Doubtfully Gilman took one hand off the wheel and touched the rough green material of her jacket. ‘That will wear forever,’ she said, ‘even if the war lasts a hundred years.’
‘Well, I hope it doesn’t,’ said Gilman. ‘I’ve got other things to do.’
She seemed surprised. ‘Such as?’ she inquired.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Such as getting on with my life,’ he said.
‘Why are you a private soldier?’ she inquired bluntly. ‘You seem moderately intelligent.’
Gilman said evenly: ‘That’s why I’m a private soldier. I have no ambitions in this war.’
‘Ah, but the challenge!’ she almost shouted. ‘The resourcefulness that’s needed. That’s where we come in, you see. The WVS.’ She patted his hand. ‘Our unofficial motto is, “We are the women who never say no!” ’
They turned a steep corner and a low row of terraced cottages came into view. People were moving in the small front gardens. Mrs Kennerly said brightly: ‘Let’s get this lot organized. People like this just have to be organized. The quicker they’re moved out the quicker we can get on with the next batch. I really want your chaps to pull their weight today. No sneaking off for tea and buns like the rest of the army seems to do at the least excuse.’
She jumped from the small truck almost as soon as it had stopped and went briskly across to the first of the small enclosed gardens. She began waving her arms and giving orders. Gilman sighed and got out of the cab. Catermole who was driving the vehicle behind jumped into the lane and sauntered forward. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit of a goer, ain’t she?’
‘She is,’ confirmed Gilman solemnly. ‘You might be in line for a bit of the other there, Pussy. She told me she’s one of the women who never says no.’
Catermole sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t bang her as an act of charity,’ he said bluntly. He softened fractionally. ‘I quite reckon the uniform though … those thick stockings.’
His growing grin was taken from his face by Mrs Kennerly whirling around and hooting in their direction, ‘Come on, then, come on you squaddies! There’s a war on.’
They ambled towards her, followed by the rest of the army party from the trucks. The villagers were standing about sadly and helplessly in their tight gardens. Cardboard boxes of belongings were standing on the wet vegetable patches outside the low windows.
An expression of pique thinned Mrs Kennerly’s mouth. ‘There seems to be a shortage of suitcases,’ she said with brisk annoyance. ‘That’s going to be a nuisance.’
‘They’ve never needed suitcases before,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Nobody here ever goes anywhere.’
It was Mary Nicholas. Gilman turned and saw her standing by the door of the outside lavatory of the end cottage. He smiled at her and raised his hand but she did not return the acknowledgement. Mrs Kennerly gave a short stern jaw movement. ‘I am not investigating the social reasons,’ she said bluntly, ‘but trying to think of an alternative. We must get some cardboard boxes from the shops in Wilcoombe. From somewhere anyway.’ A sound came from the end cottage whose front door was open, a thin elderly howl.
‘What seems to be amiss in there?’ asked Mrs Kennerly.
‘An old man is amiss,’ replied Mary Nicholas flatly. ‘He’s a relative of mine. He’s eighty-two and he doesn’t want to move. He says he’s not coming out.’
‘Oh,’ said the WVS woman. ‘Well, we shall see. It’s no good people being stubborn. They either go or they get blown up.’
‘He says he’d rather be blown up,’ added Mary. Gilman grinned. She still had not acknowledged him. Mrs Kennerly sniffed fiercely and strutted along the narrow paved path that joined the cottages. Grownups and children watched with awe. ‘She’s a German,’ whispered one man. A child began to grizzle. Mary Nicholas moved to the open door first, forestalling Mrs Kennerly. ‘Don’t rush him,’ she warned seriously. ‘He might shoot you. He’s got a gun and he’s in the mood.’
Gilman hesitatingly moved towards the door. ‘Watch it, mate,’ whispered Catermole. ‘Don’t go and get shot. Not by an old nutter.’
