Waiting For the Day

by Leslie Thomas

  Bond at the rear of the group breathed: ‘You’re glad to say.’

  Moon looked up slowly, but said sharply: ‘Did someone make a comment?’

  ‘Me sir,’ said Bond. ‘I just said, could we come with you?’

  ‘Ha! Good joke! Afraid not, fellows. You’re young and fit. They’ll need every chap of you on the assault beaches. My soldiering days are drawing to a close. But I’ll be there with you in spirit.’ He surveyed them as if asking for a smile. Nothing appeared. ‘But cheer up, you’ll be swapping big guns for little guns, that’s all. And the rifle’s a jolly sight easier to move.’

  The faces remained unbroken. ‘That’s all, sergeant,’ he said to Harris in a disappointed way. ‘Carry on.’

  Sergeant Harris called them to attention and saluted Moon. The captain returned the salute. ‘Good luck,’ he called airily over his shoulder as he headed out of the door.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Blackie when he was sure the adjutant had gone.

  ‘Say one for me,’ muttered Harris.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Blackie again.

  ‘Are we the only ones?’ asked Treadwell. ‘What about the other batteries?’

  ‘Nobody tells me,’ said Harris. ‘Only what I hear in the sergeants’ mess, but what I gather is there’ll be others transferred as well. They’ve suddenly realised they’re short of infantry. So much for planning.’

  ‘So much for espirit de corps,’ sighed Treadwell.

  ‘You have to give your espirit to the Hampshires,’ said Harris.

  ‘We’ll get new cap badges,’ said Warren, as if trying to show interest.

  ‘And shoulder flashes,’ added Rayley. He described a half-moon on his upper arm.

  ‘No extra pay, I s’pose?’ chipped in Blackie.

  ‘There might be extra if you get a bullet.’

  ‘That’ll please the wife.’

  Gordon asked: ‘How do we transform ourselves into these gallant foot sloggers? March up and down?’

  ‘Learn to run,’ suggested Warren dolefully.

  ‘We start today,’ Harris told him. ‘We won’t have to move from this billet just yet. They’ll cart the guns away first. We’re going over to Tidworth to begin retraining as infantry. Right on time, they’ve got a tactical exercise starting.’ He appeared to brighten. ‘You’re going to fight the Yanks.’

  They lay against the face of a ditch. The rain was unrelenting, spilling down the bare, banked earth in front of them, running from the brims of their steel helmets, and trickling down the crevices of their camouflage oilskins. ‘’Ave a dekko over the top, Bunny,’ suggested Blackie. ‘You’re ’igher than Oi.’

  Warren handed his wet rifle to Blackie and, getting a hold in the mud of the bank with the heavy toes of his boots, lifted himself clear of the ditch. ‘Bugger all,’ he summed up. ‘Miles of it.’

  Harris arrived with a cursing lieutenant crushed under oilskins. ‘See that building down below, lad?’ said the officer.

  Warren looked. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s the enemy,’ the officer sniffed. ‘Christ, I’m cold.’ He surveyed the crouching squad, then said to Harris: ‘Are you all gunners? Where’s the guns?’

  ‘We’ve transferred to the Hampshires, sir,’ said Harris. ‘Haven’t got our new flashes yet.’

  ‘That’s bad luck. The artillery has got to be better than this.’

  ‘Drier generally, sir.’

  ‘Right. Well, here we are. Down there in that barn, or whatever the place is, are the enemy who for the sake of this exercise are the Yanks. We … well, you that is, are going to wipe the buggers out, figuratively speaking of course, although you’ll have to watch how you do it because they might wipe you out first – and with those mad bastards they’ll probably be using live ammo.’

  He shook the water from his helmet and then his cape, sending it over May who looked offended and attempted to wipe it off. ‘Right, sergeant,’ said the officer to Harris. ‘Deploy your men to the right. There’s a good slope there and it should make it easier to jump the door in.’ He looked momentarily pleased with his strategy and added: ‘Then rush them.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Harris. ‘Rush them.’

  ‘It’s the only way,’ the lieutenant said. ‘There’s only one aperture apart from the door and they’ll have that covered. If you get the door down and get at them you might take them by surprise and you won’t suffer too many casualties.’

  ‘They’ve probably got the door covered too, sir.’

