Guard duty was one of those formal parades that held together the semblance of military occupation of a building. The official requirement was that one man would stand outside the gate with a rifle for two hours, then he was relieved for four hours, to sit in the guardroom playing brag or, as it got late, dozing on a bed. Mayer, the German prisoner, lived in the guardroom, but there was a set of bunk beds as well. So it was two hours on and four hours off, all through the night and day. The men selected reported at 6 p.m. for inspection.
Five men lined up before the duty officer or the sergeant-major, for there was a get-out clause to this onerous duty. The best-turned-out man would be the ‘Stick Man’ and would be let off. Jimmy had spent the whole day shining his buttons and badges. He had honed his boots until his wrist ached, spitting on them frequently. He had ironed his trousers and blancoed his gaiters. He had oiled his rifle and cleaned it through. So how was it that Jock was made Stick Man? It was sympathy. Sympathy for Jock’s predicament. For after the revelation that Jock had shopped his mate Chalkie he had been shunned by all his comrades. Everybody knew about the feud between the two, but shopping a mate for a murder charge was surely tearing the arse out of it? Jock reacted badly to being sent to Coventry, mumbling to himself and shouting, ‘He weren’t going to get the best of me, I’ll tell ye!’
So Jock polished up, paying particular attention to his rifle, which he knew was the weakest part in Jimmy’s preparation. Everything in life was a competition to Jock. From a mountain climb to an egg-and-spoon race, Jock had to win it. In the end a speck of dust on Jimmy’s rifle reflected on his thumbnail when Captain Martin looked down the barrel was sufficient to give Jock the prize. Martin knew what Jock was going through and felt he might be unreliable on duty.
So it was Jimmy outside when a muster of Yanks gathered at the bottom of the hill. They were outraged at the killing of one of their comrades by a British soldier. They knew these Limey bastards resented their presence. They had travelled thousands of miles, left their homes, wives, girlfriends and comfortable home life to help these bastards out. And were they grateful? Were they fuck! They couldn’t have been treated worse if they had been Germans. They gathered in the town square, a seething mass of frustration.
One, with the gift of the gab, climbed on to a pillar to voice the general sentiment. ‘One of our buddies has been killed. By the enemy?’
‘No!’ came the shout from the angry mob.
‘By the Japs?’
‘No!
‘By the Germans or the Eyties?’
‘No!’
‘No! By our so-called Allies. The people we came here to help out of the shit!’
Now American soldiers were spilling out of pubs and getting caught up in the patriotic fervour.
‘Come on, men!’ the spokesman shouted. ‘Let’s get ’em!’
The mob moved off in a ragged formation, starting up the hill to the barracks.
Some started to sing ‘I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy’, while others shook their fists at passers-by in the street. The hill caused some to slow up, but around five hundred eventually gathered outside the barracks where Jimmy Fossett was holding the fort.
‘Fucking Limeys!’
Jimmy took a firm grip on his rifle, confident that it wasn’t loaded. If the mob tried to enter the barracks it was his job to stop them. ‘Call out the guard!’ he shouted.
But his voice couldn’t be heard. In any case his mates inside the guardhouse must have heard the noise and judged that they were better off where they were.
The mob, now irresolute, weren’t sure what to do next. They had arrived at the scene where the soldier who had been arrested was billeted, and their fury had not abated. Crashing through the gates might lead to serious repercussions. Could it be called a mutiny or something? The next best thing was to attack the bastion from the outside. Bricks started flying in the general direction of the gates and Jimmy Fossett. Maybe an eye for an eye would do it.
‘Here!’ he shouted. ‘Watch – !’
He didn’t finish the sentence, as half a brick landed on his nose. The hit seemed to enthuse the mob to further fury.
Bricks rained in on Jimmy from all sides. A fusillade from all directions hit him in the face, the chest and the ribs. He went down and was caught up in a ballet of heavy boots. Reluctantly, the other three guardsmen came out to confront the enemy. The mob, feeling that honour had been done, began to disperse. There were no more bricks, and Alf and Taffy, who were also on guard, dragged Jimmy inside.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ said Alf. ‘They’re like Red Indians.’
