The Battle Done

by Alan David

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Eddie, joining Smith.

  ‘Our dead.’ Smith did not relax his stare into the distance. Eddie looked at the expansive face of his mate, studying the thick lips and prominent, partially flattened nose, the unruly hair. Smith folded his thick arms. He suddenly glanced sideways at Eddie, who was surprised to see a warm expression in the dark, savage eyes.

  ‘You’re a queer chap, Smudger,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t know what to make of you. One moment you seem to be a typical bruiser with fighting instinct and no brains and sense; then you change completely, and talk intelligently and seem like someone totally different. You’re a queer mixture, Smudger.’

  ‘Yes. My father was a dustman and my mother was Head Keeper at London Zoo. That’s why I’m strange.’ Eddie smiled.

  ‘You can smile,’ continued Smith. ‘Look at the difference between us. You’re good looking. I’m not. Far from it. I bet you could have any girl you wanted. The only way I’d get a girl is by courting someone from the local blind school. But that’s beside the point. You know something, Eddie? We’re all mates in this section, but you’re the one I feel closest to. I keep an eye on you in the tight spots, you know.’

  ‘What is it I’ve got that the others haven’t?’ Eddie spoke flippantly to hide the warmth he felt. He grinned at Smith. ‘I wouldn’t let Newman or Lloyd hear you say that or they may get jealous and fall out.’

  ‘We’re all good mates, Eddie.’ Smith scratched his chin. He grinned a little foolishly for letting some of his sentiment show through his hard exterior. ‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Ben and Dave. But I’ve always liked you more than them. You never moan about anything. You’re always willing to do anything for anyone. Nothing’s too much trouble. I hope you come through this war okay, Eddie.’

  ‘Thanks, Smudger. I certainly hope we all will. But if we are meant to die we shall, when the time comes.’ Smith slapped Eddie’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t let’s worry about that, mate.’ He paused. It was obvious to Eddie that his big tough comrade was about to cover up his softness. ‘We die if we worry, we die if we don’t, you know. Here, I wonder if we’ll get down to that café tonight. What was it that Froggie called it? Estami — something or other. Oh, never mind. It’s cafe with me. But I don’t think much of that firewater they dish out, do you, mate?’

  ‘It’s a bit rough. I’d rather have a black-and-tan.’

  ‘Me, too, mate. Say, how about us getting blindo tonight. We’re fighting soldiers on a four days’ rest, ain’t we? So let’s live like fighting soldiers should live when they’re out of the line.’

  ‘We’ll have a good time, Smudger, I promise you,’ said Eddie. ‘Arthur and I are fixing up a little celebration for tonight. It’s Wally’s twenty-fourth birthday today, and we’re making it something special for the section, or what’s left of it.’

  ‘Cor, I wish I’d known it was his birthday when we were on muster parade this morning. I’d have wished him many happy returns. I’ll try to get hold of something to flog. We’ll live, eh, mate? Come and give me a hand with the bren barrels, then I’ll go on the scrounge.’

  ‘Come on then, you Number One Scrounger.’ Eddie turned back into the barn. He held the bren barrel while Smith pulled it through with an oily rag.

  ‘You’ve got a good family, Eddie. You all think a lot of one another, don’t you? You’re not like old Ben. He makes me gag sometimes, the way he keeps on about how he and his brother don’t hit it off. There’s enough fighting going on in the world now without brothers starting on each other. The sarn’t is lucky to be out of the line so’s he can celebrate his birthday. It wouldn’t happen to just anyone. And he’s got two brothers and a helluva good section to help him.’

  ‘Everything’s fixed up,’ said Corporal Rawlings, coming into the barn. ‘I’m right friendly with the café owner’s daughter, and she’s going to fix up something from some stuff I scrounged from Andrews the cook. She’s knocking up some kind of a birthday cake, too. That’ll shake him.’

  ‘Yes, roll on tonight,’ said Smith. ‘Happy birthday!’

  The café in question was dusty and dirty, and showed scars to remind one of the fighting that occurred before the war had rolled on. There were a dozen small tables set out in the room that served the public, and four of these had been pushed together and covered by a surprisingly white tablecloth of pure linen. A bottle in the centre of the tables had a guttering candle stuck into its long neck and, as this was the only method of lighting, several other tables bore similar practical ornaments.

