It was early, damp evening by the time Schorner returned to the camp. As Albie Primrose drove the jeep through the tunnel-dark, steep-sided lanes, Schorner sat back silently, unhappily. ‘You’ll never have to worry about the car leaving the road here,’ he remarked eventually. ‘This tight, it’s like driving in a trench.’
‘Sure is, sir,’ replied Albie. He had been standing in the porch at the back of the church. ‘Those folks were real sore,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I blame them.’
‘Nor me, son,’ said Schorner. ‘But they’ll get it all back. One day. And that’s the day you and me will be up to our hair in shrapnel, sitting in holes in the ground, scared as shit, and they’ll be back there in their houses, good and safe. In a war everybody has to give something.’
As the lane humped before dropping again towards the camp they could see the glow of kerosene lamps fringing the wind-ragged trees on the immediate horizon. ‘Look at that,’ muttered Schorner. ‘Just get a load of that. It’s like signalling to the Germans to come in and get us.’ The jeep turned into the field and Schorner leaned out and shouted to the sergeant at the gate guardpost. ‘Get those lights covered, sergeant. And right now! Do you want the goddamned dive-bombers over?’ The sergeant, Perry, looked with wild concern, stupidly at first at Schorner and then up into the night sky as if to check it was dark, before turning and running heavily towards the points where the lights were showing. Schorner could hear him shouting: ‘Get those lights covered! Do you want the goddamned dive-bombers here? Get them covered!’
Schorner jumped from the jeep and walked across to his own hut. He was grateful that the iron stove had been lit. A cloud of warmth came from it. ‘Albie,’ he said tiredly, ‘when that sergeant’s through with the lamps and the dive-bombers, will you tell him to get the men together in the mess tent. I guess that’s the best place. I’d better tell them about the situation. Yes, the mess tent. In ten minutes, okay?’
‘Okay, sir,’ replied Primrose. He left the hut but came back to salute, then left again. Schorner sat down on the bed and smiled at what Albie had done. It was like a gesture of sympathy.
The telephone rang, so sharply and unexpectedly that he jumped. He cursed himself, then picked it up. ‘Colonel Schorner.’
‘Ah good, good, right first time,’ said the English voice cheerily. ‘Colonel, I’m Captain Westerman, Royal Artillery.’ There was a pause, an uncertainty, then: ‘British Army.’
‘Sure, of course.’ Schorner grinned to himself. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘I’m commanding officer of the unit in Wilcoombe, the anti-aircraft gun.’
‘Yes, I know. I saw it when we came by.’
‘I thought I’d just call and well … welcome you. But also, I’ve had instructions from way up high, God almost, that I must appoint a liaison officer to deal with matters that might come up between us. We’re a sort of little outpost here, very quiet too for the past couple of years, and now it seems as though we’re going to be surrounded by a few thousand of your chaps. So we’ve got to have someone as a … a go-between, I suppose you could call it.’
Schorner nodded into the phone. Outside his men were walking through the wet field on their way to the mess tent; cheerful voices in the jaded darkness. Someone set up a loud whooping. He covered the phone so that the British officer would not hear it. ‘Sure, captain,’ he said, pushing his mouth close to the mouthpiece. ‘That’s a sensible idea. If I know anything about the US Army we’ll have a whole battalion of liaison officers heading this way in no time at all.’
Westerman laughed defensively, it seemed, at the other end. ‘Well, from our side it will be just one chappie. Of course we’re only a small unit and a small army. Small, but we like to think pretty workmanlike. A rabble wouldn’t have got out from Dunkirk, would it?’
‘No, sir,’ Schorner agreed carefully. ‘You did a great job at Dunkirk.’
‘Your chaps will be learning what it’s all about soon,’ forecast Westerman. He sounded stronger now. ‘I don’t suppose many of them have ever seen a German.’
‘Only if they come from Milwaukee,’ said Schorner.
‘Oh?’ said Westerman, not understanding. ‘Why if they come from Milwaukee?’
‘It’s a German city,’ replied Schorner simply. ‘It was settled by German immigrants to the United States. My family was originally from that country.’
