Long and the Short

by Saddler, Allen

  ‘The Major. Major Le Surf.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘In the Imperial Hotel.’

  The policemen looked at each other. Was this plausible? Should they check it out?

  ‘Pay book,’ demanded one.

  Harry fumbled in his tunic pocket and handed it over.

  ‘So you’re Harold Fortune?’

  ‘Harry,’ he said. ‘Only me mother calls me Harold.’

  The redcap passed the pay book to the other. ‘What d’you think, George?’

  They were like a cross-talk act. The only trouble was that neither of them was funny.

  ‘You’d better come with us, soldier – sorry, Corporal.’

  The heavy sarcasm was designed to instil fear. Redcaps frequently reduced their prey to blubbering.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To find a bloody telephone. I’ve never heard of a British major with a French name. Imperial Hotel, you say?’

  Harry followed the two Military Policemen, who moved as though they were leading a state funeral. They found a telephone box, but the directory was all chewed up, so they had to ring the operator. Eventually they established that the Major was staying at the Imperial, but Harry was still sweating. What if they wanted to escort him to the van? Seeing it piled up with bric-à-brac would need some explaining.

  He was relieved when one said, ‘All right, Harold. Vamoose,’ and the other one added loftily, ‘On your way.’

  He scooted off, turning at the first corner, but they were still standing by the telephone box. One of them was writing something in a notebook. Harry snaked through the narrow turnings smelling of rotting fruit and overnight urine until he found the junkyard. He located the van, and the proprietor followed him puffing. The vehicle soon growled into life after he had given some first aid to the engine, but then there was the problem of the cargo.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he shouted at the bewildered proprietor. He jumped on the back of the van and started to throw the contents out. ‘This is an army vehicle. You can’t use it for storage!’

  The man was clearly at sea with this turn of events. ‘I thought you … The general said –’

  ‘What bloody general?’ He chucked the rest of the stuff out on to the ground. ‘What do you think the army wants with this pile of old junk?’

  He drove the van out of the yard. It was a good job that no money had changed hands, although the price had been negotiated.

  He was soon outside the Imperial.

  The Major was sitting in the vestibule reading a paper. ‘All right, Harry?’ he said breezily.

  ‘I’ve had to ditch the stuff, sir. Got picked up by redcaps.’

  The Major digested this piece of news. The redcaps would have recorded the incident. If anything happened on the way back the two of them would have been in the soup. Once again he congratulated himself on picking Harry to look after his interests. The ramifications of an officer taking an unscheduled trip to buy stock for his sister’s antique shop could lead to an ignominious dismissal from the service at least. ‘Did you hear the news this morning?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘The blighters have invented a flying bomb. They just fire it off from France and it drops down in London and explodes.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Yes. They really are a load of bastards.’

  ‘Was the hotel all right?’

  ‘Yes. Very comfortable. Just what I needed. A break.’

  Me, too, Harry thought.

  ‘These Huns,’ said the Major. ‘Got no sense. Have to kill the last man jack of them before they’ll admit defeat.’

  As a point of fact the Huns were nowhere near being defeated. They were fighting fiercely in France, and the inhabitants of Berlin were getting a dose of what they inflicted on London but seemed more stoic than Londoners had been three years ago.

  All the children who had been evacuated to the provinces at the height of the Blitz had gone home. They hadn’t reckoned on the flying bomb.

  Harry drove swiftly but carefully, and they were back in time for lunch.

  As soon as the van drew into the barracks the stumpy figure of Captain Martin appeared. He stopped and saluted the Major. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were out for the night.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said the Major impatiently. ‘Something went wrong with the engine.’

  ‘Somebody called from the War Office. Needed to speak to you urgently. A colonel. I told him you’d be back soon. Looked all over for you. Sent out a search party.’ Martin seemed disturbed, wondering if he’d let the Major in for a reprimand.

  ‘It’s all right, Captain. I know what it’s about. I’ll give them a ring.’

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ said Harry curiously.

  ‘It’s about that German officer. You know, the one stabbed in the hospital.’