  The officer ill-temperedly shook more water from his helmet. ‘Come on, sergeant,’ he grunted. ‘It’s only a bloody practice.’ He crawled between the men to the end of the ditch. ‘I’ll be back after lunch to see how you’ve managed,’ he said. He splashed away.

  ‘Don’t be ’urryin’ your lunch,’ groaned Warren quietly.

  ‘Right,’ sighed Harris. ‘Let’s do what the superior officer said. Treadwell, you go to the other side of the building and when I discharge the Very pistol,’ he held up the flare gun to show them, then returned it to beneath his cape, ‘you begin firing at the window or whatever it is. Then we’ll attack the door from the other side. Let’s hope they have blanks as well.’

  He said to Treadwell: ‘Get going, lad.’

  The soldier looked anxious. ‘Can’t somebody come with me, sarge?’ He looked around. ‘Even Peters.’

  ‘Sod off,’ said Peters.

  Harris said: ‘Get going.’

  Holding the long, heavy 303 rifle before him, Treadwell climbed from the ditch and, after glancing back timidly, went towards the slope flanking the building. Tentatively he waved from there like somebody greeting a possible friend. Harris muttered: ‘Christ. Afraid to be on his own.’

  ‘He’s always been with us before,’ pointed out Gannick solemnly. ‘With the guns.’

  ‘Well, now he’s on his own. In the infantry you often are.’ Harris took in their wet faces. ‘Now, let’s believe this is the real thing. Before long it might be.’

  They slithered to the bank opposite the wooden door to the barn. It was an old door, the planks wet and weathered with splits and gaps. From the rain and mist cloaking the plain they continued to hear the crackle of a simulated battle. Smoke was trapped beneath the low clouds.

  ‘Have a look,’ said Harris to Warren, ‘through the cracks in the door.’

  Warren looked shocked. ‘Me, sarge?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harris. ‘You, Warren.’

  Warren gave him another look, then slid in the mud to the door and tentatively looked through. He scrambled back. ‘Couldn’t see ’em but Oi could hear them talkin’,’ he reported.

  They took up the crouch position. Harris was not sure it was correct although he had looked up a manual the previous night – it was more than three years since he had done his basic infantry training. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’ Then he remembered he had to fire the Very pistol to signal Treadwell’s diversion. ‘No, hang on.’ Blackie was already going down the bank. ‘Obey the last order, lad,’ Harris told him. Blackie climbed back up the mud. Harris took the pistol from its holster concealed in his cape and stared at it. He had never fired one before. As he raised it the squad, as a man, shifted to one side. He pressed the trigger and the crack made them duck. But up soared the yellow rocket. Harris looked surprised and pleased. He replaced the signal pistol with a touch of a swagger and heard Treadwell obediently open fire from the other side of the barn. Grimly he ordered: ‘Let’s get them. Charge!’

  The ten men rose from the slippery bank and trotted after Harris down the slope. Two fell over on the mud and he stopped, turned, and cursed them. The sergeant reached the door with the squad just behind him, and fell against the woodwork. It collapsed spectacularly. It flattened like a drawbridge and the soldiers toppled into the dim barn.

  A dozen Americans were sitting against the stone wall, most of them smoking, their weapons stacked carelessly.

  ‘On your feet! Hands up!’ shouted Harris. He fel
t he was acting in a film. ‘Come on. You’re prisoners.’

  ‘Okay, okay, we surrender,’ drawled a thick man in the middle. He was chewing gum. He and his companions made no attempt to get to their feet and only two casually raised their hands.

  The British soldiers looked towards Harris. ‘Ain’t you going to put up a fight?’ Blackie demanded. Harris scowled at him and he said: ‘Sorry, sarge.’

  ‘No, we’re not fighting,’ said the heavy-faced American. ‘We give up unconditionally. We’re waiting for chow.’

  Harris did not know what to do next. The Americans continued lounging, chewing and smoking. Those who had half raised their arms put them down again. He motioned to Peters who carried the field telephone. He took the bulky phone from its container and instructed Peters to turn the handle. With an embarrassed look at the Americans the British soldier did so. The GIs watched as though fascinated. ‘What’s it going to play?’ asked one. ‘Glenn Miller?’ Some of them laughed but not roughly. Harris pressed the button and nothing happened. Violently he shook the instrument and pressed the button again. Again there was no response.

