dead two of this group without a moment’s thought. It was absurd to argue that those soldiers had been in any way different from these remaining alive; they remained the hated enemy.
What was different – yes, something was different – was that you were no longer fighting to survive. You were now in control. You had the power of life and death over them, the power to decide. You would not be swayed by your sergeant. You must be swayed by your conscience. You came from a better way of life than did these old men.
‘What have you fuckers got to say for yourselves?’ Breeze asked the Germans.
They looked at each other. They did not know how to answer.
‘How many innocent women have you fuckers raped and murdered?’ Breeze poked his weapon at them.
Still they stood there, hands raised, as if mummified. One said, with his teeth chattering, ‘Please to spare us. We are just soldiers like you. Made to fight. Krieg ist schlecht. War ist bad …’ The wind carried the words away.
‘You started the fucking war,’ Breeze shouted. Breeze was a big solid man with blue jowls, a leather sleeveless jacket over his uniform. He was pointing a Sten gun at the Germans.
Yet still as you stood there in the gale, revolver in gloved hand, a part of you, an atavistic part, lusted to kill your captives, to see them fall bloody to the snow – after all, they were part of the nation that had buggered up your life. You could shoot. Why not? It would suit Breeze. You would be regarded as a hero, Mentioned in Despatches … Breeze would go home and tell them about you; with admiration. ‘He shot the fuckers, just like that.’
Here in this howling wilderness, there was no law – only the law of strength and will. You understood that, without giving it a thought.
But. The idea came that if you shot these five men now, the scene might haunt you ever afterwards. You might replay it in your dreams over and over in succeeding years: the men falling, clutching their chests, soiling themselves in their pain, kicking out their death throes on the ground – perhaps another bullet needed there – the revolver having to be reloaded – stains of blood and urine in the tumbled snow – the men somehow in your dreams never dying – always continuing to die, their jaws agape, their faces ghastly.
Squeamishness rather than mercy, you complained to yourself afterwards, convinced you not to shoot your enemies.
‘All right. Put your hands down. Stand still.’
You came to a decision. You told the DR to drop grenades into the turrets of each tank, ‘just to make sure’. You were shouting to make yourself heard. When Gould did as ordered, the tanks flared up like small volcanoes. You ordered Breeze to search the captives and disarm them. He moved in upon them, rough as could be, throwing papers, cigarettes, pocket knives, from their pockets out into the snow as he searched them and took their weapons. When this was done, and the tanks still blazed in a lacklustre way, Breeze, looking grimly at you, asked, ‘How about taking their greatcoats, Sir?’
‘No. We’ll simply leave them here and press on.’
‘Orders say to kill the enemy, Sir. With respect.’
‘Fuck the orders, Sergeant. This bloody war is almost won. These old bastards – Have some pity.’
‘Right, Sir.’ He stood looking at you, broad, raw face blank.
You contemplated the sorry group of prisoners. You said to them, ‘You know that the Third Reich is defeated, don’t you? Defeated, verstehen Sie? Dritte Reich kaput! Untergang! The Russians are across the Oder and already on the outskirts of Berlin.’
The German who had first spoken English now said, ‘Please, Captain, Sir, to make us prisoners! Else we must starve.’ In his haggard face, his lips were livid.
You ignored the request. ‘You are free men, whatever that means. You’re bloody lucky we didn’t kill you. Don’t push your luck.’
As you made your way to the shelter of your tanks, Breeze called back angrily to the helpless men, ‘Give my regards to Adolf!’
They stood there in the howling snowstorm, defeated, still not moving, not knowing where to move to.
‘Poor bastards,’ you said. You holstered your gun and made your way back to Tank Chubby.
Then you continued on the way to Erve.
5
Endless Carnage
The darkness was punctuated by lights. The ground was a churned mess of snow and mud: ‘mashed potato and gravy’ Wood called it. Vehicles were everywhere, some parked, others still arriving. From the REME sheds came noises of hammering and drilling. Ugly shapes of artillery were visible through the murk, light sliding down their barrels. Men were everywhere, briskly walking alone or marching in file. Shouting went on. Never an army without shouting.
The cold of winter still held you in its grip. You crunched your way over the smothered ground. You had but two thoughts in your chilled head: a meal now, and the drive for Cologne on the morrow. As you crossed to the officers’ quarters, you passed an Other Ranks Mess, from which singing issued, ‘While there’s a Lucifer to light your fag, Smile, boys, that’s the style …’ You thought that many of the singers singing that sorrowful old song would not know what a Lucifer was. The lower ranks of the British Army preserved as fossils words and phrases elsewhere forgotten. These men remembered the old Great War songs, finding themselves in roughly the same situation as their fathers. Pack up Your Troubles was a folk-memory, precious in its doleful English optimism.
A marked feature of the rendezvous at Erve was that so many lights were showing, their beams criss-crossing in the snow. The Luftwaffe was at last defeated; it was claimed that more than three hundred German aircraft had been shot down on New Year’s Day alone. The RAF and USAF now ruled the skies – when the weather permitted them to get up there. It could not be long before the long weary years of war would draw to a conclusion and Germany would capitulate.
