The thought warmed him even as the soldiers slowed and concertinaed from a more-or-less ordered column into a jostling crowd, and the major continued to blaspheme impotently – one day, in God’s good time, this will be me . . . but, in the meantime, even if this was dark, ruined Germany, and not his own dear sunny Greece, at least it wasn’t an embarkation depot en route to a crowded troopship and the dreaded Far Eastern posting of everyone’s nightmares. At least he was safe from that now!
‘It’s all right, major.’ He felt that he had to say something, if only by way of common civility, to his rescuer. ‘I’m in no hurry.’
‘No?’ The major looked at his watch. ‘Well, I sure as hell am! Goddamn army!’
‘Well, if you have other duties, I beg you not to wait for me.’ What Fred would dearly have loved to have asked was how the major had come to be waiting for one God-damn Limey officer – and a dummy4
junior one at that – off one particular transport plane, the very arrival of which must have been problematical, what with the bad weather and the re-routing. But, against the possibility that Colonel Colbourne (whoever the hell Colonel Colbourne might be) wielded such huge influence (enough to transmute base junior officer metal into VIP gold), there still lurked the suspicion that he might be the beneficiary of some case of Anglo-American mistaken identity. ‘I saw where my transport was. It’s not going to leave without me.’
The major looked at him, and then studied the press of GIs, as though estimating their chances of ever getting through it unscathed and without a fight. ‘You reckon – ? But . . . hell! I promised Gus I’d see you safely on your way–’
‘It’s quite all right, major.’ Who ‘Gus’ might be was beside the point, but ’on your way‘ wasn’t, Fred decided. All that mattered was that there was a staff car and a driver out there, beyond this near-mutinous half of the United States Army. And whether or not it was intended for Captain Fattorini, Captain Fattorini intended to have that car. But he stood a better chance of keeping it if the major wasn’t in attendance when he commandeered it. ’I’ll tell Gus you put me on my way – I’ll make a point of it.‘
‘You will? Great!’ The major beamed at him. ‘Okay, then . . . And, say . . . while you’re about it, tell him “thanks” – for the pig . . .
Okay?’
‘“Thanks” – ’ Fred steadied his voice ‘ – for ... the Pig?’
‘ Dee-licious!’ The major made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Tell Gus any time – okay?’ A faint thunder of aircraft dummy4
engines penetrated the hubbub. ‘Tell him, if he’s got the pigs, then I’ve got the planes – tell him that, huh?’
Fred returned the nod, and watched the major stride away towards whatever pressing matter had recalled him to his duties. Then, a loud cheer distracted him, turning him back to the United States Army: the concertina was expanding at last, as whatever obstacle ahead that compressed it gave way, and all the incurious eyes which had been taking him in (as though they’d never seen a British uniform, but if he’d been stark naked it wouldn’t have mattered, because he wasn’t in their way) – all the eyes dismissed him as the cheering crowd surged forward again.
It must be mistaken identity, but if it wasn’t then he had been traded in return for a pig, it seemed.
The column expanded, and accelerated, affording him an adequate glimpse of what lay beyond it, as he thought of pigs.
Pigs –
The car was still there. And so was the driver –
Pork, rather – pork had been conspicuous by its absence in both Italy and Greece. There had been some ration bacon, of a sort . . .
and there had latterly been endless Spam, which had allegedly been pig-related. But he hadn’t seen a good piece of smoked ham, let alone a real slice of pork with the crackling still attached to it, since 1942.
The American Army vanished as suddenly as it had arrived, just as he was vividly recalling Uncle Luke carving a vast leg of pork on the last day of his embarkation leave: ‘ Give thanks to God for this, dummy4
young Fred, first. And then to a certain farmer of my acquaintance, who supplied it. And last, but not least to your great-greatgrandfather, whose apostasy from the Jewish faith enables us to indulge ourselves as devout Anglicans – ’
‘Major!’
