The Magic Army

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘I’ll make you a realer one,’ she vowed vehemently. They revolved on the dance floor and he got a draught of her cheap sweet scent. Now he saw that one of her blue eyes had a twist. ‘I’ve got my mac with me,’ she urged. ‘Two dollars now, two after I done it. We’ll go out now and find a place. All right?’

  Albie regarded her with proper horror. ‘Outside?’ he queried, frowning. ‘In the open air?’

  ‘We can’t do it in ’ere can we,’ she said. She was becoming impatient, glancing quickly around to see if there were other possibilities.

  ‘But I take cold so quickly,’ defended Albie. ‘I really don’t think I could …’

  ‘Little prick,’ she snarled, thrusting her ugly young face into his. ‘Go an’ screw yourself.’

  She let go of him and he backed away towards the bandstand. ‘That might be healthier,’ he ventured defiantly. The girl had almost got to the bar with ill-tempered strides. When he called after her she swiftly turned and went at him like a scorpion. Albie backed away, colliding with Doey who was watching mesmerized. Doey’s cider spilled over Albie’s uniformt unic. The little American turned, apprehensive, apologetic. Doey shouted at him: ‘Look ye out there, gaffer!’ If Albie did not understand the dialect the urgent tone and pointed finger were enough. He turned to see the young hag only a yard away, a half-full beer glass in one hand, her handbag swinging in her fist on the other side. It burst open at the blow and its contents scattered across the chalky floor.

  Albie with instinctive, small town politeness, said: ‘Oh my, I’m sorry.’ He bent to retrieve a gaudy powder compact, but no sooner had he recovered it and looked up with the thin smile of an anxious-to-please dog, than the beer from the tankard was flung into his button face.

  Everyone in the room, the villagers, the soldiers and the visiting whores, had, until then, been transfixed by the developing crisis. The band had wound woefully down and two lines of eyes like quavers were staring from the bandstand. But with the impact of thrown beer on Albie’s innocent expression the spell broke. The prostitute screamed with gutter mirth, above which the vicar’s pulpit voice cried out for order and common sense. The villagers began shouting.

  ‘Shame! Throw they dirty strumpets out!’ bellowed Fat Meg from the bar corner where she was wedged, her meaty forearms on the wood. The presence of women even less prepossessing than her gave her a novel lift.

  It was the landgirls who took the first positive action. In a way which suggested they had been only awaiting the signal they charged across the room and pitched with enjoyment and fury into the phalanx of harlots. The undersized girl who had first danced with Catermole went like a vengeful lizard towards the still screaming teenager who had drenched Albie Primrose. ‘Cow!’ she howled. ‘Rotten dirty cow.’ With the instinctive attack of the English schoolgirl she made directly for the eyes and when she could do them only surface damage she grasped the young prostitute’s hair and began to swing her around with surprising power.

  Everywhere was uproar. Gilman and Catermole, with Ballimach hesitant but then lending his widespread weight to the task, waded into battle, trying to tug the women apart. Gilman was thrown bodily against the bar, colliding with the ribboned landgirl who was clambering across it battle-bent like a soldier going over the top of a trench. Ballimach was kicked brutally on the legs and, while he hopped, received a winding blow in the testicles. He flopped, shocked, against the bandstand, went even more pale and grasped the affronted parts as if taking a count. Catermole had manoeuvred one of the screaming landgirls into a corner and was voluptuously trying to subdue her tantrum by looping his arms about her. The Reverend Sissons scuttled to Mr Penningford and ordered: ‘The National Anthem, quickly!’

  ‘I ’ope to God these silly buggers know it,’ said the bandleader dubiously, turning towards the musicians. He shouted at them: ‘ “God Save the King”.’

  The vicar muttered: ‘And the rest of us.’ He waved his arms helplessly like a random blessing over the mob. Almost everyone had joined in now, the fray becoming more violent and widespread with the distinction between friend and enemy waning. Doey and Lenny were trying to contain a private fight between Fat Meg and the harlot with no roof to her mouth. They had managed to push them into a corner and had corralled them with a village hall bench which they held like a gate across the angle. Lustily, and surprisingly together, or at least adjacent, the band blew into ‘God Save the King’. It had not the smallest effect. Amid the mayhem the Reverend Sissons stood at solitary attention singing the brave words.

