War Stories

by Michael Morpurgo

  ‘Old enough,’ Scott murmured. ‘I’m eighteen. I’ll be nineteen in July.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ The guy peered at Scott’s shoulder flash. ‘Sixteenth Infantry Regiment?’

  Scott nodded.

  ‘I’m in the Eighth,’ said the guy, tapping his own insignia. ‘I don’t think either of us should be making plans for July.’

  Scott stared at him for a second, then turned back to the window. He knew exactly what the guy was talking about. The Allies – the US Army, the British, the Canadians and all the rest – were almost certainly going to invade Nazi-occupied Europe soon, maybe in the next few weeks. And the scuttlebutt was that the men of the Sixteenth and Eighth Infantry Regiments would be among the first to storm the heavily defended French beaches.

  Scott felt his stomach clench, his mouth fill with bile. That’s why he had joined the army, he thought: to fight for freedom, to defeat an evil enemy. That’s why he had left his mom and pop and his three younger brothers at home in Brooklyn. That’s why he’d learned how to use a rifle and to get in and out of a landing craft with his platoon. But a buddy had told him the top brass expected at least eighty per cent of the men in the first assault wave to be killed or wounded and, since then, Scott’s mind had been full of blood and death. He could almost feel the bullets ripping into the soft flesh beneath his uniform, the shrapnel shredding his muscles and bones, see it all happening to him as he ran from the landing craft.

  It had gotten so bad he’d thought about talking to an officer, or maybe even a priest, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Then his platoon commander had offered the guys a two-day pass, the last they might get before … well, before the Big Day, he’d hinted. So Scott had grabbed the chance – hitched from the camp near Poole to Portsmouth, hopped on the first train to London. He was hoping he could clear his head, get a grip. Although there was this one, really crazy idea that wouldn’t let him be.

  A sudden burst of raucous laughter exploded in the corridor, but Scott didn’t dare look round. He was too scared his face might show the others what was on his mind, the shameful thing he was sorely tempted to do.

  He kept staring out of the window as the train rattled through the warm spring sunshine towards Waterloo.

  Although now he saw nothing at all.

  Jimmy spent his first night on the run hiding in a place he knew, the classroom where nice, tired old Mrs Percival had struggled to keep him and another forty kids under control until a few months back. But late one night a huge bomb had blasted half the school into rubble, and the rest was declared unsafe. Jimmy and his classmates had been parcelled out to other schools in the district, although most of them hadn’t bothered to go.

  It was strange sitting in the corner of a room that was both familiar and very different, the ceiling and walls badly cracked, the desks and floor covered with chunks of plaster and bits of broken glass, the ghostly moonlight shining through the shattered windows. Strange and scary.

  Jimmy brooded on what to do. He couldn’t go home. If those coppers hadn’t caught Stan and Frank, he knew Stan would be after him with his flick-knife. Even if they had, Jimmy was sure Stan would get out of it and come looking for him. And Jimmy didn’t feel he could talk to Mum. Everybody in the district knew Stan was dodgy, which meant Mum must have known as well. But she was totally wrapped up in Stan and didn’t seem to care.

  If only there was somebody else he could turn to, Jimmy thought. He wished his dad was alive, or that the school hadn’t been bombed so he could have talked to Mrs Percival. He thought of Marge, and felt a surge of hope. Marge would help him, he was certain of it … then he realized Marge’s house was too close to home, and his spirits sank again. Stan would probably catch him before he got anywhere near Marge’s front door. No, he was completely on his own. Alone and utterly powerless.

  Suddenly Jimmy heard a scuffling noise nearby. He froze, and peered into the shadows. A small, dark form was moving along the base of a wall. He breathed out, relaxed. It was only a rat searching for something to eat. Rats were so common on bomb sites, some of his mates even made them into pets. But Jimmy had never liked the look of their sharp, little teeth, or the way they scuttled, and he lobbed a chunk of brick in the creature’s direction. It shot off through a hole in the skirting board.

  Jimmy’s stomach rumbled, and he realized it was hours since he’d eaten himself. Gran had made him bangers and mash, the sausages a present from Stan to Jimmy’s mum the day before. Stan had given Mum some nylons too, and Jimmy had seen the smile on her face … He wiped the thought from his mind, concentrated on his most pressing needs.

