Charlie's War

by David Fiddimore

  I wasn’t too keen, and it must have shown in my face. James said, ‘Take it easy, Charlie. If Mr Oliver was going to arrest you, he would have done it by now. I wouldn’t have stopped him.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Les asked the American, ‘I suppose that some of them down there will be rustling up their breakfasts around now.’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder, Mr Finnigan: but if they aren’t, I’ll get you into the chow line up the hill.’

  Les gave him a salute. It was worse than one of James’s. He sort of touched the rim of his beret with his right forefinger: and that was it.

  The main encampment was far enough above us for my knees to feel the strain. Oliver didn’t try to make conversation, which I appreciated. The biggest tents had huge white squares with red crosses on them: they were the field operating theatres. There were two sorts of wards, he told me: those for lying in, and those for dying in. He thought it would show solidarity with my Allies to visit the latter before I moved on.

  About a dozen people, surgeons, nurses, attendants and patients, erupted from one of the operating tents just as we reached it. You couldn’t have mistaken it for a welcoming party. One patient was carrying his own drip, and still running. A nurse caught up with him, and took the drip. They ran on together, ignoring the mud. One of the docs must have recognized Oliver, who swore under his breath as the guy stopped, turned on him, and gulped, ‘Thank the fuck you’re here. There’s a mad bastard with a gun in there.’

  I couldn’t resist it.

  ‘There are mad bastards with guns out here, too; thousands of them. Haven’t you noticed?’

  The doc was a scrawny character, whose apron was covered in blood. He eyed me up and down, and panted, ‘A Chaplain: even better. Maybe he’ll listen to you.’

  Me and my big mouth. A shot sounded from inside the tent, and its canvas near us was plucked momentarily outwards. When it fell back in place there was a hole in it.

  Oliver told me, ‘You can wait out here for me if you like,’ and stepped up to the flappy thing that was pretending to be a door.

  I said, ‘I’ll be safer with you: you’re probably the only man here who knows what he’s doing.’

  I only said it to make him feel better, expecting him to refuse. He eyed me up doubtfully, said, ‘OK . . . let’s go,’ and moved.

  At the far end of the tented room there was a patient on a table. His big toe twitched spasmodically, as if he was waiting for someone to scratch it. He’d have a long wait; there were few doctors, nor nurses that I could see. Those patients who could had got on the floor under their cots. There were a few who couldn’t do that, and most of those too far gone to care. One deranged-looking grunt was sitting up on one bed, with his back against a ridge pole. Three medics were kneeling on the floor, in the mud, in front of him. One Doc, one nurse and one SBA – a sick bay attendant. They had their faces close to the mud, and their arses in the air pointed at us.

  Guns always look big in confined spaces, don’t they? He was holding one of those bloody great .45s, and there was that brilliant tang of gunsmoke in the air. The square gun barrel framing drifted in our direction as we neared him. The Provo didn’t hurry. No point in hurrying to get killed, is there? When we were so close as not to be mistaken Oliver asked, ‘Arnold? That you?’

  ‘They took my fucking leg, Jamie.’ The gunman had one of those soft Southern voices. I could see through the sheet over his lower body that there was something significant missing.

  ‘He would have died . . .’ That was the doc in the mud. It came out as a bit of a whine. Then he farted. I knew how he felt. The patient told him, ‘Shaddup. I weren’t talking at you. You stole my leg.’

  We were at the end of the bed now. The GI said it again, ‘They took my fucking leg, Jamie.’ Then, ‘Who’s the guy with you?’

  ‘A limey Chaplain, a Padre.’

  ‘They took my fucking leg, Padre.’

  ‘You can get along without it,’ I told him.

  ‘You ever heard of a one-legged rodeo rider?’

  ‘Hopalong Cassidy?’ I tried.

  I heard the Provo’s breath going in with a whistle. It got so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Then the GI laughed.

  ‘You ain’t no friggin’ hymn-singer, that’s fer sure. Why you wearing a gun, Father?’

