‘You call me “Staff”,’ the instructor said and turned to Avery. ‘Like to have a go as well, sir?’
Haldane put in quickly, ‘Yes, they are both shooting, please, Staff.’
Leiser took first turn. Avery stood beside Haldane while Leiser, his long back towards them, waited in the empty range, facing the plywood figure of a German soldier. The target was black, framed against the crumbling whitewash of the walls; over its belly and groin a heart had been crudely described in chalk, its interior extensively repaired with fragments of paper. As they watched, he began testing the weight of the gun, raising it quickly to the level of his eye, then lowering it slowly; pushing home the empty magazine, taking it out and thrusting it in again. He glanced over his shoulder at Avery, with his left hand brushing from his forehead a strand of brown hair which threatened to impede his view. Avery smiled encouragement, then said quickly to Haldane, talking business, ‘I still can’t make him out.’
‘Why not? He’s a perfectly ordinary Pole.’
‘Where does he come from? What part of Poland?’
‘You’ve read the file. Danzig.’
‘Of course.’
The instructor began. ‘We’ll just try it with the empty gun first, both eyes open, and look along the line of sight, feet nicely apart now, thank you, that’s lovely. Relax now, be nice and comfy, it’s not a drill movement, it’s a firing position, oh yes, we’ve done this before! Now traverse the gun, point it but never aim. Right!’ The instructor drew breath, opened a wooden box and took out four magazines. ‘One in the gun and one in the left hand,’ he said and handed the other two up to Avery, who watched with fascination as Leiser deftly slipped a full magazine into the butt of the automatic and advanced the safety catch with his thumb.
‘Now cock the gun, pointing it at the ground three yards ahead of you. Now take up a firing position, keeping the arm straight. Pointing the gun but not aiming it, fire off one magazine, two shots at a time, remembering that we don’t regard the automatic as a weapon of science but more in the order of a stopping weapon for close combat. Now slowly, very slowly …’
Before he could finish the range was vibrating with the sound of Leiser’s shooting – he shot fast, standing very stiff, his left hand holding the spare magazine precisely at his side like a grenade. He shot angrily, a mute man finding expression. Avery could feel with rising excitement the fury and purpose of his shooting; now two shots, and another two, then three, then a long volley, while the haze gathered round him and the plywood soldier shook and Avery’s nostrils filled with the sweet smell of cordite.
‘Eleven out of thirteen on the target,’ the instructor declared. ‘Very nice, very nice indeed. Next time, stick to two shots at a time, please, and wait till I give the fire order.’ To Avery, the subaltern, he said, ‘Care to have a go, sir?’
Leiser had walked up to the target and was lightly tracing the bullet holes with his slim hands. The silence was suddenly oppressive. He seemed lost in meditation, feeling the plywood here and there, running a finger thoughtfully along the outline of the German helmet, until the instructor called:
‘Come on. We haven’t got all day.’
Avery stood on the gym mat, measuring the weight of the gun. With the instructor’s help he inserted one magazine, clutching the other nervously in his left hand. Haldane and Leiser looked on.
Avery fired, the heavy gun thudding in his ears, and he felt his young heart stir as the silhouette flicked passively to his shooting.
‘Good shot, John, good shot!’
‘Very good,’ said the instructor automatically. ‘A very good first effort, sir.’ He turned to Leiser: ‘Do you mind not shouting like that?’ He knew a foreigner when he saw one.
‘How many?’ Avery asked eagerly, as he and the sergeant gathered round the target, touching the blackened perforations scattered thinly over the chest and belly. ‘How many, Staff?’
‘You’d better come with me, John,’ Leiser whispered, throwing his arm over Avery’s shoulder. ‘I could do with you over there.’ For a moment Avery recoiled. Then, with a laugh, he put his own arm round Leiser, feeling the warm, crisp cloth of his sports jacket in the palm of his hand.
The instructor led them across the parade ground to a brick barrack like a theatre with no windows, tall at one end. There were walls half crossing one another like the entrance to a public lavatory.
‘Moving targets,’ Haldane said, ‘and shooting in the dark.’
At lunch they played the tapes.