  Legs and suspenders were spread-eagled over the floor. One of the prostitutes had lit a newspaper and was brandishing it like a torch. Horrified, the vicar ploughed through the bedlam and attempted to wrest it from her. ‘Fire!’ he bellowed. ‘Fire!’ He found himself felled by the Plymouth fist of the torch-bearer. The band came to a stop, and at the single order, ‘Lads!’ from their leader they disembarked from the bandstand in a foolish attempt to rescue the vicar. Before the majority had reached the chalky floor Mr Penningford was lying prone, covered in white dust, felled by an accidental blow from Ballimach. Now there were no non-combatants. The main battle was a pile of shouting bodies between the bandstand and the bar with skirmishes occupying several corners. The Plymouth sisters were not without allies. Doey had been struck a fearful blow with a misdirected chair thrown by Meg and he and Lenny were now trying to pin the large, bellowing woman to the floor among the band instruments and music stands.

  At the height of the disorder the stringy bus driver, having persuaded his vehicle to turn at the summit of Wilcoombe Hill, entered the hall around the blackout blanket. Confronted with the scene his expression scarcely faltered. He transferred the skeletal cigarette from one edge of his mouth to the other, tightened his eyes, sniffed heavily and quietly withdrew.

  Outside in the damp street he was immediately met by Police Constable Lethbridge who was propping his bicycle against the wall of the village hall. ‘’Evening officer,’ said the driver tentatively.

  ‘’Ow be you?’ returned the constable. He cocked his ear to the noise, enclosed within the corrugated iron of the building. His expression became puzzled.

  ‘Good dance, be it?’ he inquired cautiously.

  ‘Oi think you better ’ave a look,’ suggested the other man sagely. ‘Oi be going to sit quiet in my bus.’ He moved away with studied lack of hurry and the constable, asking himself aloud: ‘Be it that “Okey Cokey” they be doin’?’ went through the door. As he reached the blind side of the curtain it was violently torn from its wooden rings by unseen hands and collapsed like a broken sail across the top of two rolling bodies.

  The scene revealed left the policeman sag-mouthed. Exhaustion was forcing most of the contenders to break off their various engagements and they were staggering to the walls and chairs to recover. Several women were still writhing on the boards, their faces patched white from the chalk. Police Constable Lethbridge squinted through the dust and saw the Reverend Sissons sitting, bent almost double, on one of the band stools.

  ‘Somethin’ been going on, vicar,’ he asked.

  ‘A slight disagreement, officer,’ gasped Sissons caustically. ‘Nothing you need to worry yourself about. All part of St Valentine’s Day.’

  It was intended as heavy sarcasm. The policeman sniffed deeply, and replied: ‘Right you be, sir.’ He touched his helmet and left, calling over his shoulder ‘Goodnight all.’

  An hour later, under a ragged moon, Gilman, Ballimach and Albie Primrose were walking and laughing down Wilcoombe Hill towards the harbour. The wind, coming off the Channel, buffeted their faces and flung their voices. Catermole had gone off smirking with the thin landgirl.

  ‘God Almighty, did you see that poor bloody clergyman when she hit him,’ gurgled Gilman. They had spent the past hour helping to clear up the debris in the village hall and drinking what was left of the beer. The whores had been pushed and pummelled into their bus and had clanked off to Plymouth shouting scorn and defiance.
Mr Penningford, bruised in body and pride, had told the vicar that he would never conduct in the village again and the Reverend Sissons had replied brusquely that there would be no call for him to do so. One of the cymbals had been stolen and under cover of the fighting someone had put a fresh turd in the bandleader’s hat. It had not been the best of evenings.

  The three soldiers now stumbled down the cobbled slope, touched with moonlight, recalling each successive disaster and rolling about in their merriment. When they came to Mary Nicholas’s house Gilman’s smile diminished and he looked to see if there were lights in the window. There were none, but Albie saw him looking. ‘Hey, do you know that lady too?’ he asked genuinely. ‘The one with the great figure and the two kids.’

  ‘What do you mean – too? As well as who?’ asked Gilman still looking to the windows. It might just be that she was standing there in the dark, looking into the street.

  ‘All sorts of guys,’ said Albie ingenuously. ‘Boy, does she have some ass. I’ve seen her walking along the street, and you better believe it, she has. The guys say she likes company.’ He looked at Gilman suddenly, aware all at once that he might be talking out of place. ‘Is she a friend of yours?’

