‘The unit is being dispersed.’
‘More or less. Some of the men are going to Woolwich, to the depot, where I suppose they’ll spend the rest of the war cleaning their boots. I’ve been posted to Ross and Cromarty, would you believe. God, it’s difficult enough getting home from here, but Ross and Cromarty. I’ve looked on the map and it’s bloody miles. I’d be better off in Germany.’
‘And what about the remainder?’ asked Bryant.
‘Well, you’re fixed, you’re already seconded to your Yanks, so that’s that for the duration. A dozen men have to go to Plymouth for … guess what, Bryant? You’ll never credit it … a refresher course on the Bofors gun. Christ, the Bofors! They’ll be going back to those bloody things the Romans had next, you know to sling rocks.’
Bryant said: ‘The Bofors is still a good utility weapon, sir. Did they say why?’ he asked.
‘Not a thing. They never do,’ replied Westerman. ‘They’d tell the bloody Germans before they’d tell me.’
As he drove the fifteen hundredweight lorry up the sharp Wilcoombe Hill, Gilman saw Mary Nicholas standing outside her house, on the sloping pavement, as if she had been expecting him. He pulled up. She looked gaunt and pale, but the fine eyes came at him from under the shelter of a functional scarf about her head. Some of her hair had escaped and was blowing across her forehead. ‘Want a lift?’ Gilman called out. He noticed she was smoking an American cigarette. She still had the packet in her hand. She smiled and climbed into the cab.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Plymouth. Where is it you want to go?’
‘Anywhere. Plymouth will do.’ She said it airily.
His eyes went sideways to her. He started the rough engine and the small truck began to climb the hill. ‘We’re shifting,’ he said. ‘Moving out. Next week. Shouldn’t be talking about it really. It’s under the heading of Careless Talk, I suppose.’
She laughed easily and he felt surprise at his own annoyance. ‘I know already,’ she answered. Her head shook. ‘I never thought we’d be rid of you. I thought that gun had taken root down there, like the geraniums.’
‘We’re being posted to Plymouth,’ he said, trying not to show his offence. ‘About a dozen of us. The rest are being shoved around to various units.’ He gave a faint sneer. ‘Old Bullivant, you know, the fat sergeant, he’s being left in charge. He’ll be in charge of nothing – nobody. Should just suit him. You watch, he’ll be stuck there till the end of the war.’
‘Clever Sergeant Bullivant,’ she said unexpectedly. They had mounted the hill and were into the country of fields and soft spring hills, all sun-bright, the ploughed fields, raw and red, spread with white gulls.
‘Where did the old man go, by the way?’ he asked. ‘The old chap with the dog who they foisted on you.’
‘Oh, he died,’ she said simply. ‘They moved him to Totnes and he died. He was getting on anyway. The dog’s dead too.’ She waited and then said, ‘It’ll be a nice change for you anyway, Plymouth.’
‘God knows what they’ve got in store for us,’ said Gilman, his eyes watching ahead. ‘It’s supposed to be training on the Bofors gun, which must be somebody’s joke.’ Then, but with the realization that she would be unimpressed, he added: ‘Or it’s security cover for something else.’
Mary said confidently, without turning her head, apparently studying the curling road between the meadows and coombes: ‘I bet it’s the Bofors, just like they said.’ A small rabbit ran into the road and, terror-stricken, off again. ‘The rabbits are moving about,’ she said. ‘Soon be summer.’
‘How do you know that?’ he asked. She sounded very certain. He had meant to ask her about what she had seen on St Valentine’s Night and how she had seen it. ‘How do you know about the Bofors?’
A thoughtful grin touched her pale face. ‘I’d make a good German spy, wouldn’t I?’ she said. ‘I just get to hear things. You’d be surprised at what I know.’
‘Like what happened to Meg Pender,’ he put in quietly.
‘Yes, that as well. I’ll tell you if you like. I’m easy.’