  ‘Old Testament, son; an eye for an eye, and all that jazz . . . I didn’t want Jerry getting the wrong idea about peace and brotherly love.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’ he asked me.

  I heard my voice saying it, but it wasn’t really me.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Soldier. Sorry about your leg; but you’ve got a lot of people scared and worried in here, and there’s a man on that table at the back bleeding to death because you have a gun in your hand. I may not be that John Wayne, but what I’m going to do is promise you that if you make me unbutton this holster I’ll try to kill you.’

  Who was I kidding? It was my newly acquired Luger I was talking about. I didn’t even know how to fire the damned thing. Again, I heard that whistling sound as Oliver took a quick deep breath, and a muddy squelch as he stepped away from me.

  Arnold One-Leg said, ‘Hot-damn!’ and then, ‘You can stop whistling, Jamie, I was never going to hurt no one; you know that.’ And then, ‘They took my fucking leg, Father, and didn’t even let me see it.’

  ‘You put the gun down, and they’ll fetch the leg.’ I was actually resting my right hand on the holster flap. I don’t know if I would have done it. He grinned, reversed his pistol, and handed it grip-first up to the policeman. The medics began to stir out of the mud.

  I said, ‘Someone had better see to the guy on the table. And bring this man his leg. I think he wants to say goodbye.’

  I think that they were the first proper orders I ever gave. A bead of sweat ran down the small of my back. Oliver went with them. I sat on the bed where his leg should have been – it was a bit tactless, but the sooner he got used to it the better. I asked the GI, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Arnold Ripley. I’m from a small place called Houston. You won’t have heard of it.’

  ‘I won’t forget it now, will I? I had to sit down so that the others wouldn’t see my knees knocking.’

  ‘Would you have dropped me, Father?’

  ‘We’ll never know, will we? I’ve never fired the damned thing.’

  ‘Better learn, if you’re going to go round threatening soldiers.’ He gave a low moan.

  I wasn’t going to be dumb enough to ask if it was hurting. I said, ‘I’ll get them to give you a shot when they come back.’ The words were out before I could call them back, but he grinned through the pain.

  ‘You don’t take any fucking prisoners, do you, Father?’ Then, ‘Yeah; better you don’t do it yourself: you could hurt someone.’

  The nurse and the SBA came back with James Oliver. Each of the three was struggling to carry a galvanized iron dustbin. Jamie waved me over. He said, ‘Problem. We got bins full of arms and legs back there. Some of them are a bit smelly. No one knows which one is his.’

  This was getting out of control. I felt like a pilot whose control lines had been shot away. I went back to the bed. I said, ‘Houston, we have a problem. They have bins of arms and legs, and they don’t know which one is yours.’

  ‘What we gonna do, Father?’

  ‘Like they do in the gangster films, son. Identity parade.’

  He laughed between gasps of pain. They got all the legs out, and laid them across the end of his bed for him to see. Eventually he laid claim to a fine left leg. The one he’d lost was the right one, and in any case the leg he identified was clearly black. I said, ‘That’s not your leg, Arnold. It belongs to a Negro. It’s not even the right side.’

  ‘I know, Father, but I kinda like it. It’s a good leg.’

  ‘OK. What do you want me to do with it?’

  He gave a little gasp again, and said, ‘Just say a little something over it, Father. Put it to rest.’
>
  I gave the leg the Twenty-Third Psalm, stumbling a bit around the bit that says walking through the shadow of the valley of death. The nurse cried a bit, and the SBA grinned as if he was about to lose his mind.

  Arnold said, ‘You kin take it away now,’ and, ‘You can shoot me now, Padre.’

  The nurse moved away to a trolley mired in the middle of the tent, and came back with a syringe of pink fluid. Whatever it was it put Arnold out of it very quickly.

  The SBA asked, ‘You want to pray over all these bins, Padre?’

  I told him, ‘Not now, son. Just stack them up out back, and I’ll creep round and say the words over the whole lot tonight.’

  ‘You’re the strangest bloody priest I’ve met, sir!’

  ‘It’s the training. They rush us through it these days. You don’t have time to get the rough edges knocked off.’ I was pissed off with having to explain myself all the time.

