by Brian Aldiss
The colonel inclined his head in an odd way. ‘We have our orders, Major.’
You were delighted when, as you parted from Jock and Montagu, Montagu seized your hand, shook it warmly, and clapped you on the back. Meeting up with him again was some compensation for the discontinuities of wartime. You staggered off to your separate rests.
Next morning at first light, the revving of engines began as you were finishing your plate of bacon and eggs.
‘A spot of shooting in the night, Sir,’ said your batman. ‘About three hours thirty, it was.’
You nodded. ‘Nothing to write home about.’ You had heard nothing.
The batman was extraordinarily young. Britain was running out of seasoned warriors.
The parade ground was full of blue smoke when you appeared. Sergeant Breeze marched up and saluted smartly.
‘All present and c’rect, Sir, ready to roll.’
Roll you did. The wind had dropped, the snow had ceased. It was a drab morning, drab but calm; heavy cloud enveloped the wartorn world. There were few impediments to your way. Vehicles found abandoned in the road were pushed over to one side. The desolate countryside was as empty as the moon.
The Germans seemed to have withdrawn in good order.
By late afternoon your convoy was crossing the bridge over the Rhine and entering the ruins of the city of Cologne. Major Montagu, standing in the lead tank, turned and raised a gloved thumb to you.
Not a house was left with its roof in place. Some buildings still smouldered, smoke drifting from gaping windows. Not a soul was to be seen in the suburbs of that great city. Once, a dog ran away in front of you, only three legs functioning. Distantly ahead, the spires of Cologne Cathedral rose. The cathedral alone was intact amid acres of rubble. You recalled that a man had joked that the cathedral owed its preservation to the fact that it was what the RAF had been aiming for.
Your tracks ground noisily over the broken road surface. You turned into a broader avenue; a ruinous office building, possibly six stories high, stood to your right. You caught a movement in a gaping shell hole, high on the fourth floor. You called a warning. Immediately, our bazookas were firing – off target to begin with.
Machine gun fire burst from the building. Out of the corner of your eye you saw that Montagu was hit. He flung up an arm and fell forward.
Almost at the same moment, the wall of the enemy building crumbled and fell across pavement and road, smothering you all in clouds of dirt and dust: a 77mm cannon had scored a direct hit. Your tanks were forced to halt. You climbed down and ran to the lead tank. Hilary Montagu was dying. His right shoulder and half his skull had been shot away. His blood flowed across the armour of his tank. It seemed his gaze met yours without seeing you. He gave a convulsive jerk and then he died.
You closed your eyes and buried your face in your hands.
Sgt Breeze came and respectfully escorted you back to your tank. So you drove on into the ruinous heart of Cologne.
6
Kiss Whom You Like
The war was over. After six years of struggle, the war was over. The struggle had been won. But at appalling cost.
What had been lost, although it was not immediately apparent, included many British investments overseas, especially in South America; chimeras of white supremacy in the East; the illusion of British supremacy almost everywhere; a kind of courtesy that transcended class barriers; the decline of some class barriers themselves; the release of tenure over what had been a de facto autocracy rather than a democracy, to which was related the disappearance of ‘the respectable British working man’; the mistaken belief that Josef Stalin was any kind of benevolent ‘Uncle Joe’; the beginnings of British disarmament, coupled with rearmament as the Cold War set in; the Home Guard, stood down without pay or ceremony; the hope that the end of war heralded a period of peace and calm; the crumbling of the Third Reich and the opening of the Nuremberg trials; the disestablishment of Shintoism in Japan and that country’s surrender finally closing World War II; over five hundred thousand British nationals killed or wounded; the death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt; the seeping away of feelings of comradeship which had supported the British during their long struggle; the transformation of jazz into bebop; the waning of a decent English pessimism, together with the expectation that things would always stay as they were; the disappearance of family magazines; the failure of many British comedians to adapt to a new age, such as your old favourite, Billie Bennett, master of the once-prevalent style of concluding his act by spouting comic monologues: ‘Her name was Wong, and in her sarong, She was blacker than blackest night. Her father had been a Royal Marine, But two Wongs don’t make a white.’
