The corporation bus drove south away from the plain. ‘Goodbye, ye hilly bastard,’ called Gordon. ‘France can only be flatter.’
A silence fell upon them as if they now began to realise where they were going. Harris broke it: ‘Well, the first stop is Lyndhurst, in the New Forest. They call it a holding camp. And hold you is what it does, so don’t ask for leave or even time to go to the pub. Because once we’re there, nobody moves until we go to the boats.’
*
Throughout the south and south-west of England almost every park and open space had become a tented camp with guards at its gates. The soldiers who were destined to give Europe freedom were confined behind wire. The mass of the Americans was joined by a British army together with a Canadian division that had been in the country since 1940 when it was rushed across the Atlantic to help stem the expected German invasion. The enemy had not come and it had been training for four years. Now it was keen for the fight. There were Frenchmen unsure if they and their leader, General Charles de Gaulle, would be welcome in their own country, openly bloodthirsty Poles out for revenge, and others. War had been an odd mixer. Across the Channel, ready to face the assault, were Indian soldiers whose hatred of British rule had persuaded them to fight for Nazism.
In Southampton, the major port for the invasion, the city common had become a military base. American soldiers threw their spare small change over the fence to local children hanging against the wire. Some of the boys had American badges and insignia sewn by their mothers on their sleeves and pockets. A thin-legged child on an old bicycle flaunted the emblem of the US 2nd Armored Division with its motto: ‘Hell on Wheels’.
Half an hour’s journey away was Southwick House where General Eisenhower was headquartered, like all his soldiers waiting for the day and knowing he had to make the lonely decision as to when it would be. It was his choice, his voice that would give the order. Tents spread east into Kent and west as far as Cornwall. On the moorland of the New Forest were extensive enclosures where soldiers were assembled behind wire, and wild ponies, deer, pigs and cows peered through fences at men in cages.
Into this massive military realm that morning chugged the red bus carrying Harris and his squad in convoy with trucks, jeeps and other everyday omnibuses. Through the forest town of Lyndhurst they drove.
Gordon had acquired a local guide-book. ‘The real Alice in Wonderland is buried here,’ he announced loudly. ‘Alice Liddell, she was called.’
‘It’s us who’s in Wonderland, something like it, anyway,’ said Treadwell, staring through his glasses.
The town’s inhabitants were going about their daily business, and taking little notice of the soldiers or the vehicles. The squad peered busily like day-trippers from the bus windows. The driver drove them proudly, performing elaborate hand signals, a set distance behind an armoured vehicle, and sitting upright as a guardsman.
The transports were going to different destinations and the convoy split up. Harris had to ask for directions from a snappy British military policeman at a crossroads. The redcap said nothing, just pointed. They turned through gates made from tree-trunks, flanked by men with bayonets and grim expressions. Eventually the hastily laid road terminated. Harris called his men to disembark; they unloaded their equipment and humped it to a tent.
‘Now Oi used to loike camping,’ mentioned Blackie as they walked below the smelly canvas. ‘Did you never go, Bunny?’
Warren said: ‘S’posed to but Oi had them mumps.’
There was an oil-lamp on a table and a row of beds and metal lockers. On each bed was a pile of blankets and a tough pillow. On the table were some books: a Bible, a French dictionary, a warning leaflet about leaving litter on the battlefield (‘It will give your position away’) and another on the dangers of venereal disease. There was also a notice on the soldier’s rights if he should be taken prisoner of war.
‘I wouldn’t mind gettin’ taken prisoner, sarge,’ said May, as if he were showing initiative. ‘It’s dead cushy and you don’t get shot or nothing.’
Harris regarded him caustically. ‘You’d better read the Bible, mate. Or the thing about getting the pox.’
Within the holding camp were ranks of camouflaged tents and two big prefabricated mess halls. The soldiers explored the vicinity within the wire in cautious pairs as though they were reconnoitring enemy lines. They called to men in other compounds. Treadwell and Gordon returned to the tent, ducking under the stiff canvas door.
‘There’s a big skive on the go,’ reported Treadwell. ‘Blokes going sick.’
‘Malaria,’ confirmed Gordon.
