Long and the Short

by Saddler, Allen

  ‘Freezing.’ There was a crack in Jimmy’s voice.

  ‘Timmy. Are you okey-doke?’ This time there was no reply from the reluctant private. Then there was a muffled sob, followed by a burst bubble of uncontrollable sobbing.

  The German could only just see Jimmy. He put his hand out and touched his cheek. It was wet. ‘No, Timmy. No, Timmy. It’s OK. This will all be over one day. It is only a short time in your whole life.’

  Jimmy rallied a bit. ‘It’s not fair. I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘Come.’ The German put his arm around Jimmy. ‘Lie down.’

  Jimmy lay down on the hard floor of the truck.

  The German scurried around and found bits of sacking to make a pillow. Then he tucked Jimmy’s greatcoat around him, humming tunelessly. It was like a mother putting a baby down with a lullaby. ‘Don’t worry,’ the German said. ‘I’ll be on guard.’

  Back at the Valley Arms Jock had challenged Chalkie to a whisky-drinking contest. ‘You bloody English don’t know what drinking is. Get it down you.’

  They’d had three each before the landlord put a stop to it.

  ‘Closing down now, lads. Thanks for your custom.’

  ‘And thank you!’ Jock said viciously. ‘You boss-eyed bastard. Call yourself a landlord? They’d set fire to you in Glasgow.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Lance-Corporal Harry Fortune. ‘It’s not his fault he’s out of beer. Come on. We’re going back.’

  It was strange that Harry, only on the first rung of seniority, seemed to have more authority than a full corporal and even sergeants. It was acknowledged, even in addled brains, fired by alcohol, that Harry Boy was the brains behind the throne.

  The platoon slopped back through the mud. It was hopeless to sleep on the ground. A groundsheet would be swamped. So it was some kind of makeshift in the trucks, which caused the inevitable scuffling and cries of ‘Who’s farted?’ and ‘Stop wanking!’ until the heaps slowly subsided into a fitful doze.

  The Major rested in the camp bed, lovingly prepared by Daft Charlie, and Harry Fortune got in with Jimmy Fossett and Mayer the prisoner.

  ‘All right, youngster?’ he said.

  ‘OK, Corp,’ said Jimmy. ‘Bloody cold though.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘It is a bit brass monkeys. Don’t worry. We won’t be here long.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back to Germany,’ Mayer said. ‘It’s better here.’

  ‘Not always,’ said Harry. ‘Only while there’s a war on. When it’s over we’ll soon be pushed back in our places.’

  They could hear the night creatures of the countryside scurrying about.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Rabbits. Badgers. That sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Jimmy. ‘They won’t get in here, will they?’

  ‘You’re like me,’ said Harry. ‘A townie. You don’t see many badgers around Tooting Broadway.’

  It started to rain.

  9

  THE Major and his resistance force never reached their assigned position in Operation Surprise, a fact that earned the Major a commendation. ‘Couldn’t find your chaps. Must have been well dug in,’ said the General in Chief of Operations. The truth was that when they were in sight of the barracks the Major ordered a halt ‘for refuelling’. The old man got to his bed and slept for around fifteen hours, waking up at three o’clock in the morning wondering where the hell he was. In the morning things were back to normal and nobody asked any questions. They didn’t want another cold wet night in the jungle.

  On the day of their medical board Jock and Chalkie were given a train pass to go to Warrington.

  ‘Nice little trip,’ said Chalkie, but Jock was not so sure.

  ‘If anything goes wrong I’ll have your guts for garters,’ he said grimly.

  But Chalkie was all sunny smiles and confidence. ‘Smoke a few fags on the way down,’ he said. ‘Make your chest bad.’

  ‘You’re a stupid bloody cockney prick. What are you?’ he said, twisting Chalkie’s arm up his back until Chalkie repeated the phrase.

  ‘A stupid bloody cockney prick,’ he gasped. ‘What d’you do that for?’

  ‘They won’t take you,’ said Taffy. ‘Unless they’re desperate. If it weren’t for the Russians it would all be over now and we’d be goose-stepping backwards.’