These losses, many of which were to emerge only as the years wore on – as well as your personal grief over the death of your respected friend, Major Hilary Montagu – were as nothing compared with the joy of hard-won victory, after the long, slow grind of war. The crowds of people who surged down the Mall to congregate about the statue of Queen Victoria and cheer the Royal Family on the balcony at Buckingham Palace had no thought but to celebrate. The tribe was giving forth its last hurrah! Many Fieldings were among them.
You had received an airmail letter from Sonia:
‘My dear brother,’ she wrote, ‘I was glad of your support when I rolled home some months ago, a bit the worse for wear. Just wanted to tell you that the big A went okay and I am not haunted by any Valerie replacements, thank G*d!
It has been a bit chilly in Hong Kong this last week. Even the whores have been wearing fur coats. So no early morning swims – if eleven o’ clock is early. Now it is getting warmer again it’s magic to be in HK. Away from f—ing Europe. I never dreamed …
We are the first group of actors to return here. A final bunch of the Japanese army were shipped out only four days ago. The city is very dilapidated and food is short, but we are okay. I have just eaten a gorgeous, massive egg fu yong, which is naughty of me just an hour before our matinee. It’s wonderful to be here and I feel very privileged. I have a big part in Worm’s Eye View. Not so big in Hamlet. One reason why I prefer modern plays to the classics. I realize I was awful in Henry V. Hope I’m improving.
I’m putting in for a part in Sweeter and Lower at the Ambassador’s. Have you seen it yet? They say it’s v. funny.
Hope you’re getting lots of promotion!
Love,
Sonia’
Only two weeks after her letter arrived, Sonia was back in England and standing with you near the Queen Victoria Memorial in the heart of London. Worm’s Eye View had enjoyed only a brief run in Hong Kong.
Both of you were among the crowds facing the palace on that great occasion, together with members of your family, your parents, Belle – no longer silent – and Ada, with her little girl Betty; Jeremy and Flo; Archie Hillman; and two members of the Frost family, Joy and Freddie. Freddie was now a large and attractive lad. As you shook hands with him, he said, ‘I’ve missed the big show, Uncle’, with some regret.
Several males among your relations were still in uniform, serving in other parts of the globe. You too were still in uniform.
People were milling about, aimlessly, happily, waiting for the Royal Family to reappear on the balcony. Freddie produced a mouth organ and began to play a lively tune, The Kerry Dance. Belle gave a cry and, seizing Martin, began to dance with him. The nearby crowd moved back like a tide, allowing them a small circle in which to dance. You seized Joy and danced with her, ignoring protestations from your injured leg. Then strangers too were dancing. Freddie switched to I’m Going to Get Lit Up When the Lights Go on in London and suddenly it seemed that everyone in the great crowd was singing and dancing.
There’ll be love and there’ll be laughter
And there’ll be no morning after,
’Cos we’ll all be drunk for months and months and months.
Laughter then, and great waves of happiness. You had survived. You had all survived. God bless you all. You and Sonia hugged
each other. She was looking well after the short stay in Hong Kong.
The Royal Family appeared again on the balcony of the Palace. With them was the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, waving his famous cigar to the crowd. The Queen waved and smiled. The poor old king did his best. His daughters, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, waved in a dazed way.
How you cheered! How you loved them all, at least for that golden hour. They were The Family, the very symbol of British family life. How different, as someone remarked, from the grim old man in uniform who had so mesmerized the German nation.
‘Oooh, isn’t that young princess pretty?’
‘Margaret Rose, you mean?’
‘No, the other one, the taller one, Elizabeth.’
‘Liz, we call her.’
Oh, the applause! The waves of joy! The war over at last! It was hard to believe. The war was actually over. Germany had been defeated.
Finally, the Royal Family departed indoors.
‘Bet they’re going to have a stiff gin.’
‘Winnie will stick to whisky, I bet.’
‘We ought to have a drink and a bite to eat.’
‘Yes, if we can get through this scrimmage.’
A young sailor in a sailor’s hat was pushing past. He suddenly seized Belle and gave her a resounding kiss on the lips. She returned it.
