We collected Milton from Wunstorf, an RAF station west of Celle. It was new to me because it hadn’t been on my Cook’s Tour itinerary. We stopped overnight in a concrete olive drab block labelled Aircrew Accommodation. It was like a hostel for the homeless, with narrow twin-bunked rooms, and two large communal bathrooms on each corridor. It occurred to me that they could have housed hundreds of aircrew in there. Then it occurred to me that they probably intended to. We had a room each, but it was a chill and cheerless place, and it stank of damp . . . and overloaded toilets. Flying into Wunstorf, the dark forest had seemed to stretch to the horizon in all directions . . . the long approach over miles of dense pine and fir seemed to go on for ever.
Randall and I sat up at the guest bar, and started to talk to each other again. He said, ‘Sorry, partner,’ and sighed.
‘So am I. I just thought I ought to tell you.’ That was it. We didn’t mention Scroton or the Countess again.
I had never heard him talk about his own country or countrymen before, but he must have been feeling broody, because he asked me, ‘What do you think about America, and Americans?’
‘Do I include the fact that War Loans mean we owe you everything we can earn between now and the next century?’
‘Stop messing around. You know what I mean.’
‘I think two things, Randall. The first is that when a country is as powerful as the States it’s easy to dislike its policies, and the things that it does. Then when you come across individual Americans you find them to be among the most courteous and brave folk you’ll ever meet.’
He signalled the barkeep for another round.
‘OK. Thanks for that. What was the other thing?’
‘Whenever anything goes wrong in the world, the first question anyone asks is, What are the Americans going to do about it? Half the fucking world looks to you for leadership now: haven’t you noticed that?’
‘Yeah; it will be a heavy load to carry.’
‘My lot carried it for three hundred years. Perhaps it’s just your turn. Think about it that way and get used to it.’
Randall smiled into his drink. I didn’t know what the hell the conversation was actually about, but he seemed to have arrived somewhere. Then he got me to tell him all I knew about Milton. It wasn’t much. Then we talked about Berlin, and the places to go. It turned out I’d been there more often than Randall. Old Man Halton sat in the corner at a small table, and read a Somerset Maugham novel. And drank an entire bottle of whisky. Then he stood up, bade the bar Goodnight, and walked steadily to his room.
In the morning we collected Milton from the station mortuary. The RAF Regiment got it right; they always do in my opinion. They are a very professional outfit. Milton’s coffin was a plain, narrow, rough pine box: he’d get a proper job when we’d got him home. The Regiment surprised us by providing a colour party and honour guard, and you couldn’t see Milton’s box because they covered it with the RAF flag. At the aircraft they folded the flag and gave it to the old man – he was crying by then – and they insisted that we mount up, and let them load the box after us. As we taxied out they came to the alert, and saluted. I felt a lump in my throat, and looked away.
What goes around comes around. Not far from where we loaded Milton for his last ride, another colour party was loading a second box onto an RAF York. Dolly followed it into the aircraft; she was taking someone back. The same as us. I don’t think that she noticed me. I hoped that her reception was to be a kind one.
I sat in the Oxford behind Randall, and alongside Old Man Halton. He held the flag in his lap, his hands twisted into it. He hadn’t coughed once since we’d arrived at Wunstorf. Milton was behind us. His box wasn’t a particularly good box, and soon into the flight the aircraft was pervaded by the smell of raw gasoline and scorched flesh. I’ll never forget the smell in that aeroplane that day. None of us remarked on it. The only thing the Old Man said to me, an hour into the journey, was, ‘I’m bringing my son home.’
I said, ‘I know, sir.’
For once the sir was intended, and he didn’t tick me off. He nodded. As Randall spiralled us smoothly down into Lympne that afternoon, I noticed that the house flag above the ops block was flying at half mast. Milton would have laughed his socks off.
That’s how we took him home.
If Milton had been a bit of a crisis for us all then I guess May and June of 1948 were full of crises of one kind or another. In the middle of it the office had a call for me from Winchelsea. A thick, slow shower was blowing over Lympne, splattering the car park with large, spaced out drops of rain. Broken low cumulus, and plenty of blue.
