Knock-knock. Knock.
'Dick?'
My God. I really must be hallucinating.
'Dick?' Louder this time. Loud enough to hear that it is Gina, definitely. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. HALLELUJAH!
'Come in.'
As soon as she does I can see she's terribly distraught —
red-rimmed eyes, glistening cheeks, a grey pallor, the lot — and I would get out of bed to give her a big, comforting hug, but I don't for reasons which, even though she's in a dressing gown not a diaphanous nightdress, ought to be fairly obvious.
'Dick, I'm so sorry,' she begins —
'Gina, darling, don't be. Really don't. Just come and sit here —' I pat the bedclothes. 'And tell me what I can do to help.'
Gina shuffles over, feeling very sorry for herself. Really, I've never seen her looking so distressed. After a moment's hesitation, she perches on the bed and looks at me uncertainly.
'Tell me,' I urge.
'Oh God, I shouldn't have come, you'll think it's too silly,' she sobs into her palms.
I take both her hands and pull her gently towards me.
'It's not James, is it?' I say, hopefully.
'No. It's not James.'
'Then, who? Tell me his name.'
'It's nobody. Nobody who's done anything wrong. It's more . . . this horrible horrible war. I so detest this war.'
'But of course you do, Gina. We all do. But there isn't long to go now. It'll be over by Christmas at the very latest. And then we can rebuild our lives. And get on with living happily ever after.'
I say the last bit with a meaningful caress of her trembling hands, but she's so distraught I'm not sure she notices.
'But what if we don't make it?' she says, pulling her hands from mine and looking at me with the most abject despair.
'We will!'
'Not all of us,' she says.
'Most of us. The lucky ones.'
'Yes,' she says, smiling for the first time. 'The lucky ones.' And she takes my hands once more and gives me another meaningful look, not a million miles removed from the cracker she shot me at dinner.
And if I wasn't feeling too lucky before, I certainly am now. 'Dick Coward,' I'm thinking to myself, 'you have hit the jackpot here.' Indeed, the only remaining imponderable at this point, it strikes me, is how much longer I should decently leave it before lurching forward and giving her a proper kiss, or maybe just pulling her on top of me.
Best not to rush things, I decide. So I content myself with a stroke of her hair and one of those deep, caring looks women like.
'Feeling better?' 'A bit.'
'A bit? I shan't let you leave this room until the answer's "a lot".'
She laughs. Almost back to her old self now.
'James was right,' she says.
'That'll be a first,' I say.
'He looks up to you, you know. He won't admit it but he does. Underneath all that show, those medals, he knows in his heart that it's you who deserves the victor's laurels.'
'Good. Then he should jolly well say as much to the old man.'
'Dick, you know that won't happen. But just because James won't doesn't mean others can't. People whose opinion your father respects.'
'Who?'
'Me, silly.'
'That's very sweet of you, Gina, but —'
'Please don't thank me, it's nothing. I've got a favour to ask of you and it's much, much bigger than that.'
'How big?'
'So big I wouldn't even have dared ask if it hadn't been for what James said and what I heard at dinner and, well, I know
you're the only one who can do it and I know it's so much to ask, but if you could I'd love you for ever - well, I do already, but even more than that if that's possible.'
'I'd better say yes, then.'
'Wait. You haven't heard what it is,' she says, in a voice at once coquettishly challenging and trepidatious. 'And especially now that you've acquired a new lady friend —'
'Gina. That girl means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing!'
Gina studies me shrewdly for a moment. Then she goes on: 'You remember how the Brigadier was talking about these feelings soldiers get in their bones about whether they'll live or die? Well, I've been having them about a friend of mine. Family, in fact. He's my cousin. Not one you know, I don't think. From the other side. We've always been close, very close, and if anything were to happen to him —' She stifles a sob.
'Gina, darling, you mustn't. We all get these silly premonitions now and then —'
'Every night?'
'Every night? Since when?'
'Ever since we . . .' She pauses to think. 'You remember when you were sitting under the tree with the boys and you recognised me for the first time? It was just before that.'
