by Evelyn Waugh
‘You’re allergic to dogs? I had an aunt…’
‘You don’t find dogs without people.’
‘Ah. I see what you mean. Come to think of it I believe I read somewhere that the Gestapo use bloodhounds.’
‘I don’t like this at all,’ said Trimmer. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’
‘You’re in command, old boy. In your place I’d just push on.’
‘Would you?’
‘Certainly.’
‘But you’re drunk.’
‘Exactly. If I was in your place I’d be drunk too.’
‘Oh God. I wish I knew what to do.’
‘Push on, old boy. All quiet now. The whole thing may have been a hallucination.’
‘D’you think so?’
‘Let’s assume it was. Push on.’
Trimmer drew his pistol and continued the advance. They reached the top of a grassy ridge, and saw half a mile to their flank a dark feature that stood out black against the silver landscape.
‘There’s your tower,’ said Ian.
‘It doesn’t look like a tower.’
‘“Moonlight can be cruelly deceptive, Amanda,”’ said Ian in his Noel Coward voice. ‘Push on.’
They moved forward cautiously. Suddenly the dog barked again and Trimmer as suddenly fired his pistol. The bullet struck the turf a few yards ahead but the sound was appalling. Both officers fell on their faces.
‘What on earth did you do that for?’ asked Ian.
‘D’you suppose I meant to?’
A light appeared in the building ahead. Ian and Trimmer lay flat. A light appeared downstairs. A door opened and a broad woman stood there, clearly visible, holding a lamp in one hand, a shotgun under her arm. The dog barked with frenzy. A chain rattled.
‘God. She’s going to let it loose,’ said Trimmer. ‘I’m off.’
He rose and bolted, Ian close behind.
They came to a wire fence, tumbled over it and ran on down a steep bank.
‘Sales Boches!’ roared the woman and fired both barrels in their direction. Trimmer dropped.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Ian, coming up with him where he lay groaning. ‘She can’t have hit you.’
‘I tripped over something.’
Ian stood and panted. The dog seemed not to be in pursuit. Ian looked about him.
‘I can tell you what you tripped over. A railway line.’
‘A railway line?’ Trimmer sat up. ‘By God, it is.’
‘Shall I tell you something else? There aren’t any railways where we ought to be.’
‘Oh God,’ said Trimmer, ‘where are we?’
‘I rather think we’re on the mainland of France. Somewhere in the Cherbourg area, I daresay.’
‘Have you still got that bottle?’
‘Of course.’
‘Give it to me.’
‘Steady on, old boy. One of us ought to be sober and it’s not going to be me.’
‘I believe I’ve broken something.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t sit there too long. A train’s coming.’
The rhythm of approaching wheels swelled along the line. Ian gave Trimmer a hand. He groaned, hobbled and sank to the ground. Very soon the glow and spark of the engine came into view and presently a goods-train rolled slowly past. Ian and Trimmer buried their faces in the sooty verge. Not until it was out of sight and almost out of hearing did either speak. Then Ian said: ‘D’you know it’s only sixteen minutes since we landed?’
‘Sixteen bloody minutes too long.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time to get back to the beach. Take it easy. I think we ought to make a slight detour. I didn’t like the look of that old girl with the gun.’
Trimmer stood up, resting on Ian’s shoulder.
‘I don’t believe anything is broken.’
‘Of course it isn’t.’
‘Why “of course”. It might easily have been. I came the hell of a cropper.’
‘Listen, Trimmer, this is no time for argument. I am greatly relieved to hear that you are uninjured. Now step out and perhaps we shall get home.’
‘I ache all over like the devil.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you do. Step out. Soon over. Damn it, one might think it was you that was drunk, instead of me.’
It took them twenty-five minutes to reach the boats. Trimmer’s shaken body seemed to heal with use. Towards the end of the march he was moving fast and strongly but he suffered from cold. His teeth chattered and only a stern sense of duty prevented Ian from offering him whisky. They passed the place where they had left the demolition party but found it deserted.