I’d already done a trip to France in Whisky trying a new small radio that Halton had bought: the pilot and engineer could operate it from small paddles on their spade grips – just like gun buttons. I suppose that you could call that a peace dividend. I sat up front alongside Scroton, whilst Ed slept at my post behind us. Scroton whistled ‘Blue Moon’ between clenched teeth: I thought that he and Whisky had lost some of their mutual affection. When he put her on the deck at Beauvais he ran too close to the hedge at the edge of the field and collected a small branch of hawthorn in her starboard aileron – it waved like a flag as he taxied over the bumpy grass to airfield control. It was as if his mind wasn’t on the job.
I cadged a lift back with Randall, who was out in the red Oxford, delivering some electrical parts for a power station which the Frogs were desperately trying to bring back on line. It had been sabotaged by La Resistance in the war. That says it all about the French in my opinion: they’d spent half the war blowing up their own power stations, factories and railway lines. If they’d tried to do that to Germany’s own infrastructure instead, and a bit earlier, we’d all have had a better war. Randall whistled between his teeth all the way back, and irritated me. It was that bloody ‘Blue Moon’ of course: those two bastards had too much in common.
He and I had sprinted, laughing, for the offices when the rain started to clatter down. The big drops bounced off the concrete like small armour-piercing rounds, lifting fine puffs of dust. Elaine was just putting the telephone receiver down. Her face looked ashen. Shit, I thought, again! Old man Halton stood in the door to the corridor. Brunton had stepped out to his office door too. The Old Man spoke first. He coughed after the first syllable, and then everyone waited for him to get started again. Eventually he got out, ‘Go home, Charlie. Your boys need you. Go home now, and sort it out please . . .’
‘Sort what out?’ No time for the niceties.
‘There was a Mrs Maggs telephoning,’ Elaine said. ‘Your sons are missing. They went out last night, and haven’t come back yet. The Police and the C.D.Vs are out looking for them.’
I didn’t respond immediately. My face grew hot. And then cold. Then I felt fear: the sort that dissolves your bowel.
The Old Man grunted, ‘Go . . .’ again, and turned away, waving a hand, and stifling a cough and whatever he was going to say next in his handkerchief. I should have remembered that I’d just helped him bring his only child home.
Elaine said, ‘I’m so sorry, Charlie. Would you like me to come with you?’
For a moment my brain wouldn’t work at all, then I managed, ‘No. It will be all right. I’ll manage . . .’ I wasn’t sure that I could. ‘Where was she telephoning from? I ought to call back.’
I called the Major’s place. I spoke to him and I spoke to Maggs. His tones were calm and measured. Her tones were calm and measured. I knew immediately that they were panicking like fuck. Before I walked out of the office the Old Man came back and gave me a hug. Oddly enough I didn’t mind. Then he pulled out his wallet, and made me take it. It was stuffed with money. I told him, ‘I won’t need this . . .’
‘You may . . .’ the words disappeared into his handkerchief with a great hacking. When he had his breath back he finished, ‘. . . and if you need any more go into your bank, and ask them to phone me.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ There; I did it again, and just lik
e the last time, I meant it.
Randall was waiting outside for me, kicking at the concrete. The sharp shower had blown over; the concrete didn’t even show it. He grabbed me just like the old man had done.
‘Put me down please, Randall. I can’t breathe.’
‘Do you want me along with you?’
These bastards could melt you, couldn’t they? I hated the emotionfest; always have.
‘No, Randall. I can handle it, one way or the other. But thanks for offering. I won’t forget it.’
‘Yes you will. Jest like I do.’
‘How about if I call the office when I have some news? I’ll tell them if I need you.’
‘OK, partner.’
I’ve only known one other man in my life address me as partner. I liked them both enormously. In the accommodation I stuffed my clothes and my cleaning kit into the big pack, and threw them into the back seats of the Singer along with the brown paper carrier bag with the kids’ toys I’d bought in London. I just prayed to God that I was going to need them.