'That's a long time.'
'Every night it's the same. It was the same just now. I wake up in a cold sweat — feel.' She pulls my hand behind her head and I can feel the clamminess of her neck. 'And I'm watching him, then I am him, lying on my side and everything is numb and misty, just feeling all my strength slowly ebb away. And I'm dying. He's dying and he doesn't want to die, he's telling me he doesn't want to die, he wants to be with me.'
'Have I met him, this cousin?'
'You might have done, but he's so shy you probably wouldn't have noticed. His name's Guy. Guy Dangerfield.'
'Dangerfield. Is that the . . .' whey-faced drip with dark girlie hair, I'm about to say, because yes I think I do remember him: he was the spod we used to pick on, my brother especially. 'No,' I carry on swiftly. 'I don't think I do. But you must have lots of friends and family in the services. Why Guy in particular?'
'Because . . .' she trails off. 'Aren't commandos especially at risk?'
'He's a commando?'
'You sound surprised.'
'Well, you did say he was "shy".'
'Shy but brave.'
'I see why you're worried.'
'Is bravery a bad thing?'
'So Price is always telling me.'
Her eyes widen and through them you can almost see the terrible thoughts she's thinking. Guy leading a suicidal charge. Guy throwing himself on to the grenade, in order that his comrades might live. Guy volunteering for the mission from which there can be no return.
'I want you to help him,' she says, fixing me with eyes so steady it's like being mesmerised by one of those turbaned stage hypnotists.
'Of course I will. I'll write him a letter, how about that? A letter giving him all the tips I've gleaned in the last five years as to how you survive in battle. Stuff they don't even teach you at Achnacarry.'
'No. Really help him. Be there with him. Keep him from harm.'
'What. You mean — literally?'
'Yes.'
'But Gina darling, you know I'd absolutely love to if I could. Really, there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you if it were remotely possible.'
'Really?'
'I swear. But this one, it's quite beyond my powers. You can't simply waltz into any old commando unit you fancy.'
'Oh but Dickie. This is what's so wonderful. You can! You can! James told me.'
'How would James know?'
'He overheard the Brigadier talking to you. And I know it was naughty of him to eavesdrop like that but thank God he did because it's worked out so well. He's in charge of the same unit Guy's in. The one he was so keen for you to join!'
'I say,' I say queasily. 'What an extraordinary stroke of luck!'
Chapter 7
Back to Basics
'Hands off cocks and on with socks, you 'orrible bunch of layabout pansies. Parade's in five minutes!' yells a voice near my ear so comically familiar I find it hard to take it seriously. And the setting doesn't help. Lumpy bunks in a billowing bell tent redolent of stale fart and cheesy foot; the early wake-up call; the Sergeant's stock phrases: I haven't heard such nonsense since basic training.
'DO YOUR LUGHOLES NEED SWABBING, SONNY MY LAD. I SAID -'
'So sorry,
Price. I thought -'
'Price. PRICE? Did I hear you address me as Price, Marine whatever-your-name-is, not that I care because to me you are lower than vermin, you maggot, you rat turd, you dripping green emanation from a whore's syphilitic piss-flaps? It's SERGEANT Price to you and don't you sodding well forget it.'
'Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant,' I say, keeping a straight face only with the most superhuman effort of will.
'Who the fook was that?' says the owner of the pair of size- twenty feet dangling from the bunk above mine. He drops to the floor with a thump and peers at me sceptically. 'And while we're about it, who the fook are you?'
'Coward. Dick Coward,' I say extending one hand while I pull up my trousers with the other. 'And you are?'
'Never mind about that, Marine Lah Di Dah,' he says, scrambling into his kit as quickly as he can because he can tell, as we all can, that this Sgt. Price isn't a fellow to mess with. 'What I want to know is, what the fook have you done with my mate Legger?'
'I'm not sure we've ever met,' I say.
'Well, he were in your bed till two days ago.'