  ‘Nobody home?’ suggested the American in the middle.

  Abruptly Treadwell’s helmeted head appeared at the glassless window at which he had been firing his blanks. ‘Everything all right?’ he enquired squeakily.

  ‘Oh, fuck!’ said Harris.

  They all laughed uproariously, the Americans and the British. The leading GI, wiping his eyes, put his arm on Harris’s shoulder. ‘I’m Albie,’ he said. ‘Jeez, you guys really scared us.’ He looked around. ‘Didn’t they, fellas?’

  ‘Yeah,’ they said. ‘Like hell,’ added one.

  ‘We didn’t expect you to surrender,’ said Harris in a hurt way. ‘We thought you’d put up a fight. I’m Harris, by the way.’ He shook Albie’s hand and all the other men joined in the greeting.

  ‘Why fight?’ said an American called Danny. ‘There’s already too much fighting in the world, and especially now the chow’s arriving.’

  He had heard the sound of a vehicle. It stopped outside. Even from there they could smell the drifting fragrance of food. American food.

  All the soldiers, British and American, turned expectantly towards the gaping barn door. Four ebullient and bulky GIs in fatigues appeared in its frame, carrying steaming steel canisters, and clattered in their combat boots across the felled door. They were swathed in smells, hot, tasty smells. ‘Okay, soldiers, here it is,’ proclaimed the man at the front. He suddenly spotted the British troops. ‘Oh, ’scuse us. Are we interrupting sumpthin’?’

  ‘We’ve been captured, taken POW,’ said Albie.

  ‘Don’t let that stop your lunch,’ said Harris decisively.

  The food party put the canisters on the barn floor and then went back for more, including a volcanic urn of coffee. ‘Don’t expect service like this on the beach,’ said the leader.

  The jolly group went out and their vehicle drove away. The Americans studied the containers. So did the British. Noses were twitching. ‘Is it okay if the prisoners eat?’ asked Albie. ‘They’ve had zero since breakfast.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Harris. He and his men sat on the ground and watched intensely. The containers were opened and extra smells gushed out. A man was pouring hot coffee. Enamel plates appeared, and metal cutlery and drinking mugs. The eyes of the British troops went up as steaks and sausages and beans and fried potatoes were piled on to plates. The Americans attacked the food. The British watched enviously.

  Albie suddenly stopped, a forkful of beef halfway to his mouth. ‘Would you guys like some of this stuff?’ he asked. ‘There’s plenty. Gee, enough for an army. Two armies.’

  Harris put out restraining arms as his men rose from the ground like runners out of starting blocks. ‘Wait. Get in single file,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll lead the way.’

  Great grins spread across the rough faces of his squad. Gordon briefly hesitated. ‘It could be a trap, sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘Shut your trap, Jock,’ warned Blackie.

  ‘Single file,’ repeated Harris. They obeyed, eager as small boys. Gordon was pushed to the back. Albie stood behind the food. ‘Millions of plates,’ he assured them. ‘Come and get it.’

  The British had never eaten food like that. Rich, hot, fatty food. Each went away from the serving plate holding a precious, smouldering plate under his nose and found somewhere, anywhere, to dig into it. Some had never even seen a steak and cut into it with amazement, filled their mouths and groaned with pleasure. They ate and ate. Wholesale pork sausages, piles of fried potatoes, ladles of beans and candied carrots, with apple pie and ice-cream afterwards.

  Harris said eventually: ‘Tomorrow night you’ve got to come over to us, to the billet – we’ll tell you where – and we’ll return the compliment. Somehow.’

  ‘Rabbit stew,’ said Treadwell, stirring it with doubt. ‘What’s better than a rabbit stew? They’ve probably never even tried it.’

  ‘And spuds and carrots … and turnips,’ said Gordon sadly. ‘Imagine, turnips.’

  ‘They’ll go bloody crazy about them,’ muttered Blackie.

  ‘Bollocks,’ sighed Warren. ‘After their sort of grub, this stuff will make them sick.’

  Downcast, they stood around the big iron cauldron, the pot-bellied stove glowing red beneath it.

  ‘Smells all right,’ said Harris, coming through the door. He saw their faces. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Gordon said: ‘It’s na’ what they’re used to.’

  ‘We could go down to Salisbury and get a few quids’ worth of fish and chips,’ suggested Treadwell. ‘If they’ve got any fish.’

