by John Eider
‘Here they are – we can start!’ called a man who as my eyes adjusted to the room I, and indeed any amongst the British diaspora, wouldn’t help but recognise as Union Jack.
‘Hello John,’ our host greeted his guest, reminding me he had a real name. ‘This is Private Crofts.’
‘Ah yes, the fellow who nearly lost a leg in Southampton.’
Well, it was never quite that bad, I tried to say without quite getting the chance; before he introduced himself,
‘John Pointer, Her Majesty’s Minister for Offshore Fisheries in Exile.’
This was evidently a joke, as chuckles rose from the other three sat about the table. The atmosphere was warm and informal, as though the evening I had interrupted was one being spent among old friends.
A woman who turned out to be Mrs Trevellyan rose to be kissed on the cheek by her husband.
‘Mr Crofts…’ she turned to say.
‘Private, dear,’ corrected the Major.
‘Well he’s not on duty now is he… will you join us? It’s beef stew, there’s plenty.’
‘You’ll sit by me, I hope,’ requested Pointer, giving me little choice as with one surly arm he pulled an antique-looking chair out across the flags. ‘You know Crofts – you military men prefer surnames, don’t you? – I may joke about my job title: Minister for Offshore Fisheries, when we could scarcely claim to have an onshore anything anymore. The fact is, I cursed that job the day they gave it to me. I saw it right away for what it would be: a constant round of griping captains and visits to Aberdeen. The thing is, being on that trawler that day saved my life…’
‘John,’ began Mrs Trevellyan, ‘our guest has had a long journey. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear of your misadventures at sea.’
‘Well, perhaps he’d care he hear of ours on land?’ This was one of the two diners to which I hadn’t yet been introduced. ‘Timothy Chalmers, and my wife Petunia.’ We shook hands across the table. ‘I expect you came past our place if you drove from Paris…’
‘Well, I’m not sure I’d care to tell you where we drove from,’ interrupted the Major.
‘Oh, North Coast was it?’ said Chalmers knowingly. ‘Well, same difference. Yes, Mr Crofts, there’s no mistaking our farm, the biggest refugee camp in Europe. Can you believe that this was meant to be our retirement?’
‘And this mine, Tim,’ the Major half-empathised, half-chided.
‘But you’re ex-Army: this is what you fellows do.’
This time it was Mrs T.’s turn to interrupt their guest,
‘I’m sure Mr Crofts would like to leave here with the impression that we British on the Continent are doing all we can to help our countrymen and women at sore ends.’
‘Oh, something important is he?’
‘No, Tim,’ Major Trevellyan answered, ‘merely a guest to whom we should afford the common courtesy we appear to have given up offering each other.’
They all laughed at this, even sour-faced Chalmers, who as he shared his views seemed torn between pride in the local effort, and frustration at how ‘all this’ impinged on his life. He talked at length as we ate, though to no one in particular; our hosts mainly whispering between themselves, and John Pointer full of questions for me of what life was like ‘on the ground’. I hardly heard a peep from ‘Pettie’ Chalmers throughout, but for when she and Mrs Trevellyan later spoke on local matters.
A little later, after I had finished eating, the Minister in Exile asked me,
‘So tell me about Southampton. I haven’t heard it first hand.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start, sir.’
‘I’ve read the intelligence – rest assured security goes no higher than me.’
‘It isn’t that, sir.’
‘Bloody, eh?’ Tell you what, shall we have a night cap? I’m sure the Major won’t begrudge us a sip of the brandy he keeps next door.’
Pointer had the irrepressible air I had known before in those who wore leadership lightly, and who without meaning to could dominate conversation. Sat there in the Trevellyans’ lounge with my bulb glass half-full, I felt compelled to tell what I had told no one in detail since debriefing at the hospital,
‘We were on manoeuvres on Salisbury Plane, miles from our barracks or the nearest town. Apart from a bit of radio interference we didn’t know there was a problem, until the next morning when someone ran to find us and call us back to base. There, our commanders held us all day on full alert…’
‘Go on soldier, no secrets here.’
I continued, whispering, ‘They didn’t know what was happening: the power was down, we were running on emergency generators, and all radio channels had been scrambled. No orders could get through, and they didn’t know if we were under genuine attack. Our ammo was switched to live and we formed a perimeter line, half-expecting Russian soldiers or someone to appear over the horizon. Then, late that afternoon, we saw the smoke.’
‘This was coming from Southampton?’
‘From a few different directions, sir; and each time a new plume appeared, a group of men was sent to investigate. Yet, with no way of getting word back to us of what they’d found, we still hadn’t heard from any of them before that second night, when we saw the much larger red glow on the horizon to the south. By the next morning, the order was given for about half of us to head that way and investigate.’