  It was true. All the big battles seemed to be in places with funny names like Kiev and Smolensk. And the British government, which thought that Stalin was on par with Hitler as a tyrant, was now thinking that Uncle Joe Stalin was a benevolent figure who gave away puddings at Christmas. Of course everybody knew that the government was just kidding. After all, Stalin was still a communist, out to confiscate wealth and property. That would never do. It was a prospect that alarmed the British ruling class more than Hitler. The British Army was fiddling away in Italy, taking on the Germans’ second eleven, while Russian troops took on the main thrust of Hitler’s army.

  Jock smoked furiously all the way to Warrington. In the end Chalkie had to open a window, and Jock felt sick.

  The two artful dodgers got to the medical centre. Chalkie went to the optical department and soon returned to Jock, who was in the waiting area.

  ‘How was it?’ said Jock.

  ‘All right,’ said Chalkie cheerily. ‘I told ’em I couldn’t see a bloody thing.’

  ‘Are you going to get glasses?’

  ‘I got given them before, but it didn’t make much difference.’

  ‘You can still tell a jack from a king.’

  Jock was sent to the X-ray department. He came back looking grim.

  ‘All right?’ enquired Chalkie anxiously.

  ‘Don’t know yet. They have to print the bloody thing.’

  ‘Didn’t they ask you any questions?’

  ‘Just how I was feeling. In fact, after that night out in the rain I haven’t been feeling very lively.’

  After that they sat in silence. Eventually a nurse came to them and said they could go.

  ‘What about the X-ray?’ Jock enquired.

  ‘You’ll get the result. It’ll be sent to your Medical Officer in a few days.’

  That night Jock got roaring viciously drunk and tried to pick fights with several alarmed civilians. He and Chalkie were thrown out of the local pub. Something was niggling at the back of Jock’s addled brain. Could this be another facet of the game they were playing? Where they tried to induce the other into losing his temper. If so it had taken a serious turn. He examined Chalkie’s cheerful baby face for any sign of guile, his eyes for any sense of triumph. But the cheery, bland face gave nothing away.

  Harry Fortune was restless. No leave passes meant that he was confined to the poxy town. No trips to the Smoke, no chance even of a trip to Blackpool where he felt he had unfinished business. He found that he could visualize Joan’s round face, her dark eyes, and conjure up a memory of her warm body. By God, that was a night to remember!

  The two local women he had hitched up with, Betsy and May, had sold out to the Yanks, who, incidentally, still got weekend passes. He’d seen them in a pub with fat hairy Yanks, who looked as though they might have been Hollywood gangsters in disguise, pawing them in public. He had known that they had no class, them two women, and now they’d proved it. He wondered about compassionate leave, but you needed a dying mother or a wife who’d just had triplets. Apart from the ache in his groin he had noticed that the old man was getting odder every day. He had acquired a vacant expression and frequently lost the thread of what he was saying, leaving unfinished sentences in mid-air. The experience of the exercise had been the final straw. There was some mix-up with Mrs Grantley. The Major looked haunted when he saw her. Harry didn’t expect him to fancy her, but surely he could let her down gently? Then he hit on a plan.

  ‘I hear there’s some good secondhand places in Blackpool,’ he said. ‘People up there ain’t got an eye for it, have they?’

  The Major was slow to take the h
int.

  ‘Blackpool?’

  ‘It’s about thirty miles, sir. Never been there myself. It’s where all the locals go for their holiday.’

  ‘How do you know about these shops?’

  ‘I was talking to a dealer in the town. He gets all his stuff from there. Dead cheap, he reckons.’

  But the Major seemed miles away. ‘Do you know, Harry, I wonder whether I’ll see this war out. Can’t see any end to it.’

  A few days later, when Harry had forgotten all about it, the Major suddenly said, ‘Blackpool, you say. On the coast, isn’t it? I suppose we could make a recce.’

  And now all Harry had to do was to devise a plan which would force them to stay overnight.

  On the day of the expedition the Major had put on his Sam Browne and looked smart enough for a victory parade. ‘About three hours, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry. ‘If we set off now we’ll be back for tea.’