  The nurse fussing around the bed nearest to the door flap as we left was the pretty one in a traditional nurse’s outfit we had seen running away alongside a patient and holding up his plasma drip. She straightened up, backed away from the bed and half turned – almost bundling into us. She blushed, said, ‘Sorry,’ and then looked angry. But not at us.

  ‘Lieutenant?’ Her voice came all the way from that girls’ school in Cheltenham. Some posh Anglo who was here for the good works that would take pride of place in her war diary one day.

  Oliver stopped and said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want to report that man I was with.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He handled me. Handled me standing up in the mud. Up against a post while I held his drip, and kept him alive.’

  ‘Why didn’t you run away, Miss?’

  ‘If I’d dropped the drip he would have died.’

  ‘I expect he had his reasons,’ the policeman told her, and pushed me out through the door flap ahead of him.

  Outside he asked me, ‘Is your denomination allowed to drink? I could show you a good bar.’

  We waded up to the Quonset hut. It was a lot larger than I had thought: about the same size as a village church hall, but not much more substantial than one of the large tents. It had been wood prefabricated in the USA in four-ply, shipped in pieces and erected on a small bit of America in the Netherlands. Even though it was relatively early morning there was a party going on: maybe fifty people. Thinking about it, it could have been the dregs of last night’s do. A coloured pianist in a white jacket was doing the Casablanca thing, and among the few couples dancing was a nice-looking nurse dancing with an older guy. He was in clean fatigues that bore no identification flashes, and wore highly polished black shoes. I couldn’t see his face. I noticed them because she had a tit out, and she danced with her eyes closed. She looked beat; I think that she was sleeping. If that sort of thing offends your sensibilities these days, I can’t say I care. We had almost reached the end of the world: things were different out there.

  A friendly waitress brought a couple of foaming beers to our table – no money changed hands. I asked Oliver about that.

  ‘It would be immoral to charge for it, Padre. After all, the Army stole it in the first place. We stole some from the Kraut, and after that ran out, stole it from collaborators. This is Belgium beer: made by some order of monks. They been told to supply it for free until the war’s over. I think Patton told them that, or maybe it was Ike.’

  ‘Can they do that?’

  ‘Padre, they tell me that Ike wants are the most important words in Europe right now. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheerio,’ I told him. It was good beer: strong and with a bleak yeasty aftertaste.

  The dance was an excuse-me. A tall Sergeant excused the guy in fatigues, and the nurse didn’t even open her eyes. I was beginning to think that I fancied a bit of a dance myself. Fatigues stuck an American cigarette in his gob, lit it expertly with a brass Zippo, and wandered over. His sleeves were half rolled: I saw he had an expensive wristwatch on his right wrist: probably German. His arm sported a new eagle tattoo. My old man always used to wear his watch on the wrong side. He sat down, and waved the waitress over.

  ‘Hello, Charlie.’

  ‘Hello, Dad. Where’s Uncle Tommy?’

  ‘Up at the clinic. Getting something for his warts.’

  ‘I didn’t know he had any.’

  ‘Before we came here he didn’t have. I’ve told him that they’re something else, but he won’t believe me.’

  ‘Are you still digging?’

  ‘Yes. You still flying?’ The look he gave the clothes I was wearing begged a reply.

  ‘No. I’m driving. I’m trying to find that girl Grace I knew. Do you remember her?’

  ‘What’s she doing over here? I thought that she was just a delivery pilot for the ATA.’

  ‘She was. It’s a long story, but she was pregnant, got caught in a bombing raid in London where a lot of children were killed, flipped over and ran away. Some people think that she’s out here somewhere, doing relief work. Maybe she’s even heading for Germany.’

  ‘Am I a grandfather then?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The child’s probably not mine. Probably an American she knew before we met her.’

  ‘Why do you want to find her?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I do, any more. But I promised her I’d find her after the war, and it must be on its last knockings now. The point is that the RAF wants her, and her parents want her: and Winnie, if I believe what people tell me. All I have to do is find her, and take her back.’