‘Thank fuck for that!’ you said wearily to yourself. You longed for it to be over.
Having stashed your kit away, you entered the officers’ club, a temporary accommodation in a hastily converted mansion. Groups of four or more men sat round tables, talking in subdued voices. At a table alone sat Major Hilary Montagu, a whisky by his elbow.
About him was still the aura that marked him out, at least in your eyes, as Hilary Montagu; but the few years that had passed since you last met had greatly changed him. His hair, cut in close military fashion, was almost entirely grey. His face had lost the healthy complexion which owed something to his years under the Indian sun. His nose was red and appeared to have swollen where its surrounding flesh had sunk, a change perhaps attributable to an increased intake of alcohol.
You stood before him, coming to attention. Since Montagu wore no cap, you did not salute. ‘Good evening, Sir.’
He looked up at you, giving no sign of recognition. ‘I’m off duty,’ he said. ‘Don’t talk to me.’
He then began a disquisition: he stared down at the battered tabletop as he spoke. ‘Don’t talk to me. I’m busy getting drunk, thanks. I once had a bungalow in Lahore. You knew where you were then. What I wouldn’t give for a curry. The Germans never took to curry, did they? That was where they went wrong. What I wouldn’t give for a keema mattar right now. Go away, Captain. I’m busy drinking myself stupid.’
You said that you were Captain Steve Fielding. ‘We were together in France, Sir, just before she fell.’
He stared at you rather drunkenly. ‘Fielding! Christ, I didn’t recognize you. You’ve grown a moustache. You look a hell of a lot older!’
‘I am a hell of a lot older.’
‘The damned war does that to us all … Sit down! Have a drink.’ He reached out a hand: you shook it. He summoned a mess orderly to get you a whisky – and another for himself. You sat yourself down. ‘I’m glad to see you again, Sir.’
‘Didn’t mean to be rude just then. Half-pissed. I look a whole lot older myself, I’m fully aware of that. The war grinds you down, endless carnage. These Krauts never give up, do they? I got a look at a Top Secret signal to SHAEF that reckoned the Yanks have lost upwards of twenty thousand men just this year alone, dead or captured. Carnage. It’s insane.’
There was a wild look about him. His eyes darted here and there, never resting, as if seeking out a hidden enemy.
‘Looks like it’ll soon be over, Sir.’ You lifted your glass to him.
‘Can’t be soon enough. I long for my bowler hat.’ Something fixed and dead marked his gaze when he brought it forcefully to your eyes. ‘Steve, we are trapped in a Breughel painting. A Breughel painting; artist who painted life as it was, not as it might be. There may be no end to this war, Fielding. It’s all very well for Roosevelt to say British suspicions of Russia are unfounded. Once we’ve licked the Huns, we are going to have to fight the Soviet Union. You think it’s cold here? Try Moscow!’
These things he appeared to be saying to himself.
He started up again. ‘Steve, you know the Russians are far more ruthless than we are. The Germans are far more ruthless than we are. Or better coordinated. Or better indoctrinated, or something. Why are we making such slow advances? Why aren’t we mopping up the resistance and in Berlin by now?’ Again the eyes flickering here and there.
As he took another gulp of his whisky, you said, ‘Is it really that bad?’
He chose not to answer the question. ‘How many tanks have 30th Division lost? Enemy fire, land mines … If the war stops for a moment, I’ll be off. Go and live in the South Seas, like Paul Gauguin. I’ve had enough of the bloody whites, Huns or Frogs or English rozbifs. Or Yanks, of course. They all cause trouble wherever they go, the lot of them.’
‘I’m sorry to find you so pessimistic, Sir.’
He gave a scornful ‘Ha!’ ‘Pessimistic? No. Just appalled. I’m dead, Fielding. My soul has died within me. This eternal fighting, this endless carnage. What we’re expected to endure.’ He paused. ‘Well, Steve, this isn’t soldierly talk.’
It would have been trite to offer him consolation, even if consolation were to be had. You drank your whisky and called to the orderly for more.
‘Trapped in a Breughel painting, yes. “Hunters in the Snow”. Brilliant artist: Breughel knew what misery was all about.’
‘I believe he must have lived somewhere near here, Sir. The Lowlands. We must be somewhere near Antwerp.’
‘Near Armageddon, more like.’
You both slurped your whisky. You could hardly think.
‘The painters, artists – good men, all. Had something better to think about than killing other men. The British had no artists in India. They were just interested in ruling the Wogs. That’s what they implanted – no culture, read nothing. Sapper. Bulldog Drummond …’
Montagu evidently realized he was rambling. He fell silent, marshalling his thoughts. He rested his elbow on the table before him and his forehead in his hand, his gaze cast down at the stained surface of the table. Then he spoke in a level voice. ‘But that’s all past. All bally well past … We’ve got to push on tomorrow, before first light. We plan to push down the road to Cologne. I thought you were dead, old boy. Did you ever get to – Rennes, was it?’
So you started to tell each other your stories.
