So Chuck Lannigan was biding his time. His unit was likely to be flown out to France, nobody knew when, but they knew they were going, and it was his resolve to survive the experience. If it hadn’t been for the war Chuck would never have given the army a second thought. He liked playing his banjo, chasing skunks and loafing around. He worked on the farm at the back of the gas station which was open all the time. It never occurred to him that there was another kind of life. The farm and gas station were isolated. There were no immediate neighbours. The only contact with the outside world was when the truck drivers came to deliver. So Chuck never got to know about films, hardly ever saw a newspaper, which didn’t matter much as he had never learnt to read. When he was drafted he reported for duty and was amazed at the revelations he saw on the way: buildings of an unbearable height, trains and wide roads filled with cars, skimming along at breakneck speeds.
All the same he yearned for the peaceful life: shouting at the cattle, scratching the sandy soil, filling tanks and eating with his family. There were seven of them. A brother, his parents and four sisters, who he knew would be skipping off somewhere at the first opportunity. He’d seen some things in the army, but Uncle Sam could have it all. It wasn’t his life. It wasn’t his world. Six weeks in a training camp and then up in a plane, a thing that he had wondered about when they flew over the farm. He had been excited and frightened by the journey. His mom, who had tried to educate the family, had told him that America was a vast place where you could travel for days and weeks and still not see the end of it. It had been night when they set off, and he had lost track of time. His companions seemed to doze a lot, but Chuck had been too alert for sleep. This was an amazing adventure. Right across the country in the air, crossing states and boundaries, time zones. When he got back he would have something to tell them. And he’d mixed with all types. Smart city boys, roughnecks, some that had been to school and could read and write. He knew that they were fighting the Germans, who he knew must be a wicked lot. He wasn’t sure why they had turned so awkward. He’d never seen any. But the sergeant said that they were ‘pig-faced bastards’, and Chuck didn’t want to argue with the sergeant.
When he picked up the two girls Chuck was just doing what his companions were doing. It seemed that the thing to do was to take these girls and laugh a lot and behave as though you were having a riotous time. The two girls pressed themselves against him and put their hands in his pockets and shouted mad phrases like ‘Got any gum, chum?’ which caused them to go off in gales of laughter. They smelt funny but he guessed that this was the stuff that women put on themselves. It was getting dark now, and he could see their faces in a kind of soft focus. They were quite young but made up to look older. They acted crazy, but there was no amusement in their eyes, which were sharp and calculating. It was a big adventure for them. His sisters dressed up a bit, acted around a bit. It was part of growing up. Chuck was bemused but smiled amiably. There were different customs in different parts of the country. His mother had told him about Dutch people and Polish people and black people, who all lived in the vast expanse, the whole continent of America.
He gave out packets of Camels and Lucky Strikes and gum and some Hershey bars, but the girls weren’t satisfied. Outside the pub one kissed him passionately while the other went for his inner pockets. He could feel his wallet being lifted and pushed the kissing girl away, but the other girl had made off and, alarmed, he chased her.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. He had his identity card and most of his money in the wallet. ‘Hold it!’ he cried out. The other girl dragged on his arm, impeding his progress. He heaved her off, and she fell to the ground.
‘What’s up, kid? Is this bastard annoying you?’
It was a round bubbly face surrounded by curly hair. A child’s face on a man.
‘She’s taken my wallet,’ Chuck shouted.
‘What? Her?’
‘No. The other one.’
The face came nearer. It smelt of beer. Then another darker face appeared.
‘You interfering with our girls?’
‘No,’ Chuck explained heatedly. ‘They’ve stolen my wallet.’
‘I haven’t got it,’ said the girl on the floor. ‘You can search me.’
‘Ye bloody Yankee bastard,’ said the darker-faced man. ‘Coming over here and abusing our women.’
‘It’s not like that, buddy. They rolled me.’
He didn’t seem to be getting through to the pair of Tommies.
‘Jes-sus,’ he said. ‘I’ve been robbed. I got all my papers in there.’