  ‘Come on,’ said Smith, leading the way into the café. ‘Hurry up and shut the door or the candles will blow out.’

  ‘It would be a good idea to have the tables outside,’ said Lloyd. ‘It’s daylight out there. What are the black-out shutters up for?’

  ‘There’s no glass in the windows. Anyway, sit down. I never like drinking during daylight, so shut the door and we’ll imagine it’s a cold winter’s night outside,’ said Arthur Rawlings.

  They crowded into the café, the sergeant and his two smiling brothers and Smith, Lloyd and Newman. They sat around the tables, Smith maintaining a continuous flow of loud, sometimes witty remarks which, he felt, contributed to the feeling of celebration that should reign for the evening.

  Corporal Rawlings stood up and took a bottle of cognac from the table. He filled six glasses and handed them around.

  ‘Now don’t drink yet,’ he pleaded. ‘After the last few months we all deserve a good party, so we’re having one, and as it coincides with the sergeant’s birthday we’ve got the excuse to pull out all stops. First though, before we start in earnest, let me get on with the surprise I’ve planned.’

  The corporal motioned to the French girl, who was hovering in the background near the door leading to the kitchen. She smiled and vanished quickly, to reappear almost at once carrying a covered tray. This she placed on the table in front of the sergeant. Corporal Rawlings paused in the act of lifting the cover. He looked down at his brother.

  ‘Wally, I had this done on behalf of the present and the lamented past members of this section, all of whom have always been your good friends. Happy birthday!’

  He lifted the cover and revealed a round, richly-iced cake that was intricately decorated with blobs and whorls of differently coloured icing. There were murmurs of wonder and appreciation, and all eyes turned to the sergeant.

  Sergeant Rawlings looked at the cake, and there was a little smile half frozen upon his face. The habitual parade ground expression suddenly vanished, and he nodded his head slowly. Eddie, watching him closely, felt tears of happiness spring into his eyes. There was a warm feeling in his breast, and he swallowed and blinked furiously to control his emotion.

  ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ said the sergeant. ‘In all my years of service this is the nicest thing that has ever happened to me. All I can say is — Smith, get your hair cut.’

  The gust of laughter drowned Smith’s reply. Sergeant Rawlings lifted his glass.

  ‘Let me be the first to give you a toast. To the Boys.’

  There was a little silence then, and sadness crept into all of them. The sergeant raised his glass. ‘To the Boys,’ he repeated.

  ‘To the Boys,’ they chorussed, and drank.

  Now cut the cake, Sarn’t,’ said Smith. ‘We’re all starvin’.’

  ‘Smudger, you can do me a favour,’ said Sergeant Rawlings.

  ‘Anything you say, Sarn’t. It’s your birthday.’

  ‘Call me Wally just for tonight.’

  ‘Yes, Sarn’t. Tonight you’re Wally, and we’re going to celebrate your birthday.’

  The cake was shared between them, and there was loud acclaim when the cook received her portion.

  ‘This cake takes me right back to Civvy Street,’ said Newman. ‘Happy days! I wonder just how much longer we’ve got of this war? One day we’ll be able to say, it’s over. Just imagine that! The war over, and no more fight
ing. It seems like a fairy tale.’

  ‘Let’s try and forget the war for just one night,’ said the corporal. ‘We’ve got plenty to drink, and reason to do so, and there are a hundred graves stretching from here to the beaches with good men in them who should be here with us now and can’t be. Let’s drink to them and for them. But forget the war. We’ve been let off for a couple of days, so come on, tuck in.’

  Bottles were emptied fast. The café was filled with troops, mostly Blankfolks, and the sounds of merriment and celebration almost raised the thick dust coating the many bottles in the racks in the cellar.

  Eddie, seated between the sergeant and Smith, realised that he was drinking too much, and paying heed to the sudden gyrations of his senses, decided to slow his rate of consumption. But Smith, with much shoulder slapping, kept his glass well filled, and induced Eddie to reckless drinking.

  ‘You’re taking your medicine slow tonight, Eddie mate.’

  ‘I’m doing all right, Smudger. I’m four ahead of Ben. Keep him going at it and perhaps that’ll cheer him up a bit.’