‘I suppose they did a bunk when they heard that shot,’ said Trimmer. ‘Can’t blame them really.’
But when they came to the beach all four dinghies were there with their guards. There was no sign of the rest of the force.
‘They went inland, sir, after the train passed.’
‘Inland?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh.’ Trimmer drew Ian aside and asked anxiously: ‘What do we do now?’
‘Sit and wait for them, I suppose.’
‘You don’t think we can go back to the ship and leave them to follow?’
‘No.’
‘No. I suppose not. Damn. It’s bloody cold here.’
Every two minutes Trimmer looked at his watch, shivering and sneezing.
‘Orders are to re-embark at zero plus sixty.’
‘Plenty of time to go yet.’
‘Damn.’
The moon set. Dawn was still far distant.
At length Trimmer said: ‘Zero plus fifty-two. I’m frozen. What the hell does the Sergeant mean by going off on his own like this? His orders were to wait for orders. It’s his own look-out if he’s left behind.’
‘Give him till zero plus sixty,’ said Ian.
‘I bet that woman’s given the alarm. They’ve probably been captured. There’s probably a howling mob of Gestapo looking for us at the moment – with bloodhounds … zero plus fifty-nine.’
He sneezed. Ian took a final swig.
‘Here, my dear Watson,’ he said, ‘if I am not mistaken, come our clients – one side or the other.’
Footsteps softly approached. A dimmed torch winked the signal.
‘Off we go then,’ said Trimmer, not pausing to greet his returning men.
There was a flash and a loud explosion inland behind them.
‘Oh God,’ said Trimmer. ‘We’re too late.’
He scrambled for the boat.
‘What was that?’ Ian asked the Sergeant.
‘Gun-cotton, sir. When we saw the train go by, not having heard anything from the Captain, I went up myself and laid a charge. Hop in quiet, lads.’
‘Splendid,’ said Ian. ‘Heroic.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir. I just thought we might as well show the Jerries we’d been here.’
‘In a day or two’s time,’ said Ian, ‘you and Captain McTavish and your men are going to wake up and find yourselves heroes. Can you do with some whisky?’
‘Much obliged, sir.’
‘For God’s sake, come on,’ said Trimmer from the boat.
‘I’m coming. Be of good comfort, Master Trimmer, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle by God’s grace in England as I trust shall never be put out.’
A signal was made just before dawn briefly announcing the success of the expedition. The submarine dived and the Captain in his cabin began to draft his account of the naval operation. In the wardroom Ian coached Trimmer in the military version. High spirits do not come easily under water. All were content.
Major Albright, GSO II (Planning), HOO HQ, was at Portsmouth to meet them when they came ashore that afternoon. He was effusive, almost deferential.
’What can we do for you? Just say.’
‘Well,’ said Trimmer,’ how about a spot of leave? The chaps are pretty browned off with Portsmouth.’
‘You’ll have to come to Londo
n.’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
‘General Whale wants to see you. He’ll want to hear your own story, of course.’
‘Well, it’s more Kilbannock’s story really.’
‘Yes,’ said Ian. ‘You’d better leave all that side of it to me.’
And later that night he told the DLF HOO all that he had decided the General should know.
‘Jolly good show. Just what was needed. Jolly good,’ said the General. ‘We must get an M.M. for the Sergeant. McTavish ought to have something. Not quite a D.S.O. perhaps but certainly an M.C.
‘You don’t think of putting me in for anything, sir?’
‘No. All I want from you is a citation for McTavish. Go and write it now. Tomorrow you can see about a release to the Press.’
In his life in Fleet Street Ian had undertaken many hard tasks for harder masters. This was jam. He returned to General Whale in ten minutes with a typewritten sheet.
‘I’ve pitched it pretty low, sir, for the official citation. Confined myself strictly to the facts.’
‘Of course.’