Across the suddenly opened space, the driver was saluting him. He was a little ratty RASC man of indeterminate age – a very typical RASC driver, except for the smartness of his battle-dress. And that was really why he looked so familiar, of course. But, much more to the point, he was also compounding the American’s mistake, that was certain. But with his inferior rank safe under his trench-coat, Fred held to his objective, returning the salute and dumping his valise at the little man’s feet.
‘Right! Let’s go, then.’
The driver ignored the valise, opening the rear door of the car instead.
Fred had intended to get in the front, but the important thing was to get going. So he accepted the offer without demur, and sank back into the luxury within – real leather, softly padded and sprung –
while the little man banged around, stowing the valise and then bestowing himself just in time as the first spatter of rain, which had followed the Dakota all the way from Austria, pitter-pattered the windscreen.
The big car moved forward, as smoothly and effortlessly as a Rolls
– or as a well-driven Sherman, thought Fred, with a pang of sadness, remembering Allan Koran’s boast from his last evening dummy4
swim at Vouliagmeni, three days and most of Europe away from where he was now, in the rain alongside a line of huge American lorries.
The car checked slightly, and the rain blurred the window, and he felt the loss of Allan and his friends, and of the poet’s wine-dark sea and the ineffably blue sky, which was even greater than the mild hunger-and-thirst he had felt for several hours –
(‘Since Scobiemas I have become an effete peacetime soldier,’
Allan had said, that last time. ‘ Steward! Bring me a beer – two beers!’ And then to Fred: ‘ He’ll slop them . . . And there was a time when I could put two beers on my Sherman, and drive it down here without wasting a drop! We’ve all become demoralized by peace, Fred –“Peace in Europe – and God help those poor devils in the Far East” – there’s a toast for you! “God help them . . . but, dear God, don’t ask us to help them!” Steward! Where are those beers – ?’)
But no beers now. And he mustn’t doze off, either –
‘Sorry I didn’t come for you, major . . . sir.’ The driver half-twisted towards him. ‘But . . . the American gentleman said not to. ’E said I was to stay where I was, an‘ ’e’d bring you, ‘e said, ’e did.‘
Fred perked up. If the little man was talkative, then he might let slip their present destination; and then, when they had gone far enough, he could be browbeaten elsewhere. ‘He did?’
‘Ah – ’ They passed the last of the trucks, and then swerved too late to avoid a crudely-filled crater across half the road ‘ – but I wouldn’t ’ave gorn, even if ‘e’d arsked me ... not with all these dummy4
Yanks around, see?’
All Fred saw was that most of the American drivers were negroes.
‘Yes?’
‘They’d ’ave ‘ad the car, one of ’em would – sure as God made little apples.‘ The little man spoke without rancour.
‘Of course.’ It had been foolish of him to forget for a second that anything left unguarded for more than five seconds was at risk.
Soldiers or civilians, it was all the same, they were all thieves; and what they couldn’t steal they stripped – like that Bailey Bridge transporter in Italy, which had been found the day after minus every removable part, engine, wheels, nuts and bolts, and Bailey Bridge. And there was no reason why Germany should be different. But he wanted the little man to go on talking. ‘They’ll steal anything, will they?’
‘Lord no, sir!’ The little man chuckled throatily. ‘The Yanks is ch
oosey now. The Jerries, you’ve got to watch . . . speshly the little kids – they’re not scared, see. An’ the DPs is worst – they’ll ‘ave the shirt orf yer back if they takes a fancy to it ... But the Yanks – ’
He tapped the steering wheel. ‘ – this is a good vee-hicle, this is.
Wot they call a “collector’s piece”, this is.’
Fred lifted himself slightly, the better to see ahead through the two arcs cleared by the windscreen wipers. The road was empty, and flanked by seemingly endless ruins on both sides. But that was more or less what he had expected: the industrial outskirts of the city, which were also adjacent to what would certainly have been a major Luftwaffe airfield, would have been heavily bombed many times. ‘A collector’s piece?’ Cars didn’t interest him, but as he dummy4
observed the length of the bonnet and the array of dials on the dashboard, adding them to the luxuriousness of the rear seats and the relatively smooth ride over the much-repaired road surface, he also remembered the Air Force major’s admiration.