'Oh, Lamb. Yes. Apparently he had some kind of infection.'
'I know that. When's he coming back?'
'I'm not sure that he is.'
'Well, who's going to replace him?'
'Me, I suppose.'
'That's just what I were bloody afraid of.'
Now, when you're in a situation like this, of course, you look for a response so witty, so charming, so otherwise impossibly winning that everyone around you comes instantly to understand that you are a splendid chap who they'll be glad to have around. Of course, you never find one. When you're a stranger arriving unheralded in a close-knit group — and they don't come any closer knit than a section in a commando troop - you just have to accept that for the first few days you're going to be made about as welcome as a dose of dysentery in a battened-down Crusader.
So hats off to Price and his devilish clever ruse, I'm thinking, as I hurry after the rest of my section to the parade ground, praying the while that I can remember my drill because heaven knows it's been quite some time. By singling me out for his especial attentions just now, he will have contrived instantly to suggest to my fellow marines that I am one of them.
'PARADE. PARADE 'SHUN!' screams Sgt. Price and my heels click into place, thank God, in perfect unison with everyone else's. We all stand, perfectly rigid in our green berets, eyes fixed straight in front of us, as Price stalks menacingly up and down the lines.
'Now, you are probably wondering, gentlemen, who I am, why I am so angry and why you have been called on parade at a time when you have so many better things to do such as studying maps, improving your marksmanship, and making the most of what little time you have left with the little fellow before he gets shot off in action as mine so nearly was once, which is your second question answered already.'
There are snorts of mirth from the assembled ranks.
'Do not laugh. It was not intended as a joke. I am not Max Miller. I am here at the suggestion of my old friend Sarnt Weaver, who said to me in the sergeants' mess last night: "Gonad," he said. "Gonad, I have a problem and I wonder if you can help me. I have under my command the most splendid bunch of boys — well, most of them anyway - in the peak of fitness and itching for action. But Gonad, I'm a little worried they're getting a bit too cocky. Not many of them have seen Germans up close before and I don't think they realise what an 'orrible bunch of cunts Germans can be. So Gonad, will you do me a favour? Show them what an 'orrible cunt looks like. "Sarnt Weaver," I said. "It will be my pleasure." And since one or two of you still insist on finding my remarks funny, I'd like you all to drop and give thirty press-ups at the double. Now!'
In one, lithe movement the men around me drop to their hands and begin bobbing up and down. God, they're fit. Fitter than anybody of trained men I've ever seen — and I've seen a fair few. They've done their basic; they've done their commando training at Achnacarry; spent days on exercise in the Scottish Highlands, the Black Mountains and on Dartmoor; they've been shinning up and down ropes at the climbing school in St Ives; they're taut and lean and well fed and inured to pain and danger; they can kill a man with their bare hands, with a knife, with a Sten, with a Bren, with a three-inch mortar, with a 36 grenade, with a hat-pin, you name it. Thirty press- ups? They can manage that in their sleep.
All of them, that is, bar one.
'You. Marine. Piss-flap. What's your name?'
'Coward, Sergeant,' I say through gritted teeth. Everyone else has finished now, and they're all standing in line, waiting for me to finish. I've only done nineteen but that's all I'm going to be able to manage. My arms are like jelly, my whole body is juddering.
'Would you like to give up, Coward?' says Price.
'No, Sergeant.'
'Course, you would. It's what Cowards do, isn't it, Coward?'
'No, Sergeant.'
'Marines. Show him how it's done. I want thirty more at the double. No, wait. Make that fifty. Go!'
After fifty press-ups, even the fitter marines are looking mildly discomfited. For good measure, Price makes them all sprint three times round the camp perimeter, yapping at their heels like an angry terrier, while I struggle to keep up as best I can. Then he calls us all to attention again, before dismissing us for breakfast.
'Coward. You stay where you are.'
I remain at attention while the parade ground empties. Price marches smartly towards me and halts barely an inch from my ear. He leans forward even closer, as if preparing to whisper an endearment. And I just can't restrain my smirk, any longer.