  ‘That’ll be a change. There’s only one thing that’ll cheer him up, and that’s the end of the war, and when that comes he’ll have nothing left to moan about.’

  ‘Let’s have a sing-song,’ said Lloyd. ‘Come on, start with Knees up Mother Brown.’

  They began singing, and very soon everyone in the café was joining in. Eddie kept blinking his eyes. The cigarette smoke hung thickly in the close atmosphere. Eddie was now halfway to intoxication. He hoped no one noticed his unsteadiness as he kept raising his glass to drink. His stomach felt hot and dry. There was an excess of saliva in his mouth. His head was spinning. He leaned sideways and tapped Wally’s arm.

  ‘Happy birthday, Wally. I hope this will be the last one in wartime. Maybe next year at this time we’ll all be back home.’

  ‘Thanks, Eddie. Let’s hope we’ll all come through it okay so we can have a real celebration. Come on, drink up. You haven’t had much yet. It is my birthday, you know.’

  ‘Fill up my glass then.’ Wild abandonment surged through Eddie. ‘Let’s drink the café dry tonight.’

  Corporal Rawlings cleared the tables and jumped upon them. The singing stopped and all eyes turned to watch him. The little corporal commenced to sing gibberish in a high sing-song voice, and began a dance that was definitely Indian in origin. He danced to an accompaniment of laughs, ribald comment and shouts of encouragement.

  Eddie held up a furtive hand and studied it, and saw his fingers trembling. I’m getting drunk, he thought. It’s not like drinking beer in England. He grinned. So what! This was their happiest hour for many weeks, and what a bit of luck it was that their long awaited rest should coincide with Wally’s birthday! For a moment Eddie’s thoughts flitted out of the café and returned home. The family would be thinking of the three absent members tonight. He would write and explain in detail the happenings on the evening of Wally’s birthday. Smith recalled him by tugging at his sleeve.

  ‘Come on, mate. You can’t be tired! You weren’t on guard last night. What are you dozing off for? This is a birthday party, not a funeral. Drink up. Tonight we live, for tomorrow we die.’

  ‘Okay, Smudger.’ Eddie pushed forward his glass. ‘Fill it up.’

  Sergeant Rawlings pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘Good or Wally. Sing us a song, mate.’ Lloyd was nearing his alcoholic capacity mark, and now his pale face was somewhat whiter, and his eyes were large and a little glassy. His blonde hair had disobeyed the discipline of his comb and hung over his forehead, much to the irritation of his nose, a fact he revealed by the persistent but unsuccessful attempts his hand made to restore it to its earlier neatness.

  The sergeant began to sing in a good baritone voice, and there was full silence while he continued. When he finished one song he was begged to sing another, and a dozen song titles were shouted at him. He continued singing.

  Eddie sat half lost in thought. I shall always remember this night, he thought. In the years to come I’ll just say to myself, remember the night of Wally’s twenty-fourth birthday, and all this will come back to me. He glanced sideways at the rapt expression on Smith’s face. I’ll never forget you in the years to come. You are certainly a good mate. Ben Newman and Dave Lloyd, too. Good boys! Mates! Thrown together by war, and proving that man’s best qualities, as well as his worst, were equal to the exigencies of war.

  The evening passed, with no-one giving much thought to time. Men were still being killed in the front line only miles way. But for the moment there was no thought of war in the café in the little French village.

  Sudden shouts by voices of authority commanded silence, and the revellers quietened and looked towards the doorway. Two red-capped military policemen stood there, eyes squinted against the light.

  ‘Okay, boys, it’s time to go,’ said one of them. ‘Make it snappy, and blow out those candles before you open the door. There’s an air raid on. No smoking or striking matches outside or we’ll all cop a packet. Smartly now. Back to your billets and into kip.’

  ‘Hurry up and finish off the drink,’ said Corporal Rawlings.

  ‘We’ll have to see it off ourselves,’ grinned the sergeant. ‘These young soldiers have had enough.’

  They laughed together as they drank. Eddie was making valiant efforts to drain his glass. Smith lounged back in his seat, his head lolling back and his mouth agape. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Lloyd had dropped his head to the table, pillowing it upon his folded arms. Newman, returning from the toilet, where he had spent twenty nauseating minutes, was ashen faced and trembling, looking the picture of misery.