He pulled the short truck into the open gateway to a field. The sea, blue with white creases, was moving just beyond the fresh green of the rising ground. It was about two hundred yards away. ‘Yes, I would like,’ said Gilman. He turned his face to her, but she remained looking straight forward beyond the windscreen to the sea. She looked as if she might be searching for a boat. ‘I went down there for a walk, to the quay,’ she began; she was picking her words. ‘I had to get out. I thought you might have even poked your head in the door, but you didn’t come. So that’s what I did.’
Gilman said: ‘Sorry. I would have done, but I thought you might be occupied that night, busy.’
‘Oh, did you? Well, all I was occupied with was my bloody kids, that’s why I had to get away from them for half an hour. You can’t believe what it’s like. It’s sickening, boring, miserable.’
‘What have you done with them today?’ he asked.
‘Why should you worry, I’m not. I’ve left them with the old woman next door. She’s boiling today and she’s glad to do it for a packet of fags.’
‘Sorry. I interrupted,’ said Gilman. ‘So you went down to the quay.’
‘Yes. I just wandered down there, just to get out of the four walls, like I said. I was standing in a doorway, that one that used to be a shop, that’s been closed since the war. I was trying to light a cigarette, but it was breezy. Then these Americans came along, plastered all of them, and Meg, the drunken great lump, came the other way. She started shouting at them, and you know what a mouth she had. And they began fooling about and one of them gave her a shove. In she went. I buggered off.’
‘So did they apparently,’ muttered Gilman. ‘Was it that GI – the man Wall who pushed her?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It wasn’t him. I was only a few yards away and he was separate from the others, just like he said at the inquest. One of the other men gave her the shove. One of them who ran away.’
‘And you decided against telling the police,’ he said.
‘What good would that have done? They’ve tried to find those Yanks, anyway, and they haven’t found them. Half the time I don’t think they even tried all that much. They’re going to need every soldier they’ve got when it comes to the invasion. What’s one fat, drunken old cow compared to that?’
She turned quite softly to him: ‘Listen, whoever did it has got his punishment coming, don’t you worry. You’re a real blue eyes, you are.’ She shut off the conversation. ‘Do you feel like walking over there?’ she suggested, nodding towards the curving field and the bright wrinkled sea. She smiled at him mischievously. ‘We could pick some bluebells.’
‘It’s too early in the year for bluebells,’ said Gilman, taking the key out of the truck and pulling his army greatcoat from the space behind the seat.
‘Buttercups, then,’ she laughed, already getting out of the cab. ‘Or dandelions. I don’t care what we pick.’
She really did not care, he thought; about anything. He followed her across the springy grass. Airily, she walked ahead, smoking another Lucky Strike and letting the puffs fly in the breeze. She swung her backside provocatively and turning round laughed at him. ‘What’s the matter?’ she called. ‘Frightened?’
‘Scared stiff,’ he replied. She took off the plain scarf and her hair swiftly jumped into the breeze, flying back beautifully. Her hands ran through it and she laughed again. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she said pointing out at the sea and the pale sky. ‘Better than being stuck in a house with two moaning kids. Mind, anything’s better than that.’
Gilman caught up with her and looping his arms around her brought her to him. Playfully she pushed at him, pretending to protest. He leaned towards her to kiss her and she smirked and avoided his mouth. ‘I said pick buttercups,’ she said childishly.
‘Afterwards,’ he said. He wanted her now. Her bony thighs pressed up
to him; the contrast of her white neck arched from the dull woollen dress. She playfully pulled her head away like a pony and her breasts hardened against his tunic. It did something to her for, at once, she finished playing and eased herself against him, the body relinquishing its tautness, her arms sliding about his neck; her lips were no longer thin, as if the same signal had softened them.
They kissed with enjoyment, trying to work up passion. Archly she peeped up at his eyes and putting her lips next to his ear muttered, ‘I’m not stripping. It’s too early in the year.’
Laughing, he caught her around her narrow waist and, clung together, they walked down the easily sloping grass towards the sea. Where the meadow ended there were outcrops of Devon rock, edging the cliffs which they could now see dropping to the beach on each flank. The Channel groaned far below. ‘No nearer,’ she said. ‘I’m no good on heights. I’d hate for us to tumble over there still copulating.’