The tapes were to run like a theme through the first two weeks of his training. They were made from old gramophone records; there was a crack in one which recurred like a metronome. Together, they comprised a massive parlour game in which things to be remembered were not listed but mentioned, casually, obliquely, often against a distracting background of other noises, now contradicted in conversation, now corrected or contested. There were three principal voices, one female and two male. Others would interfere. It was the woman who got on their nerves.
She had that antiseptic voice which air hostesses seem to acquire. In the first tape she read from lists, quickly; first it was a shopping-list, two pounds of this, one kilo of that; without warning she was talking about coloured skittles – so many green so many ochre; then it was weapons, guns, torpedoes, ammunition of this and that calibre; then a factory with capacity, waste and production figures, annual targets and monthly achievements. In the second tape she had not abandoned these topics, but unfamiliar voices distracted her and led the dialogue into unexpected paths.
While shopping she entered into an argument with the grocer’s wife about certain merchandise which did not meet with her approval; eggs that were not sound, the outrageous cost of butter. When the grocer himself attempted to mediate he was accused of favouritism; there was talk of points and ration cards, the extra allowance of sugar for jam-making; a hint of undisclosed treasures under the counter. The grocer’s voice was raised in anger but he stopped when the child intervened, talking about skittles. ‘Mummy, Mummy, I’ve knocked over the three green ones, but when I tried to put them up, seven black ones fell down; Mummy, why are there only eight black ones left?’
The scene shifted to a public house. It was the woman again. She was reciting armaments statistics; other voices joined in. Figures were disputed, new targets stated, old ones recalled; the performance of a weapon – a weapon unnamed, undescribed – was cynically questioned and heatedly defended.
Every few minutes a voice shouted ‘break!’ – it might have been a referee – and Haldane stopped the tape and made Leiser talk about football or the weather, or read aloud from a newspaper for five minutes by his watch (the clock on the mantelpiece was broken). The tape recorder was switched on again, and they heard a voice, vaguely familiar, trailing a little like a parson’s; a young voice, deprecating and unsure, like Avery’s: ‘Now here are the four questions. Discounting those eggs which were not sound, how many has she bought in the last three weeks? How many skittles are there altogether? What was the annual overall output of proved and calibrated gun barrels for the years 1937 and 1938? Finally, put in telegraph form any information from which the length of the barrels might be computed.’
Leiser rushed into the study – he seemed to know the game – to write down his answers. As soon as he had left the room Avery said accusingly, ‘That was you. That was your voice speaking at the end.’
‘Was it?’ Haldane replied. He might not have known.
There were other tapes too, and they had the smell of death; the running of feet on a wooden staircase, the slamming of a door, a click, and a girl’s voice asking – she might have been offering lemon or cream – ‘Catch of a door, cocking of a gun?’
Leiser hesitated. ‘A door,’ he said. ‘It was just the door.’
‘It was a gun,’ Haldane retorted. ‘A Browning nine-millimetre automatic. The magazine was being slid into the butt.’
In the afternoon they went for their first walk, th
e two of them, Leiser and Avery, through Port Meadow and into the country beyond. Haldane had sent them. They walked fast, striding over the whip grass, the wind catching at Leiser’s hair and throwing it wildly about his head. It was cold but there was no rain; a clear, sunless day when the sky above the flat fields was darker than the earth.
‘You know your way round here, don’t you?’ Leiser asked. ‘Were you at school here?’
‘I was an undergraduate here, yes.’
‘What did you study?’
‘I read languages. German principally.’
They climbed a stile and emerged in a narrow lane.
‘You married?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Kids?’
‘One.’
‘Tell me something, John. When the Captain turned up my card … what happened?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What does it look like, an index for so many? It must be a big thing in an outfit like ours.’
‘It’s in alphabetical order,’ Avery said helplessly. ‘Just cards. Why?’
‘He said they remembered me: the old hands. I was the best, he said. Well, who remembered?’
‘They all did. There’s a special index for the best people. Practically everyone in the Department knows Fred Leiser. Even the new ones. You can’t have a record like yours and get forgotten, you know.’ He smiled. ‘You’re part of the furniture, Fred.’
‘Tell me something else, John. I don’t want to rock the boat, see, but tell me this … Would I be any good on the inside?’