Mary was shocked. ‘Really, Belle, don’t be so common! That’s not like you at all.’
‘Oh, shut up, Mary! It’s VE Day. I’ll dratted well kiss who I like.’
‘Whom you like, kiss whom you like,’ said your mother, offended.
You all fought your way to a crowded little café just off Trafalgar Square – a cheap little café, your mother complained – with a large framed photograph of Winston Churchill hanging on the wall, but a haven nevertheless, air blue with cigarette smoke. A group of men in evening dress with women in elegant gowns had pushed some tables back and were dancing on a small floor space to the music, blasting from a radio, of Geraldo and his band.
Your mother asked the owner what there was to eat. He gave her a beaming smile. ‘We run out of everything bar chicken sandwiches, love.’
‘We’ll have chicken sandwiches then.’
The way she said it struck everyone as comical. Your father ordered cups of tea. You protested – you wanted something stronger.
‘Coming up,’ said the owner, spreading his arms wide as if to emphasize his powers of hospitality. ‘Agnes, dear’ – to the waitress – ‘tea for these ladies and gents.’ He turned and rattled glasses and bottles temptingly together. Gins were served along with the cups of tea.
‘Wish Auntie Violet was here,’ you said, leaning rakishly against the counter and sipping the warm gin. ‘Aunt Violet’s such fun.’
‘Oh, we don’t want her.’
‘Yes, Violet’s fun,’ said Freddie. ‘Lovely woman.’ He grinned and winked at you in a way that made you become deeply reflective.
Belle threw back her gin. ‘Fun!’ she echoed, with a scream. ‘Blinking bloody fun!’ She rushed to join what she called The Posh Party, shouting to Sonia to join her in the dance.
‘Here I come, boys!’
‘Oh, here she comes,’ one of the Posh shouted, opening his arms to her. ‘Magnificent! A redhead! We’re in luck, chaps, Cleopatra in person.’
The radio was blaring. Soon, somehow, you all became engaged in the dancing. The light, the floor, the noise, the faces, the smiles, the shuffling feet – all shared, all contributed to the universal wave of joy as Geraldo blasted away – ‘Don’t sit under the apple tree, With anybody else but me …’
To your astonishment, Mary, after a second gin, had taken the photograph of Churchill off the wall and was kissing it. A lot of kissing was going on everywhere in the little confined space, amid cries of ‘Whoopee!’ One of the Posh ladies swung her necklace above her head.
Now Geraldo was playing You are my Sunshine. Everyone knew the words. Everyone was singing along. It was almost midnight.
‘You are my sunshine, My only sunshine …’
The owner of the café hammered on his counter and shouted, ‘Right-ho, folks, we’ve now run clean out of grub. We’re CLOSED! I’m going to lock my door and then we’ll all have a knees-up. One free drink each on the house; my treat! This is a ruddy historic day, blow me if it ain’t!’
Everyone cheered him. Sonia, now promised a small role in Sweeter and Lower, as she had hoped, felt herself outshone by her Aunt Belle in the recklessness stakes. She rushed up and threw her arms round the owner, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Oh, you darling man, you darling you!’
The owner squealed in delight. ‘Blimey, ducks! Me, I love you all! My dad got the DSC in the last set-to we had with the Jerries!’
‘Bet they aren’t celebrating much in Berlin tonight.’
‘I should flipping well hope not!’
Then they danced. Your father danced. You danced. You all danced. You all sang. Tears filled many eyes. ‘Please don’t take my sunshine away …’
Ada lifted her daughter onto the counter. She kissed her smackingly on the lips.
‘You just sit tight there, darling. You can watch your old mother going crackers for once!’ She threw herself into the arms of a stout gyratory person with a waxed moustache. Geraldo roared on. Dorothy Carless sang. ‘The streets of town were paved with stars. It was such a romantic affair …’
People outside banged on the door. No one let them in. No one paid any attention to them. You were all together in that wonderful little café, with that wonderfully generous host. You were British of whatever class and you had beaten the Jerries. You had won the war. You had won the bloody war!