  The truck was soon on the open road, skimming through Warrington and Wigan. When they got to Preston Harry knew it was about twenty miles to Blackpool. He stopped at a Royal Engineers post at Scorton.

  ‘What’s up, Harry?’

  ‘Something knocking,’ Harry said. ‘Best to check. Get some petrol while we’re here.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said the Major dully. He’d hardly said a word since they’d set out. He seemed to be feeling his way in a private world.

  Harry winked at the engineers. ‘Bit of petrol,’ he said, ‘but lift the bonnet and poke about a bit.’

  The engineers took the hint.

  ‘Can’t find anything,’ said Harry, getting back into the driving seat. ‘We’re not far now anyway.’

  As there were no road signs it was difficult to be sure that he was on the right road. Then he saw the Blackpool Tower. If they really wanted to confuse the enemy they’d have to dismantle the giveaway landmark and parcel it up for the duration.

  He stopped at the back of the town. More like the backside of the town, with scruffy beaten-up shops, small stunted pubs and fish-and-chip places reeking of burnt fat.

  The Major looked out of place in these dismal surroundings and created some interest. An immaculate military figure here was somewhat of a novelty. Scruffy children followed him around, joshing each other, imitating the Major’s upright stance. Should they salute or blow him a raspberry?

  Eventually Harry found a secondhand shop, but it was full of beds and stained mattresses, a few birdcages, some cane furniture.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the Major.

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Harry.

  They kept wandering further into the town, into bed-and-breakfast land. On the corner of a street was a junkyard. The proprietor looked alarmed when he saw the Major wandering between the aisles of piled-up junk.

  The Major’s old eyes were still good enough to find a pearl in a heap of cockle shells. There was a small bureau, with a cupboard with stained-glass windows, some ornate picture frames and a jardinière on a stand.

  ‘Fetch the van, Harry,’ he ordered, springing into action. The proprietor, wearing a tin hat and a waistcoat with no buttons, trailed along behind looking as though he expected to be arrested.

  Very soon the truck was three-quarters full with various oddments that had caught the Major’s eye.

  ‘Right, Harry. Off we go. Back in time for dinner.’

  The lance-corporal pulled the starter motor, which spluttered a bit and died. He tried it again. ‘Can’t get it to start, sir. Have to crank it up.’ He got out the starting handle and gave it a twirl. The engine growled a bit but didn’t spring into life.

  ‘What is it, Harry?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. If you’ll take the wheel I’ll give it a push.’

  For some reason the Major wasn’t keen at taking the wheel. ‘Is there a telephone? Perhaps we can get someone out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that. Not with all this stuff in the back.’

  The older man thought a minute then said, ‘See what you mean.’ He knew that there was no cover story for them being in Blackpool anyway. If anyone from the military came out to them they might wonder about an army truck being loaded with ornate domestic furniture.

  ‘Tell you what, sir. Leave it here, and I’ll scout around and find a local garage.’

  The odd pair wandered slowly into the town. Harry found a back-street garage and returned looking worried. ‘Can’t do anything until the morning,’ he said.

  ‘Try somewhere else.’

  Eventually they were on the front, with a promenade full of hotels.

  ‘Of course we could stay the night.’

  This revolutionary idea caught the Major off balance. ‘What? Stay the night? Here?’

  ‘Well,’ said Harry, bringing some logic to bear.

  ‘We can’t go anywhere, can we?’

  The old man looked lost.

  Harry added, ‘Could find a nice hotel. Nice break for you after all that other business.’

  The Major started as though he’d been rumbled. ‘Not a bad idea,’ he said, as though he was turning it over in his mind to see if he could find any flaws in it . ‘But what about you?’

  It would have to be a top-class hotel for the Major, and Harry couldn’t expect to be on par.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, sir. I’ll get in somewhere.’ Harry’s face gave nothing away, but inside he was hugging himself with glee. He’d done it! All he had to do was to see the Major into a hotel, then he was free to find Joan. He could soon screw back the things he’d loosened under the bonnet and pick the Major up first thing in the morning.

