From somewhere across the room there's a sob. Then another sob. Now Kowalski has buried his face in Fred's chest, Fred is blubbing his eyes out and Patricia, her arms round both of them, is heaving silently. I bite my lip hard and look to Tom for a sense of proportion. But tears are streaming down his cheeks, too. Only Ginger, flopped against the wall, grinning sloppily, seems immune to the general hysteria. I bite my lip harder but it's no damned use. Within a moment, I too have succumbed to this orgy of lachrymosity. And I must say, part of me - the deep buried American part, I suppose - rather enjoys it. When you've had the sort of family upbringing I have - emotions are nasty, dirty things reserved for foreigners and the poorer class of servant — it makes a pleasant change to be among big-hearted, straightforward people who aren't afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves. But there's one thing that worries me: if this is how your average GI responds to a story which, sad though it is, is not untypical of the ones we in England have been hearing almost every day for the last five years, then how in God's name are they going to cope when they come up against real bullets?
My awkwardness, it seems, is all too apparent, for Lundt has seized my shoulder hard and is looking me straight in the eye.
'You gotta understand, sir, this isn't how GIs are in the habit of acting.'
'No, no. I'm quite sure.'
His grip grows firmer still.
'No, I don't think you do understand, sir. But I'm gonna make you understand. You see, the reason we're all here, now, doing what we're doing —'
'Lundt, that's enough!' says the Corporal.
'I don't care, Corp. Someone's got to know,' says Lundt. 'What you see here, sir, is the total strength of B platoon. Know how many soldiers there are in a US platoon?'
'Same as an English one, I imagine. Thirty, roundabouts?'
'So what happened to the rest of us, you may be wondering. Price. Stein. Ridgeway. Santini. Bryce. Goldman. Murphy . . . Guys you don't know and never will, but guys I loved like they were my brothers. Guys who shoulda been here drinking with us tonight, like we'd planned, like we'd been dreaming of for two fuckin' months. But guess what? Same thing happened to you and your buddies happened to me and my buddies. And all because some stupid fuckin' asshole —'
'We don't know that, Lundt,' says the Corporal. 'We don't know for sure they were ours.'
'Yeah, so tell me this, Corp. How did Germans suddenly manage to position themselves in the dunes above an English beach? What were Germans doing firing 0.50-cal. Browning HMGs? How come the guy we found at the beachhead, the guy Kowalski wouldda killed if you hadn't pulled him off, was wearing an American uniform and saying: "Sorry. Sorry. We didn't know" in a New York accent?'
'It came on so sudden, so weird, we thought it must be some kinda joke,' says another GI. 'Like, we were feeling real good, real confident, because it was the most beautiful day, the sea was calm, we came off that LCA with our boots dry - real fast too -'
'Like shit from a greased asshole. Oh boy, were we hot!' agrees another GI.
'We were the best. I remember saying to Ridgeway, "We're wasted here in England. We should be in France right now."
‘Hey, why stop there?" he says, and I think he's about to say more but I don't hear what because we're fanning out now into our protective fire positions, like we've been training to do on the moors, coming out of our imaginary boat which for the first time today is a real boat, in three columns, riflemen like me and Ridgeway first, then Bangalore torpedoes, then wire cutters, then machine gunners and mortars, that's how it's meant to work anyway, and the first idea I get it isn't working is when Ridgeway takes a dive. I'm thinking, asshole's joshing around. You think so too, Corporal, because I remember you saying —'
'Yeah, I did. I said, "Get off your butt, Ridgeway." But he stays down. And he's not the only one who's down, there's others falling around us, and that's when I hear the first rounds whizzing past my ear and I scream "Take cover" because I know right then from the sound, those ain't blanks that are coming at us, and even if I didn't know, I'd see the evidence soon enough - guys cut in half, guys with no heads - that somewhere down the line there has been one hell of a goddam fuck-up.'
'So the shooting goes on for, Jesus, for what seems like for ever, then finally someone gets through on the radio to ask "What the fuck is happening?" and the reply comes back "What do you mean what the fuck is happening? Why aren't you advancing?" "Because most of us are fucking dead, that's why," our wireless op says, and finally the message gets through.'
