The Magic Army

by Leslie Thomas

  The sweat was flowing on Ballimach. So much that he could scarcely hold the wires he was twisting into their connections. Wall hung like a monkey on a pole. ‘Christ,’ he called down as though addressing Jesus. ‘They’re coming. I can see them on the hill.’

  Ballimach bulkily mounted the pole after Wall. Between them they got the wires connected before tumbling down like a pair of circus clowns, Albie jumping up and down with frustration below. The old farming couple began to laugh and applaud as if the performance were especially for them. Albie cursed them again.

  ‘These hicks sure would love to see some blood,’ he said loudly as they gathered wires and tools together and hurled them into the back of the jeep.

  The earthy rural couple redoubled their clapping. Ballimach shouted, ‘Balls!’ at them and they roared the jeep out of the farm entrance and into the road.

  ‘The next one is a mile down this highway,’ shouted Albie as the jeep hurtled along the empty road. ‘And we got five minutes to get it fixed. That’s if Ike don’t use the one we just put in at the farm.’

  ‘I don’t like this army,’ grumbled Ballimach. ‘Rush, rush, rush.’

  ‘Me neither,’ echoed Wall. ‘This climbing I don’t like.’

  Albie grimaced across the jeep’s wheel. ‘Maybe one day you’ll have to fix the telephones under goddamned fire,’ he said. ‘Panzers all around your ass.’

  He swung the jeep dramatically round another bend. There was a straight section beyond, with a high wall on one side and a row of terraced farm cottages on the other. Against the dull, stony colours, a red public telephone box stood like a sentry. It was the border of the cleared area and the cottages had been emptied of people. Barbed wire was fixed across them. As they swiftly rounded the bend a full-grown pig ambled from the verge of the road and, apparently pleased to see them, loped grunting towards the oncoming jeep.

  The soldiers howled three separate warnings, but the pig heeded none. It came on. It was impossible for Albie to stop the jeep. The brakes squealed and then the pig did also. It was a shattering crash, with the portly animal bouncing off the front fender and the vehicle slicing across the road, hitting the kerb and ending up slewed across the pavement in front of the vacant houses.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Ballimach looking back at the prostrated animal. ‘Look what you done, Albie. You killed the pig.’

  ‘Me! I killed it!’ bawled the small soldier. ‘That fucking pig nearly killed us.’ He looked at it. It was humped in the middle of the road, a pile of pink skin. Its face was towards them displaying a final oafish grin.

  ‘Lousy, stupid pig!’ Albie called at it.

  ‘Right, stupid pig!’ echoed Ballimach. ‘Stupid, Limey pig!’

  ‘Eisenhower will be along in a minute,’ mentioned Wall more practically.

  The big face of Ballimach and the small face of Albie confronted each other. ‘God,’ incanted the fat man. ‘God, God, God …’

  The trio moved towards the pig, cautiously at first as though they feared a booby-trap, then abruptly at the run. The great pale body was twitching.

  ‘Maybe it ain’t dead,’ said Wall hopefully. ‘Just kidding.’

  Albie Primrose knew death when he saw it, even in a pig. Despite his urgency he had a passing thought that it bore a likeness to Ballimach. ‘We got to do something,’ he squeaked in the high voice that happened to him in excitement. He tried to bring it down an octave. ‘We got to move it.’

  ‘Ike ain’t going to like this pig,’ forecast Wall dully.

  ‘Get going then for Chrissake!’ bellowed Ballimach. He leaned down and pulled at the pig’s front trotter. He could hardly move it. ‘Come on, get to it!’ he shouted at the others. ‘We got two minutes.’

  ‘W … where?’ stammered Albie. ‘Think, you guys, where? It’s no use pulling the thing until we know where.’

  ‘The houses,’ suggested Wall. ‘Put it in a house.’

  They looked along the terrace. It was no use, they could see that. A dozen strands of barbed wire were strung rigidly across the front of the vacant dwellings. Desperately they looked along the straight street. There were no fields, no trees near enough for concealment.

  ‘Over the wall?’ suggested Ballimach. ‘Or how about in the jeep. We could hide it in the jeep.’

  ‘And say Ike inspects the jeep? How we going to explain the pig?’ demanded Albie. ‘Let’s try the wall. Maybe we can lift him over.’