‘Malaria!’ Blackie was outraged. He jumped from his mattress. ‘How’s there malaria around ’ere? It b’ain’t bloody Egypt. It’s a dodge to get off the invasion.’
Gordon said: ‘It’s damp and humid here. It’s those stationed in India and places east, afore the war.’
‘The Yanks have caught everything,’ said Treadwell. ‘One of the medics says they’re going down like flies. Everything from the flu to the shits.’
‘Aye, crapping themselves grand,’ confirmed Gordon.
‘Pox,’ said Warren. ‘Pox is the best bet.’
They watched him cleaning his rifle barrel with a cord pull-through. ‘Bit hard to catch in ’ere,’ he said.
One side of the compound bordered a village road with a clutch of cottages and a school on its far side. Blackie and Warren went to the edge of the cage and watched the children in the playground. ‘Jus’ loike we used to be, eh, Bunny,’ said Blackie fondly. ‘Boys and maids. Little bastards.’
‘Jus’ like,’ agreed Warren. He peered along the street. ‘That next camp up there on the other side,’ he said, ‘looks like Yanks. See, they be standing against the fence starin’ out.’
‘Just loike we,’ said Blackie. ‘Same as a zoo.’
It was half past twelve and they were about to turn towards the cookhouse when the school gate was thrown open and a stream of children came out, a hurrying crocodile, making for the American enclosure. The British soldiers observed them with an annoyed wistfulness. ‘Where they think they be goin’?’ asked Warren.
‘Where they’ll get most,’ said Blackie.
He was right. The boys and girls reached the margin of the American perimeter fence and began to shout and jump. The men inside the compound laughed and called to them, throwing chocolate bars and packs of chewing-gum over the top of the fence. The children fought and tumbled.
A soldier who with three others had appeared behind Blackie and Warren joined in watching the scramble. ‘Fucking greedy, I call that,’ he said.
‘We was fighting this war for those kids a long time before them Yanks got ’ere,’ one of the others added.
‘Same as the last war,’ agreed Blackie. ‘Didn’t get there till it was nearly over.’
They could hear some orders being shouted in the American compound and the GIs near the wire backed away. The children cautiously did likewise, turning back towards the school. ‘Hey, you! You kids!’ called the first soldier behind Warren. The children paused and looked towards them without enthusiasm.
‘Come and talk to us,’ urged a second soldier. ‘Come on.’
‘What be the matter with us, then?’ Blackie joined in.
To their surprise some of the children, four boys and two older girls, came unhurriedly towards them. ‘Why was you shoutin’?’ asked one of the girls.
None of the soldiers answered until Warren said: ‘You went over to the Yanks all right, di’n you? What’s the matter with us?’
One of the boys ran his coat sleeve fiercely across his nose and said: ‘Cos they gives us Hershey bars.’ He pulled half a dozen chocolate bars from one pocket and then a further handful from another and held them out in a fan shape like a gambler with two hands of cards.
‘And gum,’ put in one of the girls, holding up a white packet. She giggled: ‘Got any gum, chum?’
‘S’pose you don’t want to be talkin’ to the loik
es of us, then?’ said Blackie.
‘You talk funny,’ said the boy with the handfuls of chocolate. ‘You one of them Poles?’ The others produced bars from their pockets, tore away the wrappings and began to eat them furiously. The soldiers’ faces narrowed. The children, chocolate oozing around their mouths, kept their eyes on the soldiers.
‘Are you all going to get shot?’ asked one of the girls.
‘Killed?’ asked a boy. He played at firing a machine-gun. The rest began to snigger.
‘You’ll be getting killed,’ retorted one of the soldiers. ‘I’ll come over this wire and do it myself.’
The children hooted. ‘But you can’t get out!’ exclaimed the elder of the girls. She produced a stick of chewing-gum and began to unwrap it teasingly. ‘You’re locked up.’
‘Cos you might run away!’ shouted the second girl.
The soldiers were clutching the unmoving fence, pushing against it. ‘Bloody little swines,’ said one of the men.
‘Ooooh, I’ll tell my dad about you,’ responded the other girl. ‘He’s a butcher.’