Now he was pinned up against a wall. There was a smell of rotting vegetables and vomit. The dark Tommy dealt him a crushing blow in the stomach, and the baby-faced one banged his head against a wall. It grew darker, and he couldn’t clearly see a way out of this nightmare.
‘We don’t want you over here,’ said the baby-faced one and emphasized the point by banging Chuck’s head against the wall with every syllable. He put his arms up to defend himself, and one was grabbed and snapped over a knee like a stick of wood until he cried out in pain.
‘Jeez!’ Chuck felt sick. He was sure his arm was broken. How had he gotten into this situation?
The dark man went wild, hitting Chuck as though he was a punch bag. He fell to the ground. The girl got up and scuttered away.
The two soldiers stood back while the American tried to get up. They peered through the darkness to see if any of his buddies were near at hand. His hands found an ancient stone pillar, one of a row that went around the market shops. He tried to pull himself up.
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he wheezed.
‘Have we?’ said the dark soldier. And the other one kicked his head and it smashed against the stone pillar, and Chuck took no further interest in the proceedings or, subsequently, in life itself.
Jock and Chalkie walked away, their night’s work done. There was a swagger in their walk, as though some honour, some breach of code, had been avenged. They decided to walk back to the barracks, which they did with a solemn sense of justice. They had engaged the enemy and won.
‘Do you think he’s all right?’ said Chalkie.
‘What do we care? He’ll have learnt a lesson,’ said Jock.
‘I mean – do you think we should call an ambulance or something? We needn’t give our names.’
‘He’ll be all right. Just winded. That’s all.’
Chalkie gulped. He didn’t know how to say what he was thinking. ‘You don’t think that he might be …’
‘Dead? He might be. You cracked his head all right.’
‘Me?’ said Chalkie indignantly. ‘You went at him like a madman.’
‘He deserved it.’
Chalkie fell silent as they padded along the deserted road. ‘Just suppose. Just suppose he was dead … We’d need an alibi, wouldn’t we?’
‘Get hold of yourself, mon, will ye? We’ve got an alibi. You was with me, and I was with you.’
‘That’s right,’ said Chalkie, his befuddled brain lurching towards salvation. ‘That’s all right then. But –’
‘For Christ’s sake. Now what?’
‘If he’d been fighting Germans and he’d got killed nothing would be said, would it?’
‘What the hell are you on about? There’s no Germans within miles.’
‘Oh yes there is,’ said Chalkie.
And Jock’s equally befuddled brain suddenly took in the import of what Chalkie was saying.
‘That’s brilliant, Chalkie. Bloody brilliant.’
Inside the barracks they found their way to the sick bay. The German prisoner was supposed to be guarded, but the sick bay was safe enough without the elaboration of a sentry on duty.
The little German woke up with a torch shining on his face. He looked alarmed.
‘Jerry. You’ve got to get up. We’re moving.’
In a metal locker Chalkie found a denim suit. ‘Here. Put that on.’
The German got out of bed and donned the uniform.
‘I am a deserter,’ he said. ‘Now in English army.’
‘Whist!’ said Jock, putting his fingers up to his lips.
They led the prisoner along the landing and down the stairs. There was moonlight, and they could see a dim light in the guardhouse. Jock left Chalkie and found the small van, mainly used by Harry Fortune in the service of the Major. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, and Chalkie helped the German into the back. Jock then drove to the guardhouse, and the sentry appeared, putting out a fag.
Jock leant out of the driver’s window. ‘Just going down to pick up some stragglers.’
The sentry, who couldn’t care much what was going on, waved him through.
Jock drove away from the town, finding a patch of derelict factory land – a few trees and swampy areas – about a mile from the town centre.
There Chalkie ordered the German to get out of the van.
‘I on your side now. I hate the Germans. God save Winston Churchill.’
‘Oh, sure. You’re one of us. Now you wait there while we do a recce. Savvy?’
The little German looked bewildered. ‘On guard? Here?’
But the small van had sped away.
‘American beaten up. German on the run,’ said Chalkie. ‘It adds up, don’t it?’