  Hopelessly they dragged the large, dead-weight animal towards the side of the road, Wall and Primrose pulling the front trotters and Ballimach the snout and ears. It moved, slid, across the road. They eased it on to the narrow pavement, beneath the six foot wall. ‘Okay,’ said Ballimach. ‘Let’s go. Lift.’

  They tried manfully, but although they heaved the heavy animal up to their waists, then almost to their chests, they could not get it further. Sweating and swearing, speared by its prickly hair, they lowered it to the ground.

  Ballimach was trembling like a jelly. ‘One minute,’ he moaned. ‘We only got one minute.’

  Albie Primrose looked along the deserted street. ‘The phone booth,’ he breathed suddenly, joyfully. ‘Numbskulls, we are. Put the goddamn thing in the phone booth.’

  It was on the other side of the street, at the end of the terrace, but outside the barbed wire. With a final, breathless effort, they dragged the pig across the highway again and, panting, pulled it to the red phone box.

  Wall opened the door and between them they heaved the dead pig on to its hind legs and pushed it heavily into the confined, vertical space. Even in their hurry they could not but stand back for a moment to admire their work. The pig, now propped by the glass-panelled wall, was standing almost upright, its snout appearing to rest on the telephone, the flank of its head against the side panes of the box.

  Wall roused them. ‘I hear them coming,’ he warned sharply.

  The sound of the motorcycle escort accompanying the generals echoed over the deserted hills and houses. The three ran back towards the jeep, Albie started it and manoeuvred it alongside the terrace. ‘Maybe in front of the phone booth,’ suggested Ballimach. ‘We could hide the pig.’

  ‘Nothing doing,’ snapped Albie. ‘There ain’t time. Anyway, we got nothing to do with that pig in the booth. We don’t even know his name. Okay?’

  They nodded agreement and stood in an uneven line, the large Ballimach in the middle in front of the jeep. ‘Maybe the man will just go by,’ said Wall hopefully. ‘He’s got nothing to stop for here.’

  ‘We ain’t put in the other phone,’ moaned Ballimach, suddenly remembering.

  ‘Too bad. Too late,’ muttered Albie Primrose.

  Around the bend curved the white-helmeted outriders with the staff cars of Eisenhower’s party following. The three GIs froze as the escort slowed and the white-starred vehicles pulled up on the opposite side of the road. Private Primrose cautiously swivelled his eyes to the right. God, he could see the pig’s head in the phone box thirty-five yards away. Officers seemed to be pouring out of the army vehicles. The three soldiers came to ragged and nervous attention. Eisenhower and then Montgomery emerged from the second car in the convoy. Ballimach thought he was going to faint.

  To their minor relief the main knot of senior officers appeared to be interested in the houses and their wire corset. It was Colonel Schorner who approached them, winking easily as he did so. ‘Everything okay, men?’ he said.

  ‘Pretty good, sir,’ replied Albie, swallowing so violently that it hurt. The commanding officer stared at his Adam’s apple.

  ‘We didn’t get the second field telephone in, sir,’ blurted Ballimach. ‘We had trouble, sir, and we didn’t get time.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ acknowledged Schorner. ‘General Eisenhower used the first one. At the farm. That was fine, boys, you did a good job, so don’t worry. The second was only a precaution.’

  He looked sideways and saw Captain Scarlett and Lieutenant Bryant approaching. The American liaison office
r said to Schorner: ‘I think maybe General Montgomery wants to make a call on the telephone. Is there another field phone rigged, colonel?’

  ‘Er, no,’ replied Schorner glancing at his men. ‘There wasn’t time.’

  Bryant said brightly. ‘That’s all right. Perhaps we could get through on the normal public phone. There’s a phone box here. I’ll see to it.’

  The three GIs paled together. Ballimach was so distressed he believed he might urinate right there in the road. They watched as Bryant marched briskly to Montgomery, saluted and indicated the phone. Albie tried to say some last minute thing to his colonel but no words came out. Wall tightly shut his eyes.