The children broke into further mirth and stuck out their chocolatey tongues. A bell sounded from the school. The boy with the most Hershey bars selected one and tossed it over the fence. It fell in the middle of the soldiers and for a moment no one moved. Then Blackie bent to pick it up but was pushed aside by one of the others.
The youngsters jeered and began tossing chocolate bars over the fence. The soldiers fell into an undignified scrum as they tried to claim them. Warren had his Hershey bar snatched from his hand and he snatched it back angrily. They scuffled and swore.
The children were trotting back across the road to the school. One of the girls returned for a moment, and blew them a raspberry before lobbing a packet of chewing-gum over the fence. The trapped soldiers stared after her, one picked up the gum and the others began to eat their Hershey bars.
It rained for two days and drizzled on the third: thick, summer rain diminishing to a misty dampness that spread across the waiting regiments. Forest trees dripped like a hundred ticking metronomes ticking, forest streams were glutted and ran swiftly, marsh moss stuck to the soldiers’ boots.
‘It be a soddin’ bog,’ complained Warren, splashing into the tent. ‘Worse than a farmyard.’
The rivulet of rainwater trickled its way between the beds; the oil-lamp, alight although it was midday in May, glowed, giving an illusion of heat as well as a glimpse of light. The men were damp and bored. ‘I can’t play at yon snakes and ladders any more,’ grumbled Gordon. ‘Nor yon draughts.’
Harris pushed through the wet flap, displaying a sheaf of blue papers and a single white sheet. ‘Which do you want first?’ he asked. ‘General Montgomery or Entertainments?’
Gordon put out his hand for the white paper. The blue papers were left ignored on the bottom of Treadwell’s bed.
‘Tomorrow night,’ the Scot announced, ‘there’s going to be marionettes.’
‘French dancers?’ asked Blackie, beginning to smile.
‘Puppets,’ Treadwell told him. ‘Like we are.’
Blackie looked affronted. ‘Things on strings? Christ.’
Gordon studied the sheet. ‘But tonight sounds better. Songs at the piano, it says. Some folk called Teresa Concetta and Andre Brech.’
‘A bit of a singsong,’ suggested Warren.
‘I doubt it,’ put in Harris. He had been frowning over the message from Montgomery. ‘Not with names like that.’ He handed around the blue leaflets. ‘This is addressed to all troops,’ he said. ‘From the man at the top.’
‘But no’ at the front,’ muttered Gordon. He took one of the pamphlets.
‘Read it out, Treadwell,’ Harris said. ‘You’ve got the glasses.’
‘It’s seeing any ruddy thing in this tent,’ grumbled Blackie. ‘What be the use of a message from Monty if you can’t see what it says?’ He looked up with a slice of hope. ‘Or it might be moi eyes be goin’. Off to the MO Oi ought to be.’ The sergeant laughed and went out. He was going to write to Enid.
Treadwell coughed. ‘All right, here goes.’ He moved closer to the oil-lamp and began to read, slowly and aloud: ‘The time has come to deal the enemy a terrific blow in Western Europe …’ He looked up as if to make sure they were listening. They were attentive. But why would Montgomery send a message to them? They would do as they were told anyway.
Clumsily he continued: ‘The blow will be struck by the combined sea, land and air force of the Allies, together …’
‘Look, a mouse!’ Warren pointed.
Everyone looked. Treadwell stopped reading Montgomery. The mouse was sprawled in the muddy water trickling through the tent, half dead, its back legs moving fitfully as if it were trying to swim.
‘Puir thing,’ said Gordon.
Blackie said: ‘Some bastard’s stamped on ’im. Look ’ow flat ’is arse be.’ He took Montgomery’s proclamation from Treadwell’s hand and leaning over, scooped the creature into it. The soaked field mouse lay on the general’s fighting words and, rolling its eyes, gave up its own fight.
‘Snuffed it,’ said May.
‘Buggered,’ said Chaffey.
‘Bury it proper,’ said Warren.
He went to his bed and slid his bayonet from its scabbard. ‘My dad used to dig graves a bit,’ he said. ‘’Member ’im, Blackie?’
‘Delver, weren’t ’e called?’ responded Blackie surveying the dead mouse.
