Silent War

by David Fiddimore

Daisy had a tiny office alongside Watson’s big office in the cricket pavilion. I suspected that most of our work was done in her small office, whilst Watson sat with his feet under the desk in the big one, sloshing whisky and chatting to his cronies on the telephone. It’s the way you have a good war. Watson’s office was currently empty of Watson, but Daisy came through to find out who was making the noise.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked her without preamble.

  ‘Gone over to Cairo for a meeting and a conference. He said that you were going to be awkward when you got back, and that if you were too awkward I was to call the police. Are you going to be too awkward, Charlie?’

  ‘Yes: I want to brain the bastard.’

  She immediately reached past me for the telephone on his desk. I put my hand on it first to prevent her, and she slapped me. I think it shocked both of us. Daisy’s mouth dropped open, and she rushed back into her den and slammed the door.

  I had to follow her, didn’t I? I’m not sure whether that was because I was concerned for her, or to make sure she wasn’t phoning the cops from in there. She wasn’t. She was crying, and I, of course, lost all my resolve. Men are so stupid. I went over and put my arm around an aircraftwoman who had technically assaulted a senior officer. That meant that I technically assaulted her. Again: stupid. Daisy was having none of that. She pulled violently away, but accepted my handkerchief – one of those horrible light khaki issue jobs with the broad dark stripe down one side. There was a packet of Passing Cloud, and a box of B&Ms matches on her desk, alongside a glass ashtray. I lit two fags for us, and passed her one. I enjoyed the swift hit of the Turkish tobacco, but this was hardly the time to start discussing that. Daisy stopped shaking, and began to drag heavily on the fag. I think it calmed her as well as me. I went and sat on the edge of her desk, leaving yards of sea room between us.

  Eventually she asked, ‘Will you have to report me?’ I hated the way that she wouldn’t meet my eye.

  ‘Don’t be daft; I’ve known you for years. I just want to know what I’ve done wrong.’

  She laughed a bitter little laugh. It was as if the Daisy I’d known had completely disappeared, and an entirely different unpleasant person was looking out from her body at me. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, Charlie. You’ve done nothing.’ She’d just said the same thing three times. Did that mean anything, or was she simply losing her marbles?

  ‘I still don’t understand. You really were going to phone the cops and make some sort of report about me. Why?’

  This time she did make eye contact, and there was nothing good in there. It was enough to make you believe in those silly old Catholic tales of demonic possession.

  ‘Because I could, Charlie.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I loathe you, and I would enjoy seeing you taken down a peg or two.’

  ‘Again . . . but why?’

  ‘Because you’re a man.’

  I felt like saying Is that all? And then Situation normal, but it was too serious for that. I headed back out to Watson’s office. Don’t ask me what I was thinking about, because my mind was spinning. His cupboard was unlocked. The Dimple Haig had been finished, but there was a half-decent Black Label Johnnie Walker. I didn’t think he would begrudge it me. Daisy came and stood alongside me, reached over and poured us a glass each. A hefty glass of whisky at this time of day was definitely a trespass into Watson’s territory. This time it was she who sat on the edge of the desk. She had a nice pair of pins but, again, it wasn’t the right time to notice them.

  ‘He’s not really a drunk you know: it’s all an act. He rarely touches the stuff unless there’s someone here to see him do it.’

  ‘Half the people I know spend most of their time pretending to be someone other than they are . . .’ and I wasn’t prepared to let her off the hook . . . ‘Look at you: you’ve spent years pretending to be someone I liked . . .’

  ‘More bloody fool you, then.’ She was still at it.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what it’s all about?’ I took a sit-up-straight chair by the door that led out onto Watson’s veranda. I just had this sense that out of her arms’ reach was a sensible place to be. ‘Why have you changed from one of my friends, into someone who loathes me?’ I used her word. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘I told you. It’s nothing to do with you. Stop being so vain.’

  ‘Then stop hating me.’

  She looked away, and said quietly, ‘I can’t.’ But there was no weakness in the words.