‘Ah, that it is.’ The little man massaged the wheel approvingly, even though he drove perilously close to a huge pile of ruins – a pack of slanted concrete floors – which narrowed the road.
‘French, this is ... wot was owned by a famous film star before the war – before Jerry pinched it. Built like a tank, it is – weighs nearer three ton than two . . . more like a tank than your proper Froggie tanks, wot they made out uv cardboard an’ ticky-tack, wot I remember of ‘em – huh!’
‘Yes?’ That the little man could remember French tanks, however libellously, for purposes of comparison, confirmed Fred’s estimation of him. There was nothing unusual about his evident contempt for the French, which was common among all those who knew nothing of the incomparable performance of Juin’s Corps Expeditionnaire Français in the Italian mountains, and almost universal among British soldiers, outside the 8th Army. But this wasn’t the moment to put him right. ‘Is that so?’
‘Ah.’ The little man let the big car demonstrate its excellence over a series of former bomb craters, while Fred began to marvel at the extent of the city’s ruins. ‘Only trouble is ... it’s got a terrible lot of electrics –gearbox an’ all. So it needs a proper REME mechanic to keep it on the road.‘ Another throaty chuckle. ’But Major M’Crocodile’s got hisself a proper REME mechanic, to look after it, see – Corporal Briggs, that is – this is the major’s speshul car, dummy4
this is – Corporal Briggs!‘ The repeated chuckle was like a death-rattle in the little man’s throat.
‘Corporal Briggs – ?’ Obviously there was a story to Corporal Briggs which the little man was bursting to tell. And the more talkative he became, the better.
‘Got ’im out of a court-martial, to get ‘im for the major, the Colonel did – got ’im orf an‘ then got ’im posted to us, see?‘ The little man turned towards him, ignoring the endless rain-blurred vista of bombed-out ruins through which they were driving.
’Proper artful, ‘e is – ’
‘Watch the road, man!’ Fred commanded quickly as a pile of rubble came dangerously close. But then, as the driver snapped back to his duty, he moved quickly to rebuild the bridge between them. ‘Corporal Briggs is artful – ?’
‘Naow, sir, major – not ’ im – ‘ The little man sounded the car’s mellifluous two-tone horn as they came to an intersection, and then accelerated across it ’ – though ‘e is a good mechanic, I’ll say that for ’im ... an‘ ’e was court-martialled for doin‘ up Jerry cars an’
then floggin‘ ’em back to the Jerries, see . . . But naow – it’s Colonel Colbourne wot’s artful . . . But, then, o‘ course he was a lawyer before the war, gettin’ murderers orf from bein‘ ’anged, wot was guilty, an‘ all that – see?’
‘ Colonel – ’ Fred steadied his voice ‘ – Colbourne?’ Relief blotted out surprise. ‘How far is it to Kaiserburg ... and TRR-2, driver?’
‘The Kaiser’s Burg?’ The little man confirmed the name in correcting it to his own liking. ‘Not far. If it wasn’t pissin’ down dummy4
we could maybe see it from ‘ere, almost.’ He pointed into the murk ahead. ‘Right up on top of the Town-us, it is – ’igh up, in the woods.‘
Taunus, Fred remembered, from the only map he had been able to find in Athens. But there had been no Kaiserburg on the map.
‘Yes?’ But at least they were agreed that that was where they were going! he thought. ‘I couldn’t find it on the map.’
‘No . . . well, you wouldn’t now, would you?’ The little man agreed readily. “Cause it ain’t anywhere – is it? The bleedin‘
Kaiser’s Burg!’
Fred saw an opening. ‘It’s a bad billet, is it?’
The rain slashed across the windscreen, and the car bucked in well-bred protest over another crater – down . . . bump-bump-bump . . .
up – and then ran smoothly again, still flanked by ruins.
‘I’ve known worse.’ Uncharacteristically, the little man looked on the bright side, in the midst of unseasonable summer weather likely to render even adequate billets depressing.
A hideous thought offered itself to Fred. ‘We’re not under canvas?’