‘They’re a rough lot, the Yanks,’ agreed Taffy. ‘They’re only half educated. Savages, most of them.’
Captain Martin was called to attend to Jimmy and after a quick examination ordered an ambulance.
The mob in the street was dispersing, but just then three trucks of Snowdrops arrived. The American military policemen jumped off the trucks and started hitting out indiscriminately with their truncheons. Those in the crowd were trapped. The Snowdrops herded the GIs against a wall and began scooping them up and throwing them bodily into the trucks. As soon as they were on board the GIs started to scramble over the sides. The Keystone Cops routine went on for about five minutes, and then, with a shout, the Snowdrops jumped aboard the trucks and were driven off at speed.
Captain Martin accompanied Jimmy in the ambulance. ‘All right, son?’ he enquired gruffly.
‘I’ve got a rotten headache,’ said Jimmy faintly.
Martin felt his stomach. ‘Your ribs. I fear a couple might be cracked.’
Jimmy arrived at the hospital. The place where all his troubles had begun. But at least he had a friend here. He would ask for Rosa, Sister Tcherny, and he would be all right.
He was taken to the operating theatre to have his ribs set. He also had a broken nose, but the doctors didn’t bother with that. ‘Not going in for a beauty contest, is he?’ remarked one.
He didn’t come round from the sedation until midday.
A pretty young nurse came to him. ‘My, you’ve had a good rest. I’ll get you a drink.’
His mouth was dry. He sipped the water and looked around. He was on a ward of around forty beds. He tried to sit up and discovered that he was covered in plaster. It started under his arms and finished just above his bum.
The nurse put her arm around his back and lifted him on to a pillow rest. ‘There. Now you can see what’s going on in the world.’
‘Sister Tcherny,’ he said. ‘Can you tell her that Jimmy’s here.’
‘Haven’t seen her today. I’ll ask. She might be on night duty.’
Later she returned with the news that Rosa was on leave.
Jimmy’s morale slumped to its lowest ebb. ‘Christ Almighty. That’s it then.’
Rosa’s annual leave had a chance of being memorable. She met Charlie, who was also on leave, at Piccadilly Station. They had been meeting weekly for about a month now. In some mysterious way Charlie seemed to have grown up overnight. He was smiling, relaxed and appeared at home with himself. The shambling hesitant Charlie had entirely disappeared. It was a transformation. She found the new Charlie interesting. When she had first met him he was awkward, muffing the important task of buying a condom. He was keen enough but completely inept. Then the army turned him into a shambling fool. The military was obviously too much for Charlie to cope with, and he found a way out by pretence. Now he was like the boy she had known but two years ago. They had talked in teashops, in the Central Library, walking around parks. They attended concerts at the Free Trade Hall, admired the fiery conducting of John Barbarolli, rode in rackety trams, cuddled in the cinema, kissed long and hard outside the nurses’ home.
And now they were going to see their son. Rosa was wary of this new relationship. When she first met him in London he was clumsy and inadequate. How could she be certain that the change was permanent? Of course her parents had never approved. They wanted her to marry a nice Jewish boy with p
rospects, who was supported by a large family, established in some form of family business. Not the only son of an English gentile.
They settled in the crowded train, and soon she was asleep, her head on his shoulder, tucked under his neck, while he strained to look down at her. The train was crammed with service personnel, all with bulky kitbags, stuffed valises and carrier bags. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood. The Russians, after inch-by-inch fighting in Leningrad, were streaming over the Polish border and bombing the capital, Warsaw, and Paris had been liberated, and American and British troops were fighting in Germany. Sure, there was a way to go, and there was still the wretched buzz bombs to deal with, but things were looking hopeful and there was a fizz of optimism in the air. People seemed relaxed. They smiled a lot and exuded goodwill.