  The Major went to his quarters, and Harry went to find Jimmy, who was being instructed on the mechanics of the Bren gun. It was a waste of time training any of the others, but Jimmy was still young enough to be sent to a battlefield. The sergeant-major had got the small-arms weapon in pieces, and Jimmy’s young face resembled that of a boy who had been given a new and complicated toy.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Harry asked, giving Jimmy a friendly wink.

  ‘He’s a bit slow,’ said the sergeant-major. ‘He doesn’t seem to have a mechanical mind.’

  ‘He’ll pick it up.’

  ‘Hope so. He’s got to do the mortar and hand grenades yet.’

  On hearing this news Jimmy went pale.

  ‘I’ll have to find a beach somewhere,’ said the sergeant-major, ‘so he can try them out.’

  ‘Saw a friend of yours. The nurse.’

  Jimmy brightened up. ‘I used to work with her. Long time ago. My first job.’

  ‘Here,’ said the instructor. ‘He’s supposed to be on parade. Not gossiping.’

  Harry went off, reflecting that on a sunny October afternoon quite a nice young lad was sitting on a grass verge receiving instruction on how to kill or maim someone he had never met. It was governments that went to war. It was the men, mostly peaceful civilians, who had to shoot each other. If the politicians had to fight there would be no more wars.

  ‘If Hitler came down on a parachute what would you do?’ Taffy addressed this remark to the dazed assembly in the barrack room.

  ‘Shoot the bugger,’ said Alf.

  ‘But you can’t do that. According to the Geneva Convention he’s entitled to a fair trial.’

  ‘You’d have to capture him and send for the Major,’ said Gross. ‘Wait a minute, how would you know it was Hitler?’

  ‘He’s got a moustache.’

  ‘So have hundreds of Germans.’

  ‘You’d have to ask him,’ said Taffy.

  ‘What’s the use of that?’ said Alf. ‘He’d be speaking bloody German, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘That’s his problem,’ said Taffy.

  These sort of speculative conversations filled the days of inertia, along with what would happen if one of the company won the pools or got their hands on Betty Grable or Rita Hayworth or Dorothy Lamour, according to personal preference.

  Major Le Surf made the call to the War Office.

  Colonel Stepney was clearly irate. ‘Tried to get hold of you all day yesterday.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I slipped out for a minute.’

  ‘A minute. You were out all bloody day.’

  ‘Yes. Something happened to the vehicle. Had to stop to get it fixed.’

  ‘Well, you’re here now. Now listen.’ The dry voice became conspiratorial. ‘It’s about this German fellow, in the hospital. You see, he was a prisoner of war. He was reported as such. To his family. They’ve gone to the International Red Cross, who are bound to initiate an inquiry. So you’ll be getting a visit from a couple of Swiss gentlemen.’

  ‘But I can’t tell them any more than I’ve told you.’

  ‘I know that. But t
hey’ll have to ask questions. Of the people who were on the spot – well, around at the time. Do you think you can line them up? Do you want me to send someone down?’

  ‘No,’ said the Major firmly. ‘I can handle it.’ At least, he thought, I can always ask Harry.

  The next day he had another crisis on his hands. Private White – Chalkie – was arrested by the local police for killing an American GI called Lannigan.

  The arrest was the work of Jock. It was the final move in the deadly game the two had been playing. Jock blamed Chalkie for getting him upgraded to A1. If Chalkie was to be questioned Jock was the only witness. That should delay things for a while. That morning he had been to the police station and spilled the beans. He explained how the two of them got in a fight with the Yank because he had insulted a British woman. There was a scuffle which ended up in Chalkie banging the Yank’s head against a stone pillar.

  A detective drew up a statement which he read over to Jock. ‘Is that right? What you said?’

  Jock nodded.

  ‘Well, sign it then.’