‘Bloody neat,’ said Jock. ‘You crafty old bastard.’
It was not until the following morning that Chuck Lannigan’s body was found by a cat and then by a road sweeper who called the police. A posse of American military police arrived at the Market Square and staked out the area and put four men on guard. ‘I thought we were here to help them fight the bloody Germans,’ said one. ‘Not to kill us.’
‘You’ve got it wrong,’ said another. ‘We are the enemy to most of them.’
In the morning Chalkie and Jock avoided each other’s eyes. They knew something they didn’t dare talk about. It was midday before the news broke. ‘GI Found Dead in Street.’ It was in the evening paper.
The enormity of the incident worried them, although they had done what they could to cover their tracks.
‘They’re all gangsters,’ said Taffy. ‘There’s killings every day in Chicago.’
‘Christ!’ said Alf. ‘That was in the Prohibition. Bloody years ago.’
‘They’ve been brought up on capitalist ethics,’ said Taffy. ‘Every man for himself. They don’t know no different.’
‘They haven’t come over here to fight among themselves.’
‘Somebody should have told them,’ said Taffy.
6
CHALKIE and Jock were shaken when they heard that the man they had attacked was dead. This went beyond their usual sport of Yank-bashing.
‘You went mad,’ said Chalkie. ‘Banging off at him like that.’
‘It was you who smashed his head against that pillar.’
‘I don’t remember what happened,’ said Chalkie carelessly. ‘I was pissed.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Jock stoutly. ‘I just wanted to teach him a lesson.You saw how he treated that girl.’
‘What are we on today?’ Chalkie said, carefully changing the subject.
These two played a deadly game. It was invented originally to relieve boredom, neither of them having any resources, such as reading or conversation, to help pass the time. They devised practical jokes to play on one another, the issue to be decided by the first one to lose their temper being judged the loser. Chalkie boasted that he could take a joke and accused Jock of having no sense of humour. The Scot responded with a challenge, knowing that he was more than a match for the fairly simple-minded Englishman.
At first it was small things like sewing up trouser legs, but it soon became more serious and threatened to turn vicious. Chalkie smiled when he put his foot in his boot and found a rotting and squashy potato in it. He seemed to take the joke in good part, but his eyes were full of murderous revenge. Jock had a panic when he couldn’t find his rifle. On the whole it was Chalkie who was the butt of these wheezes, for Jock was able to pass off some instances as mere clumsiness – you could never be sure whether he had genuinely tripped over something in the dining-room so causing his roly-poly pudding and custard to land on the back of Chalkie’s neck. Jock’s slapstick was very convincing, and Chalkie’s smile was strained as he wiped the mess away. When he tried to get his own back by lacing Jock’s tea with Epsom Salts he somehow detected it. Jock was more watchful, and Chalkie’s expressions and attempts to sound casual always gave the game away, whereas Jock gave no sign that he had cut all the fly buttons from Chalkie’s best uniform trousers.
Chalkie still smiled through all provocations, intent on proving that he had a sense of humour.
‘Like a couple of kids,’ said Alf.
‘Bloody stupid,’ said Taffy. ‘It’ll come to blows in the end. You mark my words.’
Taffy was the only one who read a newspaper. ‘Have you heard about these death camps?’
‘Eh? Where?’
‘In Poland. They reckon that a million and a half have been killed. Not only Jews –’
‘Oh good,’ said Alf. ‘I didn’t want to feel persecuted.’
‘No. Christians as well.’
‘Do you mean that a Jew can’t be a Christian?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Taffy impatiently. ‘Poles, gypos. Sent all their clothes back to Germany. Took the gold fillings out of their teeth. They reckoned they cremated up to two thousand a day. Staggering, ain’t it?’
Corporal Gross sat up on the edge of his bed. ‘Propaganda. I expect the Germans are being told the same sort of thing about us.’
‘I know I’m being poisoned by that cookhouse,’ said Alf. ‘I’ve had the shits for weeks.’