He was sure he heard the Englishman swallow on the distant end of the phone. ‘Really,’ said Westerman nervously again. ‘Yes … I’d never thought of that. No, well, of course, you might well be.’ His tone brightened encouragingly. ‘Still, you’re on our side now. I suppose when it comes to it your German chaps will fight as well as anybody else.’
‘You bet,’ said Schorner evenly. ‘When it comes to it. You called me about the liaison officer.’
‘Oh yes, so I did. Yes, it will be Lieutenant Bryant, nice young chap. Been to America, so he understands the language and customs and everything. Can I send him over tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ agreed Schorner. ‘Send him over any time. We’re not going out anywhere.’
There was another blank of uncertainty from the other end. Then Westerman quickly said, as if he wanted to finish: ‘Right-ho, then, I’ll see he gets over about ten.’
‘That’s fine,’ returned Schorner. ‘I guess we’ll be up and about by then. Good-bye, captain.’
‘Oh yes, good-bye. Perhaps we could meet for a quiet beer or so quite soon.’
‘Right. I’d like to do that. We’ll fix a date.’
Schorner put the phone down. He stared out of the open door to the marsh of the English night. ‘What a dummy,’ he said quietly.
Two flaring yellow kerosene lamps were hanging over a table just inside the mess tent flap, illuminating the nearest faces, deepening the eyes and nostrils so that the men looked like Chinese lanterns. The second circle of faces, slightly away from the aura of the lights, were blurred and further behind them the men were just blots in the dimness. As Schorner entered, Sergeant Perry, trying to impress him, bawled the men to attention, but the result, muddled and muffled on the muddy ground, was like the heavy flapping of hidden bats.
Schorner said: ‘Okay, thank you, sergeant.’ He examined the illuminated faces in front and then peered into the shadows at the rear. ‘At ease, men,’ he said. There was a further dulled movement. Schorner went behind the table and leaned his fists on the wood. ‘You’re probably wondering what the hell you’re doing in this beautiful English resort,’ he began. Some of the soldiers sniggered, but others were not sure. Schorner helped them. ‘I’m told,’ he said, ‘that it’s a fine place in the summer – but nobody seems to be able to tell when the summer is. I guess the temperature of the rain goes up a few degrees.’ This time most of them laughed.
‘Some of you may not know exactly where we are located. All of you will have a general idea of why we are here. God, I hope so, anyway.’ He paused. ‘This area is called the county of Devon. If you look at a map of England, the leg that sticks out like it’s kicking at Ireland –’ some ironical laughing came from the rear of the tent. Schorner looked up but made no comment. He went on: ‘If you take that as a leg, then Devon is the thigh. If you read your history books you’ll know that the Pilgrim Fathers left from Plymouth, which is just down the street from here.’ He glanced up. ‘Any questions so far?’
There was a brief vacuum, then a voice: ‘Any women around here, sir?’
Shouts of laughter went up. Schorner said: ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Harrington, sir.’
‘You don’t look old enough for women, Harrington. Where are you from?’
‘Pittsburgh, sir.’
‘In that case, I guess you’re old enough for women.’
They all laughed now. Ribald, childish comments flew through the darkened tent. Schorner stopped them with a wave of his hand. ‘Don’t ask me about women,’ he said. ‘I’m a married man. I understand all the sort of women you guys w
ant are in London and that’s two hundred miles away. And two hundred miles in this country is a long, long way. We’re going to distribute free pictures of Betty Grable and Myrna Loy.’
The boyish shouts and laughing broke out again. He waited until they had settled, then added seriously: ‘And I don’t want any trouble with the local women. And especially not the married women. Their husbands are fighting in Burma and Italy and they won’t like the idea of Americans sniffing around their wives and their girls. And don’t say they won’t know because if they don’t somebody else will. Got that?’
There was a mumbled assent from the men. Schorner did not believe a word of it. ‘We have a difficult situation in this particular area,’ he went on. ‘I’ve just come from a meeting at the church right here in this village which is called Telcoombe Magna. This place has been here for a thousand years and the people have just this afternoon been told that they’ve got three weeks to beat it – to get out. Another five villages like this one are to be evacuated. Three thousand people have been told to quit. And the reason for this is that the US Army has to use this area for a series of invasion exercises over the next three months …’ He waited, then said casually: ‘Using live ammunition and including bombing and shelling.’