  ‘Come on,’ said the sergeant. ‘On your feet, soldiers. Eddie, give Newman a hand with Lloyd. Arthur, we’ll manage Smith between us. It looks as if he’s settled there for the night.’

  Eddie staggered as he stood up. His eyes smarted and his head ached. There was a tight feeling in his stomach. He took Lloyd by one arm, and with Newman’s help, raised Lloyd from his seat. They wove an erratic course to the door, with Lloyd’s toes dragging over the floorboards. Sergeant and corporal half-carried Smith outside.

  The night was dark, but the sky was filled with flickering light. By the time they had gone a hundred yards Smith had recovered sufficiently to be able to walk alone. Ahead, between Eddie and Newman, Lloyd was staggering along and singing in a cracked, off-key voice.

  ‘Are you okay, Smith?’ asked Sergeant Rawlings.

  ‘Yes thank you, Wally.’ Smith spoke thickly. ‘The air has revived me.’

  ‘Good. I’m going to nip back to the café. I’ve left my belt there, and I’ll need it for first parade in the morning.’

  ‘Leave it until we call again,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ve got a buckshee belt you can borrow. Come on, let’s get back to the billet. I’m dog tired.’

  ‘No. I’ll nip back for it. I’ve had that belt a long time. Keep going, and I’ll soon catch up with you.’

  ‘We’ll come with you,’ said Smith.

  ‘No. I want you to keep an eye on those three in front. If those M.P.s are anywhere about they’ll be after them. Just listen to Lloyd’s singing! God! There’s enough reason in that alone for him to be arrested.’

  ‘Hurry up then,’ said Arthur. ‘That bombing is getting closer.’

  ‘Shan’t be a jiffy.’ The sergeant turned and doubled back to the café. Smith and Arthur listened to the sound of his heavy boots thudding on the cobblestones. Smith looked up anxiously at the sky.

  ‘Let’s stand in that doorway,’ he said. ‘The Jerries are coming this way.’ Then he raised his voice sharply : ‘Hey, Eddie, Lloyd, Newman. Get under cover. They’ve hit one of the bastards!’

  High up there in the light-splintered darkness one of the German bombers was in trouble. Smith had seen a flash that flared momentarily instead of winking out, and now a red glow was moving through the night, growing larger as the stricken bomber lost height.

  C
orporal Rawlings pushed Smith into the doorway. ‘He’s getting rid of his bombs. Duck, Smudger.’

  They threw themselves down as the whistle of bombs shrilled in crescendo, blotting out thought and movement in the timeless seconds of their descent. Then came six tremendous, shuddering explosions that filled their entire being with interminable nightmare. The blackness was rent by flashing, burning eruptions, and buildings were demolished and hurled piecemeal into the air.

  Corporal Rawlings and Smith lay mindless in the hell that was unleashed about them. They were overwhelmed and stunned by the noise, and cowered upon the ground. Slowly, the noise subsided, and the deadly shower of falling debris ceased. Then the motionless figures once more became humans and scrambled up, dishevelled and shaken, to take stock of their surroundings.

  The stick of jettisoned bombs had hit a row of buildings on the opposite side of the street. Several fires were burning fiercely, turning the darkness into flickering half-light and painting frightened faces in glaring red. Eddie came running back, chest heaving, eyes wide with concern, and the flickering firelight added depth to his expression.

  ‘Thank God you’re all right!’ he cried tensely. Then he glanced from side to side. ‘Where’s Wally?’

  ‘Wally!’ Arthur tried to gather his scattered wits. ‘He went back to the café for his belt. Christ! He must have just got inside when the bombs exploded.’

  ‘What!’ Eddie pushed between his brother and the silent Smith. ‘Has the café been hit?’ he cried hoarsely, his voice rising in alarm. ‘Can you see?’

  He started running along the street, stumbling upon the strewn rubble. Fear was living in him now; fear for the safety of the brother whom he loved more than anything else in the world. Wally, he thought. Oh, Wally, where are you?

  The corporal and Smith followed closely behind, and Smith sprawled headlong, his big hands clutching at the corporal and dragging him down. They lay for a moment, and heard Eddie’s voice crying out for the sergeant. They scrambled up and ran on.