  Stalemate. I think I’ve told you somewhere before that God created me specifically to break stalemates by giving me all the stupid questions to ask. When I’m dead it’s probably what people will remember about me.

  Now I asked, ‘What if I came over there, put you over my knee, and slapped your arse until you told me what the hell is going on?’

  That got her attention. ‘Mr Watson has a loaded service revolver in his right-hand desk drawer. He always forgets to take it out with him. I’ll reach over, take it, and shoot you.’

  I don’t only have a problem with stupid questions: I also have a problem with the stupid answers I usually get to them. I stood up, and took one pace towards her.

  ‘Go on then. Why don’t you do it? There’s no one else here, so you can tell them what you like. Tell them I attacked you.’ Without taking her eyes off me she leaned away from me, reached back and opened the drawer by feel; then placed her hand inside. I could see that she was trembling. I held my breath. Then she paused – I was gambling on her not being totally doolally. Then she pulled the drawer shut, stood up stiffly and walked in silence back into her own space, taking her drink with her . . . and shut the door between us.

  I gave my lungs permission to breathe again, and my heart permission to start beating. My shirt was sticking to the small of my back. I’d been silly again.

  I swallowed the whisky in a oner, not even feeling it go down, went over to the cupboard, and poured another. Then I went over and sat behind the Wing Commander’s desk. What the hell had I let myself in for this time? All I knew was that I shouldn’t leave. So I didn’t. After five minutes, I heard Daisy begin to weep again. She cried and cried, and I didn’t go in there. After another twenty minutes she stopped, and a little later came out mopping her face with my handkerchief. I know that you’re supposed to tell people how great they look, but Daisy looked dreadful so I didn’t even try.

  Her back was to me – she was pulling herself another whisky: I couldn’t remember ever having seen her drink much before – when I said, ‘You’re still going to have to shoot me . . .’

  ‘Why?’ She didn’t turn.

  ‘Because I’m going to sit here, or follow you around until you tell me what the hell has happened.’

  She turned this time, her eyes were watery again. She said, ‘You’re a fool, Charlie.’

  ‘I know. Tell me something I don’t . . .’

  I’ve told you before that there is an exact length of a pause in a conversation when a speaker is about to say something important: you can just fit the intro to Major Glenn Miller’s ‘String of pearls’ into it. Eventually she said, ‘I had a fight with a couple of men.’

  ‘Fight?’

  ‘More of a tussle really; they didn’t hurt me.’

  ‘What do you mean, Daisy?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody dense, Charlie. One held me for the other, and then they changed places. They were careful, considerate even. They didn’t hurt me: they just had me, cleaned up, and went away again.’

  Why was that the last thing I had expected? Shit. My mouth went dry.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day before you went away.’

  ‘Where?’ There you go again, Charlie. Why did it matter where?

  ‘Here. On the very desk you’re sitting at, if you must know.’

  She went to sit at the chair I’d vacated by the door. It was as if her legs could suddenly no longer support her. When I started to rise, she held her hand up to fend me off, so I st
ayed where I was.

  ‘Where was Watson?’

  ‘Out. They must have waited until they had seen him leave, because they came in soon afterwards.’

  ‘Who have you told?’

  ‘No one, stupid! It was probably my own fault: lying out there in the sun where anyone could walk by. Didn’t you tell me that yourself?’

  ‘Maybe. But that’s not the way to look at it, Daisy.’

  ‘Why not? What is the way to look at it?’

  ‘My dad told me about the three ways of sex between ordinary people, when I was still a kid. There’s sex between two people who don’t know what they’re doing – which is embarrassing. There’s sex between two people who do know what they’re doing, and want to, which is terrific . . . but between people, one of whom doesn’t want to, sex is rape. He reckons that they are the only three varieties for people like you and me.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon he’s right . . . don’t you?’

  She didn’t answer me. She said, ‘I’m getting a bit drunk, Charlie, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Never say you’re sorry for being drunk; it’s a sign of weakness . . .’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘John Wayne almost said it.’ That won me a twitch of a smile.

  ‘. . . but I want another drink.’