That silenced them. They stood motionless, the yellow faces in the front looked hollow-eyed, the mouths seemed stitched together. Then someone in the middle said: ‘Why, sir? Why are they doing that? Live ammunition.’ A babble of questions broke out and he stemmed them. ‘Because that’s the order, son,’ he said. ‘It’s been figured that if the invasion of Europe is carried out as efficiently as the invasion of North Africa and the landings like Anzio in Italy, then we’ll all be dead before we’ve seen our first German. It’s got to be better than that. A lot better. The Nazis have been waiting for us for years. Everybody’s got to know when to shoot and when to duck.’
The silence had solidified. Schorner went on: ‘Our job here is as advance party to make ready certain camps and sites, hards for vehicles and tanks, and then to join with the invasion exercises as engineers. There will be a whole sequence of limited exercises, some on most days, until we’ve run out of time. There will also be major, all-in manoeuvres involving thousands of men.’
They were still thinking about the live ammunition. ‘Sir, can I ask a question?’ The man pushed his way through the first line of faces.
‘Sure, son,’ said Schorner. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Kerzick, sir. Renton Kerzick.’
‘Okay, Kerzick.’
‘Some guys … some guys here in this tent maybe … well, some guys look like they’re going to be killed by our own side. Is that correct, sir? By Americans?’
‘You got it,’ nodded Schorner. ‘That’s what I said.’ He tried to grin. ‘I’ve told the sergeants to go real careful.’
It got a laugh, but not much of one. Kerzick said: ‘It’s crazy, sir. It’s bad enough being killed by Germans, but being killed by Americans! I mean, I didn’t come into the army to have that.’
‘You didn’t come on any conditions at all, Kerzick,’ returned Schorner quietly. ‘You came because Uncle Sam told you to come.’ He looked over their heads. ‘Okay, that’s about it, men. We have to get this camp in some sort of order and then work on another base for more GIs who’ll be here in a few days. This place will be lousy with Americans within a month. My guess is that we’ll be here until mid-summer, or whatever the English have instead of it.’ He looked directly at Kerzick. ‘You got the answers now, Kerzick?’ he said.
‘No, sir. But I guess I’m not going to get them.’
‘Right, son,’ said Schorner. ‘You’re not.’
*
On that same day, 1 January 1944, General Dwight D. Eisenhower was confirmed as Supreme Commander of the allied armies preparing to invade the European Continent – Operation Overlord; General Bernard Law Montgomery was appointed Commander of the British 21st Army Group and given overall charge of the assault phase of the invasion, code-named Neptune. In the late light of the afternoon of that same day a Catalina flying boat clattered in to touch down on the calm winter water of Poole Harbour in Dorset, England. It had flown from Charleston, South Carolina, via Bermuda, the Azores and Lisbon, a total journey of four days. On taking off from the Tagus River, Lisbon, it had flown in an arc, far out into the Atlantic, to avoid sighting from the French coast. It turned in over the Western Approaches, where it was joined by two escorting fighter planes, then, skirting Fastnet on the south-west coast of Ireland, it made its final approach over Land’s End and across South Devon.
General Arthur C. Georgeton of the US Army was on the flight deck, sitting beside the navigator, as the inelegant aircraft dropped lower over the grey-green of England. He had asked the navigator to tell him when they were over-flying Devon. The man looked around and nodded. ‘That’s Devon right down there, sir,’ he said. ‘The city of Plymouth is right on the starboard wing.’
Georgeton manoeuvred his round figure towards the observation window and adjusted his spectacles. The navigator idly wondered how someone of that shape ever got to be a general. It must be brains, he decided. Georgeton peered through the goldfish-bowl window. The pilot obligingly banked the cumbersome aircraft to give him a better view. The sideways drop of the fuselage caught Georgeton by surprise and he stumbled. The navigator caught him by the arm. ‘Don’t fall out the window, sir,’ he said.