‘This was E-Day+2?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And still with no clearer idea of what you were facing, I suppose.’
‘We were told to prepare to engage an enemy, sir; though our commanders couldn’t tell us who was attacking us or why. We didn’t get going till mid-morning.’
‘And what did you see on the road?’
‘At first hardly anything; and yet as soon as we reached Salisbury proper people mobbed us, thinking we were there to help and not believing that we didn’t know any more than they did. The fires were still further on though, so we continued south and began finding burning buildings about five miles in from the coast; and after that the bodies. Sir, you wouldn’t believe…’
‘I might do, carry on.’
‘The first one was a shock, we jumping down to check for signs of life or cause of death; but soon we’d seen four or five. I remember one, bloodied and just left outside a looted newsagents… But we knew it wasn’t battle, sir: none of them we saw had bullet wounds. They looked more like the victims of a bloody brawl. After that the cars and other debris in the road became impassable; and so we left as few men as possible to guard the trucks and made our way on foot.’
At that we both heard another car arriving outside the farmhouse, Pointer saying,
‘We might not have very long left to talk; so, the pub in Southampton?’
‘Okay,’ I said, wishing I knew what was going on outside or whether this conversation was the reason I had been brought here. I stepped up the narrative,
‘Well, sir, you must have heard something of the chaos the place was in. The town was in flames, anything that could be set fire to had been. People were everywhere, bewildered, disordered; they were scared of us with our guns, while we were scared of the mad look in their eyes. We were lost in the chaos, split up and pulled apart and with no way of communicating or regrouping. Then I saw the pub: a big old-fashioned place on a busy corner. There was a commotion outside, and when I went over to the men there, pounding on the doors, they told me that the place was full of food and drink still, but that those inside had shut the doors and weren’t sharing.
‘There was a woman sitting at the kerb nearby, a bloodied rag held to her head and only wearing a summer dress, I guessed for the past two days – in other words caught totally unawares. I thought if I could take her in there it might give her some shelter for the evening; so I banged on the doors, saying, “Army, please open up.”
‘There were three others of my platoon with me, and I foresaw no trouble… till the door opened a crack, and the men who were calling for food and water pushed past us with such force, scr
eaming like madmen and grabbing at whatever the families and people in there were holding. By then the commotion outside had drawn others, and it was all we could do to bar the door to any more coming in; while those already in had jumped the bar and were pulling open fridges and hauling out warm bottles and cans… because of course none of the beer-taps were working.’
‘And the leg?’
Shamefaced though I was, I recognised the man’s authority and looked squarely at him as I said,
‘The doorway was becoming crowded with bodies: they couldn’t get in there quickly enough and the force would have given way eventually. To give the other soldiers a chance to get the doors shut, I forced myself a little way outside and pointed my rifle at the rioters. It made no difference to them though, crazed with two days hunger and an alchie’s thirst. So I turned my gun around, and battered at the nearest one’s face with the butt.’
I looked up the Minister, but his expression hadn’t changed; so I continued,
‘This did relieve the pressure for a moment, but as I went to move back behind the closing doors, the man I’d sent to the floor grabbed my ankle and pulled me over – and so the effort of three men in pushing the double-doors closed was concentrated entirely on my legs squeezed between them.’
John Pointer winced.
‘I think my scream had the yobs back off though. I kicked as best as I could at the fellow holding me, and scrambled through as we managed to bolt the doors shut.’
And so you see, I wanted to add, I was only injured putting right my mistake. There was nothing noble in my actions, sir. It was a mishandled pub fight. But I didn’t.
‘But you got those people out?’ he asked.
‘We left by the back door and found a quieter street, our waved rifles seeing off anyone we met of the troublemakers. We weren’t far from the docks by then, which were being guarded by Marines up from Portsmouth. Our uniforms got us all through their cordon. Those that could stayed to help, and the rest were put onto a boat.’
‘And how far did you yourself get?’
‘I think about half way along the road, before I went down and couldn’t get up.’
‘Adrenalin, eh? It’s worse than PCP for not knowing when to quit. A good job your colleagues got you out of there.’
‘They knew, so long as they could hold me up, that I could still fire a rifle.’
‘They wouldn’t leave a man down, and neither would you. And what of the men who’d broken into the pub?’
‘We incapacitated those we had to.’
‘I would never judge a soldier in such a situation.’
‘I think the town we saw was nothing compared to what it became.’
There was a polite knock on the door, we both rising to meet the Major standing in the hallway.
‘Right then,’ said Pointer. ‘You have secret things to discuss, and I must say goodnight to the ladies before I leave,’ – I just catching at these words a look of disgust on the face of Chalmers from the kitchen table where he was sat with his wife and Mrs Trevellyan.