  Schorner glanced towards the telephone box. The pig’s head stood up quite clearly. ‘Oh God,’ he muttered. He moved swiftly, marching ahead of Bryant. ‘That booth is out of service, lieutenant,’ he said. The briskness of tone made Bryant look at him in surprise. He was about to say something when he looked up and saw the pig’s profile also. His expression dried. Montgomery was five paces behind. Bryant turned quickly. ‘The phone is out of order, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, lieutenant,’ said Montgomery. ‘It will wait a few minutes.’ He turned and walked back towards Eisenhower. To the overwhelming relief of the trio of GIs the whole party moved back to their cars, climbed in and set off along the road. For half a minute after they had gone Primrose, Ballimach and Wall remained at stiff attention. Then, all as one, they collapsed sobbing with relief over the bonnet of the jeep. Soon they were hooting and rolling with laughter, great uncontrolled bellows of mirth. ‘Christ, what a great guy Schorner is!’ said Albie. ‘And that cool British guy. Wow!’

  Two miles away the official convoy roared along the empty Devon roads. In their car Eisenhower and Montgomery sat, looking at the landscape: ‘Strange, strange country this,’ murmured Eisenhower. ‘Can’t say I ever did see a pig in a phone booth before.’

  Montgomery yawned. ‘Nor me,’ he said.

  *

  Devon church bells rang on Sunday, their airy tunes floating over the already springlike fields from the village churches to the north and to the west of Wilcoombe. Only in the east were they left untolled, sitting dumbly in the towers and belfries of the left countryside.

  ‘They’re still quite a novelty, the bells,’ said Dorothy Jenkins, the schoolteacher. ‘For a long time no bells were allowed, you know. They were going to be rung only if German parachutists were dropping. It always seemed to be a stupid idea to me. Somebody in London must have thought that one up. Surely they could have found some other way. People like to hear the bells.’

  Schorner said, with his soldier’s logic: ‘I guess churches are not connected to the telephone.’

  She glanced at him. They were walking down the hill towards the sea where the parade was assembling near the harbour and the gun-site. ‘I’ve never seen a telephone in church,’ she admitted.

  Schorner looked better than when she had first seen him. Now the tension was gone from his lined face, the awkwardness she had sensed when he had visited the Telcoombe Beach School. He was a countryman who fitted into a countryside. ‘Would the parachutists have been able to come down in the dark?’ she asked.

  The American shrugged. ‘Now, it’s okay,’ he said. ‘Our boys make night drops in training. But then, nineteen-forty, I don’t know. A few maybe, but putting a whole outfit down at night without radar or the navigation that’s available now, well that would be difficult, I’d say.’

  ‘So they would have had to be dropped in daylight – so that everybody would be able to see them. There would be no need to ring the bells.’

  He smiled again. ‘It sounds like you might be useful in the war cabinet,’ he said. ‘Does Mr Churchill know?’

  ‘When you’ve been an infant schoolteacher,’ she replied, ‘nothing seems too difficult. But Churchill wouldn’t have liked it. He’s not a woman’s man.’ They stopped near the inn. ‘I have to go and help with the Oxo and stuff for the children,’ she told him. ‘I hope the march goes well.’

  ‘So do I,’ he replied seriously. ‘Our guys don’t go overboard for marching. Even the Boy Scouts are going to show us up. And they’re out to do it, take it from me. Not to mention the Home Guard and the Air Raid guys, and the Old Uncle Tom … what is it?’

  ‘Cobbleigh,’ she laughed. ‘Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Don’t worry, it will be all right.’ She opened her handbag and took out a folded sheet of paper. ‘The children sent you a poem,’ she said a little bashfully. ‘It’s one they learned. Quite a difficult one and I’m not sure they really understand it. Mary Steer wrote it out because she writes without too many blots.’

  The American took the folded paper. ‘ “Waiting”,’ he read. ‘That’s an appropriate title.’

  ‘Don’t read it now,’ she said. ‘Keep it for later. I must go. Don’t let the parade get you down.’ Her smile was suddenly warm.

  Schorner folded the paper and put it in his tunic pocket. He looked at her with good-humoured slyness. ‘We’ve got a secret weapon,’ he whispered. ‘A band. A US Army band. All coloured men. You should hear those fellows play. They only just got off the boat. But I’m hoping they’re going to get here from Exeter in time.’

  ‘The Wilcoombe band won’t like that,’ she forecast, still smiling. ‘Two bands, playing different things, are going to tangle things up terribly.’

