by Bill James
Move forward again. The Second World War is over, too. The airfield and its accommodation blocks have been transformed into this Officer Cadet Training Unit (OCTU). Now a couple of months into his National Service, Ian already spends most of the time thinking far, far ahead to his release date, and to days and nights with Lucy Armitage again. Also, of course, to a job where he would not have to wear boots and linger in mud. Especially tonight he kept thinking about both good aspects of the future.
But there was this other war under way, though distant. And so there was the Korea call-up. Although the Lincolnshire airfield no longer needed defending even notionally, airfields in that new, distant war might. Ian and the rest were here to learn how to do it. Tonight’s mock battle might help show them. Some graduating officers would get sent to the war; the RAF Regiment’s job to keep installations secure so the aircraft would have somewhere to take off from and come back to. Korea was rough terrain – a lot tougher than Lincolnshire, but Lincolnshire would have to do for this training exercise.
Very little worth securing still existed on the OCTU airfield. It was a learning centre, a kind of outdoor academy. The control tower did remain and was manned off-and-on in case of fog diversions, but an aircraft putting down here in 1952 was an event, and then only small machines – an Anson or Tiger Moth: nothing operational since 1944, apparently. Instead, for six or seven years, in day exercises, night exercises, camouflage exercises, consolidation exercises, counter-attack exercises, the trainee officers had churned up the bottoms of these minor dents in the clay that Ian and the rest occupied tonight. In the winter, there would always be several inches of cold, thick mud to engulf your boots, smear and kill their gleam, and strike through to your feet, except when it had iced over hard. A driving, large-flaked blizzard blew across the field now and the trenches stayed gluey.
White Course, with Officer Cadet Ian Charteris in charge for this exercise, must play-act the backs-to-the-wall British, hanging on to an airfield menaced by enemy ground troops. Green Course, under OC Raymond Bain, were the attacking North Koreans, who wanted the field and the planes if possible, but, in any case, to put the airstrip out of use as a bomber base. Ian knew he and Bain were probable main contenders for the Sword of Honour – top cadet award – at the end of training. Bain might be a little ahead and a victory tonight could clinch it. He’d done brilliantly in orienteering and small-arms and rifle tests on the range. By custom, each Sword of Honour graduate stayed on here at the OCTU for a spell, to help train new intakes. It sounded a very nice, comfortable and safe number. Nicer and more comfortable and safer than Korea. In fact, though, almost anywhere would be more comfortable and safer than Korea. If Ian missed on the Sword and got Korea he would go, naturally. No option. He wasn’t sure what Lucy’s attitude would be. Emily Stanton had wondered, too. Perhaps any woman would wonder about the impact of such a long separation and such intercontinental mileage. Of course, officers shouldn’t have these selfish, unsoldierly thoughts. Most officers probably did, though, and especially officers who were only officers because they’d been drafted.
‘As a matter of fact, the snow and wind tonight make it more authentic, you see, valuably more,’ the Wing Commander said with filthy enthusiasm when someone wanted the exercise ditched because of conditions. ‘Damned harsh climate, Korea. No picnic. You need to get the feel of a place where it’s no picnic. Absolutely. A mistake to imagine your time in the Service will be a picnic. If some of you are sent out there you’ll look back and thank us at the OCTU for running this little show in less than perfect weather. Oh, yes. Acclimatizing. Hardening.’
White Course took up guard and resist posts in front of the tower at half-past seven and it was now just after nine. They’d heard nothing from the enemy all night. Green had until ten o’clock to make and complete their attack, taking five White Course prisoners how they liked, and removing them as hostages. Ian would have expected Green to get their assault over quickly, so everyone could scoot back to the warmth of the Mess bar. But, of course, they were not deployed and immobile, their feet gripped and chilled by mud. They had the excitement of their scheduled onslaught to keep them warm. They would be moving about. But where would they be moving about? Anywhere, and invisible so far.