He had taken it for granted that the occupying forces would have looked after themselves properly in this desolation. But they were well to the south of the zone earmarked for British military occupation, and the teeming Americans had had plenty of time to move into the best of what had been left standing.
‘Under – ?’ They had reached another crossroads in the ruins, but this time the little man had his nose against the windscreen as he peered up at a signpost festooned with information, most of it in dummy4
Military American, but some pathetically civilian, indicating streets which existed only in memory. ‘What was that, sir – ?’
Fred felt his depression returning, even though ruins were the same the world over, and he knew that he’d seen enough of them to take these for granted (these just here were fire-bombed empty shells, still substantial, but floor-less from the top to their ground-level pile of blackened rubbish within): he had seen Plymouth burn, and taken his men into Bristol the day after its heaviest raid, to aid the civil power; and his brief bomb-disposal service, before Italy, was best-forgotten . . . although, when he thought about it, Italy – and Greece too – had on occasion been even worse, when he’d come upon some out-of-the-way village, as inaccessible as it was inoffensive, yet which had been nonetheless comprehensively flattened, sometimes by design, sometimes quite unnecessarily, by accident. But even though this was Germany, which had started it all ... the truth was, he was sick of ruins.
The little man came to a decision (which was of necessity all his own, since the rain-swept wilderness appeared to be uninhabited), and they were moving again. ‘What was that, sir – ?’
For a moment, Fred didn’t reply. And then the moment lengthened, as they continued to drive through the ruins. And there seemed no end to them, and he realized that he was passing through not
‘ruins’, but the ruin of a once-great city, which might never rise again – or not in his lifetime, anyway.
‘Under canvas?’ His unnaturally prolonged silence animated the little man’s memory. ‘ Naow, major, sir – we’re snug enough – for the time bein’, like – eh?‘
dummy4
Fred closed his eyes and sat back in comfort, trying to blot out the dead city. Or ... alive or dead . . . it was finished, here – that was what he must think! Or ... he was tired and hungry . . . and the terrible inadequacy of memory was that, while he could recall the exact picture of a leg of roast pork, with golden crackling on it, he could not recall the smell and the taste – the taste of crackling –
There was a bump, and he opened his eyes again as the big car surged forward. And suddenly, they were in open country –
country soaked and dripping, but mercifully untouched by war, after all they had been through. And that was like a blessing, after the anathema of the city:
all the worst that the war could do had its limits, leaving the rest quite untouched, outside Plymouth, and Bristol, and Cassino – leaving places which hadn’t had their names on the bombs untouched, as though there had never been a war.
‘Where are we?’
‘Wot?’ Now that he was free of the responsibility of threading his way through the ruins of the city, and had his right passenger in the back of the car, the little man was free of all responsibility. So it didn’t matter what the original question had been, never mind his answer to it.
‘Where are we going?’ All the more important questions which he wanted to ask — ‘ Who the hell is Colonel Colbourne?’ and ‘ What the hell is “TRR-2 Kaiserburg” ?’ in the unembattled British Army order-of-battle in Occupied Germany – were out of order, first because they were too humiliating to be asked . . . and second because the little man probably couldn’t answer them usefully anyway.
dummy4
‘Wot?’ After that stretch of peaceful, umbombed Germany they were passing through a peaceful, utterly unbombed little village –
or, not quite peaceful . . . because there was a group of American army vehicles in the centre of it now – a big white-starred staff car, and a jeep with its rain-hood up, and a 15-cwt . . . and a large American NCO, with chevrons half the way down his arm, chewing his cigar regardless of the rain.
The sight of the American cautioned Fred to acclimatize himself to Occupied Germany, in the American zone: no British NCO, required to wait in the rain for his officer, would have dared to smoke a cigarette so openly, let alone a cigar. But the Americans, for all their readiness to accept appalling combat casualties, were civilians at heart even more steadfastly than the rank and file of British. And now that the war in Europe was well and truly over he must expect an even more pronounced decline in military discipline than he had observed among his own countrymen, with which Colonel Michaelides so often taxed him.
‘Not far now.’ The little man humoured him, like a father with a tired child in the back.
A New Kind of War dda-17 Page 7