Old men think more clearly than young men when the crisis hits; did you know that? . . . When I reached Worthing the car had an empty tank, and was running on petrol fumes and wishes. I found that although I had my coupons, I had no money, and paid for a tank of National Benzole from Halton’s wallet.
It was dark when I pulled up alongside the prefab. Every light in James’s place was on, and the car park was full. So was the bar. It fell silent as I shouldered my way inside, which can’t have been good news, can it?
There was a uniformed police constable with his notebook in his hand. He seemed to be writing down everyone’s name and address. He licked his pencil between entries: you don’t see that any more. When I walked up to him he asked me who I was, and when I told him he asked to see my identity card.
‘Why?’
‘You can’t be too careful these days, sir.’
‘Stop being a cunt. Have you found my boys yet?’
‘I couldn’t answer that question, sir, until after I’ve verified your identity.’
The man who pulled me off him was Les. Time stopped. I was momentarily three years younger, driving across Holland or Germany somewhere with him.
‘Hello, Les. Where did you spring from?’
‘The Major telephoned me. I’ve been here since this morning. Put the officer down now, Charlie, and let’s go through and talk about it.’
I always did what Les told me. Force of habit. The policeman started to make threatening noises once he got his breath back, but Les gave him the look, which shut him up. I’ve seen Les do that to people before.
Council of war. That was like three years ago as well. Me, Les and the Major. Maggs sat in a deep chair in the corner and kept her neb out, unless she was asked . . . although at one point she sniffed and said, ‘Three bleeding musketeers, ain’t you?’
Les poured us three whiskies from a bottle which had already had a hammering. Maggs nursed a giant glass of her favourite port: Cockburn’s from Edinburgh. Eventually she told me, ‘I s’pose it was my fault. Carlo was being a proper little monster – getting into anything. I warned ’im. At the end he reached up to a saucepan of peeled potatoes on the stove when me back was turned, and pulled it down all over himself.’ I winced, and she hurried on, ‘Don’t fret. The water was cold, but it coulda been boiling, an’ it scared me to think about it.’ I nodded. So far so good. Maggs finished her bit, ‘So I gave ’im a clout round the ear, didn’t I?’
‘Is that all?’
‘Till Dieter came in from school. Carlo must ’ave told him, an’ ’e started laying into me about slapping a defenceless kid. I never heard anything like it before . . .’e sounded like some sort o’ bleedin’ lawyer.’
‘So?’
‘. . . So I gave ’im one as well. These kids ’ave got to learn from someone.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Dieter just looked at me. He went white, and looked at me. Then ’e just turned about and walked out. It was the way ’e looked at me . . .’
‘Like what?’ Les asked. Then he lit one of his pungent little roll-ups.
‘Like he was so sad. I coulda stood it if ’e was angry at me; but no. ’e just looked sad. I ’eard them go out to play before tea. I always let ’em out fer an hour. When I went to call ’em they never came back.’
When I looked up she was dabbing her eyes with the edge of her pinny. I had never seen Maggs cry before. I went over and hugged her.
‘I can’t say Don’t worry, Maggs, because we’re all worried stiff. What I mean is that I might have done the same as you. It could have happened with me or the Major. So whatever you do, don’t take it personally. I need you to be thinking straight at the moment.’
She nodded, and gave a weak smile through her tears. Seeing Maggs like this was just as worrying as the bald facts. I asked James, ‘Tell me what your worst assessment is.’
He gulped his whisky, and held out his glass to Les for another.
‘It depends on where they went, Charlie. If they were caught up the estuary with the tide coming in . . . it can be a right bugger. Dieter can swim, but Carlo can’t yet.’
‘But you don’t think they’ve been stolen? Gypsies or something?’
Les made a very dismissive sound.
