by Kim Newman
The lights went down.
Over black leader, the first ominous thrums of "Teddy Bears' Picnic" played. Dread clutched Bob's heart. The scene faded up on the jungle treeline, shot by Jack Cardiff's second unit in Queensland, as bombs exploded, turning everything into a big bonfire. Helicopter blades sliced on the soundtrack. Bob's hand crept unbidden to the knife at his ankle. His heart pounded in synch with the wokkas.
Then came a shot of the twelve helicopters in flight, music pouring out of them. Scorsese sighed in contentment. The money was on the screen. The shot pulled back, and the wokkas overflew rolling green fields. Intercut were flashes of the second-unit jungle and the elaborate studio set. Powell had explained that he wanted the artificial jungle to look like a Douanier Rousseau, and dozens of art students had been set to work painting each leaf a bright colour.
The helicopters flew over what was very recognisably Canterbury Cathedral. A family of Indo-Chinese peasants trying to repair a stalled
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
ox-cart looked up from the main street of a small Kentish market town as the LURP passed overhead. An explosion filled the screen.
There was a close-up of Dirk Bogarde, elegantly inexpressive. He looked nothing like "Mad Nye" Molesworth, but managed that spark in the eyes.
The green fields of England were intercut, faster and faster, with the jungles. Fires raged in both landscapes, overlapping in the editing.
Bob was covered with a jungle sweat.
He couldn't watch the actual attack scenes and turned to look at the audience. Scorsese was rapt, Powell critical. The secretary covered her eyes. The actors, who knew it was only play, were mostly shattered. Rodney Bewes breathed "good God"
The lights went up.
"So," said Powell to Gelbfisch, "how much did you love it?"
The mogul tilted his head to one side, as if deciding which way up a painting should be hung, and thought about it.
"Micky," he croaked. "One thing I understand not. The War is in Indo-China. Why you let us see you film it in England?"
"This isn't a film about Indo-China, Sam. It's about England."
Gelbfisch thought some more.
We put down in a clearing, which turned out to be a graveyard. There were giant granite heads, with thick lips and lazy eyes, stuck all around, staring blindly at the helicopters.
"Welcome to beautiful Laos, " said Terry
"Looks like more bloody jungle to me, "I replied.
The humid, steaming heat was almost unbearable. You could choke just by trying to breathe in a place like this.
Molesworth ordered Jennings and some others to stay with the wokkas, then organised the rest to march the short distance to the camp they had overflown. He led us all in singing "They're Changing Guards at Buckingham Palace" to keep us in step.
As we entered the village, the locals came out from the huts to look at us. They were savages, naked except for grey mud-streaks, though some spear-carrying men had rank insignia tattooed on their arms.
The 20th Century was a long way away.
A crazy little Englishman darted out from somewhere and introduced himself as David Bailey, a news photographer on an assignment for the Observer. He ranted about Fotherington- Thomas, making the Major sound like a cross between Florence Nightingale and Jack the Ripper.
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Molesworth had Darbishire take a look at the malarial civilian. Bailey begged us for a place on the helicopter home. He seemed concerned that he had missed his deadline by a few years.
At last, we stood in the village square. Flies buzzed all around. More dead eyes stared at us. Even some of Molesworth s Marauders were horrified.
From the largest hut, he came. A golden youth with ringlets halfway down his back, he had a tattered paperback ofA.A. Milne s Now We Are Six in one hand and a flint axe in the other. He looked up at the world, then around at the village, then down at us.
u Hullo clouds, hullo sky, hullo pile of severed human heads, " said Major Basil Fotherington-Thomas.
Bob realised that this was what they whispered about as an XPD mission—meaning "expedient demise" A murder raid. But, though Fotherington-Thomas was armed only with a sharp rock and his men seemed mostly to rely on spears, Molesworth didn't unholster his Webley and shoot the blighter. Instead, the Major stuck out his paw and joked, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume."