  Major Le Surf was making an effort to keep calm. There were so many things going on that his head was reeling. When he sat down on the bed the ceiling light was just under his nose. He blinked, and the room started to swirl around him. The Major had felt dizzy a few times, but this was serious, not just a passing phase. He was sweating, with droplets falling from his forehead on to his cheeks. His mouth was dry. The old man sat for what seemed a long time. Gradually the world stopped moving. He remained still, not trusting the improved situation. He stood up and found that he was swaying. The loss of balance was alarming. By tracing his hand along the wall he got to the door. It was a very frightened Major that opened the door and held on to the jamb. It was dark and cool in the corridor. He was sure that he needed medical attention. By tracing his hand along the wall he made his way to Martin’s room. When he got there he was breathing in short snorts. Perhaps Martin could take his blood pressure. Perhaps he could prescribe something to steady him up. ‘I am Major Ian Le Surf, MC,’ he kept saying to himself. ‘I’m a bit overworked, but I can cope.’ Then there was a blinding flash that left him winded and frightened, but he had got to Martin’s door, and he banged on it.

  It was a long time before the door opened, just a crack.

  ‘Martin. I feel terrible.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the MO. ‘Perhaps you should lie down for a while.’

  ‘I’ve been doing that,’ said the Major, ‘but it doesn’t seem to get any better. Is there anything you could give me?’

  ‘I’d have to examine you first.’

  ‘Of course. Can I come in?’

  The Captain stared at him, as though the simple request caused a major problem. ‘Best to do it in the medical room. You go ahead. I’ll be with you in a tick.’

  ‘John?’ It was a woman’s voice inside the room.

  ‘Just go along, Major,’ said the Captain uneasily.

  The door began to swing open silently, and the Major saw a woman on the sofa. She had taken her dress off and was sitting in her underwear.

  ‘Sorry,’ apologized the Major. ‘I had no idea.’ And then, suddenly, ‘Gryce!’

  ‘Eon!’ exclaimed Mrs Grantley.

  ‘Mrs Grantley came to see me on a professional matter,’ said Martin, as though he didn’t believe what he was saying himself.

  ‘Never mind,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  Mayer, the German prisoner, was anxious. He was waiting for a sign. He had been confined to the guardroom for two weeks now. All the British Tommies took their turn at guard duty, and most of them were all right. They all called him Fritz. They gave him cigarettes, and the young one, Timmy, brought him his food and took him round the square for exercise. He wasn’t uncomfortable, he was all right, but he wasn’t one of them. He was still regarded as a prisoner. He had a bed and blankets. There wasn’t anything he could read, so he didn’t know how the war was going. The thought crossed his mind that he could have chosen the wrong side. What would happen if the Germans came and learnt that he’d volunteered to join the enemy? He doubted whether this would happen. These British were sloppy, but they were so convinced they were right. They thought they were entitled to win. They had God on their side. He’d always had his doubts about Hitler. The man showed signs of hysteria quite early on. The whole nation led by a madman. How had it happened? It was German pride. They had been humiliated by being defeated in the first war. Hitler played on this feeling of disgrace and got them to volunteer for national suicide. Mind you, he nearly got his way. If he had just dealt with the French and the British it would have all been over by now, but he had to go and take on the Russians as well.

  And now Mayer was stuck behind enemy lines with people who regarded him with indifference. He had asked the sensible one, Harry, about how to get British citizenship. He just shrugged his shoulders. It was a problem that never came up. And yet they hadn’t sent him to a prisoner-of-war camp. Just kept him hanging on, as though he might be of some use to them some time. Was it to do with the death of Miessen? There hadn’t been any formal investigation into this. Just the bumbling Major. He had told Harry what happened. Why didn’t they believe him? There were dotty officers in the German Army. Old relics from the first war, with a mad gleam in their eye, shouting orders that were completely ignored. They usually got sent to the Russian front and were never seen again. Here madness was regarded as eccentricity. Major Le Surf wouldn’t have lasted long in Hitler’s army.

  He wondered if he should make some sort of formal application for British citizenship. But he couldn’t write in English. Maybe someone would help him. Harry. He seemed a good sort. Or Timmy, a nice lad but slow.