  ‘If we had a few quid,’ said Peters.

  ‘We’ll have a singsong,’ suggested Harris hopefully. ‘Everybody likes a singsong.’

  ‘No bugger likes turnips,’ said Blackie.

  They stood around the bubbling pot for another hour and then heard, with dropping hearts, a vehicle pull up. ‘Here they are,’ said Harris. ‘For Christ’s sake, try to look cheerful.’

  He went to the door and opened it. Ten Americans, led by the striding Albie, came in. ‘Nice,’ said Albie, looking around the basic billet. ‘Real cosy.’

  One of the Americans had a guitar hanging over his shoulder, two others carried a big crate of bottled beer and two more a tin bath full of coal.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ asked Harris. ‘We have to scrounge every shovelful.’

  The Americans were making themselves comfortable, sitting on the beds, sniffing the stew, opening bottles of beer. ‘From the locomotive,’ said Albie. ‘That little toy one they run from place to place. We have a key to the yard.’

  Plates had been lifted from the cookhouse, and cutlery by Harris from the sergeants’ mess. Cups came from the NAAFI canteen. Gordon dished out the hot stew. He had skinned and dismembered the three rabbits, shot by the unerring Warren with a 303 and a clip of stolen bullets, and they had all peeled the vegetables.

  It was warm in the hut and everybody had a good time. Towards the end, the man with the guitar began to strum it. The Americans sang ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas’ and the British ‘On Ilkley Moor’. Then they joined:

  ‘And in the park she wheeled a perambulator,

  She wheeled a perambulator in the merry month of May.

  And if you ask her where the hell she got it,

  She got it from a Yankee who is far far away …’

  They sang until they were hoarse. All the beer went and the stew pot was emptied. The GIs swore they had enjoyed it. At the end they sang the ballad their comrades had captured from the Germans, the song both enemies now claimed:

  ‘Underneath the lantern by the barrack gate,

  Darling, I remember the way you used to wait …

  … my Lili of the lamplight,

  My own Lili Marlene.’

  The hut on the wide plain glowed within and the voices came through the corrugated-iron roof and the shuttered windows and drift
ed over the starry, springtime night.

  April advanced, with its pale green touch spread across the plain. Daylight hours were longer now that British Double Summertime had begun. By government decree there was one-hour summertime throughout the year, even in darkest, deepest winter, for it provided longer working hours. Now that spring had really arrived the weather was often sunny, the smoke of the practising guns rising blue instead of grey, tanks and armoured cars almost jaunty as they advanced through the rising flowers, and some birds whistled as did the soldiers on the march. There was a sense that the day of the great invasion was not far away.

  In full battle order – with steel helmets, packs and ammunition pouches, capes for rain and gas, water bottles, first-aid kits, and each with the soldier’s ‘housewife’ for sewing on buttons and darning socks, and armed with rifles and bayonets – the squad stoically marched three miles across the curved countryside to where a mock Bavarian village had been constructed. Harris halted them and looked down on the prettily carved roofs and the wooden verandas incongruous in the Wiltshire dell. ‘Can’t you almost hear the cowbells?’ he said.

  ‘How be it that there’s no ’oles in the ’ouses, sarge?’ enquired Blackie.

  ‘Because it’s all blanks,’ said Harris patiently. ‘And blanks don’t make holes.’

  ‘Thank ee kindly, sergeant,’ said Blackie, reverting to West Country sarcasm. ‘Oi’d never ’o thought o’ that, would you, Bunny?’

  ‘Oi might ’ave,’ said Warren. ‘But it would ’ave took a long time.’

  ‘Bloody turnips,’ muttered Gannick.

  They rounded the shoulder of sprouting hillside and saw that there were already a hundred or more infantrymen assembled in front of the dummy village and more were arriving. Harris led his men down the slope. They wore their new Hampshire Regiment flashes on their sleeves. The other soldiers were from the Hampshires, the Dorsets, the Wiltshires and the Somerset Light Infantry, country boys mostly, now almost trained, nearly ready for battle.

  At the edge of the bizarre clump of houses were three stiffly upright men, one a regimental sergeant-major with a face like a bruise. The trio studied the soldiers with noses high as if trying to smell them. The sergeant-major marched two paces, stamped to attention and roared: ‘Parade! Parade att–en–shun!’