She pulled away from him gently. ‘Let me go and put my nightdress on, will you,’ she said. ‘I like to wear a nightdress!’ She walked a few feet towards the door at the end of the room. Then she turned with the small laugh again. ‘I do have pyjamas if you feel the same way,’ she said. ‘All sorts and sizes.’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘No thanks. I hate second-hand clothes.’
She was not put out but turned and wriggled her backside good-humouredly at him. He shook his head and sat down by the cat. The room was heavily but tastefully decorated and furnished. There was a long crack in the ceiling and another down the mirror over the fireplace, like a split in sheet ice. He drank the bourbon and put his hand on the cat. His weariness, long days of it on the Catalina, overcame him at once. Unable to prevent himself, he drifted to sleep. He toppled to one side and the cat jumped with a petulant cry which woke him.
His fatigued eyes opened to see her standing smiling at him, her naked arms held out of a long peach-coloured nightdress. Her breasts were standing out against the material. Scarlett blinked and stood up. He embraced her again and her arms went up under his and held almost desperately to his shoulder-blades.
‘Don’t go to sleep on me, Ossie,’ she said seriously.
He shook his head. ‘I won’t,’ he promised. ‘With anybody else, but not you.’
‘That crack in the ceiling,’ she said conversationally, turning her head slightly to one side but not looking at it. ‘That was a bomb. The same one that did the crack in the mirror.’ She took her arms from him and then took his from her and went over to the mirror. She regarded herself so that the split was down her face. ‘It fell just across the road,’ she went on. ‘Killed seven children in one house.’
‘That’s terrible,’ he said.
‘Yes, it was. Terrible.’ She returned to him and put her arms lightly around his neck again and rubbed her body against him. ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
He kissed her hair. ‘Yes. I have been for some time.’
The remark brought a subdued laugh from her. She began to tug him gently towards her bedroom. ‘Americans always have some smart answer,’ she said.
‘Don’t British men have smart answers?’
‘I don’t remember. I gave them up,’ she shrugged. ‘They all reminded me of my husband. It didn’t seem fair on him.’
‘In that case I’m American and different,’ said Scarlett. They had reached the far door and he saw that it gave into a bedroom, brown and fawn, with a single lamp spreading a pond of light at the edge of the wide bed.
Scarlett began to take his clothes off while she sat on the bedside looking away in thought. Then reaching below the bed she pulled out a case of red wine.
‘There are some glasses somewhere,’ she murmured absently, feeling under the bed. ‘Ah, here they are.’ She took out two goblets and held them to the light. ‘They’re not all that clean,’ she mentioned. ‘Do you mind? I don’t want to have to start washing up now.’
He was naked, standing at the side of the bed. She was sitting only inches away and she leaned her head forward against his groin and began rubbing her hair against him. Her hands went around his thighs and his to the back of her bent neck. ‘My father,’ she said, ‘went to France with the British Army in 1939. He let it be known that the whole object of the thing, as far as he was concerned, was to be able to get drinkable wines at reasonable prices. He brought back whole cargoes of the stuff when he came on leave. He was killed at St Valéry, just before Dunkirk, but he still managed to send a final consignment home before he died of wounds. This is the last case.’
He bent his knees and squatted down naked in front of her. Her fingers lengthened and enfolded his taut stem. He kissed her urgently and rolled her back over the bed. ‘Let’s get inside the covers,’ she whispered. ‘It’s more private.’
‘Do you ever stop talking?’ he smiled, close to her face.
‘Sometimes. When I’ve nothing to say. Jesus, I do want you inside me now. Please do it now, right away.’
They were below the sheets. He pushed her thighs firmly apart and knelt between them, his tip running against her first and then the rest of his length hungrily entering her. She whistled like an errand boy as he did it. ‘That’s lovely,’ she breathed against his ear. ‘That feels very nice indeed. Make it last out a little while, will you. Please, soldier.’
‘There’s a name for ladies like you,’ he said, moving into her. The arches of their legs were against each other.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Nymphomaniac.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Beautiful.’