'Price,' I say with a laugh. 'You really are —'
I'm about to tell him what an absolutely first-rate job he's doing, but I'm cut short by the most massive concussion against my eardrums.
'SERGEANT Price.'
'Sorry, Sergeant, but —'
'No buts. You knew exactly what you were doing when you volunteered for this unit. You've made your bed. Now you can sodding well lie in it.'
Oh dear, I'm thinking to myself as I hurry off to breakfast because there isn't much time - Price has ordered me back by 0800 hours for remedial fitness training, which only leaves me quarter of an hour. Oh dear, oh bloody dear. Because for the first time - and not for the last, let me tell you - it has begun to dawn what a frightful mess I've managed to land us in.
When we arrived at the camp in the small hours of last night - it should have been earlier but as usual the trains were delayed something rotten, and the roads to Southampton were chock-a-block - it all seemed such an awfully big adventure. The weight of traffic and personnel on the road, even late in the night; the ranks of Shermans, armoured scout cars, jeeps, lorries, DUKWs parked under camouflage in readiness for the day of embarkation; the fighters roaring overhead, ready to blast any nosy Jerries out of the sky. It's a thrilling thing being part of a huge invasion force, and it was about to grow more thrilling still. And you'll no doubt think it foolish of me — I certainly did later - but when Price and I finally persuaded the Yankees at the gate that we weren't fifth columnists and we entered the sealed camp there to remain incommunicado from the outside world until the appointed hour, I remember feeling a surge of gratitude at having been allowed to take part in this wondrous new escapade.
Gratitude to the Brigadier for having sufficient faith in Price and me to have first suggested this most unusual arrangement.
Gratitude to Gina for spurring me on.
Gratitude, above all, to the hand of fate for having steered me away from the weed-strewn path of indolence and back to the field of Mars for the final confrontation against the wickedest enemy our nation has ever known.
It speaks volumes for the misguidedness of that optimism that I hadn't even stopped to consider the consequences of losing all rank and effectively re-enlisting as an ordinary soldier. I know it's what T. E. Lawrence did between the First and Second wars, but then, he was a masochist. Of course, I had a vague idea I was g
oing to miss the officers' mess, and the automatic deference that men give you when you've got a pip or two on your shoulder, but I had a notion that I’ve be amply compensated for these losses by being relieved of the strain and responsibility of command. But that's not quite how it worked out. Not at all in fact.
Inevitably, I'm the very last in the queue for the breakfast but to my surprise there's still plenty left when I finally reach the serving station where a cheerful American Negro is doling on to tin plates beans, bacon, sausages, egg. 'You name it, we got it,' he says when I jokingly ask if he has any mushrooms and sure enough he does. The American part of my heart swells with patriotic pride.
'Say what you like about these Yankees, but they certainly know how to feed their troops,' I announce brightly to the table where my section are hunched over their troughs, more to get their attention than anything, because unless one of them budges up a bit I'm not going to have anywhere to sit.
'Fattening us for the slaughter,' says my bunkmate, the big Yorkshireman, whom I think I heard someone address by the nickname Oily. He doesn't look up though. Still less does he try to make a space.
'I say, would you mind?' I ask those two of the marines at the end of the bench who strike me as looking the least obstreperous. With a show of mild reluctance, they squeeze towards the middle so that there's just enough space for me to rest at least one of my buttocks on the end.
Such conversation as there might have been before my arrival has been brought to a halt. Slurping, grunting and belching, the men shovel down their food with no regard for ceremony or the squeamishness of those of their neighbours more used to the decorum of the officers' mess. I try to follow suit. When in Rome.
Only once he's mopped up the last smear of breakfast from his plate does Oily - Wragg, I learn his surname is - address me again.
'You can tell your mate Gonad,' he says, tapping the point of his knife on the edge of my plate to emphasise his meaning, 'that it en't a good idea to treat commandos like they were recruits at Portsmouth. They don't like it.'
James Delingpole Page 9