'And we're still not done scraping our buddies off the sand when this major appears, guy we've never seen before, from another unit, and says we must return to base and we must not say a word to anyone about this incident.'
'No "Sorry", we notice. No "We have fucked up so bad and we owe you an explanation".'
'"Yes, sir," I say to the Major. And we commandeer these jeeps. And, of course, we don't go to our base. We do the thing we promised our dead buddies we'd do. What they'd want us to do. And, here's where we intend on staying till those fuck- ups - pardon me, ma'am - come and get us, and if they want to court-martial us, well, what do we care? What could the US military do to us worse than it's done to us already.'
'Amen to that!' says Fred, raising his pewter mug. I raise mine, too, though I've seen too much of war to be altogether surprised by what these boys have told me. Friendly fire has always been a hazard of twentieth-century battle, I'm afraid, and never more so when it's my American cousins doing the firing.
Of course, whenever it happened the people upstairs did their damnedest to keep it covered up. Not good for morale, is it, if you've not only the enemy to fear but your own side too? But if you want to know how common it was, here's something I learned after the war: the Allied forces lost more troops while training for D-Day than they did during the actual landings.
'That cup is looking kinda empty. You sure I still can't persuade you?' asks the Corporal.
'Corporal, I would consider it an honour,' says Fred.
'Name's Danny. Danny Jones,' says the Corporal, extending his hand.
'Sub-Lieutenant Bartholemew Richards, RNVR. But please, call me Fred.'
The rest of us introduce ourselves, all but Ginger, who's lying comatose.
'Jeez, sir. Sorry, sir, I had no idea,' he says, on learning my rank. 'You weren't wearing -'
'That's all right, Corporal. Like you, we're not really supposed to be here.'
'I'm glad you are though. Kind of takes the heat off me.'
How do you mean?'
'Well, if this place gets busted, I ain't going to be the senior ranking soldier, am I?'
'In that case, you'd better make Dick's a double,' says Fred.
My memory of the events that follow may be unreliable. I have an idea of a considerable number of toasts being drunk, massive surprise and delight being expressed that my maternal grandmother hails from New England, vows of eternal friendship being made, addresses being scrawled on scraps of paper, and much hospitality being promised in our respective countries once the bloody war was over. There might well also have been the odd maudlin interlude as we stared into our beer and glumly contemplated the task ahead of our forces, and the large number of young men — several l them, no doubt, sitting here among us - who would die or be wounded before the summer was out. But only two parts of the remainder of that evening do I remember with .my distinctness.
The first is when Fred asks if we wouldn't mind excusing him for a moment, as he's gasping for a bit of air. When I offer him a hand, Fred looks at me as if I'm stupid and says tersely: 'No, you stay here. We can manage perfectly well, thank you.' And so they do - Fred's left arm on his crutch, and his right arm resting on Patricia's shoulder — as it so often has in the sixty-odd years I’ve known them since.
No sooner has the door closed behind them than Ginger sits bolts upright on his bench - just like the mummy waking suddenly from his tomb, only much more welcome: I’d been starting to get a little worried — and says: 'Fred?'
'Popped outside for some air,' I say. And can't resist adding: 'With his "Angel of Death".'
'Giving him his birthday present,' says Ginger.
'I expect,' I say, with a ribald snort. And you can tell how far gone I am, because it's not until this point that I actually notice. Sure it's halting, mumbling, and indistinct but compared with anything I’ve heard the fellow say before it's crisper than Olivier doing Crispin Crispianus.
'Gina?'
'Back at HQ, keeping cave for us.'
'Shame.'
'Rather.'
'She's sweet on you.'
'Do you think?'
'Thought she was sweet on me, once,' he says, so heart- wrenchingly wistful that for a moment I can't even reply.
'Better get you another drink, old man,' I say at last. 'You've got some catching up to do.'
But when I do get back with my round of drinks, the poor fellow is comatose once more. I’m quite tempted to give him a shake. There aren't going to be many occasions, I tell myself, when I find my ward-mate on such loquacious form. But now Danny's asking me a question about where I caught my malaria, which leads inevitably to Burma and, once there, there's no stopping me.