‘The inside?’
‘In the office, with you people. I suppose you’ve got to be born to it really, like the Captain.’
‘I’m afraid so, Fred.’
‘What cars do you use up there, John?’
‘Humbers.’
‘Hawk or Snipe?’
‘Hawk.’
‘Only four-cylinder? The Snipe’s a better job, you know.’
‘I’m talking about non-operational transport,’ Avery said. ‘We’ve a whole range of stuff for the special work.’
‘Like the van?’
‘That’s it.’
‘How long before … how long does it take to train you? You, for instance; you just did a run. How long before they let you go?’
‘Sorry, Fred. I’m not allowed … not even you.’
‘Not to worry.’
They passed a church set back on a rise above the road, skirted a field of plough and returned, tired and radiant, to the cheerful embrace of the Mayfly house and the gas fire playing on the golden roses.
In the evening, they had the projector for visual memory: they would be in a car, passing a marshalling yard; or in a train beside an airfield; they would be taken on a walk through a town, and suddenly they would become aware that a vehicle or a face had reappeared, and they had not remembered its features. Sometimes a series of disconnected objects were flashed in rapid succession on to the screen, and there would be voices in the background, like the voices on the tape, but the conversation was not related to the film, so that the student must consult both his senses and retain what was valuable from each.
Thus the first day ended, setting the pattern for those that followed: carefree, exciting days for them both, days of honest labour and cautious but deepening attachment as the skills of boyhood became once more the weapons of war.
For the unarmed combat they had rented a small gymnasium near Headington which they had used in the war. An instructor had come by train. They called him Sergeant.
‘Will he be carrying a knife at all? Not wanting to be curious,’ he asked respectfully. He had a Welsh accent.
Haldane shrugged. ‘It depends what he likes. We don’t want to clutter him up.’
‘There’s a lot to be said for a knife, sir.’ Leiser was still in the changing-room. ‘If he knows how to use it. And the Jerries don’t like them, not one bit.’ He had brought some knives in a handcase, and he unpacked them in a private way, like a traveller unpacking his samples. ‘They never could take cold steel,’ he explained. ‘Nothing too long, that’s the trick of it, sir. Something flat with the two cutting edges.’ He selected one and held it up. ‘You can’t do much better than this, as a matter of fact.’ It was wide and flat like a laurel leaf, the blade unpolished, the handle waisted like an hourglass, cross-hatched to prevent slip. Leiser was walking towards them, smoothing a comb through his hair.
‘Used one of these, have you?’
Leiser examined the knife and nodded. The sergeant looked at him carefully. ‘I know you, don’t I? My name’s Sandy Lowe. I’m a bloody Welshman.’
‘You taught me in the war.’
‘Christ,’ said Lowe softly, ‘so I did. You haven’t changed much, have you?’ They grinned shyly at one another, not knowing whether to shake hands. ‘Come on, then, see what you remember.’ They walked to the coconut matting in the centre of the floor. Lowe threw the knife at Leiser’s feet and he snatched it up, grunting as he bent.
Lowe wore a jacket of torn tweed, very old. He stepped quickly back, took it off and with a single movement wrapped it round his left forearm, like a man preparing to fight a dog. Drawing his own knife he moved slowly round Leiser, keeping his weight steady but riding a little from one foot to the other. He was stooping, his bound arm held loosely in front of his stomach, fingers outstretched, palm facing the ground. He had gathered his body behind the guard, letting the blade play restlessly in front of it while Leiser kept steady, his eyes fixed upon the sergeant. For a time they feinted back and forth; once Leiser lunged and Lowe sprang back, allowing the knife to cut the cloth of the jacket on his arm. Once Lowe dropped to his knees, as if to drive the knife upwards beneath Leiser’s guard, and it was Leiser’s turn to spring back, but too slowly, it seemed, for Lowe shook his head, shouted ‘Halt!’ and stood upright.
‘Remember that?’ He indicated his own belly and groin, pressing his arms and elbows in as if to reduce the width of his body. ‘Keep the target small.’ He made Leiser put his knife away and showed him holds, crooking his left arm round Leiser’s neck and pretending to stab him in the kidneys or the stomach. Then he asked Avery to stand as a dummy, and the two of them moved round him with detachment, Lowe indicating the places with his knife and Leiser nodding, smiling occasionally when a particular trick came back to him.