When France fell, Major Hilary Montagu and Captain Leonard Travers had attempted to walk to the Spanish border. They had reached Toulouse, only about sixty miles from the frontier, when they were arrested in a bar. A Frenchman shot one of the gendarmes arresting them, and was himself shot. Another man had joined in and Travers had been accidentally shot and wounded. Montagu managed to get away. He had crossed into Spain and had eventually been repatriated. Travers had not been heard of again.
‘I sometimes wish I had stayed put in Spain. I met a young woman in Barcelona; a wonderful, lovely woman, Monika. A mulatto. Came from Buenos Aires originally. Always had a weakness for dark skins …’
He smiled and nodded to himself, his talk of going to live in the South Seas forgotten. ‘I may go and look for her after this stinking war is over, if ever. No hope of getting back to Lahore: I’m too old for India service. Besides, we’re giving India away. Monika’s probably married by now, to some lucky bugger.’
In what you regarded as a drunkenly sentimental gesture, Montagu felt in an inner pocket and fished out a wallet. From the wallet he extracted a photograph of Monika. ‘Have a dekko, Steve, old man.’
It was a black and white study that had been hand-coloured. You stared at an ordinary-looking girl with a string of beads in her hair.
‘I’ve got a girl,’ you said. ‘A real peach. Her name’s Abby.’ You knew you were getting drunk. You did not care. The feeling of wildness, of losing control, was benevolent. You lit up a cigarette – one of Montagu’s – and the two of you indulged in reminiscence: reminiscence of better times you had enjoyed, although the misery of the present cast a cloud over both past and present.
You were rather boastful about your affair with Abby, claiming a longer continuity of loving than had in fact been the case. You did not mention the sexual episode with your aunt, alternating as you did between pride and shame at that affair: that salient point in your emotional life possibly marked the true dawn of your adult life.
And what had it meant to Violet? Was it something vital for her being or something merely incidental? Such questions were so difficult, you could not pretend they were in some way answers, and presented them to your senior friend simply as sexual conquests to be chuckled over.
But Violet was bound to burst through. ‘Another woman I know. Got a kiddie who is going to be on the BBC – an announcer, she said …’
Thoughts of love and conquest, as the whisky went down, came increasingly to preoccupy your mind, while Montagu was telling you about what he termed ‘the wily Afghan’ who could steal a sheet from under you as you lay asleep, without waking you.
A red-haired man, another major, blundered up and sat himself down heavily at your table. He was clutching a whisky bottle, from which he took frequent sips. He and Montagu knew each other; he made no attempt at that drunken hour of evening to introduce himself to you.
‘I’ve about had it up to here,’ he said, in a Glaswegian accent. ‘The bloody vehicles are falling apart faster than we can repair them. Men are falling apart as well. I’m i/c REME here,’ he said, by way of explanation, addressing you. ‘What I canne understand is why in hell the Germans don’t pack it in. They must ken they’re licked, yet still they go on bloody fighting.’
‘You’re right, Jock,’ said Montagu. ‘The Wehrmacht has been absolutely gutted, yet still they resist. The common soldier obeys his officer instead of throwing down his bondook. You have to marvel at them; they’re fanatics. That’s why I say the war will never end. Endless carnage, endless carnage –’
‘Aye, it will continue on until doomsday,’ said Jock, with gloomy relish. ‘Disasters like Arnhem dinna help oor cause.’ He sa
id in an aside to me, as he helped himself to a cigarette from a silver case, ‘I was with First Airborne then. The fools dropped us at Nijmegen, ten miles or more from their bloody bridge.’
‘I heard about it,’ said Montagu, gesturing to the mess waiter for more whisky. ‘Monty was to blame for all that.’
‘Looks like the Russians will take Berlin before we do,’ you said.
A lieutenant was entering the room, carried in on driving wind and snow. Shouts demanded he close the door.
Jock told you how he had spoken to a colonel who had been seconded to liaise with Zhukov’s First Belorussian Front. He described the Russians as a ferocious rabble, advancing, killing and raping, while loaded down with loot – which included china lavatory bowls made by Royal Doulton, the likes of which no Russian had ever seen before. ‘When we’ve knocked off Hitler,’ Jock prophesied, ‘we’ll have to join up with the Germans and fight these bloody Russian barbarians.’
‘It’ll go on for ever, endless carnage,’ said Montagu, lifting his glass to his lips. ‘It’s the death of the human spirit …’
The colonel commanding entered the mess, spruce and aloof, a man with a fine head and florid complexion, his backbone unbending. As he approached your table, Montagu, the Scottish major and you stood to attention.
He said in a friendly way, addressing Montagu and ignoring you, ‘It might be a good idea to get some shut-eye, Hilary, don’t you think? We are scheduled to push on for Cologne early tomorrow.’
‘I’ll see to it, Sir,’ said Montagu. ‘Will you have a goodnight drink with us, Sir? We were just talking about the Russian army.’
Without saying yes or no to the invitation, the colonel stood there rigid, not unfriendly, still unbending. ‘We have to be grateful to Stalin and General Zhukov for killing off so many Germans on our behalf.’
The red-haired major showed no sign of appreciating this remark. ‘Should we no be pressing on for Berlin, Sir, at a grander rate, don’t you reckon?’