The train jerked and sent everything flying from the luggage racks on to the passengers below, but there were no cries of annoyance. This was a tolerant crowd. It would take a lot to upset them.
Women at Euston Station peered anxiously at teeming crowds of soldiers and airmen as if they had personally engineered the change of direction of the war. When couples were reunited it was as though they had just returned from some terrible ordeal. The men hugged their wives and girlfriends tightly, leaving them breathless.
Rosa felt quite smug with Charlie by her side. They decided to get a bus. They wanted to see what had happened to their city. Much was boarded up, but there were piles of rubble and odd gaps between buildings, as though teeth had been wrenched out of a giant set. They decided to get off at Westminster Bridge and walk along the Embankment. Everything seemed so normal. There were trams, and tugs on the river.
‘It’s good to be back,’ said Charlie.
They heard a low singing sound and there, on the other side of the river, was something in the air like a giant humming-top.
‘As long as you can hear it you’re all right,’ said Charlie reassuringly, armed with folk wisdom about the buzz bomb. Then the engine cut out, and they held their breath as the device plopped harmlessly into the Thames.
‘Nice way to say hello,’ said Charlie. He took her arm, and they rushed up Villiers Street to the Strand. Lyons’ Corner House was still open. They could have scrambled egg and a small apple tart without resorting to food coupons.
Rosa felt exhilarated. This was more like it. She felt she was being courted. Not just manoeuvred for a sexual favour. This was a Charlie who was his own man. What had happened to him? ‘You’re so different,’ she remarked.
He nodded. ‘It was the fight.’
‘What fight? You were in a fight?’
‘No. Not me. Two chaps. At the barracks. It looked as though one was going to kill the other. I couldn’t help it.’
‘What happened?’
‘They stopped.’ He laughed. ‘And ever since then I’ve felt perfectly normal.’
Her parents were not pleased when they saw that their daughter was accompanied by Charlie. They remembered him as a terrified youth who was absent without leave after just one day in the army.
‘Hello. Are you all right now?’ enquired Rosa’s father.
‘I’m fine,’ he replied.
‘The war is moving on. The Russians have broken their backs. All we have to do is mop up and let the Americans take the credit.’
‘Something like that,’ said Charlie grinning. ‘Where’s the boy?’
‘He’s upstairs. Sleeping,’ replied Rosa’s mother. ‘We kept him up as long as we could.’
‘Couldn’t we just take a peek?’ said Rosa. ‘We won’t wake him up.’
They tiptoed up the stairs and opened the bedroom door. The little boy, nearly two years old, had a solemn face. Charlie felt a rush of overwhelming tenderness. He squeezed Rosa’s arm, and she looked up at him. Yes, Benji was going to be proud of his father.
The next day they took the Underground to the Strand and walked through the labyrinth of streets to Covent Garden and found themselves in Leicester Square. They booked seats at the Prince of Wales Theatre and had a meal in the Coventry Street Corner House.
There was a fizz about the West End; a carnival atmosphere. The Nuffield Club had opened in Leicester Square. Hollywood stars came over and frequently performed, endearing themselves to the troops, hoping they would be remembered when hostilities ceased. There were many different uniforms – Canadian, several varieties of American, Free French, some Polish ones, Indian Army, Scots with kilts, even some Gurkha and Australian soldiers. You could see an American major who looked very like Clark Gable with his arm around a WAAF officer who could easily be Rita Hayworth. Oxford Street and Regent Street were like a fashion parade for a fancy-dress ball. The people of London seemed determined to tear off the grey blanket that had made life a drudgery for so long. Complete strangers smiled at complete strangers. The cockney seemed to have found a new level of chirpiness. Against all this military glamour the British soldiers, in their shapeless bagwash uniforms, formed a drab background. The officers had smart tunics, Sam Brownes and peaked caps, but the lower ranks were dressed according to their station.
There was hope in the air. It wasn’t over yet, but the people could see an end to the war.