  He could get water from a drinking fountain. Food was going to be a problem, though, especially as he didn’t have any money. Unless he went up west, Jimmy thought. There were plenty of places in the West End where he might be able to nick some food – shops, restaurants, cafes of all kinds. He knew stealing was wrong, but he didn’t have much choice.

  Jimmy dozed for a few hours, and woke stiff and shivering in a watery dawn light. He headed to a park where there was a drinking fountain, and by nine o’clock he was getting off a train at Charing Cross, hiding behind some office workers, slipping past a yawning ticket collector and immediately ducking through a side exit and out of the station. He walked up the steep hill of Villiers Street and turned into the Strand. There was a big cafe on a corner two hundred yards ahead of him.

  Earlier that same morning Scott had left the American Red Cross club where he’d spent the night – a converted hotel off Park Lane – and gone for a walk in the park. It was Hyde Park, he thought, although he wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered much. Wherever he went, the terrible images in his head went right along with him. And the terrible fear in his heart.

  He wandered out of the park and into streets lined with old buildings he didn’t recognize. He’d spent the whole of the day before tramping the city, visiting places he’d only read about or seen in movie newsreels – Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, St Paul’s, still standing despite the Blitz. But all he’d seen was dead people.

  They were there again today. The sidewalks were full of young guys in uniform, many just boys – Americans, British, Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, Free French, Norwegians, Poles – young women too, any civilians seeming out of place. Scott couldn’t help wondering how many were doomed to be slaughtered in the next few weeks and months.

  Most seemed happy enough, Scott thought. Last night, the pubs and clubs and restaurants and dance halls he’d walked past had been packed with people laughing and drinking and having a good time. He had looked on, unable to join in, then had slunk back to the ARC club.

  Scott slowed down, realizing he’d arrived at Trafalgar Square. He crossed the road, stood beneath one of the great stone lions and squinted at Lord Nelson high above him. The sun shone out of a clear blue sky, a crowd of pigeons strutted at his feet, buses and trucks roared by. Scott lowered his gaze. A few other people were dotted round the square. But heading straight towards him were a couple of US military policemen.

  The boys back at camp called them Snowdrops because of the white helmets they wore. Nice name, thought Scott, but they were pretty tough guys, handy with the long wooden billy clubs they carried. Last night he’d seen a squad of them roust out a young GI from a pub and throw him in a jeep. The kid was AWOL, he’d heard a Snowdrop say, Absent Without Leave for a week. Not quite a deserter, but heading that way.

  Scott hadn’t said a word, just watched. Is that what would happen to him if he deserted? He knew that in World War One deserters had usually been shot, but he didn’t think the US Army did that any more, or maybe only if you deserted in combat, facing the enemy. If he took off now and got caught, he’d definitely pull some stockade time back in the States. But at least he’d be alive, his body whole, the future ahead of him.

  ‘Let’s see your papers, soldier,’ said one of the MPs. His cold blue eyes, just visible beneath the rim of his white helmet,
were fixed on Scott’s. The other MP stood to the side, tapping his billy club against his leg, lazily chewing gum, watching Scott fumble his ID and pass from his pocket. Scott felt himself blush, and again he feared his face might give away what he’d been thinking. But the MP only glanced at his papers and handed them back. ‘OK, kid,’ he said. ‘Stay out of trouble, you hear?’

  Scott watched them stroll across the square, the pigeons fleeing before them. Then he walked fast in the opposite direction, towards a long street he thought was called the Strand. His hands were shaking and his mouth was dry, and he was badly in need of something liquid, even if it was just a cup of that sweet, strange-tasting tea the English drank all the time.

  He arrived at a certain cafe just as Jimmy was being thrown out of it.

  It had all happened so fast. One minute Jimmy had been in the queue at the cafe – it was actually a large Lyons Corner House – trying to sneak a Bath bun out of a glass case on the counter, and the next, somebody’s fingers had a powerful grip on his ear. The same ear that Sid had twisted.

  ‘Caught you red-handed!’ shouted the person the fingers belonged to.