  ‘That’s OK. The boss is away. I’ll pretend to be him, and give us permission.’ I held my own glass out as well. I asked her, ‘Are you telling me that you’ve done nothing about them?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t think of anything to do.’

  ‘Report them. Lay charges. You can’t mess around with people like that.’

  ‘And have everyone talking about me and sniggering? How would you like that? I told you; most people will say it’s my own fault.’ She looked out of the window and carried on speaking almost as if I wasn’t in the room. ‘Anyway one of them came back later, and apologized. He said they couldn’t help it, because I was lovely and they hadn’t seen their girlfriends for over a year . . . something like that. He said how sorry they were, and even offered me money. He asked if I was all right; he was very concerned.’

  ‘I’ll bet he was. What did you say?’

  ‘I said I was all right, and asked him to go away. They weren’t brutal with me, Charlie. One just held me down while the other had me.’ Then she started to cry again, but very quietly – like a whisper, if ever a cry can be a whisper. ‘They held a hand across my mouth so I couldn’t even say anything . . . so it was almost as if it wasn’t happening to me.’

  I found that I was almost whispering as well. ‘Tell me who they were.’ And at precisely that moment something odd occurred: I remembered something similar happening to a woman at RAF Bawne during my bombing tour . . . and I remembered how badly the Boss class had dealt with it then.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can do something about them.’

  ‘No . . . oo . . . o.’ It was an odd, drawn-out sound. ‘That will make it worse.’

  Anyway I took a chance again. I went round the desk, and stood closer to her. ‘Please trust me. Just this once, please trust me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not sure what to do either.’ I took her small nod for a yes, and made a decision on the strength of it. I had told her the truth: I didn’t know what to do, but you’ll remember the old advert, I’m sure – so perhaps I knew someone who did. I picked up the telephone. The person I was looking for wasn’t at work, but they gave me an alternative number. It was the number of her quarter.

  I said, ‘Hello Haye with an e. It’s me, Charlie.’

  ‘I knew it. You sound like Charlie.’

  ‘I have a problem, Haye, and I need your help . . .’

  I had noticed before that Watson was much more assertive by telephone. When I answered it, he barked, ‘Where’s Daisy?’

  ‘She’s not well,’ I lied smoothly. ‘I sent her up the road to the hospital at Abu Sueir. They didn’t have the right people down here.’

  The sharpness went out of his voice. ‘What’s up with her?’

  Bad choice of words maybe, but then mine was worse. I’d promised not to tell anyone else. I wasn’t sure it was a promise I was going to completely keep, but I thought it covered the boss.

  ‘Women’s problem, sir.’ That’s right, I thought numbly, sometimes men are women’s problems.

  ‘Oh God! How long’s she going to be out of action?’

  ‘Possibly a couple of weeks, sir.’

  ‘Who’s running the shop?’

  ‘Me and M’smith. Nancy’s giving us a hand. The army has another scheme planned for a week’s time: out into the sand in the northwest this time.’

  ‘Get yourself sorted out for it then.’ Then he paused and asked, ‘Should I send her something?’

  ‘That would be a good idea, sir. She wouldn’t let us alert you – didn’t want to worry you.’ I wondered where he’d find a bunch of flowers in camel-dung country.

  ‘Silly woman – so you don’t tell me, and as soon as I find out I’m worried sick!’ I thought she’d like to know that, but doubted he’d ever tell her. ‘I could always come back via the hospital, I suppose.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea to me, sir, but you had better probably check with them first.’

  ‘Good thought. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, I have a bone to pick with you about this last trip, sir.’