Until then he still had a small doubt as to what she would allow him to do. Now, kissing against her neck, he pulled her firmly to a natural couch of rock with thick grass cosseted in it. They sat down, facing away from the wind and the sea, protected by the back of the frayed stone. It was secluded, enclosed, the grass cushioning their backsides. ‘It’s better than our air-raid shelter,’ she said, pressing the ground.
Gently Gilman pushed her back. She went willingly and lay staring at the clouds and the sky, as if she were surprised at their presence. A blank look closed over her face, she dropped her eyelids and began to breathe deeply and peacefully.
Studying her features like that, expressionless in the windy sun, Gilman realized what he already knew, that for her anyone would do; he could have been almost any soldier from any army. She opened her eyes and smiled at him along her body. ‘Don’t start getting too romantic about it,’ she said, looking at his expression. ‘You’ll be writing me poems next. And I haven’t got time. I’m waiting.’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Gilman stupidly. ‘I’ll put the coat over us.’
‘Keep it on,’ she answered practically. ‘Then it won’t slip all over the place.’ She saw the doubt in his face. ‘You can do it with your coat on, can’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I can.’ He eased himself above her and began to lift her skirt. She was wearing nylon stockings, something he had never seen before. He pushed his hands up them to the top.
‘You ought to be able to do it wearing your pack, as well.’ The joke was soft. ‘And your gas mask for that matter. Careful with the nylons, love.’
‘I wasn’t sure that was what these stockings were,’ admitted Gilman. ‘They feel terrific. Right to the top.’ He pushed the palms of his hands up the sheen until his thumbs touched the cool, slack, naked flesh of her legs. The corset suspenders which held the nylons were rigid against her skin. He was beginning to sweat in his overcoat. How could he pull her knickers down? They were trapped in the cage of elastic supports for her stockings. He touched her on the triangle of material between her thighs. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked. ‘How am I supposed to get through this lot?’
To his relief she laughed outright. ‘You’re not so bad after all, darling,’ she said. ‘You can’t get them down without undoing all the fastenings. And I can’t get this corset off, that’s for sure. Just pull them aside. There’s plenty of room.’
‘You seem to think of everything,’ he murmured.
‘It would never have occurred to you,’ she teased. She had closed her eyes once more, this time with an attitude of finality, and lay in the breeze, her pale face painted like a watercolour by the mild sun. Clumsily Gilman undid his fly buttons with one hand, the other supporting him on the ground, the position taught in basic training when firing a bren from the prone position and observing the target. It was difficult. One of the buttons came off in his hand. Prudently he put it in his overcoat pocket.
Such was his uncomfortable position, with the weight of the coat on top of his battledress tunic and coarse army shirt, the toughness of the military trousers, and all in a confined area, that he feared he might fail her. He felt as if he were clad in cardboard. Everything seemed stiff except that which he wanted to be stiff. He pulled out his penis, wan and loose. It seemed to blink in the sun. He shuffled forward on his knees.
His anxiety was premature. She put her hand out as she felt his advance and caught the poor pale sausage in her fingers, coddling it and stroking it, still with an air of being somewhere else. Her fingers went below him and he moved so she could stroke him until he grew quickly erect. ‘Thanks very much,’ he breathed gratefully.
His own left hand now found the cloth of her knickers again, the cushion over her pubic swelling, and he tapped at it gently with the tips of his fingers, like someone carefully knocking on a door. He knew he had done the correct thing for he felt her react at once, a groan creasing her blank face, her legs twitching. With an ease that surprised him he hooked his index finger into the cloth and persuaded it aside. He felt she was warm, pliable. ‘Don’t hang about,’ she suggested matily from the other side of the rock. ‘I don’t take long to get ready.’
Neither did Gilman now. He moved closer, up the isthmus of her legs, and plunged himself into the accommodation of her body. Luxury engulfed his whole being. He hardly moved at first, as if he could scarcely believe his luck and didn’t want to spoil it; as if it were possible she might not even be aware what was going on. Mary had more immediate needs. ‘Move then,’ she admonished him quietly. She pushed her thighs urgently up at him and, pausing to get the timing, he responded. Each time he waited or rested, for the great weight of clothing was not only inhibiting but wearying, she urged him on like a driver poking a donkey. Rolling with sweat, his thighs running, his hands sliding against her buttocks, he made the final effort and then lay there, panting and perspiring above her.