  Jimmy could see now it was a woman; the manageress, he thought. She was middle-aged and scrawny and mean-faced. ‘I’m sick of you street urchins coming in here to steal things,’ she yelled, dragging him to the door. Jimmy glimpsed the people in the queue staring, heard them tutting. The manageress shoved him outside, and he fell, sprawling across the pavement. ‘I’ve a good mind to call a policeman!’ she hissed.

  ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ said a voice from somewhere above him.

  Jimmy looked up and saw a young GI with a puzzled frown on his face. The American was tall and thin and reminded Jimmy of James Stewart. He glanced down at Jimmy, then back at the manageress.

  ‘None of your business, Yank,’ she snapped. The GI stared hard at her. ‘But if you must know,’ she said, ‘I caught the little scallywag stealing.’

  ‘Stealing what?’ said the GI. Jimmy stood up and rubbed his ear.

  ‘A Bath bun,’ the manageress replied haughtily, her chin raised.

  ‘What’s that – some kind of pastry?’ said the GI, puzzled. ‘Say, kid, you must be public enemy number one. Armed and extremely dangerous.’ He glanced at Jimmy and smiled. Jimmy wanted to laugh, although he didn’t dare. ‘But seeing as it isn’t the crime of the century, ma’am,’ said the GI, turning to her once more, ‘how about giving the kid a break?’

  ‘Well, really,’ spluttered the manageress, ‘you Yanks come over here and think you can order us about … Oh, just go away, the pair of you!’

  And with that she stormed back into the cafe, leaving Jimmy and the GI together outside. The GI took off his cap and gave a low whistle. ‘Hey, nice lady,’ he murmured. ‘Makes a guy feel really welcome.’

  ‘I hope the Germans drop a bomb on her,’ said Jimmy. ‘A big one.’

  ‘It’d just bounce off,’ said the GI. ‘That dame is steel-plated, buddy.’

  Jimmy did laugh now. The image of a huge black bomb covered in Swastikas bouncing off a steel-plated manageress was irresistibly comic. The GI laughed too, and put his cap back on. ‘You OK, kid?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ said Jimmy, suddenly serious. ‘And, er … thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said the GI, smiling. ‘That’s what we’re here for. I mean, to help you Limeys, although I didn’t think I’d be protecting you from each other. Say, you look as if you could do with a square meal. You must be pretty hungry to try and steal one of those watchamacallits.’

  ‘A Bath bun,’ said Jimmy, his stomach rumbling, his mouth instantly filling with saliva at the thought of food. His whole being wanted this Yank to take him somewhere and feed him. But something else had struck Jimmy – what the GI had said about helping Limeys. Jimmy knew that’s what the Yanks called the English. He was a Limey and he needed help, didn’t he? So maybe this American was the person to provide it …

  ‘Well, I could use a cup of coffee and a bite to eat myself,’ said the GI. ‘How’d you like to tag along? I’m pretty sure Uncle Sam won’t object.’

  Jimmy grinned and nodded.

  ‘OK, let’s follow the yellow brick road,’ said the GI and strode off down the street, Jimmy hurrying to keep up. ‘I’m Scott Riley,’ said the GI after a while. ‘What do they call you, kid?’

  ‘Jimmy Wilson.’ They crossed to Trafalgar Square at the traffic lights. ‘And what you just said, it’s from The Wizard of Oz, ain’t it? I seen that.’

  ‘It sure is,’ said Scott. ‘You like the movies?’ Jimmy nodded again.

  ‘Me too,’ said Scott. ‘So you’re called Jimmy … just like Cagney himself. Say, maybe you are public enemy number one after all.’ He smiled at Jimmy again. ‘Just don’t tell anyone when we get where we’re going.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Jimmy. Pigeons scurried out of their way.

  ‘To somewhere you’ll like,’ Scott murmured. ‘To Rainbow Corner …’

  Jimmy’s painfully empty stomach couldn’t wait for them to arrive.

  Scott had eaten lunch at Rainbow Corner the day before. It was the name of another American Red Cross club, the huge place where everybody seemed to go, on Shaftesbury Avenue, just up from Piccadilly Circus.

  Scott took Jimmy in through the main doors, under the big US flag on the outside of the building and straight into one of the dining rooms. The cooks were still serving breakfast and Scott got them both some ham and eggs, some pancakes with maple syrup, some waffles too, as well as a cup of good, strong American coffee for him and a glass of milk for the kid. Scott piled it on a tray and found a couple of empty seats at a table.