At least there wouldn't be were it not for the second occurrence in the evening which I remember quite distinctly: the rattle of engines outside the blacked-out windows, and the squeak of brakes — 'MPs' someone cries in alarm, but by then it's far too late to do much about it - followed very soon afterwards by the entrance of five impossibly well-turned-out, chisel-jawed and cold-eyed MPs in their ultra-polished boots, leggings and gleaming white helmets.
'GIs,' shouts one — not that he needs to shout because the room has fallen quite silent — 'you have one minute to leave these premises, form up outside and await transportation back to your base.'
Corporal Jones clasps my hand under the table.
'Good luck,' he says softly and makes to leave.
'Hold it there, Corporal,' says the senior MP, a sergeant. Do you know these people?'
'No, Sergeant.'
'I can vouch for this man,' I say, attempting to rise. 'I -'
'Sir, please sit down. If I need your assistance I will ask for it,' says the Sergeant, adding curtly to one of his men: 'Search this corporal.'
'Sergeant, I am a captain in His Majesty's armed forces —'
'Captain, this is a US military matter and I will not ask you again. Please sit down, sir.'
The Sergeant turns to pick through the contents of Corporal Jones's pockets, as they begin to accumulate on the table. Grenades. Spare ammo clips. A wallet. An old envelope.
He picks up the envelope and squints at the writing.
'Captain R. Coward, Great Meresby, Hambledown Lacey, Herefordshire,' he reads, pronouncing the last word as you'd expect - wrongly. 'Who is this. Some English guy?'
'No not "some English guy". Me,' I snap.
The Sergeant ignores me. 'Corporal, maybe you'd like to reconsider the question I asked you earlier. Do you know these people?'
'We met tonight. Had a few drinks, that's all.'
The Sergeant nods smugly, his brilliant hypothesis apparently confirmed, gives me the look of fair but firm, gimlet- eyed officiousness known to military policemen the world over. 'Sir, may I take your name and unit?'
'I'm not sure that it's any of your business.'
'Sir, you may be a material witness to one or more courts martial arising from events this evening. Would you be happier if I radioed the nearest British military-police unit instead?'
Grudgingly, I give the man my details. Farmer Tom offers his.
'And the gentleman with the bandages?'
'Oh, leave him alone. He's been asleep most of the evening.'
'Sir, I need a name.'
'Put down "Ginger".'
'Sir, I'm going to need more than that.'
I realise, with a twinge of guilt, that I've never bothered to find out. Patricia and Fred would know, I dare say. But Patricia and Fred, wherever they are - that rather cosy-looking barn in the courtyard outside, perhaps? - are very sensibly keeping their heads well down.
'Ginger,' I say, prodding his arm gently at first, then a bit more firmly. 'Ginger, old chap. Very sorry to bother you
But Ginger, propped against the wall, benign half smile on his lips, resolutely refuses to stir.
'Oh, do leave him —' I begin but the officious GI is already leaning past me. He takes a gentle hold on Ginger's wrist and waits pensively.
'Sir,' says the GI. 'I am sorry to say that your friend is not just asleep.'
Chapter 5
Great Meresby
It's as perfect a May morning as any I can remember and Great Meresby has never looked so ravishing. At the far side of the bridge I pause, leaning against the parapet, to admire the grey- gold of the stonework and the deep flaming red of the ancient brick mirrored in the still moat, glowing and shimmering under a cloudless sky.
God, how I've missed this place!
God, what a tragedy it would be if it fell into enemy hands!
By enemy, I don't of course mean the Germans — who've clearly long since ceased to be an invasion threat. I'm thinking more, well, to put it bluntly, of anyone who isn't a Coward. And if that sounds selfish of me, so be it. There've been Cowards living on this site since the Norman Conquest. Not in this exact building — the oldest part of which only goes back as far as 1450; we've added to it here and there, ever since, giving it a hotchpotch, piecemeal look which some fools mistake for ugliness - but certainly on this stretch of land, which was personally given to my ancestor by William the Conqueror for services at Hastings. Remember that moment when the Norman cavalry feigned a retreat so as to lure Harold's army down and away from the advantageous high ground on Senlac Hill? Well, the chap leading that retreat was my ancestor.