It was a day to remember. The day life began again; no wonder you cried.
‘Look, Steve, go and rescue your sister or I swear that man is going to do I-don’t-know-what with her.’
‘Look, mum, Sonia’s a big girl now. If she wants a spot of I-don’t-know-what, well, let her. After all, it is VE Day. There’ll never be such a day again in the history of the world.’
You yourself grabbed a pretty painted woman to dance with. You too had a spot of I-don’t-know-what in mind.
‘What’s your name?’ you shouted in her ear.
‘I’m Briony May,’ she said. ‘And my husband’s in Singapore.’
You caught her scent; warm, elegant, carnal.
You were all so happy. It’s difficult now to remember how happy.
7
Leaving Home
Another day. More whoopee.
You were dancing the quickstep with Abby in your arms, closely holding the delightful body which was Abby Cholmondeley. Everything was suddenly so modern. Abby was persuading you to take up a proffered partnership in the Acme Furnishing Company, which was currently being established.
‘You’d be a full partner with Joey and Terry. The housing sector is booming. You know half-a-million new houses are going up right now? They’ll all need furniture to stick in them.’
‘Yes, but I don’t really get on with Joey and Terry. You know that.’
The music sang away, compelling everyone to dance. The guy wearing evening dress who played the trumpet blew like an angel; Holiday in Venice, played in the style of Artie Shaw.
Abby’s powder-white face and red lips were close to yours. You could taste the sweet health of her breath. She had joined the WRNS in the last month of the war and was wearing her blue overcoat. Provocative curls sprouted from underneath her nautical cap.
‘You want to make money, don’t you, Steve, darling?’
‘Strike a light, Abby, I want to be a geologist! I don’t want to sell furniture.’ You were still crazed with passion for her and for that white body which had spread itself out so invitingly on Claude Hillman’s bed.
‘Please don’t use that silly expression, strike a light! You’re not in the army now. Acme’s a bona fide company, if that’s what you’re worrying about.’
It was dark now, and those who had visi
ted the Dome of Discovery were now intent on discovering each other.
‘Yes, but Lord Lyndhurst is funding it, darling,’ you told her. ‘Don’t forget, Dad’s a Labour MP in Attlee’s government. He wouldn’t want me associating with a rotten old high Tory.’
‘Honestly! When did you care what your father thinks? Besides, everyone’s making whopping big profits these days. You know Uncle Ben has all that furniture under his control. It’s a quick way to make a fortune.’
You were wearing your army greatcoat over a suit and tie. Light rain fell on you, as on the many other couples dancing beside the River Thames. The Festival of Britain had just opened and Sid Phillips and his Band were now playing I’ve Found a New Baby. Briskly, the pair of you gyrated to the music.
In the background stood the recently erected buildings of the South Bank, memorials to the New Brutalism and direct descendants of the spartan artillery casemates still dotting the East Coast, the grim naval fortress in Le Havre, the enigmatic flak towers and hideous observation posts, the personnel shelters, the Atlantic Wall, built by Hitler’s Todt Organization, all of rough-board shuttered concrete; but now their wartime purposes were diverted here into peace and music and a single snack bar.
You stayed that night in a small hotel in the King’s Cross area, where you slept with your arms round each other and your legs, where your juices had inundated one another, interlocked.
‘I hate to say this,’ she whispered, ‘but you are so handsome. This gorgeous scar on your leg – and just heaven in bed …’
It was indeed something much resembling heaven to be in bed with her – your two naked bodies enmeshed in a physical rapture which seemed inexhaustible. You gave yourself up to her entirely, as she did to you. This was all you ever wished for, indeed more than you knew you wished for, as you clutched and groped the delicious declivities of her body.
Yielding to Abby’s persuasion, you went to see Benjamin Wade, Lord Lyndhurst. The old man was reserved and shrunken, propped among brown satin cushions on a large leather armchair. The long, bony face was patched with liver marks. His brain was still working. His agents, he said, had located a munitions factory in the Midlands where were stacked what he called ‘a few thousand miles’ of steel tubing, no longer required now that, as he said, hostilities had ceased.