‘When we give it to the Press, we might add a little colour, I thought.’
‘Certainly.’ General Whale read:
Captain McTavish trained and led a small raiding force which landed on the coast of occupied France. On landing he showed a complete disregard of personal safety which communicated itself to his men. While carrying out his personal reconnaissance he came under small-arms fire. Fire was returned and the enemy post silenced. Captain McTavish pushed farther inland and identified the line of the railway. Observation was kept and heavy traffic in strategic materials was noted. A section of the permanent way was successfully demolished, thereby gravely impeding the enemy’s war effort. Captain McTavish, in spite of having sustained injuries in the course of the action, successfully re-embarked his whole force, without casualties, in accordance with the time-table. Throughout the latter phases of the operation he showed exemplary coolness.
‘Yes,’ said General Whale.’ That ought to do it.’
3
‘NOT out,’ said Mr Crouchback.
The small batsman at the other end rubbed his knee. Greswold, the fast bowler, the captain of Our Lady of Victory, looked at the umpire in agony.
‘Oh, sir.’
‘I’m sorry. I just wasn’t looking, I’m afraid. Have to give the other fellows the benefit of the doubt, you know.’
He was wearing the fast bowler’s sweater, the sleeves knotted round his throat, the body hanging over his thin shoulders, and was glad of the protection against the chill evening wind.
Greswold walked back, tossing the ball crossly from hand to hand. He took a long run; came up at a great pace; Mr Crouchback could not quite see the position of his foot as he delivered the ball. It seemed well over the line. He considered giving a ‘no ball’ but before he spoke the wicket was down. The little chap was out this time and no mistake. In fact, the whole side was out and the first match of the term was won. Our Lady of Victory’s champions returned to the pavilion, gathering round Greswold and thumping him on the back.
‘He was out the first time,’ said the wicket-keeper.
‘Oh, I don’t know; Croucher didn’t think so.’
‘Croucher was watching an aeroplane.’
‘Anyway, what’s the odds?’
Mr Crouchback walked home to the Marine Hotel with Mrs Tickeridge, who had brought Jenifer and Felix to the match. They walked round by the beach and Jenifer threw sticks into the sea for Felix. Mr Crouchback asked: ‘You saw the paper this morning?’
‘You mean about the raid on the French railway?’
‘Yes. What a splendid young fellow this Captain McTavish must be. You saw he had been a hairdresser?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what’s so heartening. That’s where we’ve got the Germans beaten. It was just the same in the first war. We’ve got no junker class in this country, thank God. When the country needs them, the right men come to the fore. There was this young fellow curling women’s hair on a liner, calling himself by a French name; odd trade for a highlander, you might think. There he was. No one suspected what he had in him. Might never have had the chance to show it. Then war comes along. He downs his scissors and without any fuss carries out one of the most daring exploits in military history. It couldn’t happen in any other country, Mrs Tickeridge.’
‘It wasn’t a very attractive photograph of him, was it?’
‘He looks what he is – a hairdresser’s assistant. And all honour to him. I expect he’s a very shy sort of fellow. Brave men often are. My son never mentioned him and they must have been together in Scotland for quite a time. I daresay he felt rather out of it up there. Well, he’s shown them.’
When they reached the hotel Miss Vavasour said:
‘Oh, Mr Crouchback, I’ve been waiting to ask you. Would you mind if I cut something out of your newspaper when you’ve quite finished with it?’
‘Of course. Not at all. Delighted.’
‘It’s the photograph of Captain McTavish. I’ve got a little frame that will just take it.’
‘He deserves a frame,’ said Mr Crouchback.
The news of Operation Popgun reached Sidi Bishr first on the BBC news, later in the form of a signal of congratulation to Force HQ from the C-in-C.
‘I suppose I’d better pass this on to X Commando?’ said Major Hound.
‘Of course. To all the units. Have it read out on parade.’
‘To the Spaniards too?’