Rosa Tcherny was making her daily visit to attend to the German soldier’s wound when she saw a shambling figure on the other side of the square. Despite the comical gait she found something oddly familiar about him. He was shuffling along as though he hadn’t really made up his mind which way he wanted to go. He had a sort of secret smile as if he’d just been struck by an odd thought. Rosa stood and watched him as he rounded the top end of the square and started to come along the short side of the oblong towards where she was standing. He looked up and he saw her. At first he registered only the blue nurse’s uniform. There was shock and then fear in his eyes as he, too, found something familiar about the woman standing only ten yards away. A nervous alarm went off in his brain. He turned and stumbled back the way he had come, as though he had suddenly remembered something. Rosa called out ‘Charlie!’ and ran across the hallowed square to cut him off at the end, her shoes sounding an alien noise on a surface used to the sound of heavy boots pounding in unison on heavy duty.
This was the Charlie with whom she had had one eventful night. He was the father of her son. This was the Charlie who had coerced her into bed with the threat that he might die without experiencing sex. Who had been mad keen for weeks but only made it the night before he had to attend his call-up notice. He had been too embarrassed to buy a French letter, and, feeling sorry for his general ineptness in the matter, she risked it. The baby was the result.
But Charlie was in full flight. ‘Go away,’ he said, in a sudden panic.
‘It’s me. Rosa,’ she cried urgently.
She rounded him and stood in front of him.
Charlie stopped, twitching.
‘Charlie,’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember me?’
‘No,’ said Charlie, and shook violently. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘You’ve never seen the baby, have you?’
But Charlie was shuffling away. ‘Nothing to do with you,’ he muttered.
She shouted after his retreating figure. ‘It was a boy!’
Charlie stopped and turned round. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I send money, don’t I?’
He seemed resentful of her presence. He felt, for the first time, exposed.
Rosa was at a loss to understand. ‘What’s happened to you? You look … funny.’
‘Can we go somewhere and talk?’
He pouted, childishly. ‘Don’t want to.’
Rosa looked at him critically. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you all right? Has something happened?’
‘Rosa,’ Charlie said desperately. ‘I’m all right. I know what I’m doing. Now will you please let me alone?’
‘Can I meet you somewhere?’
‘No. I never go out. I’ll see you – when it’s all over.’
He rolled away with his bosky shamble. Just then the soldier who had taken her to see Jimmy burst out of a side door looking worried.
‘Have you seen him?’ he asked wildly.
‘Who?’
‘The prisoner,’ said Harry Fortune.
‘Not yet. I was just on my way.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Harry, looking scared. ‘He’s scarpered.’
When the news of the prisoner’s escape reached the Major he went white. He was responsible for bringing him to the barracks against the expressed wish of the hospital Matron. When his part in the affair leaked out he would be up to his neck in hot water.
‘Christ, Harry! What’s going on in this place? Turn out the guard!’
Turning out the guard proved to be just a formality. It was the first thing that came to mind in any sort of emergency. Then the Major ordered a thorough search of the barracks. All the rooms, the corridors, the garages, the armoury, the stores, the store cupboards, the offices, the butts, the Quartermaster’s cupboards, the changing-rooms, the ablutions, the cookhouse and dining-room, the chapel, the Officers’ Mess, the Sergeants’ Mess, the cobblers and the barbers, the attics in the roofs, the bushes around the football pitch. Everybody was on parade for this task, and detailed for their search area, with sergeants and corporals in charge of the search parties. After an hour it was clear that the prisoner was not on the premises.
In his office the Major held his head in his hands. Was there anything else that could go wrong? It was a whole series of disasters. A stupid bloody woman taking an overdose and now this. He had had the opportunity of remaining in retirement. Why hadn’t he taken it? The money was good, and with this little outfit, practically lost in the greater schemes of the army, there wasn’t much chance of coming to any harm. He knew he would have to report the loss. That would bring down a posse of Military Police, probably civilian police as well. He would certainly lose his post and be demoted. His proud record would be in ribbons. There might even be a court martial. Harry Fortune opened the door after knocking discreetly. His face was concerned. He knew that he would get the blowback if anything happened to the Major.
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