  Gilman shrugged. ‘No, not specially. She’s got a husband anyway.’

  ‘Right,’ confirmed Albie. ‘There’s a story, he’s some kind of spy. Maybe he ought to do some spying on his own house.’

  They had walked beyond now and Gilman pushed it from his mind. After all, he had known. He briefly wondered how many Americans had been on that damp bunk in the air-raid shelter; then he thrust it aside. Christ, he had known. He should have known, anyway.

  As they approached the harbour they began to sing softly, all three. They sang ‘The Quarter-Master’s Stores’, a song which the English had lustily sung throughout their defeats, and which the GIs had adopted now, in better days:

  ‘There were rats, rats,

  Big as tabby cats

  In the stores, in the stores …’

  All three voices faded. From the darkness at the edge of the harbour there echoed a shouting voice; the words were only echoes as though thrown up from a deep pit.

  The trio ran down towards the harbour. As they approached they could hear the resounding almost eerie calls from below. ‘That’s our guy Wall,’ panted Ballimach to Gilman. ‘He’s in our outfit.’

  They reached the edge of the harbour and, looking down, saw a scene of pure melodrama. On the stone boat slipway a man was trying to pull a bulky figure clear of the water. It was like a fisherman trying to land a porpoise. With gasping, hysterical curses, he was tugging from below the arms, slipping forward, once sliding right across the form, because of the seaweeded stones. When he became aware of them he released her and Gilman heard the wet, heavy flop as she hit the slipway. ‘Come on, come on, for Chrissake!’ the man sobbed. ‘She’s too heavy. I can’t get her up there.’

  Gilman said sharply to Albie, ‘Get the doctor. He only lives over there.’ He pointed fiercely. ‘His name is Doctor Evans. Then go across to our camp and get a stretcher. There’s a guard at the gate. Make him understand. And run.’

  Albie went, his thin legs parting like sticks across the cobbles. Gilman followed Ballimach who was already halfway down the slope of the slipway. In other circumstances it would have been hilarious. The big American, hurrying, was suddenly upended on his bottom, slithering down the seaweeded incline; as he tried to get up he fell again, forward on to his hands, like a clown. Wall was shouting abuse at him, the words rebounding from the old harbour wall. Gilman descended more cautiously, digging the sides of his boots into the cracks of the stones, holding his arms straight out like a man who believes he might be able to fly. He still felt drunk but he had pushed the sensation fiercely away from him. He realized that Ballimach had done the same, had forced himself to rationality.

  Gilman reached Wall just as Ballimach slipped again; again forward; the English soldier ended the journey crawling on all fours across the slimy stones. Wall was sitting on the cobbles, panting, still trying to pull; the big woman was sprawled on her face like a side of beef. Wall was shivering violently. Gilman looked to see if the woman were shivering. Did people shiver after they were dead?

  ‘Turn her over,’ he said to Wall. He got his arms under the fat, slippery body.

  ‘Those bastards took off,’ complained Wall strangely. ‘They just took off, for God’s sake. I had to go in and get her.’

  ‘Quit,’ said Ballimach savagely. ‘Stop blabber-mouthing. Turn her over like the man says. Let’s get her up this goddamn slope.’

  As soon as they turned her Gilman saw who it was. Fat Meg. He had thought so, even in the dark and though she was face down. Her features looked blue even in the scanty moonlight. ‘It’s Meg,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘She was at the dance.’

  ‘I know, I saw her,’ said Ballimach. Fat people notice other fat people.

  ‘Quit talking will you,’ pleaded Wall. ‘Give her respiration for Chrissake. You Ballimach. You’re the biggest.’

  Ballimach did not know how. Neither did the others. Their invasion training had not reached that chapter. ‘Turn her over again,’ he said decisively. ‘You got to do it from the other side.’