‘Again,’ she said casually. ‘I want it again.’
‘Christ, darling, give me a minute. All this gear. Everything’s piled on top of me. I feel like an old clothes shop. And these brass bloody fly-buttons are cutting into me.’
‘I can feel them too,’ she mentioned. ‘But I don’t mind. It doesn’t matter to hurt a bit. Come on, son, surely you can do it again.’
‘Just give me a breather,’ pleaded Gilman. ‘I’m out of condition for this sort of thing. Let’s have a break.’
She sulked all over her body. He could see her face, he could feel the rest. She moved her hands to her bag and fumbled. ‘Get my lighter, will you?’ she said, holding a packet of cigarettes. ‘I can’t reach.’ He found the lighter, made from the case of a machinegun bullet, the sort that many people had, made unofficially in spare moments in the munitions factories. She took it from him and lit the cigarette herself, still lying on her back with him crouched over her and the overcoat like the shell of an armadillo. She took a petulant puff at the cigarette and blew the smoke towards the sky, just missing his chin as he contemplated her and thought about her oddness. ‘You don’t, do you?’ she said, nodding towards the Lucky Strike packet.
‘No,’ confirmed Gilman. ‘Never have.’
‘Bad habit,’ she said seriously. The fact that their sexual parts were still lying adjacent to each other had apparently been temporarily dismissed or forgotten. ‘I seem to have them all. Although I don’t drink that much, not really.’
‘Perhaps I ought to start now,’ he suggested.
She glanced up. ‘It was you wanted to rest,’ she said.
‘Smoking,’ he corrected. ‘I meant smoking. I could start now. There doesn’t seem much else for me to do at the moment.’
She smiled and with abrupt tenderness touched his cheek with one finger. ‘You’re keeping me warm,’ she said. ‘That’s worth doing, now isn’t it? You don’t want to start dragging. It’ll only make you cough.’ She shut her eyes and added practically: ‘Anyway, I’ve only got a couple left.’
Blowing another cloud of smoke, like a signal, she said sympathetically: ‘You can carry on if you like. You’ll
be getting a cold.’ She took a deep draw. ‘I’ll just finish this.’ She sucked at it again and tossed it away. It disappeared over the rock.
‘That’s how fires are started,’ said Gilman, attempting to play the same sort of casual game.
‘Let’s see if you can start one,’ she replied. ‘It went over the cliff anyway,’ she added curiously. ‘Probably went right down to the beach. I gave it a good flick.’
Gilman by now realized that it was no use expecting anything to be usual with her. His penis had retired again but the minute it touched her its head began to move like an inquisitive caterpillar. He was surprised for he had no great experience and had never done it twice in succession.
They moved close and locked into each other and she began to cry small cries and then changed to pig-like groans. He wondered, as he worked, if she really felt it like that or whether it was merely her act, for the benefit of herself, the moment and the man. Now a worry was beginning to niggle; about the army and the lorry. What time would he get to Plymouth? What excuse could he make for being late? To his surprise, in the middle of the conundrum, Mary began to gasp and thrash below him, like a fish on a gaff. Then she relaxed, almost collapsed, and opened her stirring eyes to smile up at him.
They lounged against each other, the wind wriggling under the coat chilling his buttocks and her thighs. ‘We ought to be going, darling,’ he said in what he hoped sounded like a caring whisper. Her eyes had shut again.
‘More,’ she said. ‘Go on, just once more.’
Gilman pulled himself away from her, up on his hands in the instructed position for grenade throwing from the prone position. ‘More?’ he asked aghast. ‘But, God, I can’t, love. I’m not a machine.’
She grinned happily at him. ‘I didn’t say you were,’ she answered. ‘But you could try, just one tiny one.’
‘What about the lorry?’ he said plaintively. ‘I’ve got to get that stuff to Plymouth. They’re expecting it. They have papers and time-sheets and all that. What can I tell them if I’m so late? It’s only twenty-odd miles.’
The Magic Army Page 39