Alone at the threshold between rooms, the Major stopped me at a point where no one in any one of them would hear us,
‘I won’t insult you, Private, by imagining for a second that, even with Her Majesty unaccounted for and her Government something of a theoretical concept right now, the oath you swore on becoming a soldier would mean any less to you.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Similarly theoretically, I must ask you to consider yourself under the provisions of the Official Secrets Act from this point on; albeit in the absence of a copy of the form available for me to ask you to sign.’
I nodded.
‘Very good. Now I must further ask, does the name Wareing mean anything to you?’
‘No.’ I said quite honestly, not even knowing if the question ought to signify any deeper meaning to me: perhaps it was a codeword? But no, for having already been taken from the kitchen to the lounge, I was now shown the study. Waiting there was a serious-looking man in not entirely convincing civvies, rising to greet me,
‘Crofts? Wareing.’
‘Well I’ll leave you pair to talk,’ said the Major, as he retired and shut the door. So this was the purpose of his bringing me here. It was obvious now: I would be going back – I was going to get my mission…
The door closed upon us, as the man spoke,
‘Good to meet you, Crofts. There’s not many military men still over here, or anywhere else for that matter. Those who got you out will already have been repatriated; and God help anyone anywhere else in the world our soldiers were defending until three months ago.
‘Like myself, I expect that you want only for a chance to get back home and do some good? The fact is, I have a mission but need a sideman; while you’d be on your way back anyway as soon as the next platoon could be gathered, but how about something a little more engaging than being throw onto guarding motorway convoys? You’ve been signed off today?’
I nodded.
‘And have you trained?’
‘Only lightly, sir.’
‘Of course, not wanting to pull tender muscles. But you’re fit? Enough for walking at least? There’ll be a lot of walking; though not much fighting I hope, certainly no shooting; and you won’t need any special skills beyond the ability to keep us both alive.
‘Now there’s not a great deal you need to know yet, beyond the fact that it is not a straightforward mission I offer you – this isn’t marching back into your hometown with a care parcel. Our work may not seem the most obvious or helpful to people; but that does not mean it is not vital. Hence why, in even these troubled times, I’ve been allocated a man to help me.
‘Oh, and we leave tomorrow night, Is that good?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fine; and no more Private or sir, nor any mention of rank even between ourselves, or acknowledgement of it except in relation to our mission’s primary objective. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, Wareing,’ I answered spotting the test, however odd my answer sounded to me.
‘Good, get used to that.’
I wasn’t sure if Wareing had any more to tell me, before yet more moving between rooms occurred. The Major appeared at the door, apologising for interrupting, but explaining that he, ‘Just wanted to say, that there’s been a report on the evening news of rioting and fighting in Calais,’ and that he thought he ought to get me back right away.
‘Then we’ll meet again tomorrow,’ said Wareing as I was shown out.
‘Of course you can expect them to be frustrated at street level,’ I heard John Pointer saying at the table as we skirted the kitchen to reach the hall, in a speech I began to feel I’d already heard once that day. ‘But we mustn’t judge our hosts harshly, even on a night like this. The French Government are the good guys,’ he went on as the Major found his coat. ‘They are the ones making probably the largest peacetime effort toward one European nation by another…’
‘The news report said the fights were centred in the areas where British are staying,’ said the Major as we exited the house. ‘There were hundreds on both sides, apparently. Come, I can get us back there quicker now the roads are clearer.’
Again I had to drive toward a town in flames. I got out at the seafront and walked to where the Gendarmerie were now tidying up the mess; and saw for myself the burnt-out shell of what had been the Prince William.
‘Any fatalities?’ I asked a female officer, the correct French eluding me. ‘La morte?’
‘Deux morte,’ she answered, holding up two fingers as if in Churchill’s famous salute. Perhaps it had been going over it all again that evening for John Pointer, but I felt something rising up in me that I hadn’t felt since Southampton. I came around the corner knowing what I would see there, my legs nearly giving way at the sight of ambulancemen removing a body from in front of a seared and soaked newspaper stall half-packed up for the night.
‘Could people please just stop dying?’ I said aloud to no one in pa
rticular. From before me on the pavement I picked up a sodden copy of Persuasion, the pages pulped together with the force of the firemen’s hose.
I stood there as the Major, fit for his age, jogged back from where he had been looking along the road past the tobacconists,
‘I’m afraid they got your building too.’
I tossed the book back down on the ground.
‘Come on,’ he said blankly. ‘Let’s find you a bed for the night; and then tomorrow we’ll get you kitted up.’
Chapter 4 – Back Home
E-Day+93