The heat was worse than ever and the stench was indescribably ghastly. Bob and Terry huddled together for safety, instinctively recognising that they alone in this place were as yet not completely insane. The pile of heads Fotherington-Thomas mentioned was jumbled on a dais in the village square. Bob had a nasty feeling that the Major viewed his visitors as the potential raw material for another such monument.
Something snakelike and black stirred. It had been camouflaged against one of the giant heads. Bob realised it was a white man, face and clothes striped black and dark green. He smiled, showing a red tongue and white teeth against the primal background. His eyes glittered.
It was "Just William"
'No one else had seen him. Bob nudged Terry, but Brown had blended into the scenery again. Bob looked around. How many shadow men, armed with more than spears, were there around the village?
"Hullo, Molesworth," said Fotherington-Thomas gaily. "You're just in time for tea. Did you bring any tuck?"
Outside the Empire Cinema, Leicester Square was thronged. There were rival groups of beetniki peace protesters and Young Conservative patriots, both claiming the film was an insult to their causes and threatening to disrupt the performance. There was also a rumour that
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
some mad royalist who still thought the King had been seduced away from righteousness by his White Yank wife intended to throw glue into Princess Consort Wallis's hair-do, gumming her tiara to her beehive. The word was that the King's sister-in-law, the Dowager Duchess of York, had agreed to turn up tonight on the offchance that the glueman would strike and she could pretend to be sympathetic.
A discreet row of well-dressed but dangerous men were doubtless ready to step in if trouble started. They were under the direction of a calm chap with a bowler hat, an umbrella and a carnation in his frogged lapel, and a startlingly beautiful woman with auburn hair who wore a leather jump-suit. Bob would have fancied his chances with the security lady, but apparently she was married.
For Bob, the worst of it was the pathetic gaggle of men in wheelchairs or on crutches, with shaggily grown-out Army cuts and the remains of combat gear, holding a candle-lit vigil for the Ex-Servicemen's Peace Campaign. He had wanted to give them a donation, but the security chief discreetly hooked him with his umbrella, saving him from the fate of being photographed by the Daily Mirror consorting with men who were regarded as no better than conchies. He heard that Terry was one of the underground leaders of the ESPC. That made sense.
It Airit Half Hot, Mum was the Royal Film Performance. It was a controversial choice, but Lord Mountbatten, who liked a good war film, had seen it and advised King Edward he would enjoy the battle scenes. And the Duke of Cornwall (next in line to the throne), who had served in Indo-China and won the respect of a surprising number of cynical soldiers, was on record as saying that this was the first film to give the truth of the conflict. Bob heard the King would rather see something with an X-certificate featuring Sarah Miles or Glenda Jackson with no clothes on, but that Princess Consort Wallis overruled him. Powell was obviously delighted at the honour, but still professed indifference. When reporters asked him about it, he responded with stories they could never print about the King's nieces.
In his new-fitted tail-coat, Bob felt like a prat, but his Mam and Dad were beaming, truly happy with him for the first time since he went away. They were chatting with Rodney Bewes, clucking over him as if they had adoption papers in their back pocket. Malcolm McDowell, hotly tipped to win a Best Supporting Actor BAFTA for his mad-eyed performance as Fotherington-Thomas, was being i
nterviewed by McDonald Hobley for BBC-TV. Kenneth Halliwell trotted about with Joan Bakewell, loudly
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crediting himself with the discovery of Bob. Joseph, in a violently white two-piece that left his midriff bare, attracted photographers. He poked his tongue out at Bob. Diana swanned through, cleavage down to her navel and hair like a termite hill, accompanied by the film's production designer, Ken Russell.
Standing on the velvet carpet, alone for a moment, Bob looked over the ropes, at the pressing crowds. Most of them were here to see the Royals and the stars. But some were here to make a point, to be seen, to make trouble. Banners were waving across the square as a group of students, under the direction of the snakelike Howard Kirk, protested against the War. Two weeks ago, riot police had been sent onto the campus at Sussex, and a girl was in a coma after taking a truncheon blow to the head during a "sit-in" Even the most patriotic papers seemed to think there was something wrong with bashing a pretty middle-class girl's brains in just because she was silly enough to have let her boyfriend persuade her to go to an anti-war demo. If she'd been ugly, it would probably have been all right.