The morning was sharp with January sunshine, without warmth, but splashed across the buildings and parks of London, touching the scarred, bombed walls with a mellowness that made them look as though they had fallen long ago in history.
At nine o’clock a US Army staff car called at the hotel in Lancaster Gate for General Georgeton and Captain Scarlett. As they drove they became silent, watching the damaged streets, people, buses, taxis, moving through the decay. Buildings were holed, stripped, some hardly more than single walls, the sun on them, like gravestones. The spaces that yawned everywhere gave a view of more spaces, more devastation. Sandbags were piled in monotonous pattern high against walls; windows were blind with boards. A battery of anti-aircraft guns, their long-necked barrels stretched out, were spaced across Hyde Park like horses before a race. Georgeton looked up through the staff-car window and nudged Scarlett. Above them in a wan winter sky rode barrage balloons, great-nosed, great-eared, like silver clowns. ‘War looks different from here,’ said Georgeton thoughtfully. ‘How would it have been if America, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles had been blasted like this?’
‘There would have been bigger holes,’ answered Scarlett simply. ‘I guess we would have gotten by. Like the British have.’
The general did not answer. The car turned into Grosvenor Square. Split and crippled trees stood on the grass in the square. The driver took the car into the kerb outside a building half-buried in sandbags. A log-faced British military policeman opened the car door and saluted. A pale American marine at the entrance came to attention as they walked in.
Their overcoats were taken by two young Americans in civilian clothes. A third came through a pair of mirrored doors into a fine room, gilt and pale green, with a chandelier like a glass cake at its centre. There were already twenty or more officers of various services, British and American, in the room, seated on incongruously dainty golden chairs. Scarcely had Georgeton and Scarlett taken the seats indicated to them when a further set of mirrored doors opened and General Montgomery walked in. He came in alone, with a junior officer eventually following to shut the door behind him. His battledress was well-worn, he had two cap badges in his jaunty black beret, and his medal ribbons were bright as a row of flowers. The assembled officers stood.
‘Sit down, sit down, gentlemen. Good morning.’ The squeaky voice suited the face.
The junior officer, who had followed Montgomery like a pageboy, opened a briefcase and put some folders on the central table. He then stood precociously, sharply surveying the assembly as if to ensure that it was paying attention. There was a blackboard on one side. Montgomery, his officer’s cane giving him the air of a schoolteacher, leaned back against the table and began on a high-pitched note, almost a caricature of himself.
‘Gentlemen, two days ago I was in Marrakesh, Morocco, with General Eisenhower and Mr Churchill … Winnie,’ he glanced around and, as if it were possible that they might not have understood, emphasized, ‘our prime minister. As you know, Mr Churchill has had a very nasty bout of pneumonia, but I’m sure we can all be relieved that he seems now to be well on the road to recovery. Thank God. We need him.’
He waited as if he expected some dissent, then continued.’ At our meeting Mr Churchill confirmed that a provisional date for the second front, for the invasion of the European Continent, is 1 May. That particular date, May Day you see, should please
the Russians, who have been nagging us for goodness knows how long to get on with the invasion, whether or not we were properly prepared. Life is much cheaper in Russia. Mr Churchill has said in the past that he has a nightmare of the English Channel being a sea of corpses. We don’t want that, do we?
‘General Eisenhower was confirmed as Supreme Commander, Allied Expeditionary Force. The mantle of commandant of the 21st Army Group has fallen on me. My first and major responsibility will be to get the armies ashore on the coast of France, Belgium, or wherever it may be finally decided.
‘The codename for the invasion of Europe is to be, as some of you will already be aware – OVERLORD. The assault phase, which is my particular pidgin, is codenamed NEPTUNE, although I hope we spend less time in the water than that gentleman.’
There were polite smiles. Montgomery opened a sheet of paper. ‘The directive outlining the objects of Overlord reads like this.’ He placed a pair of reading glasses on his nose. They made him look like a small sporting dog.