  ‘. . . and that can bloody wait . . . you got a three-day swan out of it, so don’t be an ungrateful little swine. Stop bellyaching.’ And then he put the phone down on me. When you’re my height, they can’t resist saying little. I try not to let it get to me any more. Sometimes I understand why other nations aren’t all that keen on the Brits. I put my feet up on his desk and resolved to drink him dry before he returned. Then I decided to keep my options open with the SWO, and volunteered for a night as duty officer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blues my naughty sweetie gives to me

  I was surprised the SWO was there to bat me in. Usually a guard commander just got what they called ‘the hand-over’ from his predecessor. I’d borrowed a pushbike, and ridden around the compound in the afternoon. As the sweat dripped off me I told myself that it was doing me good – my skin even felt hardened enough to try it without a shirt. Daisy was right; I was vain. I just wanted to be the same colour as all the old-timers. Flying had been shut down because of the heat of the afternoon. It was nice to be somewhere you couldn’t fight a war because it was too hot. At one of the runway run-offs a corporal was drilling a squad of defaulters. They looked half dead. He saluted as he doubled them past me, and I wondered how he knew the half-naked fool on a bicycle was an officer. Maybe I had the look. I hoped to Christ I hadn’t.

  At its best, the camp perimeter consisted of a ditch in the fucking desert surmounted by a high fence of barbed-wire strands, followed by a second internal ditch. A patrol would have to be careful not to fall into it at night. Rubbish had accumulated in it in places: I didn’t like to think of what lurked underneath. At its worst, the defence was no more than several tangled rolls of rusty barbed wire that looked like something from the First War: my old man would have felt at home here. Pieces of paper had blown on to the wire and fluttered like white flags in the breeze. They gave off a weird, hushed rustling sound. You could be forgiven for thinking that was the sound of rodents, or the snakes that hunted them down, moving along the ditches beneath the rubbish. There were small, directed lights on poles in a few places. These gave the wogs some light to see what they were doing. I still couldn’t believe it was Daisy who had brought me to this, but it was: I wanted to have the SWO firmly on my side when I decided to do something about her attackers, so I’d volunteered.

  That night I relieved a flight lieutenant in the Regiment. He looked amused when I breezed in a few minutes before twenty-three hundred.

  ‘I heard you volunteered. You must have been out in the sun too long.’

&nbs
p; ‘The SWO advised me to get some time in as quickly as I could, and, with respect, there seems damn-all else for me to do.’

  ‘Camp Cinema?’

  ‘It’s turning out just about now, isn’t it? Besides, I saw them in Malta a month ago.’

  Then he smiled, and held out his hand, ‘Just so. Sorry, I was being sarky: we don’t get many of Watson’s Wankers over here at this time of night.’

  ‘Is that what they call us?’

  ‘ ’fraid so. Can I take you over the maps before I go?’

  The SWO clomped in a few minutes after my predecessor had left. The area was outside his direct realm of responsibility, so I did wonder what he was doing there. They obviously didn’t trust me to run the show on my own.

  He shook hands, and looked down on me.

  ‘Good evening, sir: I thought I’d come and make the introductions, seeing as it’s your first night.’

  ‘You just didn’t trust me not to make a mess of it.’

  He gave me that up-and-down look: I suppose that I could have been better turned out. ‘When did you last stand guard, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?’ He had me there.

  ‘I think that would have been at Padgate in 1942 – at the end of my induction weeks.’

  One of the erks in the room sniggered, and Cox bit him like a rattlesnake. I’ve seen a rattler in action – in fact I was once rather fond of one – so I should know. Cox spun round and snarled, ‘What’s that, Hoskins?’

  ‘Nothing, SWO.’

  ‘See me tomorrow morning – 0830. I’ll find a cure for it. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, SWO.’

  I have a piece of advice for you. Something I learned in the Forties. Never get between a Warrant Officer and his men. It’s not far removed from an act of suicide. So when he asked me, ‘Would you like me to show you the ropes, sir?’ I surrendered immediately.

  ‘Yes, please, Mr Cox. And shout at me if I’m too rusty.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’

  He had me strap on a .38 revolver, and drove me along my section of the perimeter in a jeep which had seen better days. Hoskins rode behind us with a Stirling on his lap and a miserable expression on his face. I reckoned he’d be polishing silverware in the Officers’ Mess by mid-morning. We were responsible for one side of the giant quadrilateral compound. Luckily it was one of the utilitarian wire fences I’d reconnoitred that afternoon. I wondered if anyone had seen me doing it and told Cox, and he’d made his deployment accordingly.