Gilman reached the door. Mary had gone in to the dim sitting-room with Mrs Kennerly just behind her. It was tight, aromatic, warm in there, like the burrow of a mole. Gilman felt the years of close habitation.
‘Nobody be goin’ to shift me,’ the old man was protesting quietly. Gilman could see he was ensconced in a wooden chair near the small, smoky fire, a shotgun across the shawl on his knees. ‘I bain’t joinin’ thank ye,’ he repeated firmly. ‘I bain’t joinin’.’
With a moment of kindness that seemed to Gilman foreign to her general busy manner, Mrs Kennerly leaned closer to the old man. ‘You’ll be helping to end the war,’ she told him sincerely. ‘Then everybody will be able to go back to their homes.’
Mary Nicholas, herself taken aback by the approach, glanced at Gilman for the first time. Thoughtfully the old man lifted his fretted face. ‘The war?’ he inquired as though trying to remember. ‘An’ ‘ow will oi be about that?’
‘The soldiers need to come here,’ explained Mrs Kennerly still quietly.
‘Soldiers?’ he asked, his creased eyes opening, brimming with tears and suspicion. ‘Whose soldiers?’
‘Ours,’ she answered. Then: ‘Well, American soldiers.’
Thoughtfully he considered her close face before turning to study the faces in the room; the soldiers and the others. ‘What about my old dog?’ he inquired. ‘What about ’ee then?’
It was a simple, important question for which no one was prepared. The dog, a sparse, yellowing creature, crouched under the old man’s chair. The occupants of the room looked at each other. Mary Nicholas caught Gilman’s eye. ‘I’m taking the old man – but I can’t take the dog,’ she said firmly. ‘You could do with a dog.’
‘Me?’ He was astonished. ‘I can’t have a dog. They don’t let you have dogs in the army.’ He turned on Catermole for support. ‘They don’t, do they?’
Catermole’s grin began to wriggle across his face. ‘There’s no facilities, see,’ he explained. ‘Not for dogs.’
‘Rubbish!’ snorted Mrs Kennerly. Mary nodded confirmation. ‘You could have a herd of cows down at that silly gun,’ continued the older woman. ‘It would make no difference at all.’
‘We might have to go into action,’ said Catermole lamely.
‘Any day,’ agreed Gilman.
Mrs Kennerly picked up the ratty-looking mongrel from beneath the old man’s chair and thrust it into Gilman’s hands. ‘You’ve got a bloody dog,’ she said firmly. ‘Congratulations.’
Bryant stopped the miniature Austin army car outside the gate of the American camp at Telcoombe Magna. The outsized Stars and Stripes rolled in the Devon breeze and it occurred to him that if a marauding German plane happened to fly over the area then this would prove excellent target identification. He wondered whether he ought to point it out.
The sentry at the gate appeared casually around the side of the guardhouse. He was rolling gum around his mouth. He stopped suspiciously when he first saw Bryant but then his expression opened out with a sort of childish amusement as he took in the tiny car. The gum hung like a stalactite from his top teeth. ‘Gee … sir …’ he said. Bryant did not know whether the man had recognized him as an officer or whether it was merely the general American usage of the application. ‘Sir,’ continued the man. He touched the car as if he thought it might be made of paper. ‘That sure is cute.’
‘I’ve come to see Colonel Schorner,’ said Bryant, heightening his officer’s tone. The guard said: ‘Okay,’ when a sergeant loped around the side of the guardhouse. He took in the scene and springing to muscular attention, he bawled: ‘Turn out the guard!’
Before Bryant’s bemused gaze half a dozen dishevelled American soldiers tumbled from the inside of the wooden building and another arrived languidly from around the back. The latter man was putting his shirt into his fly-buttons. They scrambled into a nondescript line. The fly-button
s of the last man were still undone, shining like medals. ‘Right, you guys!’ howled the sergeant. ‘Att – en – shun!’ Bryant became aware that other soldiers within the camp had begun to drift towards the gate where they gathered like sightseers. Some smiled at his little car, others regarded him reverently as if he were some suddenly-materialized front-line hero. The men of the guard stood expectantly as though they hoped he would inspect them. But at that moment the growing crowd of soldiers around the gate parted and Colonel Schorner walked through like the sheriff in a western film.