Rather embarrassingly, Bob was button-holed by Noote's widow, who thanked him profusely for what he had said in his book. He didn't think she'd enjoy the film—after much back and forth argument, the censors had left in the bullet-hole in Derek Nimmo's head but taken out the blood and brains on the ground—and didn't know what to say to her. Among the showfolk, there were quite a few other VIPs. Dennis Potter, the Labour party leader, was here, along with Clement Freud, the Liberal chairman, but the Prime Minister would not be coming until later, making his entrance shortly before the Royal Party.
Everyone he met asked him what he thought of the film. Rather than admit he still didn't understand why Micky shot half the jungle scenes in Kent, he claimed not to have seen it yet. After the performance, he'd have to stay out of the way.
Bob looked around the crowd, passing over famous faces, and sensed acutely who was missing. Thelma must be fuming at home. Despite the divorce, he'd asked her to come, but she had seen a photograph of him with Britt Ekland in the Sunday papers and drawn unwarranted conclusions.
He thought for a moment that he saw Terry. But it was only James Bolam in a blue tuxedo, sporting the Fu Manchu moustache he had grown for his next picture.
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Fotherington-Thomas sat cross-legged in the square, shaded by his pyramid of severed heads, and read aloud, his clear voice transporting them all to the Thousand Acre Wood where a boy would always be playing with his bear. Bob felt his mind stretching around the craziness of it all. Terry was laughing and crying silently at the same time. Bailey took photographs, though there was no film in his camera. The villagers gathered, lulled by Fotherington-Thomas's voice, and even chimed in with well-loved phrases and sentences.
Every time Bob felt fear crawl down his spine like a many-legged insect, he found that William Brown was looking at him. The tunnel fighter always stood in the shadows, rarely getting more than a few yards away from the jungle. In this, the worst place in the world, the worst thing was Captain Brown. Worse than Vinh, worse than Grimshaw, worse than the Devil. Because Brown was touched by an angel. His eyes burned with a pure white light of purpose.
With a dozen men like Brown, Fotherington-Thomas could win the War. But then, which war would they find next? These men were not taking orders from Saigon, much less London. This was a whole new country.
"Fotherington-Thomas," Molesworth announced, "as any fool knows, you're utterly wet and a weed."
Tears started in the eyes of the Boy Monster God. He spread his white arms, and bared his chest. Molesworth drove a sharpened cricket wicket through Fotherington-Thomas's heart. Without a sound, he died. His face was almost beatific. He tumbled from his position and sprawled at the Major's feet.
The tribesmen looked at the murderer of their god. Bob didn't know if they'd bow down or rise up.
Brown had disappeared. Bob felt a spasm of panic. Just because he couldn't see Brown didn't mean Brown couldn't see him. In fact, that was when "Just William" was at his most dangerous. And Bob was a left-over witness, unfinished business.
Molesworth picked up The House at Pooh Corner, and wiped blood off its cover. The natives, filed teeth bared, hissed at the sacrilege.
"'In which Tigger is unbounced'," he announced.
As he read, Molesworth was accepted.
There was a tug at Bob's sleeve. He expected a stab at his heart, but it was Darbishire not Brown.
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"I've called Captain Jennings on the wireless. He'll bring the helicopters over and get us out. Then we'll flambe this whole place, burn it to the ground."
"Best news I've heard all week," said Terry.
"What about him?" Bob nodded, indicating Molesworth.
"The Major? We've lost him, I fear," sighed Darbishire, shaking his head. "It happens sometimes. He's lived too much, seen too much. He can't take any more."
"Too right, son."
The helicopters were coming. A missile streaked out of the sky, burning white, and exploded.
"I thought the plan was for an air strike after we were evacuated," said Terry.
"Do you chaps ever do anything but complain?" snapped Darbishire.
A hut exploded. More fire fell from above. Through the heat-haze, Bob saw one helicopter hovering low. Jennings had fired at the outskirts of the camp to provide a distraction.