‘Particularly the Spaniards. They’re always boasting about convents they blew up in their civil war. This’ll show ’em we can play the same game. Get that fat interpreter to work.’
‘You knew this chap McTavish, Colonel?’
‘Certainly. I took him on when I had X Commando. You remember, Guy?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘You and Jumbo Trotter tried to keep him out. Remember? I wish I had a few more officers like McTavish out here. I’d like to have seen old Jumbo Trotter’s face when he read the news.’
*
Jumbo in fact had beamed. He had proclaimed to the anteroom of the Halberdier Barracks:
‘Poor old Ben Ritchie-Hook; no judge of men. A first-class fighting man, but he had his blind spots, you know. If he took a down on a man, he could be unreasonable. He turned McTavish out of the Corps, you know. Fellow had to join a highland regiment in the ranks. I spotted him at once. Not a peacetime soldier, mind you, but no more was Ben. If you ask me, the two of them were a chip off the same block. That’s why they never could hit it off. Often happens like that. Seen it dozens of times.’
When Ivor Claire heard the news he merely said: ‘Some nonsense of Brendan’s, obviously.
’
The ladies of Eaton Terrace said:
‘What about our Scottie now?’
‘What indeed?’
‘Were we beastly to him?’
‘Not really.’
‘Not often.’
‘I always had a soft spot.’
‘Shall we ask him round?’
‘D’you think he’d come?’
‘We can try.’
‘It would jolly well serve us right if he despised us.’
‘I despise myself rather.’
‘Virginia. You haven’t said anything. Shall we try and get hold of Scottie?’
‘Trimmer? Do what you like, my dears, only count me out.’
‘Virginia, don’t you want to make amends?’
‘I don’t,’ said Virginia and left them.
Ty. Lt. A/g Capt. McTAVISH, H. M.C. Future employment 0f
‘Really,’ said the chairman, ‘I don’t understand why this is a matter for our committee.’
‘Minute from the War Cabinet, sir.’
‘Extraordinary. I should have thought they had more important things on their minds. What’s it all about?’
‘Well, sir, you remember McTavish?’
‘Yes
, yes, of course. Nice bit of work. Excellent young officer.’
‘You haven’t seen the Daily Beast?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Exactly, sir. You know that Lord Copper has always had it in for the regular army – old school tie, and that sort of rot.’
‘I did not,’ said the General, filling his pipe. ‘I never see the rag.’
‘Anyway, they’ve dug up the story that McTavish began the war as an officer on probation in the Halberdiers and got turned down. They say it was because he’d been a barber.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘No, sir. But all the Halberdiers who had anything to do with him are in the Middle East. We’ve asked for a report, but it will take some time and if, as I presume it is, it’s an adverse one, we can’t very well use it.’
‘What a lot of fuss about nothing.’
‘Exactly, sir. The Daily Beast are making McTavish an example. Saying the army is losing its best potential leaders through snobbery. You know the kind of thing.’
‘I do not,’ said the General.
‘One of the Labour members has put down a question about him.’
‘Oh Lord, has he? That’s bad.’
‘The Minister wants an assurance that McTavish has been found employment suitable to his merits.’
‘Well, that oughtn’t to be difficult. It was decided last week to raise three more Commandos. Can’t he be given one of those?’
‘I don’t think he’s quite up to it.’
‘Really, Sprat, I should have thought he was just the kind of young officer you’re always trying to poach. You don’t object to his having been a barber, do you?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘You were full of his praises last week. Make a note that he is to be found suitable employment in your outfit.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And by suitable I don’t mean your ADC.’
‘God forbid,’ Sprat breathed.
‘I mean something that will satisfy those Labour fellows in the House of Commons that we know how to use good men when we find them.’
‘Very good, sir.’
DLF HOO returned to his headquarters, as he usually returned from attendance at the War Office, in black despair. He sent for Ian Kilbannock.
‘You overdid it,’ he said.