  Schorner grinned again. ‘That’s too bad,’ he replied softly. ‘You Limeys can’t have everything your own way.’

  He sauntered down the street. Watching him go she realized again how he fitted into the landscape. Halfway down the slope to the harbour a jeep stopped at the side of the road and a message was handed to him. He read it, returned the salute of the driver, and walked on. Then, he turned, looked back and waved. She felt embarrassed. Her wave was brief.

  The village band, a collection of elderly men and young boys, with two large landgirls swinging brass handbells, were cavorting slowly on the cobbled quay, blowing and sucking at their instruments, with disjointed sounds and shuffling feet, like some unpractised saraband. They had no uniforms – although the bell-ringers from the Women’s Land Army wore their green jerseys – but most wore a blue cap decently donated by the local Salvation Army who had disbanded because of the war. As Schorner gained the foot of the hill he saw that the rest of the parade was already roughly forming along the road between the gun-site and the row of harbour houses.

  Howard Evans and Beatrice were standing at the gate to their cottage, watching Boy Scouts, Girl Guides and Brownies, Civil Defence wardens, Home Guards and the stalwart ladies of the Women’s Voluntary Service mill about attempting to get into some order. Schorner saw that the platoon of US troops had not yet arrived. He greeted the doctor and his wife.

  ‘You’re not marching?’ asked the American.

  ‘Somebody has to be a spectator,’ laughed Beatrice. ‘Everybody else is actually in something and they’re determined to take part.’

  Evans said: ‘I suppose we could have carried a token stretcher between us, something like that. With a small Red Cross flag. But I think it’s just as well that we watch. There’s one or two in this extravaganza who are, quite possibly, not going to get to the top of the hill. There’s an old man in the band who had a nasty bout of flu last week. If I’d had to bet on him taking part in a procession today, I would have wagered on it being his funeral.’ He added with hardly a pause: ‘Here comes the Führer.’

  Mrs Mahon-Feavor, almost bursting out of the hairy green uniform of the WVS with flesh and enthusiasm, stumped purposefully towards them. ‘’Morning colonel.’

  Schorner came politely to attention and returned the courtesy. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Your chaps nearly ready?’ she inquired briskly. ‘Not a sign of them yet. I see the might of the British army has shifted itself sufficiently to get from its beds.’ She glared scornfully across at the anti-aircraft compound where Captain Westerman and
Sergeant Bullivant were marshalling their small contingent on the miniature square.

  ‘The US outfit will be here on time,’ smiled Schorner. ‘I guess they’re just brushing up on their marching.’

  ‘I hope so, from what I’ve seen,’ the old lady rejoined brusquely. ‘Have you destroyed my house yet, by the way?’

  ‘It’s in fine shape, ma’am,’ said Schorner placidly. ‘We’ve just taken out all the electric wiring and replaced it.’

  ‘Good God, why? That wiring’s been there years.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He thought it was time to change the subject. ‘How long is the march going to be?’ he inquired. ‘In duration, I mean.’

  ‘I suppose you’re worried your chaps won’t last out,’ she replied loudly.

  ‘I was thinking of the children,’ said Schorner. ‘The Girl Scouts and those little soldiers and sailors over there.’ He nodded along the quay. Mrs Mahon-Feavor frowned and turned. ‘Oh, our gallant Army and Naval Cadets,’ she said. ‘They’ll manage, colonel. Three miles. I think.’

  ‘Oh, sure, three miles.’

  ‘Up and down the hill. Six times,’ she added emphatically.

  Schorner swallowed his astonishment. ‘Up and down … the hill?’

  A dark triumph expanded across the old lady’s face. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘There’s nowhere else to parade is there, colonel? In times past we’ve marched down the hill, along the coast road to Telcoombe Beach and then to Telcoombe Magna to the church. Unfortunately this is not now possible since you have them barbed-wired, mined and God-knows-what else. There’s little point in marching north from Wilcoombe because there are only open fields for about five miles, and this sort of pageantry is rather wasted on cows, don’t you think?’

  Howard Evans put his hands casually across his mouth, and Beatrice excused herself hurriedly and went into the house. ‘You’re right, Mrs Mahon-Feavor,’ said Schorner carefully. ‘You’re certainly right. I was just thinking about the old guys in the band and the little soldiers … the Cadets.’