Georgeton laughed good-humouredly. ‘Right. Down there is where I’m headed, but I’m not in that much of a hurry.’ Plymouth had almost gone behind them. He looked down at the indented countryside east of the city, the shadows showing the small folds of pleasant hills, the incisive creeks and estuaries cutting deeply into the land. There was a brief opening of sunshine and the sea below glinted like someone signalling with a mirror. There were collections of roofs stitched together by apparently empty streets. Georgeton took it in, and, taking his bearing from Start Point and its great adjoining bay, named each place in his mind as he had memorized it from the maps. Eventually he straightened up and the pilot corrected the clumsy plane’s bank. ‘Thanks, boys,’ said the general. He grinned around the cabin. God, he thought, they were really boys, too. Clean faces almost like those of children smiled from under the flying helmets. It seemed ridiculous that they could keep such a huge machine in the air. The pilot was smaller and even more boyish than the others. The general wondered how his feet reached the pedals.
He returned to the forward passenger cabin. The plane was full of American officers of all three services. He took his seat beside Captain Oscar Scarlett, his ADC, who had taken over the appointment only the day before they set off from Charleston. ‘We’re just going in,’ he said. ‘I got a good look at Devon.’
‘How did it look, sir?’ asked Scarlett smiling. ‘Friendly?’
‘It looks okay. I like places with a sea coast. It gives them a real look, you know, as though they’re fixed to something. That’s what’s the trouble with the States. It’s too big. Half of it seems to be floating around nowhere.’
‘Did you see the British fighters?’ asked Scarlett. He was a tall man with hair greying years before time. He had been an advertising executive with a Philadelphia newspaper.
‘They only came to escort us when we were over Ireland,’ pointed out Georgeton. ‘There didn’t seem a lot of point to it then.’
‘Maybe they thought the Irish might attack,’ laughed Scarlett. ‘It could be. I’m Irish myself, well my family are. The old folks still curse the British.’
Georgeton said: ‘These times there’s plenty of enemies to go around. Who needs old ones?’
‘Looks like we’re going in,’ mentioned Scarlett. The Catalina had made a cautious circle and was now dropping rapidly, over low hills, over a headland and a hand of small islands, lower and lower, until they felt the contact with the harbour water and the spray flew up to cover the portholes and their view.
The engines of the big plane emitted a final clatter a
nd then died, the propellers flapping around like helpless arms. ‘This is England,’ the pilot called back. ‘At least, I think it’s England. If anybody starts shooting I got it wrong.’
The camouflaged flying boat squatted on the water like a resting mallard. A naval launch put out from the distant quay, making a toenail in the limp winter water as it curved towards the aircraft. Scarlett watched it, a sailor standing in the bow like a figurehead. The afternoon was too spent for him to make out anything on the shore.
The front hatch of the flying boat eased open and the cold English air rushed in, their first smell of the new country. Georgeton sniffed heavily and Scarlett grimaced. They left the aircraft first, shaking hands with the flight crew and wishing them luck. They clambered down to the trembling launch. A British naval officer saluted and introduced himself. The land all about the harbour was backing away into a short January evening. There were some seabirds swooping about the flying boat, white shadows, crying harshly in the saline air.
‘I have your orders, sir,’ said the British officer. He called to the man at the boat’s small wheel and the vessel turned abruptly away from the Catalina and made for the indistinct shore. The Englishman handed a yellow envelope to Georgeton. He was uncertain whether to open it then. The boat was rolling with its own momentum and the lights were doused. ‘I should wait until you get ashore, sir,’ suggested the Englishman with a grin. ‘Unless you read braille.’
‘You could be right,’ Georgeton returned the smile in the dark. ‘What’s Devon like, sir?’
The officer, unused to that mode of address from a senior, hesitated. Then he said: ‘It’s lovely, Devon. Small hills and red earth. The drink scrumpy – that’s cider.’
‘What are the people like?’
The naval man thought, then said: ‘Slow and strong you could say. Not easily pushed around.’ The American nodded and tightened his lips as if committing the description to memory. ‘The north of Devon is different from the south,’ went on the Englishman. ‘The north is rugged, the south is softer.’
The Magic Army Page 8
