Morning came down the English Channel, an inch at a time, until it reached the anti-aircraft unit at Wilcoombe, the stealthy light growing along the resting gun barrel, affording it a faint beauty. The two sentries, one at the gate and the other on the harbour wall, banged their feet on the stones and their arms about their ribs in the manner of tribal warriors performing a regular daybreak ritual.
The unit did not possess anyone who could blow a bugle. Sergeant Horace Bullivant, an obese and ineffectual soldier, was roused by a mundane alarm clock. His fat hand flopped and fumbled from the blankets seeking out the chattel which it then struck firmly, a blow which caused the clock to fall into several disjointed pieces. It still ticked on gamely like something wounded that refuses to die. Bullivant delivered the blow with the same effect every morning. At night he reassembled the clock, replacing the bell and its small brass belfry, the minute hand and sometimes the hour hand also. Bullivant’s large loose face seemed to be fixed not very securely to the front of his head. Last night’s beer lay in the hollows of his mouth and sleep hung on his ginger eyelashes like sugar. ‘God,’ he muttered to himself. ‘God.’
In civilian life he had been a physically meagre man who, contrary to the accepted and usual form, had waxed fat on the military existence. The domestic years of posting at the gun-site, of which he was the oldest inhabitant, had given him poundage.
Sergeant Bullivant had rolled from the bed on so many military mornings that the mattress, and even the iron frame, bowed to his weight. He performed it now, an almost childish roll, his huge hooped pyjamas spinning like a top. His feet found the chilly floor at the final moment of the tumble and he stood upright with a sigh. Heaving on his greatcoat and sliding his pale feet into bedroom slippers he left the hut and wobbled across the short parade ground to the cookhouse. The windows were steamed up and inside the two unit cooks, known as Mutt and Jeff, moved about like Valkyries. ‘Want your gunfire, sarge?’ called the sweaty Mutt.
‘Just coming up,’ augmented Jeff, a young, toothless and hairless man with shining eyes.
Like a man about to pray, Bullivant placed both hands around the enamel mug. It both warmed the hands and preserved the heat of the tea. He took a long, grateful suck.
‘Sarge, your water,’ announced Jeff handing him a billycan. The combination of the bright eyes and the toothless smile was disturbing. Bullivant took the water and waddled back towards his quarters where he washed and shaved in the hot water provided by the cooks. He pulled on his bulky uniform. His boots had been polished the previous night before he had gone to the Bull and Mouth, and the brasses on his gaiters and belt only needed a brush with a duster. Today, he hoped, his trousers might somehow stay anchored around his stomach.
He stamped his boots on the asphalt outside his quarters, a long habit which had left its mark in the form of a depression by the door, worn enough to gather in rainwater. The morning had grown balefully around the small camp by now. He glanced towards the gun, as if to ascertain that it had not vanished in the night, and then marched towards the two barrack huts where the entire unit was housed.
Throwing open the first wooden door he shouted: ‘Action stations! Come on you lot, the Germans are on us! Fall in!’
‘Piss off,’ whispered a man from his bed just within the door. Bullivant heard him but ignored the remark. He had rarely been brave enough to charge any man with insubordination. Instead he banged the panels of the door with his pudgy fist before turning towards the second hut. He picked up a piece of wood, kept specially concealed like a secret weapon, and as he strode along outside the hut he ran it noisily along the corrugated iron wall. He smiled with satisfaction as he heard the men groan and curse.
Gilman was in the second hut. He had fallen asleep trying to write a short story, an exercise set in his journalism correspondence course, and he woke to Bullivant’s summons with the paper distributed on the floor. Hurriedly he gathered it. It was a love story and he did not want the others to read it. Bullivant thrust his face through the door. ‘Come on – out of those pits,’ he chortled. ‘Parade in fifteen minutes. Action stations today.’
Catermole scratched himself fiercely as he crouched under the covers of the next bed to Gilman. ‘Christ, what’s he on about now?’ he grumbled. ‘Action? What bloody action?’
Gilman had gathered all the sheets of paper. He pushed them almost guiltily into the bedside locker. ‘Oh, it’s just another lot of talk,’ he shrugged. ‘I suppose it amuses him.’