‘You didn’t weave with the blade enough. Remember thumb on top, blade parallel to the ground, forearm stiff, wrist loose. Don’t let his eye settle on it, not for a moment. And left hand in over your own target, whether you’ve got the knife or not. Never be generous about offering the body, that’s what I say to my daughter.’ They laughed dutifully, all but Haldane.
After that, Avery had a turn. Leiser seemed to want it. Removing his glasses, he held the knife as Lowe showed him, hesitant, alert, while Leiser trod crabwise, feinted and darted lightly back, the sweat running off his face, his small eyes alight with concentration. All the time Avery was conscious of the sharp grooves of the haft against the flesh of his palm, the aching in his calves and buttocks as he kept his weight forward on his toes, and Leiser’s angry eyes searching his own. Then Leiser’s foot had hooked round his ankle; as he lost his balance he felt the knife being wrenched from his hand; he fell back, Leiser’s full weight upon him, Leiser’s hand clawing at the collar of his shirt.
They helped him up, all laughing, while Leiser brushed the dust from Avery’s clothes. The knives were put away while they did physical training; Avery took part.
When it was over Lowe said: ‘We’ll just have a spot of unarmed combat and that will do nicely.’
Haldane glanced at Leiser. ‘Have you had enough?’
‘I’m all right.’
Lowe took Avery by an arm and stood him in the centre of the gym mat. ‘You sit on the bench,’ he called to Leiser, ‘while I show you a couple of things.’
He put a hand on Avery’s shoulder. ‘We’re only concerned with five marks, whether we got a knife or no
t. What are they?’
‘Groin, kidneys, belly, heart and throat,’ Leiser replied wearily.
‘How do you break a man’s neck?’
‘You don’t. You smash his windpipe at the front.’
‘What about a blow on the back of the neck?’
‘Not with the bare hand. Not without a weapon.’ He had put his face in his hands.
‘Correct.’ Lowe moved his open palm in slow motion towards Avery’s throat. ‘Hand open, fingers straight, right?’
‘Right,’ Leiser said.
‘What else do you remember?’
A pause. ‘Tiger’s Claw. An attack on the eyes.’
‘Never use it,’ the sergeant replied shortly. ‘Not as an attacking blow. You leave yourself wide open. Now for the strangle holds. All from behind, remember? Bend the head back, so, hand on the throat, so, and squeeze.’ Lowe looked over his shoulder: ‘Look this way, please. I’m not doing this for my own benefit … come on, then, if you know it all, show us some throws!’
Leiser stood up, locking arms with Lowe, and for a while they struggled back and forth, each waiting for the other to offer an opening. Then Lowe gave way, Leiser toppled and Lowe’s hand slapped the back of his head, thrusting it down so that Leiser fell face forward heavily on to the mat.
‘You fall a treat,’ said Lowe with a grin, and then Leiser was upon him, twisting Lowe’s arm savagely back and throwing him very hard so that his little body hit the carpets like a bird hitting the windscreen of a car.
‘You play fair!’ Leiser demanded. ‘Or I’ll damn well hurt you.’
‘Never lean on your opponent,’ Lowe said shortly. ‘And don’t lose your temper in the gym.’
He called across to Avery. ‘You have a turn now, sir; give him some exercise.’
Avery stood up, took off his jacket and waited for Leiser to approach him. He felt the strong grasp upon his arms and was suddenly conscious of the frailty of his body when matched against this adult force. He tried to seize the forearms of the older man, but his hands could not encompass them; he tried to break free, but Leiser held him; Leiser’s head was against his own, filling his nostrils with the smell of hair oil. He felt the damp stubble of his cheek and the close, rank heat of his thin, straining body. Putting his hands on Leiser’s chest he forced himself back, throwing all his energy into one frantic effort to escape the suffocating constriction of the man’s embrace. As he drew away they caught sight of one another, it might have been for the first time, across the heaving cradle of their entangled arms; Leiser’s face, contorted with exertion, softened into a smile; the grip relaxed.
The Looking Glass War Page 15