Harry Nelmes, alongside Ian in the miniature trench, said Green must hope the stretched suspense would get at White’s nerves. It was typically Oriental: subtle, patient, attritional. And Ian thought, yes, and if the rest of their plan was as effective as this, they’d as good as won. No talking. No smoking. ‘This is war,’ said the Flight Lieutenant umpire, on a quick tour of White’s positions. ‘You must maintain that reality. You don’t advertise your positions by chit-chat and tobacco glow. The enemy is redoubtable, ruthless, alert to any signs of relaxation in your unit, Charteris.’
Which reality? This was Lincolnshire. In the nearby town of Grantham, there were well-stocked, traditional-style shops run by people with traditional-style British names, like Roberts, Tomkins, Hardcastle. Korea was Korea, and possibly twice as awful, with the enemy knowing the land better than you. But the minor awfulness of Lincolnshire winter would do, thanks. Ian and Harry took it in turns to watch across the airfield. Nelmes had the duty now. Looking that way, you took the wind and snow in your face, and after a few moments’ vigil, hostile, swirling devilkind seemed to be galloping at you, white on White. It reminded him a little of those smoke-swathed figures in the public air-raid shelter in 1941. But they’d been real. So far, charging warriors here were figments brought on by weather-driven optical illusion.
Crouched for shelter against Harry’s feet, Ian wondered how Green would go about the actual rough physical business of getting their prisoners. He felt a bit weakened, worn down, by the cold, by girl-lessness, by dawn reveilles, and might not be much good if it came to hand-to-hand stuff. The trouble was that, even if you spotted the attack early enough, and let off all your blanks in roughly the right direction, the umpire didn’t say who’d been killed until afterwards. By then, anything bruising and worse could have happened. Bain played prop-forward for a rugby club somewhere, and for the OCTU, and knew about intelligent thuggery.
Half-past nine nearly. Harry and Ian changed over. Thick snow crusted Nelmes’ helmet and forehead and the shoulders of his greatcoat. Ian sighted his rifle into their arc of fire and the moisture where his elbow rested seeped through to the skin. The cold hurt him between the eyes and he started seeing things again. Occasionally the wind dropped and in the spell of near quiet he heard the gentle, moist amassing of snow on soil, and then on snow, a friendly, wholesome sound and a credit to Nature, but not one he thrilled to, and, really, only pleasant if you knew you’d be getting out of it soon.
And, suddenly, this subdued pitter-patter was drowned. Out of the white-dotted darkness came the raw blare of music: a jangling, combative din from some hugely amplified band and a woman vocalist, careering up and down the octaves without mercy. At first, Ian couldn’t decide where it came from. Green had a wind-up gramophone with them, instead of the standard Bren? In a minute, though, he realized it must be roaring from the tower amplifier. This pointed out over the runways to sound a warning hooter for landing pilots who’d forgotten to get their undercarriage down. It had to be loud enough to register over engine noise. Someone had connected a record player to it.
The music seemed oriental – shrill, full of wailing and sing-song words from the vocalist. Obviously shocked and panicked by it, one White Course cadet in the trenches loosed off five blanks rapid, probably directed any old where. Ian did an all-round hard gaze, suspecting a diversion. Nothing came, only the blizzard.
It lasted three or four minutes and then the music stopped. A weird sort of laugh followed over the loudspeaker. ‘What is it?’ Harry Nelmes asked.
‘A ploy.’
‘What ploy?’
‘Listen,’ Ian said. ‘Stay watchful.’
Someone started to speak in place of the music. The voice was male, disguised by an assumed,
Far-Eastern, comic accent, but Ian thought he identified Bain from Green, commander of North Korea’s foray team: ‘You out there, poor bloody Blitish Tommies? In the snow storm and the dark we sneaked past your trenches. We clever tloops. We winning tloops. We in tower. You hear me OK, yes? We going fight you, give you nasty time if you don’t surrender now. Hurry, please, to capitulate. We will see white flag, even on snow-white background. We would like to be kindly to you, oh, yes. War can be honourable. But war can also be velly savage. Oh, yes to that, too. No chance at all is what you have. You all nervous in cold? Tligger happy, yes? Bang, bang, bang. You velly fed up? Me have idea for your boss, OC Ian Charteris. All Tommies come here, be captured, yes? Velly, velly easy, yes? Leave guns behind. Hands in air. Hanky for that aforespoken of white flag. We not cold, not miserable. Having party in here. Plenty rum, plenty whisky. Party in dark because we have girls, too.’ Ian heard a little scream and giggle, which might have been one of the canteen staff. ‘You come see, give up before White nuts freeze off, OK?’