‘It don’t me,’ grumbled Catermole. He got from his bed. He had a big, early-morning erection and, as though reacting to Gilman’s words, he covered it, unselfconsciously pushing it into an army sock while he continued scratching pensively. ‘Action,’ he repeated scornfully. ‘I didn’t join the army to go into action.’
There was something happening, however, because a full morning parade of the unit was unique. Desultory pay parades, more like assemblies, took place on Fridays and there was an occasional inspection by some touring busybody officer, but to be ordered to turn out in the early light, in straight lines, was a matter for conjecture and grumbling.
‘Who’s he think we are, then?’ demanded Killer Watts, the unit electrician. His surname had ensured him the job. Knowing nothing about electricity, he had fused the entire system on several occasions. ‘Parades,’ he continued to Gilman and Catermole, as they stood at ease in the short double file of thirty men, almost the whole battery. ‘We ain’t the Grenadier Guards. How can we parade with a measly few blokes like this.’
Gilman pushed his head out tortoise-fashion and peered along the line. Stomachs and heads were at random, in and out, short and tall, giving the parade the look of a carelessly-built fence.
Captain Westerman, the commanding officer, and Lieutenant Bryant were obviously taken with the same thought. They advanced across the asphalt square that did duty as both barrack square and volleyball court and eyed the two ranks dubiously. ‘Haven’t we got any more chaps than this?’ whispered Westerman. ‘It doesn’t seem many, does it?’
‘Only the cooks are absent, sir,’ replied Bryant, eyeing him sideways. Did he imagine some were hiding? ‘We’ve even got last night’s guard detail on duty. Just to make up the numbers. And two from the sick bay.’
Westerman stopped fifty yards short of the parade and regarded them sulkily. ‘Makes you livid, really, Bryant, don’t you think? What we have to put up with. When you think this place will be absolutely lousy with Yanks soon. Thousands, millions, of them. And this is the best we can do.’
Bryant, searching for the logic, merely said: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘One of the things you’ve got to impress on the Americans when you do this liaison business is that we do a good job with very small resources. They won’t understand, but you can try.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Do you know,’ he said unhappily. ‘I’ve heard they get paid monthly. Even their rankers. Monthly.’
Bryant obligingly raised his eyebrows. Westerman sniffed and marched on. Bullivant called the men to attention, at first bawling: ‘Parade!’ then modestly changing it to ‘Party’ and finally to ‘Squad!’ before shouting the order. Their boots came together with only a few late or early. Bullivant bounced like a large rubber ball towards Westerman and saluted. ‘Ready for inspection, sir.’
Westerman observed the sergeant’s slipping belt. He wished the man could keep his trousers up. It was that belly. ‘Right, sergeant,’ he said, returning the salute briskly. He felt his thumb strike his ear. Followed by Bryant he strode slowly along the front rank. A wispy beer smell issued from it. Hardly one uniform fitted, hardly a cap was sitting correctly on a head. Khaki pancakes. Perhaps they could all change caps with each other, he thought hopelessly. Change around until every man had one that fitted. He dismissed the idea. He returned to the front of the two ranks and told Bullivant to stand them at ease. Hitching his lazy trousers, Bullivant did so.
Westerman braced himself in front of them like an inadequate actor. ‘This uni
t,’ he began importantly, ‘has been given a mission.’
He watched the nasty silence spread across the faces in the ranks. ‘No need to fret, nothing dangerous,’ he assured them. ‘But it requires organization and hard work, and I know that these qualities are here, no matter how well concealed.’ A smile flitted along the brown rows. ‘We’re going to have a few thousand Americans in this area very shortly. You will already know from your contacts with the civil population that a large area is to be evacuated so that our allies can shoot live ammunition at each other in preparation for the invasion.
‘This unit must be on its toes to repel air attack from the real Germans while these Americans are settling in. They’ve never been in an air raid and we don’t want them frightened out of their wits before they’ve even made themselves comfortable. They will be bringing their own anti-aircraft units in due course to protect their build-up operations.’ He smirked and pointed upwards. ‘We may have to show them where the sky is.’ The ranks returned the smirk. Westerman went on. ‘But until they do we have to provide protection.’