  They pushed her halfway over and she flopped the rest. Ballimach, on his knees, hovered above her hesitantly, like someone beginning a new sport. He then pressed down hard with his great flat hands on the base of the woman’s lungs. He pulled back and tried again. Then a third time. The others watched anxiously. Wall had his hand across his mouth. Suddenly he turned away and was sick on the stones, throwing up all the beer he had drunk. ‘Jesus, that stinking water,’ he sobbed. Ballimach continued his attempts. Gilman leaned over and, tenderly, shifted the woman’s mouth so it was more to the side. Wall bent down and stared closely at the mouth. ‘Faster,’ he whispered to Ballimach. ‘For God’s sake faster. There’s nothing coming out. There’s supposed to be goddamn water coming out.’ He waited, then shouted plaintively, ‘You ain’t doin’ it right!’ He staggered to his feet, slipped, but recovered and tried to push Ballimach aside.

  Ballimach resisted him easily. ‘Take it easy, pal,’ he said angrily. ‘She ain’t your mother is she? I’m doing the best I know how.’

  They heard voices above and looked up to see Albie Primrose with Evans, the doctor. Beatrice Evans wrapped in an army greatcoat was just behind as they peered down at the scene. Boots sounded on the cobbles and four of the guard at the camp came running. They had brought their rifles but no stretcher.

  Albie took an incautious step on to the slipway and slid down like a man on skis, only being prevented from going into the darkened water by colliding with the prone body of Meg. Fiercely Wall pushed him away. Evans caught hold of the chains along the wall and eased himself down more carefully. Beatrice followed him. They got level with the group and then balanced across the intervening couple of yards. The doctor listened for the woman’s breath, tested her pulse and then leaned down to her heart. Finally, with his wife shining a torch, he leaned forward and looked into her blank eyes.

  He straightened up. ‘There’s nothing left to do,’ he shrugged. ‘She’s dead. Poor old Meg.’

  Wall was shivering with the cold. ‘I tried to get her out,’ he said with a hushed voice. ‘Jesus, it was freezing in there. She was so heavy. I kept losing her. It took me goddamn hours.’

  ‘There’s an ambulance on its way,’ said Evans. ‘You’d better go too.’ He glanced around at Beatrice. She took off the greatcoat and handed it across the dead body to the trembling GI.

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ he moaned. He wrapped it around himself. Gilman took his tunic off and handed it to Beatrice. She smiled briefly at him as she accepted it.

  ‘How did she come to be in there?’ asked Evans.

  Even in the darkness they saw that Wall was startled and afraid. ‘She fell in,’ he said. ‘She just fell right in. Honest to God, sir.’

  March

  Spring caused some s
urprise. St David’s Day had widespread sunshine, the first day of what was to be the driest and sunniest March in the memory of anyone in the West Country. General Eisenhower had called a strategic conference in Bushy Park, just outside London, for the following day. Colonel Schorner left the camp at mid-morning with Bryant.

  Schorner sniffed. ‘I can’t believe today,’ he said. ‘Look at that sky.’

  Bryant laughed: ‘The locals will be dancing around the maypole soon.’

  ‘And cricket?’ suggested Schorner. ‘There’s cricket?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bryant. ‘You’re going to really enjoy cricket.’

  They were to meet General Georgeton and his ADC, Captain Scarlett, in Exeter at lunchtime, before driving to London. From Telcoombe Magna Albie Primrose took the coastal road to Wilcoombe. The direct route, through the north-leading lanes, was now so damaged and congested with US military traffic that it was quicker and less uncomfortable by the longer road.

  The concrete hards were now spread like wide white aprons along the coast; only yards inland were the batteries of rockets and anti-aircraft guns, pointing at a sky from which no enemy had yet appeared. ‘If the Germans cared to send one reconnaissance aircraft, for only a couple of minutes, and he managed to make home base, they’d know just about everything,’ commented Schorner. ‘Nobody can disguise this sort of parade.’

  ‘It must be the same throughout the south of England,’ answered Bryant. ‘Every inch of beach, every single harbour.’ Then he nodded solemnly towards the concise horizon. ‘And it’s the same over there. Germans dug in everywhere.’

  Schorner gave a dry cackle. ‘There you have the difference,’ he observed. ‘All they have to do is wait. We have the problem of getting our asses over there.’

  Bryant felt disturbed. ‘Do you think we’ll do it, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. Sure, we’ll do it, son. But it’s never been done yet, remember. Nobody has ever landed a real army on a heavily-fortified coast and got away with it. I’m not talking about raids or picnics. I’m talking about invasion. Jesus, look at what just happened at Anzio, and years ago at Gallipoli. Put them on the beach – and leave the poor bastards there. That’s not going to be clever enough.’