‘To mount,’ he began, his voice a little louder but retaining its squeak, ‘and carry out an operation, with forces and equipment established in the United Kingdom and with target date 1 May, 1944, to secure a lodgement on the Continent from which fuller offensive operations could be developed. The lodgement area must contain sufficient port facilities to maintain a force of some twenty-six to thirty divisions and enable that force to be augmented by follow-up shipments from the United States or elsewhere of additional divisions and supporting units at the rate of three to five divisions per month.’
As he finished he removed his glasses and folded both them and the paper. He smiled, the smile so small it became trapped under the little brush moustache. ‘Now that doesn’t sound too difficult, does it?’ he said wryly.
His sparse nose sniffed at them.
‘The officers here, this morning, are or will be engaged in one aspect of preparation for the invasion, one particular and important area – an area where we intend to try something quite revolutionary. We intend, in fact we have already set the matter in motion, to take over a largish area of Devon, in the West Country, of about 30,000 acres, with the object of training assault forces to the peak of efficiency. This will not be just another military exercise, another war game as you Americans call them. The entire civilian population is being evacuated and live ammunition will be used.’
He waited again to note any reaction. He knew that many of the American officers sitting before him, fresh from their homeland, had never known a real battle in their military lives. No one moved. He continued.
‘So far in this war our amphibious operations have not been the most successful. In fact, if you think of Norway, Greece and, most tragic of all, Dieppe, where fifteen hundred Canadian chaps came back in one piece out of a raiding force of five thousand, they’ve been no bloody good at all.’ The expletive came out in a little squeal as the sharp head came forward to throw it out.
He gave his sniff again and went on. ‘Even the Operation Torch landings in North Africa, against opposition far less than any we shall encounter in France, were unsatisfactory in many aspects. And I don’t have to mention Salerno in this company, or, for that matter, several islands in the Pacific theatre of war to cause you to agree with me that landing from the sea is both hazardous and costly. It has never worked in the history of warfare. Well, not since ten-sixty-six. The only successful amphibious operation so far has been Dunkirk – and then we were going the wrong way! Mr Churchill himself remembers, very soberly indeed, the Gallipoli operation of the First World War.
‘There is only one way to make sure that his nightmare of an English Channel full of corpses does not come true. And that is to have an invasion army that is fully trained and prepared and in such force that it can establish a beachhead and reinforce it against the strongest opposition. The timing and many other factors are important. But this preparation is far and above the most important of any factor. We must have fighting troops.’
He waited, his little face pecking around the room. ‘Tell me,’ he said sharply. ‘Is there any American army – and I emphasize army – officer here who has ever heard the proverbial shot fired in anger?’
An uncomfortable silence gathered. Several golden chairs scraped against the polished floor. Only one hand was up. Montgomery jabbed his finger and his face towards the man. ‘Major,’ he said, ‘and where was that?’
‘North Africa and Sicily, sir. I was with the Torch Landings.’
‘Right,’ nodded the British general. ‘Well, that was what you Americans would describe as pussyfooting. Europe is going to be a lot harder than that.’ He looked around the expressions. ‘I take it that the remainder of you gentlemen are fresh from the United States over the past months and weeks.’
He smiled bleakly at them. ‘So, so …’ he continued. ‘Here in the United Kingdom we will have a numerically great United States force, very few of whom have ever seen a German, allied to British, French, Belgian, Canadian troops, who know a Jerry when they see one. To land this company of beginners on the Continental beaches in the face of one of the most powerful – and experienced – armies the world has ever seen would be akin to sending me to New York to box against your Joe Louis.’
He obviously hoped that the allusion would please them. A few nervous smiles broke. His eyes snapped shut for a moment, when he opened them again they were stern. ‘Operations in Devon will be as lifelike – if that is the correct word – as possible. The area has not been chosen without a reason which will become apparent to you at a later time. Security considerations make it desirable that as few people know as possible at this moment. The civilian population will not like it, nor will the troops taking part find it a happy way of spending their time. All I can tell you is that this training in this essential area is of the greatest importance to our plans for the invasion.’