  He took the Major to the Imperial, a Victorian hotel on the front. From its formidable exterior and plush interior you would have believed that the old Queen was still staying there for her holiday from state duties.

  Rosa Tcherny came out of the hospital and made her way along the gravel path to the nurses’ home. She drew her cape up to her throat. It wasn’t really warm in the hospital. The wind flustered the shrubs and trees along the path. A twelve-hour shift left her drained of resolution and purpose. The last three hours were just going through the motions, having lost interest in the processes of helping people to get well. Her legs ached; she was sure that they were swollen. Her feet felt like blancmange squeezing out of her shoes. And before she started again the next day she had lectures to attend. There was always something new to impart, some alteration of technique, a new discovery in medication.

  As she got near the grim frontage of the nurses’ home she was conscious of a rustle in a fir tree. It wasn’t the kind of sound caused by the wind. It was more decisive. She turned quickly and saw a movement. Well, if some madman was going to jump on her he’d picked a good day. She hadn’t the strength or the will to resist.

  ‘Rosa.’

  Somebody was calling her. She peered into the dark of the tree and saw a face.

  ‘It’s me, Charlie.’ He staggered between the branches, a shapeless figure, and settled into an awkward stance.

  ‘Charlie!’ She was surprised. This was the man who had run away from her at the barracks. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘That’s the point,’ he stammered. ‘I am all right. I wanted you to know. I know what they call me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Daft Charlie. The point is that I’m not. Not really. It’s the only way I can get on with things. I’m not cut out for the army. I knew that as soon as I was called up. I can’t get on with it. The silly things you have to do. And the coarseness. You’ve no idea. So I adopted this – disguise. And now they let me alone. I don’t have to march up and down. They all think I’m a halfwit. Maybe I am. I just couldn’t get on with it. You understand, don’t you?’

  Rosa felt a wave of sympathy for the pitiful figure. He had never been away from home before. He lived a comfortable life with his parents. Served an apprenticeship as a compositor, survived the inky initiation ceremony, and just at the point when he could call himself ‘a gentleman of the
press’ he was wrenched away to confront humanity at its crudest.

  ‘But look what you’ve done to yourself. Turned yourself into a freak. A laughing stock.’

  ‘It’s a disguise. I’ll be all right, as soon as this bloody farce is over. I wanted to ask you, about the boy.’

  ‘Benjamin?’

  ‘Yes. Our son.’

  ‘He’s with my parents. He’s all right. I see him when I get a weekend off.’

  Charlie seemed stuck for words. Then it came out in a rush. ‘Is he like me?’

  ‘A bit,’ said Rosa. ‘He’s got my dark hair and eyes, but there’s something of you in his face. I’m sorry. You can’t come in. We’re not allowed visitors.’

  ‘No. It’s all right. I just wanted to see you and explain.’

  Rosa was beginning to get impatient. It was like dealing with a demented child. ‘You have got yourself in a mess, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’m all right. You won’t say anything, will you?’ he added anxiously.

  ‘What’s happened to Jimmy?’

  ‘Jimmy? Jimmy who?’

  ‘Jimmy Fossett. He was on guard here when that German officer was stabbed.’

  ‘Oh, him. He’s all right. Returned to duties. Harry’s looking after him. If Harry’s on your side you’re all right.’

  Rosa was relieved and yet puzzled. ‘Isn’t there going to be some sort of inquiry?’

  Suddenly Charlie lunged forward and kissed her on the lips. She was so surprised that she fell backwards into a bush.

  ‘Sorry,’ Charlie said. ‘You see, I’m still an awkward bugger.’

  A gaggle of nurses came up the path, their crisp white caps bobbing in the moonlight, shouting the inevitable ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’ and the rider – another voice – ‘That’ll give you plenty of scope!’

  The nurses giggled their way into the home, and Rosa said, ‘I’ve got to go in for my supper.’

  ‘Can I see you again?’

  ‘I get a day off every ten days. There’s one next Tuesday.’

  ‘I’ll see. Can I phone?’

  He was waiting outside her door when she got home from work. She was just as he remembered, perhaps a little rounder. His mother used to refer to people as ‘bonny’. And bonny she was.