  Of course he should have seen to the matter of British citizenship when he was working for Uncle Dimitri in London. Uncle Dimitri had bribed his way out of Russia and had arrived in England with just enough money to take out a lease on a shop in Charlotte Street where he set up a Russian restaurant. He sent for Mayer, who talked his way into the position of a deck hand on a cruise ship bound for Copenhagen and then on to another cruise ship to London. Dimitri had been pleased to see him and the fourteen pots of beluga caviar he had brought with him. He settled in Kentish Town. When he broached the question of citizenship Dimitri said he should keep quiet about it, as he wasn’t supposed to be in Britain anyway. Most of his uncle’s staff had arrived by the same method.

  After eighteen months of Soho life Mayer heard that his parents, in Frankfurt, were having a hard time, and under constant threat of persecution from some people they called Brownshirts His father reported that he was having difficulty making a living. His mother wrote, ‘Dear Boris, Your father is not strong. He gets very tired. I don’t know how long he can go on working.’

  He knew that Germany was in the grip of an economic recession. Mayer felt the bonds tightening and went to Frankfurt, where there was no difficulty obtaining German citizenship. He got sporadic work on the docks and eventually was called up for military service. Since he was captured he had not heard from his family. He wrote, but there had been no reply. If only he could settle here. Find a nice British widow perhaps. There must be plenty in Britain, as in Germany.

  Jimmy, sitting on a deserted beach, was with just the sergeant-major for company. The beaches round Britain were barred to the general public by a twenty-mile exclusion zone, and he was about to take his mortar and hand-grenade test. He had loaded the mortar and was waiting for the order to fire, but suddenly he heard the choked voice of the sergeant-major saying instead, ‘Don’t touch anything. Come away, son. Slowly. Come and stand behind me.’

  Jimmy slid backwards. He stood up and moved behind his instructor.

  The sergeant-major approached the mortar as though he expected it to go off. He tilted the barrel forward, and the shell tipped out on to the sand. Then, sweating, he turned and roared at Jimmy, ‘Got the fucking thing in upside down!’ There was a fin on the mortar shell that
went in first. ‘Could have killed the pair of us!’

  Then Jimmy had to throw the hand-grenade. He had several practice swings with a dud, and then a live one was loaded with a fuse.

  ‘As soon as you get the pin out throw the fucking thing as far as you can.’

  Jimmy pulled the pin out.

  ‘Right. Now get rid of it. Over arm, as though you’re throwing down Bradman’s wicket at the Oval.’

  Jimmy threw the grenade about ten yards. It lodged between two stones on a bunch of seaweed, but did not explode.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ exclaimed the sergeant-major. ‘It was primed all right.’

  ‘Is it dead?’

  ‘Well, we can’t leave it for a couple of kids to play with, can we?’

  The instructor lined up his rifle and fired at the grenade. Some sand blew up, but there was no explosion.

  ‘I know,’ said the worried instructor. ‘Sprat to catch a mackerel.’ He took another grenade and carefully primed it and threw it in the direction of the first. This time there was an explosion. Gulls fluttered indignantly into the sky. The sergeant-major walked over to the grenade and pushed it with his boot. ‘Think it’s all right,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  They strolled off the beach on to the promenade. As they walked away there was a small explosion on the beach and a flurry of bird feathers behind them.

  11

  THE news of Chalkie’s arrest spread around the small town like rampant influenza. It was widely assumed that GI Lannigan had somehow brought it on himself. The envy and resentment of the Yanks had reached the stage where they couldn’t do right. It was assumed that it was a fight about a girl. The Yanks, with their smart uniforms, the officers looking like film stars, and the rest like gangsters or cowboys, had united the British in a corrosive hatred. The invaders’ free spending had bought up all the available females in, it seemed, the whole of Lancashire. You couldn’t blame the girls, the argument ran. Who wants a penniless British Tommy? The Yanks took the girls out, got them senselessly drunk and raped them. The girl was then stuck with a bastard while the Yank disclaimed any responsibility.