The British general began rocking himself to and fro on his heels, a curiously patronizing action. ‘It may be necessary,’ he said, ‘to emphasize to those of you who have only recently arrived in Great Britain that the need for security is paramount.’ He snapped out the final word like a drill sergeant giving an order. ‘Paramount,’ he repeated more quietly. He made a sharp movement, almost a stationary strut. His edged voice filled the room again: ‘Already in the south of Britain a great army is beginning to assemble. By summer it will be one of the mightiest fighting forces that the world has ever seen. Everybody –’ he let out a short laugh like a minor gasp ‘– well, everybody on our side anyway, everybody from the King of England to the snottiest schoolboy believes that this army is invincible, unbeatable. They think that in some magic way it is going to fly across the Channel and beat hell out of the enemy in no time at all. Let me tell you, gentlemen, that this magic army is going to need a lot of training, a lot of courage and a lot of luck. Let’s hope to God we have it.’
The final sentence was barked out again. He stopped abruptly but it was obvious that he had finished. A curious thing happened. All the strength, the assurance, the arrogance, dropped from him. He stood in a vacuum, a silence, uncertainty cramming his tight, dark face. He half turned, sheepishly, and the young officer who had appeared with him and who had been hovering like a conjuror’s assistant picked up a chair and hurried forward. The gaunt, thin man sat down heavily. He looked suddenly tired and sad.
By the time the car left London for the west, January clouds had moved across the buildings and drizzle smeared the streets. Georgeton spent the first hour of the journey looking studiously from the car window, first at the tired city suburbs, then at the widening countryside and smaller towns through which they passed. His rounded form twisted awkwardly in the padded seat as he sometimes tried to catch a second look at a sight which had gone by. He was like some strategist planning a campaign. Scarlett wearily leaned back and thought of Jean Manifold; how he had dragged himself from her arms and bed at seven, returning to the hotel under a sky already light at the seams.
‘
I called your room at seven this morning,’ the general mentioned, as if he could casually read thoughts. He continued to look out of the window. ‘There was no answer.’
Scarlett said: ‘I guess I was in the bathroom, sir. It was along the corridor.’
‘I called again,’ said Georgeton. ‘Still no answer.’
‘I’m sorry about that, sir,’ said Scarlett calmly. ‘I went back to the bathroom. Maybe it was then.’
‘It wasn’t important, not at all,’ answered Georgeton. He shrugged and extended the movement so that he leaned forward and opened the driver’s panel. ‘What’s this old place called, son?’
‘This is Marlborough, sir,’ replied the driver. ‘You won’t believe it but this highway is called the Great West Road. I don’t think it’s all that great.’
‘Keep trying, soldier,’ said Georgeton, closing the window. He turned to Scarlett. ‘Everybody’s a smartass,’ he complained. Then he said: ‘What did you think of Montgomery?’
‘He’s like the English people you see in the movies,’ replied Scarlett. ‘He talks like Basil Rathbone.’
Georgeton pursed his lips. ‘He’s got it right, though,’ he said. ‘About us not knowing about warfare. I’ve been in Uncle Sam’s army twenty years and I’ve never even sniffed a battle. Even Eisenhower, before last year in North Africa, had never heard a real gunshot. And he’s been in the army since World War One.’
It was Scarlett who now gazed from the car window. The afternoon was dim over the grey fields; some small hills corrugated the horizon. ‘The guys in the Pacific must have gotten some idea of war by now. And in Italy,’ he pointed out. ‘I expect we’ll soon be learning fast.’
‘We sure will,’ agreed the General. ‘But we’ve got a hell of a lot to learn, Oscar. The British have got this war under their fingernails, ingrained in their skin. In their eyes. Just take a look. We don’t know a single thing yet.’
Scarlett lay deeper against the upholstery of the car. He was glad when Georgeton did the same. After a few more miles through the dimming countryside the general was blowing out rotund snores. Scarlett closed his eyes gratefully.
The Magic Army Page 10