From somewhere out in the dark the umpire bellowed: ‘Look here, Green, that’s all very well, but I don’t think we can accept this sort of ruse. Not legitimate. Not at all in the proper spirit of things. It makes the exercise absurd. You must see that.’
‘All fair in love and war, yes? Old Blitish saying, I thlink. Must win. No good coming second. In war the ones who come second come nowhere at all. Sorry you White men can’t attend party. Have something for you velly special.’
No one answered. Ian whispered to the next trench a command for absolute silence from White and maximum readiness and observation. ‘Pass the message.’ Green were not the only ones who could do subtlety and patience, the bastards. He felt quite good now. He and his boys would show that famous British – Blitish – resolve.
The loudspeaker crackled, then talked to White again: ‘Letter here for OC Harry Nelmes from Angela, very sentimental, velly, velly intimate, velly, velly rude and lewd. One for OC Bernard Colley from Delphine, even ruder and lewder and with drawings.’
The umpire yelled: ‘Damn it, you’ve stolen some of White’s post from Mess pigeon holes, Green. Outrageous, contemptible, un-officer-like, so dishonourable. Such tactics cannot be valid. This would never happen in a true Korean setting. Not even such an enemy would stoop to that – akin to poisoning the wells.’
‘Final notice from hire-purchase company for OC Wilson,’ the loudspeaker replied. ‘Several letters here, yes. Velly bad mistake. Somehow, yes, somehow handful of White letters go to Green for last few days. Often very poor postal service in Korea, I will admit. Many mix-ups and wrong letter boxes – or pigeon holes. Your great author, Anthony Trollope, worked for Blitish post office and made things run so velly sweetly. And it is still so. No Anthony Trollope in Korea so far. And so bad system. Here is unkind “Dear John” farewell letter for OC Ian Charteris from Lucy. Really sad. I call it “Dear John” letter because that what goodbye letter from girl to Tommy at Front always called, I believe. But, of course, it is “Dear Ian”. Begins like this: “Dear Ian, I have something serious to say.” Oh, yes, velly serious. Velly final. And so sad.
‘But not everything for him too bad. Here another note for OC Ian Charteris. Velly high-quality paper. Some pricey scent on? No stamp or flanking on envelope. It says, “Grand to see you. I’m sure I’ll be able to help in some way. I must.” Signed, E. Just E. I wonder who is E? Help him how?’
Nelmes was out of the trench running towards the tower, a good, swift, stylish run for this kind of ground, but also, somehow, desperate and panicky. Through the pelting snow, Ian made out Colley as he caught up with him and overtook, despite Nelmes’ elegant pace. Colley kept yelling, ‘Surrender! Unconditional. Give me my fucking letter, Green.’ Ian couldn’t free himself from the mud at once. It sucked lovingly at his boots, tugged at them as with a special form of gravity far outside Newton’s scope. Disgracefully, he stuck the muzzle of his rifle down into the single hardish part of the trench floor so the gun took most of his weight like a crutch, pulled one foot free and then the other and joined the rush, the barrel of his weapon useless, stuffed with muck, probably a court-martial offence in real battle conditions.
SEVEN
And Lucy did have something serious to say. Once the formalities of victory by Green had been completed and the ‘prisoners’ listed, Bain released the letters in a touching little procedure, like dishing out rations to the starving. Ian saw from the postmark that Bain must have liberated his from the pigeon holes a week ago. Just for forward planning this lad might deserve the Sword. Ian felt too tired and fed up to read her letter tonight. He knew the bleak gist of it already. Thanks, Ray.