He pointed his cane at Bryant. ‘Lieutenant Bryant has been seconded as liaison officer with the advance Yanks. The best of British luck to him.’ Bryant tried a quarter smile of acknowledgement. Westerman went on. ‘The other function, the mission this unit has to accomplish is a little different. Three thousand people are to be moved from the area and we have to give them a hand. As usual, there’s a great shortage of transport and everything has to be cleared out, furniture, animals, stock, not to mention people. We have been instructed to use the two big lorries and the platoon truck to assist in whatever way we can. Sergeant Bullivant will be detailing the squads.’
Bullivant tried to look stern and reliable. ‘The three vehicles will report to the parish hall in Wilcoombe this morning,’ went on Westerman, ‘where you will take instructions from the lady in charge of the Women’s Voluntary Service. Good luck, men.’
Barrington left his farm early and drove in his Austin Seven down through the lanes towards Telcoombe Magna. He could tell by the feel of the air that it was going to be one of those bland, springlike days that come even in January to the West Country. He had only driven half a mile, to the crossroads on the Wilcoombe to Totnes road when, with almost a shock, he saw a line of four furniture removal vans moving steadily towards the evacuation area. They were starting already.
At Telcoombe Magna he noted at once the business-like air about the US Army advance camp – manned by an armed and gaitered GI. A sentry post had been established at the gate and there was a white barrier pole across the entrance. Next to the barrier was an oblong hut from which flew a Stars and Stripes larger than the hut itself.
He took the car along the narrow, familiar road and caught sight of a segment of sunshine lying over the Channel. Barrington realized he was a man untouched by war. He had been seventeen in 1918 so that he had missed the slaughter of those only months older than himself; the fact that he was a farmer and in the upper age bracket had excluded him from military service in this war. The only time he had ever fired a gun was at a pheasant or a fox.
The church was down the hill, towards the sea. Reaching the churchyard he saw Sissons, the vicar, standing alone by the porch, a square of paper in his hand. Barrington stopped the car and walked through the lychgate. ‘What’s that, the eviction order?’ he said.
Sissons looked up. He smiled a half-smile. ‘It might as well be,’ he replied. ‘It’s a message from the bishop. It has to be fixed to all church doors in this area. In the hope that our allies will not plunder or wreck them.’
‘What did the bishop have to say about it all?’
‘What could he say? He was merely passing on a message, an order. At his suggestion we, he and I, knelt and prayed that the high explosive or whatever, would by some miracle miss our steeples, but I got the feeling that we weren’t getting through very well. It’s very embarrassing, you know, praying like that, with a bishop. Somehow you expect something better to come of it.’
Sissons read the notice aloud. He was wearing his cassock and as he read, Barrington thought, for the first time, that he liked him. Sissons sat on a Victorian tombstone.
‘It’s headed “To our allies of the USA”. It says, “This church has stood here for several hundred years. Around it has grown a community, which has lived in these houses and tilled these fields ever since there was a church. This church, this churchyard in which their loved ones lie at rest, these homes, these fields are as dear to those who have left them as are the homes and graves and fields which you, our Allies, have left behind you. They hope to return one day, as you hope to return to yours, to find them waiting to welcome them home. They entrust them to your care meanwhile, and pray that God’s blessing may rest upon us all.” ’
Barrington glanced at him. ‘Very poetic and touching,’ he said. ‘I’ll be interested to see what sort of notice the Americans take of it.’
Sissons took a hammer from beneath his cassock and tacked the notice to the church door. ‘What are you going to do with your livestock?’ he asked.
‘Sell it, what else?’ said Barrington. ‘Unless I can arrange to rent some pasture outside the area, and that’s going to be difficult. There’s going to be some bargains in cattle going at Totnes market in the next couple of weeks. There’s Hannaford’s smallholding, on the Newton Abbot road. He’s getting on now and I think I can buy it. I’ll keep some of the stuff together at least. I can keep the pigs and poultry but there’s no room for the cows.’