‘That’s an old wives’ tale Charlie. It never happened. Gypsies stole horses, not kids. No, the Major’s right . . . they’ve run away. Either they got caught on the shore an’ got into trouble, or they ran away and are being very serious about it. One o’ mine fell out with his ma once, an’ did the same. Caught him hitching a lift to Brighton.’
I turned away from them, and looked out of the window. There was a line of lights on the water, leading away from the estuary. James came over, followed my glance, and told me, ‘The yacht club’s out for you. They’re sweeping the estuary in parallel lines – been out there all day. They’ll have to come in soon.’
‘Who organized that?’
‘Coastguard. Your Mrs Valentine is out there somewhere. She came down from London deliberately. She took Jules out with her.’
There was something I still couldn’t quite understand.
‘If Dieter’s run away, why did he take Carlo with him? That would only hamper him.’
Maggs answered me from the corner of the room. ‘You still don’t get it, Charlie, do you? Dieter took Carlo to get ’im away from me. ’e couldn’t stop me givin’ ’im a slap so ’e did the next-best thing . . . they scarpered.’
I felt worse than I did the day my father had told me that my sister was dead; isn’t that odd? So I put my head in my hands, but I didn’t cry, even though I felt like it. Les came over, and didn’t say anything stupid like It will all work out in the end. What he did was rest a hand on my shoulder, which was, I suppose, the same thing.
I slept in the prefab for the first time. It wasn’t the celebration I once thought it would be: first night in my own place. It was a small efficient house that had been designed to scale for someone my size. Maggs and the Major had furnished it from junk shops, and the furniture repository in Chichester: most of the furniture was thousands of years old, and hadn’t been made to scale for someone my size. Canute would have recognized it. They’d even opted for an old heavy double bed with a carved headboard in wood that was almost black, and a solid horse-hair mattress. The bedspread and bedroom curtains were a heavy velour red – just like the rooms I remembered from Maggs’s brothel in Paris.
Evelyn Valentine spent the night with me. We made love with a savage energy which was a bit unnerving. Her skin tasted of salt. Each of our bodies bore the impression of the other when we rolled apart. Afterwards she lit a cigarette and said, ‘There; that was all right, wasn’t it?’ ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No, silly. You were fine. I don’t mind that kind of hurt.’ I couldn’t find an ashtray for her, and eventually padded to the kitchen and brought her back a saucer. She asked me, ‘Why didn’t you turn the light on?’
/> ‘I wasn’t sure where it was. Anyway, I was naked.’
I’ll always remember her gentle laugh then. She said, ‘Silly,’ again, and then, ‘Who would see you?’
‘Thank you for taking your boat out to look for the boys.’ ‘Thank Tanty – he’s the Coastguard who organized it. Thank
Jules as well; he’s a big strong man, isn’t he? I couldn’t have handled Grace without him . . . and he’s very easy to get on with.’ ‘Are you telling me something there?’ There was a long pause before she answered, ‘Maybe.’ I knew that she was smiling in the dark. I’ve always liked honest women; haven’t you?
I was up before seven the next morning, and was quietly exploring the house. I had left Evelyn sleeping; sprawled across the bed like the Rokeby Venus. The other bedroom contained two bunks for the boys to use when I was at home. They must have already tried it out, because the beds were made, and had a change of clothes folded neatly on each of them. That was Dieter. I think that in a quiet way he had taken on Carlo’s practical education. There were a few toys scattered about, cardboard boxes that had been cut down into square sheets of corrugated cardboard, and a shoe box containing a few pieces of silver foil, glue and string. The silver paper looked like wrappers from food or chocolate. I slipped out quietly, without waking her, and sloped over to the pub kitchen to see what Maggs was cooking up. She was always an early riser.
We shared a plate of fried bread and sugar, and drank fiery mugs of real black coffee.
‘When I was in France in the war I used to long for a taste of real coffee. ’ere we are free years later, and I still can’t get enough of it,’ she told me.
‘We never had coffee at home when I was a boy; only tea. My mother kept it in a silver tea caddy my old man brought back from France. It was the Americans who showed me coffee.’
The Hidden War Page 14