  ‘Her people rich?’

  ‘Filthy.’

  ‘You going to marry her so we can all live like nobs?’

  ‘Six months ago I would have liked that. Now I’m not so certain. I might love her, but that’s not always enough, is it? I’m not all that sure that she’s worth loving.’

  My father was never what you’d call a smiler, but he cracked one now.

  I asked him, ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing, Charlie. I was smiling because I suddenly realized that you’d grown up. It was pleasure.’

  Some time during our conversation Oliver left us to dance with the nurse. Her shirt was open now, and flapping loose around her waist. Oliver was stroking her as they danced. Her hands met behind his neck. Her eyes were still closed. The Negro was playing ‘I Saw Stars’, which I remembered as a Les Allen number from before the war. The slow piano made it really smoochie. The Sergeant was now drinking at a noisy table which included MOs and SBAs with blood-stained coats. Above them the bare wood beams which supported the roof were strung with lines of small, tired-looking Allied flags. Some wag had managed to tie a triangular swastika pennant into them.

  Dad asked me, ‘Cigarette?’ as he pulled another for himself.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Camels. In my war men flew Camels, not smoked them.’

  He always liked puns.

  ‘I seem to remember that some men smoked them too. Didn’t Sopwiths burn pretty easily?’

  ‘They all did, then. It was the dope on the canvas. I should have asked you about your burns. You’re obviously a lot better.’

  ‘Some American doctor spread something on my shoulders in a hospital in Paris. I hardly notice them now.’

  ‘. . . and we can’t keep him away from the bints,’ James England said, and flopped into the vacant chair. Les pulled one up to another side; cornering us. James held his hand out for a shake. I told Dad, ‘This is Major England: I’m travelling with him.’ I told James, ‘. . . and this is my father, Henry Bassett.’

  ‘Nothing to do with the liquorice allsorts?’ Les asked him, also doing the handshake ritual. His hand held on to my old man’s a fraction too long, and they were feeling where to place fingers and thumbs. ‘I’m Les Finnigan. Their PFD.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Poor effing driver; pardon my French.’

  James had his book out. He said, ‘I’ll write that down. Have you noticed how we a
ll excuse our bad language with Pardon my French? Anyone would think that the Froggies swore all of the time.’

  Another round hit the table. I would have to be careful. That was the third this morning. Our policeman came back from his smooch, and dragged a chair up. I noticed that the music had stopped, and when I looked up the only two folk missing appeared to be the pianist and the dancing nurse.

  James Oliver asked, ‘None of us found Albie, then?’

  My father asked, ‘Is that the American tank commander you met in Bedford?’

  ‘Yes.’ That was me. ‘How the hell did you find out about that?’

  ‘He told me, about a week ago. We were drinking in a crowd, and got to exchanging folk we knew: you know how it is. Why is it that no one believes you when you tell them it’s a small bleeding world?’

  ‘Do you know where he is, Dad?’

  ‘Of course I do. He‘s sitting over there waving at you.’

  It was the noisy table. There were about eight people around it, and you couldn’t see the tabletop for glasses. The dancing nurse was there now. Maybe she had been there all along. Albie was grinning at me; he had a new growth of beard, and waved a hand above his head. The three first fingers had been bandaged together. Even from that distance I could see that the bandage needed changing.

  My dad walked with me. Albie got up and gave me a hug. That was embarrassing because he enveloped me, and my nose came up to about his left nipple. He shook Dad’s hand enthusiastically.

  ‘You found your Charlie, then, Mr Bassett?’

  ‘Only because he was looking for you, Captain, and that girl Grace.’

  ‘There you go. It’s an ill wind blows nobody any good.’ The way his tongue was wrapping itself around his teeth I thought he did well to get that out. When he grinned I saw that one of his incisors wasn’t there. He noticed me noticing it, and held up his right hand for inspection. As well as the bound-up fingers, the top inch of his pinkie was missing. It looked very red; like a recently healed wound.

  ‘I’m leaving bits all over Europe, Charlie. I soon won’t have enough to ship back home.’