They could sense the end of the disruption in their lives, the rationing, the queuing, the casualty lists, the blue-suited wounded, the black nights of worry, watery beer, make do and mend, the inevitable Spam.
All this was neatly summed up when Rosa and Charlie were at the Prince of Wales. The show was Strike a New Note starring Sid Field, a wonderful camp comic, before the term was coined. At the end of the first half a young red-headed girl in a dress suit and top hat descended a flight of stairs singing ‘I’m Going to Get Lit Up When the Lights Go Up in London’. Zöe Gail, who would have been about fourteen when the war started, had the song that summed up everyone’s feelings. It was not a great melody. It was the words and the sentiment that caught people by the throat, causing them to cry and laugh at the same time – the end of the dreaded black-out that made everything so dreary; the lights of Piccadilly Circus that many children had never seen; the delights of Oxford Street, with every shop window illuminated; the lights on the fountains in Trafalgar Square. The trite little song made people realize what they had been missing. It justified Noel Coward’s comment about ‘the potency of cheap music’. Above all, it was a London song. The sonorous ‘There’ll Always Be an England’ might be the unofficial national anthem everywhere else in he country, but London had this special song that typified how Londoners felt.
It was on the way back to her home that Charlie told Rosa about his plan. ‘I can’t go on acting the fool. They’ve rumbled me anyway. So I’m going to do some basic training. I’ll have to leave the unit, but I’ve had enough of them anyway.’
‘So you’ll be going away?’
‘I’ve got to regain my self-respect. While I’m with that shower I’m always going to be Daft Charlie. It’ll work out for the best. You’ll see.’
It was soon clear that Charlie was charmed by his son. He cradled him in his arms, crooning. ‘This is just … wonderful,’ he said. ‘When this nonsense is all over we’ll get a house in Morden or Edgware. There’ll be plenty of work for compositors.’
Rosa was delighted. She had a future. As a nurse she could easily transfer to one of those areas or work in one of the big London hospitals.
As soon as he was released from guard duty Jock went into town and boarded a bus to Manchester. In the small town he might easily have run into someone from the unit. He couldn’t stand the accusation in their eyes. Nobody said anything, but it was clear what they were all thinking. He had done the unthinkable. He had signed a statement that might condemn Chalkie to the gallows. He felt sick. He wasn’t worried about his friend. He had no affection for the snivelling cockney guttersnipe. No. It was the position in which he had put himself: universally despised. Observed by eyes full of contempt. The trouble was that he couldn’t bear to see Chalkie on top. It had been a clever trick to induce the
other to have a medical. God knows whether Chalkie had foreseen the outcome. Jock didn’t think he was bright enough for that. And yet he could have been putting on an act. Look at Daft Charlie. Everybody had assumed that he was a halfwit. Since he’d come out of his shell everybody could see that he’d been playing a part.
Jock had been told that there were women available down by the docks. He made his way towards the Manchester Ship Canal. It was dark, of course, but there were sounds of movement; trains shunting, ships hooting and the creaking and crunching of crates being lifted and swung on board. Huge stacks of timber lay on the docks. He stopped and had a nip from his bottle. He had been into several pubs, but in the end he bought two bottles from an off-licence. He wanted a proper swig, not just a dribble from the bottom of the glass. This was the form in Glasgow; two half-bottles, one in each pocket.
What the hell could he do? Could he go back to the coppers and withdraw his statement? No. That would put him in the position of having misled the police. Besides, the idea was to delay his posting. He couldn’t be sent anywhere until after Chalkie’s trial. The way things were going the bloody war could be over by then.
‘Looking for trouble, soldier?’
It was a woman’s voice but very low, almost masculine. She stood at the end of the stack of timber, a solid figure, almost as wide as she was high. She approached him slowly. There were no lights, but there was a wispy moon. She got near enough for him to see her features. God! She was old enough to be his mother. Her whole stance was a challenge. At first meeting you felt that you must have offended her in a previous existence.
Long and the Short Page 16