  As he’d known, nobody minded the kid being there. In fact, the other guys round the table – a couple of Airborne troopers and a sailor – smiled and winked and said hi.

  Jimmy didn’t say a word. Scott could see he was shy, nervous, but excited to be there as well. And starving hungry.

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’ Scott said. ‘Eat it while it’s hot.’

  Jimmy didn’t need to be told twice. He grinned at Scott, then started wolfing down the food, barely pausing for breath between mouthfuls. Scott sipped his coffee, but hardly touched his own plate. He studied Jimmy instead, examining this British kid who had fallen into his path.

  What he saw was a skinny boy, maybe ten or eleven years old, his hair cropped close to the sides of his head, a spiky tuft sticking up on top. He was wearing a shapeless blazer, a woollen sweater with holes in it over a rough grey shirt, those shorts the British kids all seemed to wear, knee-high grey socks and worn-out black shoes. Everything was grubby, including the kid’s hands, his bitten fingernails half-moons of dirt.

  None of that mattered. Scott had always hated seeing kids being pushed around, whoever they were, rich or poor. He could no more have stopped himself stepping in to save Jimmy from that woman than fly. But there was something about the kid that Scott had seen right away – the British boy was a ringer for his youngest brother, eleven-year-old Bobby. Clean Jimmy up, dress him in a clean sweater and jeans and sneakers, and he’d look like a regular American kid. Just like Bobby.

  ‘So what part of London are you from, Jimmy?’ said Scott.

  ‘Catford,’ Jimmy mumbled, his mouth full. ‘South of the river.’

  Scott had never heard of it. ‘You live with your parents?’ he asked.

  ‘Just my mum,’ Jimmy said. ‘My dad’s dead. Torpedoed.’

  Scott didn’t know what to say. Jimmy kept talking, though, the words spilling out of him. He described being evacuated at the beginning of the war, and living in the country on a farm with strangers, which he’d hated. There had been no bombing though, so his mum had brought him back to Catford. Then the Blitz had begun, and Catford had copped it bad, so he’d spent a lot of nights in an Anderson shelter with Marge while Mum was out at work, and then they’d heard about his dad, who’d been a sailor. His ship had been sunk by a German U-Boat in the
North Atlantic.

  ‘That’s rough,’ said the sailor at the table. He and the Airborne guys had been listening too, spellbound. ‘You’ve been having quite some war.’

  Scott thought of Bobby going to school or playing baseball while Jimmy was being bombed by the Nazis and losing his father. He thought of the bad things he’d seen in the newsreels: kids in Europe bombed out of their homes, turned into refugees, made to suffer. He had a brief vision of the Nazis bombing Brooklyn, of Bobby being hurt … and realized he would do anything to stop that happening. And to help those other kids. Maybe even storm up a French beach with his platoon and get killed.

  What else was he going to do, anyhow? Let down his buddies, the guys he’d trained with? Bring shame on his family? Spend the rest of his life knowing he was a coward? If this skinny British kid could take all of that, then he – Private Scott Riley of the US Army – could do the job he’d signed up for. He’d be damned if he wasn’t going to give it a try, anyway.

  ‘It ain’t been that bad,’ Jimmy murmured, his voice breaking into Scott’s thoughts. The boy shrugged and wiped his plate clean with a piece of pancake. ‘Not till my mum took up with that Stan the Spiv, anyway …’

  Scott leaned forward. This was a story he definitely wanted to hear.

  Whenever Jimmy thought of that day in the years to come, everything about it had a kind of rosy glow. How could it be otherwise? It was like suddenly being transported to paradise, or into a real, live movie. And he’d said and done all the right things too, just like a movie star would.

  He’d been surrounded by Yanks giving him stuff – all the food he could eat, including ice cream and chocolate bars and packets of Wrigleys gum, as well as baseball cards and badges. He got a ride round the West End in a jeep with a couple of military policemen, too. Snowdrops, Scott called them, which was odd. He also said they were real tough guys, but they’d just been nice, cracking lots of jokes and doing a Jimmy Cagney routine because he’d told them he loved Cagney films, snapping ‘You dirty rat’ at each other and ‘Take that, copper’, and laughing a lot.