Now you know how much the place means to me — and I hope it will mean the same to you, one day — you'll better understand my growing alarm as, on my pre-breakfast stroll through the grounds, I start to notice all the changes Father has wrought in my absence.
Every corner I turn a new horror reveals itself: our croquet lawn, widely admired as the most immaculate in all Herefordshire, now furrowed into potato beds; the tennis courts, transformed into a giant chicken coop; the kitchen garden, extended to embrace not just the old rose borders but the seventeenth- century knot garden. Not even the ancient topiaried yew hedge, I suspect, would have escaped Father's ravages - except that it makes such an invaluable windbreak for the soft-fruit plants Father has installed where the summer herbaceous borders used to be.
Just when I'm thinking it can't possibly get any worse there's breakfast.
'Griffiths,' I say to the butler. 'Would you mind telling me what exactly this is.'
I’ve just been searching the sideboard for signs of anything edible. Traditionally Mother has seen to it that there has always been plenty — eggs, kippers, ham, fruit, buns, Father's stewed prunes - but today all that appears to be left is a tureen of foul-smelling gloop.
'Kedgeree, sir.'
'I think you should have a word with cook. Haddock's definitely off.'
'It isn't haddock, sir. It's snoek.'
'Hmm. Wondered what those speckledy black bits were. Adder, is it? I do hope cook took the trouble of removing the fangs.'
'Not snake, sir. Snoek. It's a variety of fish.'
'Thank you, Griffiths. I'll have a boiled egg.'
'I'm afraid that won't be possible, sir. Cook has reserved our egg allocation for this evening's dinner.'
'For goodness sake, Griffiths. Our estate has five farms.'
'Those are my orders, sir,' says Griffiths, with just a flicker of a glance towards the far end of the long dining-table, where my father sits hidden behind the newspaper. Mother is next to him, dressed for riding, her face carefully made up for some bizarre reason, looking a touch anxious. She's not at all used to hearing me being so forthright in Father's presence — especially not at the breakfast table.
'Morning, Mother.'
'Morning, dear.'
'Morning, Father.'
Father answers with a slight rattle of his Daily Telegraph. I 'm in disgrace, he told me last night. And so long as I remained in disgrace he didn't see why he should treat me as a full member of the household. When I asked how long he envisaged this state of affairs continuing, he grinned unpleasantly.
If it ain't over by this weekend, I shall want to know why,' he said.
'Sleep well, dear?'
'Yes, thank you, Mother,' I say. I try a mouthful of the kedgeree. Then push away the bowl. 'Probably because when I arrived last night it was too dark to see what had been done to the grounds.'
Mother purses her dark-red painted lips. Crikey, if it weren't so out of character, you'd almost think she were having an affair.
'See you at dinner, if not before,' she says, rising suddenly from the table. I can hardly blame her for wanting to get out of the line of fire.
I sip a cup of stewed tea. A clock ticks. Father's newspaper rustles. The room feels cold and dark and dead.
'You know, Father,' I say at last. 'We've already given 3,000 acres to the war effort. Was it really necessary, for the sake of reclaiming one miserly acre more, to wipe out 500 years of horticultural history?'
'Just doing my bit,' says my father into his Telegraph. But then, vindictive old bugger that he is, he can't resist adding: 'Something you might care to try sometime.'
Steady now, I have to tell myself. Don't rise. If you rise you'll be playing right into his hands.
'Good God!' I explode. Yes, yes, I know. Problem is, as Price would tell you, I'm never altogether in control when I haven't eaten. 'And when exactly during this war would you say I haven't been doing my bit? When my men and I were fighting to the last round in Burma? When my tank brewed up in the desert? When I shot three Messerschmitts out of the -'
'Dickie, old chap, mightn't it be an idea if you saved all this G. A. Henty stuff for someone who didn't lose five brothers and a leg on the Western Front? Because I'm afraid to anyone who saw any action in 14-18, this new one of yours does sound like a pale imitation.'
Coward On The Beach Page 5