Next day, after morning parade, there was an Equipment Indenting lecture: how to order new blanco, new light bulbs, new bedding, new ammo, new French knickers for Women’s Royal Air Force girls. The specialist Equipment Flight Lieutenant giving the lecture said the buttons-under-the-crutch knickers had saved more man hours than any other innovative piece of gear in the Service. After this, the session faded into dullness. Half of White Course slept, but Ian spread Lucy’s letter out on his thighs under the lecture room desk and, before sleeping himself, absorbed most of the message. She said that in her view things between them had become too difficult – he far away in the OCTU, she preoccupied at the start of a newspaper career. It was Lucy’s feature-writing job that had made Ian think about journalism for himself when he left the RAF. She believed they should both recognize these problems and end their ‘understanding’. The relationship had become complicated and uncertain. He might be sent abroad soon. He didn’t know what job he’d try for when demobilized. It would be better if they finished. He dozed but in half-waking moments thought she might be right. Perhaps things were too complicated and uncertain. Some aspects of a relationship could be simplified and improved at the same time, as with the knickers buttons. But only some aspects of a relationship.
He had invited Lucy to the passing-out parade next week, when he’d collect his commission, maybe even the Sword of Honour, though he doubted that after the capitulation of White Course in the snow. Bain had shown he knew life was going to be no picnic and had toughened up and developed his no-rules warfare techniques to suit. Lucy’s letter added that, in view of her changed feelings, and because of the distance and the time off work required, she would obviously not be coming. That obviously really hit him. As North Korea’s Ray Bain had said in his airfield statement, the letter made things ‘very final’. The obviously meant there’d be no point in arguing, pleading, replying. The letter was already a week old, anyway, so the time for an urgent answer had most likely gone.
In the Mess bar a couple of evenings later, Ray Bain approached Ian and asked if they could have a private chin wag for a few minutes. They took their beers to a corner table. Bain said: ‘I’ve been thinking, Ian. Maybe the umpire was right and I went too far.’ He was red-haired, plump faced and generally mischievous looking, chirpy, strongly put together, as a prop forward had to be. Now, though, he did seem regretful, a heavy frown in place, his eyes not meeting Ian’s much.
‘“All’s fair in love and war”, you said, Ray.’
‘Yes. Oh, I think snaffling some of the letters was OK, only a sort of jape really, though the brass here might not think so. But, whether they do or not, broadcasting that brush-off from your girlfriend – poor, very. Harsh. Beyond the decent and playful. And then there’s E. Is E of the distinguished notepaper who I think she is? How did you manage it? Blimey, Ian, that’s some conquest, and so quick. Will the Group Captain come gunning for you? Anyway, that tactic of ours the other night, it was not “in the proper spirit”, as the umpire said.’
‘Well, what Lucy wrote would have been a kick in the guts whether it got pumped out over the airfield or read in private. Don’t scourge yourself, Ray. You were only the messenger – amplified.’
‘It was serious with her, was it?’
‘I thought so.’
‘I’m sorr
y,’ Bain replied. ‘Really, I am. Very wrong to have treated it flippantly.’ He brightened, grew positive, constructive, more like Bain. ‘Look, Ian, I know an address down in the town where there are some really sweet, cheery girls. OK, they’re not Lucy, and not E, but they are nice. Why don’t we get along there together tomorrow evening? I’ll pay. I want to make some recompense. I should, after all that. You’re not tied up with E tomorrow, are you?’
‘What sort of address?’
‘Really pleasant girls. They take an extremely favourable view of the camp, think of themselves as unofficial staff. Obviously, it’s an all-ranks place, but some of the girls prefer officer cadet material.’
‘Well, yes, I expect so.’
‘They’re familiar with cadets’ troubles – love troubles and others. One of those girls, or perhaps more than one, will help you forget Lucy for a while. No strings. They understand they mustn’t ever try to get in touch. They know we’ll soon be officers, and that some matters must stay confidential.’
‘Not broadcast.’
‘Are you on?’
‘I’m a free man.’
‘Yes, I’ll look after the money side.’
‘I meant I’m free to look around.’