Dolefully Sissons smiled. ‘Pigs and poultry,’ he mused ruefully. ‘I’ve got Cecily and the old man. I wish I could send them to market. Not that I’d get much for them.’
They were walking towards the church door. As they did so an American jeep drew up outside the gate and the driver called: ‘Hey, lady.’ They stopped and turned. Sissons realized the mistake had been made because of his cassock. The driver did not seem to be embarrassed. ‘Which way’s the ocean?’ he called.
Sissons pointed due south. ‘Keep going,’ he advised tartly. ‘You’ll know it when you get there. It’s shiny and wet.’
The American was not put out. He waved with exaggerated cheerfulness and roared away noisily. ‘I fancy our road accident figures will be showing an increase,’ mentioned Sissons.
‘They’ll kill a few,’ said Barrington. ‘But they’ll make up for it by fathering a lot more.’ They walked towards the door again. Barrington returned to their interrupted conversation. ‘A market will be just about it,’ he forecast. ‘Getting all these people out and farming them out elsewhere. God only knows how it’s all going to work.’
‘God moves in a mysterious way,’ acknowledged the vicar. ‘The trouble is it’s sometimes so mysterious as to be incomprehensible.’
They had walked through the dim porch of the church with its old stone benches and the tatty pieces of paper fixed to its notice board. Whist drives, jumble sales, missionary appeals, precautions against anthrax and the death watch beetle, an old warning about the necessity for carrying gas masks, long ignored. They went through the oak door that had admitted centuries of worshippers and strolled into the church. Bland sunlight was seeping through the windows. The building was cold. Two men were working at the ancient carved screen in front of the chancel. ‘That’s going,’ nodded Sissons. ‘I told the bishop that if there’s one thing in this church that must be saved, then that’s it. They took it out when Cromwell’s troops ransacked the place. It was hidden in Cornwall. And just as well too. See what they did to Sir John and Lady Gurling.’ He paused by the medieval tombstone with the lord of the manor and his wife, resting in traditional effigy, stony faced, hands clasped in unending prayer, with their dog carved at their feet. Sissons touched the figures. ‘They cut his toes off, her breasts and the dog’s ears,’ he pointed out. ‘It must be a primitive man who defiles stone.’
‘I’ve heard that US servicemen are religious,’ said Barrington. ‘Churches all over the country
, when they have American camps near by, are packed.’
‘There’s a big Catholic element,’ agreed Sissons. ‘And all sorts of slightly lunatic sects. I’ll be very happy if they just leave this church alone.’
Barrington thinned his lips. ‘Take everything of the remotest value away from the place,’ he advised. ‘And pile sandbags around the rest.’ He made to move away, but turning, he put a caustic finger to his lips. ‘And not a word to anyone, vicar. Everything must be done in secret. Remember – Careless Talk Costs Lives.’
‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ answered Sissons shrilly. He tried to laugh but it came out like a rattle.
Gilman drove the fifteen-hundredweight platoon truck nervously at the head of the two heavier unit vehicles. His apprehension was caused not so much by the tightness of the lane but by the small, formidable lady in the green uniform sitting beside him. She was red-faced and fiercely cheerful. ‘Don’t be frightened, young man,’ she said. ‘This challenge will be met in full, with our usual British competence.’
‘It’s the road,’ he replied lamely. ‘It’s getting these vehicles along this road. It’s not much more than a track and the banks are so steep.’
‘Made for packhorses,’ she beamed. ‘That’s how this region existed not long ago. In my mother’s time and even after. None of these villages would have survived it if it had not been for the tinkers and pedlars and grocers with their packhorses. They managed in those days and I’m sure we will manage now.’
He could see she was going to enjoy it. Her name was Mrs Kennerly. ‘Nothing,’ she said strongly, ‘gets in the way of the Women’s Voluntary Service. We can bend rules in the way that none of your precious army or government departments could manage. We can work miracles, believe me. And we are dependent on nobody. We even pay for our own uniforms. Jolly good, aren’t they? You feel that material.’
The Magic Army Page 11