‘Delver Warren,’ said Warren fondly. ‘’E tucked a few away.’
‘Where we goin’ to bury yon mouse?’ said Gordon. ‘Not in the tent.’
‘Yeah, might niff,’ said Chaffey.
Warren put his head out of the tent to see if it had stopped raining. Harris came back to find out what the excitement was about. He saw the mouse stretched on the blue paper of the proclamation. ‘Don’t take him near the cookhouse,’ he warned. He went back to his own tent.
Warren with his bayonet and Gordon, respectfully carrying the mouse, went between the guy ropes and found a corner where some grass had survived. The other men came after them. ‘That’ll do,’ said Warren. ‘Just the job.’ They stood like children playing at funerals while he cut a small oblong from the ground. Gordon wrapped the mouse in the proclamation and inserted the body into the hole. ‘Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,’ he recited. The others glanced at him. ‘Rabbie Burns,’ he said as if it were a close friend. ‘Ode “To a Mouse”. Learned that in school. I allus thought it might come in useful.’
Back in his tent, Harris wiped the drizzle from his cap badge and wondered who cleaned Montgomery’s two cap badges. How could a man wear two cap badges?
The tent which he shared with the other three sergeants was square. All night the rain had been tattooing on its taut roof, and they had tossed a coin to select which one of them would get out of his camp-bed and ease the guy ropes. The sergeants were all strangers. One of them, from Aldershot, had been a soldier twenty years. He tossed the coin by dim torchlight and told Harris that he had lost.
Now, for a while, Harris had the luxury of the tent to himself. He sat on his damp bed and by the light coming in from the sullen day began to write:
Dearest Enid,
I thought I would drop you a line now because I don’t think there’s any chance of getting leave and coming home to see you. Because of the censor I can’t tell you hardly anything except that my ankle now seems to be okay. The medics say as long as I don’t put too much weight on it. Anyway I’m fit for duty.
I know that you and I will never be the same. You are so lively and I know I’m a bit stodgy but when the war is over we’ll be able to spend more time together and work things out.
But I just want you to know that I love you now the same as I loved you when we got married. It will never be any different for me.
Your loving husband, Harris.
The rain had moved tardily away, leaving a pale Maytime sky over the endless canvas roofs. Only a fe
w miles distant, in the southern harbours, ships were being shuffled, shifted, loaded, made ready. It would not be long now.
Each soldier was permitted one bottle of beer a day; non-commissioned officers were allocated two. They were on sale between six and seven o’clock each evening in the prefabricated buildings that served as a canteen and a sergeants’ mess.
‘Right you be then,’ said Blackie, squinting down the neck of his beer bottle to the empty interior. ‘Weem ought to go and see this couple, whatever they call theirselves, and their …’
‘“Songs at the Piano”,’ provided Gordon.
‘It might not be so bad,’ said Treadwell. ‘There’s bugger all else to do.’
Determinedly they strode out across the muddy camp to the larger of the mess halls. Other soldiers were making their unhopeful way towards it. By the time a wan, overfed woman and a stringy man in an ancient dinner suit were in place on the makeshift stage and the scarred lid had been lifted from the piano, most of the chairs were occupied. ‘Madame Concetta will begin her performance with two lieder – two songs from Schubert,’ announced the stringy man. He began to play, frowning at the piano’s notes.
The lady expanded her black-curtained bosom and began to sing. The men who were waiting to go into battle sat in deepening gloom. Blackie was transfixed. He put his small head into his rough hands and moaned: ‘Fuck me gently.’
By the first of June the American holding camp on Southampton Common was so tight that there was little room even to walk. No drills were held, there was no space for training nor even volleyball. The soldiers sat in their wet tents and relentlessly played poker, the doomsday version of the game, with stakes, on paper, as high as twenty-five thousand dollars.
A jeep was waiting for Soroyan. He climbed aboard. ‘Those guys,’ he sighed. ‘How they gonna pay out that sort of dough?’
‘They’re reckoning on being dead,’ the driver said casually. ‘Somebody must like you, pal. Second time you’ve been sent on the mail run.’
Waiting For the Day Page 27