People were running all over the place. Molesworth stood still and tall, still reading aloud about Owl and Tigger and Eeyore.
Some of the natives had guns. Watson went down on one knee, with a hideous leg wound that he shrugged off.
A shroud of flame enveloped the pile of heads. They must be preserved in something flammable. Faces shrank to skulls. Eyes boiled to angry points.
A rope ladder unrolled, conking Darbishire, who clutched his head and looked irritated. Terry grabbed and secured the ladder with his weight, nodding through the din. Darbishire was first up. Bob made it second.
A few other men scrambled up, climbing past Terry and into the cabin. Watson pulled himself up with his hands.
Tribesmen gathered, jabbing with spears, in a circle, closing on Terry. Bill Reynolds got half-way up the ladder, and took a round between the shoulder-blades. He fell backwards, boots clumping Terry, who let go of the ladder and staggered.
The helicopter lifted up.
Bob shouted at Jennings.
"There's still a man on the ground."
The ladder dangled out of Terry's reach.
"Can't stay here forever," Jennings yelled over the noise.
There were explosions all around as the other wokkas poured tracers
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into the village. Bob, choking on hot fumes, flung himself out of the cabin door, and crawled head-first down the ladder, hooking his boots into the rungs, swaying in the wind, bullets whistling past his head.
He was caught up in the rope and couldn't go any lower. But he could reach out. He stretched his arm, popping his shoulder-joint, and held out a hand for Terry.
Terry was holding his head, bewildered. Tribesmen were within stabbing distance.
"Terry," Bob shouted. "Take my hand!"
His fingers brushed mine, but suddenly there was a yard of space between us. It might as well have been a million miles. I shall never forget the look of horror on Terry s face. I shall never forgive myself for not doing more.
His fingers brushed Terry's hair. Then the helicopter rose three feet. Terry looked up and saw the opportunity. He jumped, but missed his grasp. A native swung a spear at him, and he jumped again...
Hanging upside-down, Bob saw a black-and-green face in the native crowd, its eyes fixed malevolently on his. "Just William" would not let him go so easily. Reflexively, he made a fist...
Te
rry's hand closed around Bob's, and the helicopter lifted upwards. But Terry's fingers slipped on Bob's fist. Their eyes met and Bob saw blame in Terry's surprised glare.
It was too late to open his fist and interlock his fingers with Terry's.
In huge close-up, a hundred feet across, on the screen of the Empire, Leicester Square, James Bolam failed to get a grip on Rodney Bewes's fist. It was the first time Bob had seen the scene cut together.
How had Micky Powell known? In his book, he'd been unable to put it down. He'd taken all the blame, but not given the details.
Only two other people alive could have known.
Bob, soaked with sweat, looked around the darkness. Which of them had it been? Who was here, tonight?
Terry? Or "Just William"?
The helicopter was twenty feet from the ground. Bob was slung underneath it like an anchor. Terry sprawled among the natives, who looked up at the departing war machine. Bob saw the dark shape of William Brown closing on the writhing Terry.
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He screamed and screamed, eyes shut tight, unable to watch the inevitable play out.
"It's this passage," Halliwell had said. "You can't let it stand and expect to be published. It's tantamount to treason."
Bob remembered what he had written.
Somehow, Terry got out of the camp —/ think Brown might have rescued him, and dumped him in the jungle — and wandered around for days in the jungle, delirious and fever-struck. He was recaptured by the treens and wound up in another prison camp, where another officer presented him with the deal Vinh had offered. I have a cutting from the Straits Times, an English language newspaper from Hong Kong, with a photograph of Terry getting off an airliner in Zurich and the story of the press conference he gave to denounce the War as Anglo-Russian imperialism. Now, he travels around Britain, almost a fugitive in his own country, addressing anti-War meetings, and saying that Britain has no business in Indo-China, that the peoples of the country should be left to work out their destiny for themselves. He also campaigns for the government to do more to secure the release of prisoners of war. In his place, I would have done the same thing in Indo, and be doing the same thing at home.