The British officer jumped from the car and came to attention. His sharp but untheatrical salute evoked a rumble of comment from the Americans. Schorner stepped forward and saluted in return, bringing a further approving murmur from the congregation. ‘Real good … real good.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Bryant. The audience leaned forward to the words and the accent and there was another buzz. ‘I’m Lieutenant Bryant.’ The word ‘Lieutenant’ said with the British-pronunciation was mumbled through the crowd. Schorner replied with a grin and a side movement of the head: ‘And I’m Colonel Schorner, commanding this rabble.’
At once the soldiers hooted and laughed like children with a joking teacher. Schorner turned and politely motioned Bryant into the camp. They began to walk and, to Bryant’s added astonishment, the soldiers began to stroll with them, like disciples following a pair of prophets. He glanced back and saw that the guard detail were crowded around his Austin Seven, touching it and peering under the chassis.
The two officers reached the hut which Schorner used as his office and billet. ‘This is Albie,’ said Schorner as soon as they had entered. ‘Albie, this is Lieutenant Bryant of the British Army.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Albie, throwing up an awkward salute. Bryant returned it and, hesitatingly, took the private’s proffered hand. ‘Albert Primrose, sir,’ said Albie. ‘Glad to know you.’
‘Lieutenant Bryant,’ returned the Englishman clumsily. He was aware that the soldiers were still crowding outside the hut. He thought he heard his car start up in the distance. He had left the key in the ignition. ‘Albie,’ said Schorner. ‘Tell those guys outside to blow, will you. And tell those boneheads at the gate to quit starting that car. Tell them they’ll be charged with sabotage.’
Albie was not sure. He grinned first, but when the mention of sabotage was made he threw up another quick, serious salute and hurried from the hut. Schorner was about to say something but he waited while Albie’s voice carried into them. ‘Okay, you guys, break it up. It’s only a Limey officer. You’ll see plenty of those. Go on, beat it.’
Schorner smiled apologetically. He motioned Bryant to sit down and took his own chair behind the trestle table. ‘You’ll have noticed we have a different kind of army to yours,’ he said.
‘Well, yes,’ hesitated Bryant. ‘They’re certainly very novel.’
Schorner said solemnly: ‘They think they’re wonderful, you know. They think they’re unbeatable, the greatest thing ever. Immortal. Magic. I don’t want to have them disillusioned too quickly. The hard part will start soon enough.’
Bryant did not know what to say. He merely nodded. Schorner saw his embarrassment. He said, ‘If there’s one guy we need around here it’s a liaison officer. We’re going to make a hell of a lot of mistakes, like you just saw. And the more you can get us out of trouble the better. If you can get us out before we’re in, I’ll like it even more. If you can’t then you’ll have to lie.’
Bryant grinned. ‘Quite honestly, sir, I don’t know why I got the job anyway,’ he said. ‘Apparently it’s just because I once went to America, and I happen to be here now. And not doing very much.’
‘Where did you visit in the States?’
‘Only New York and Philadelphia,’ said Bryant. ‘I had an aunt who died over there and I had to go and clear things up.’ He waited. ‘Not many English people have been to America. It’s still another country.’
‘This is another country for us too,’ said Schorner. He went on cautiously: ‘The anti-aircraft gun hasn’t been busy lately.’
Bryant shrugged. ‘A few false alarms,’ he said. ‘But we haven’t seen a Jerry for months. Not since I’ve been here, anyway. Since Dunkirk and the bombing the war’s been a bit of an anti-climax.’
It sounded oddly like an apology. Schorner said: ‘Well, you couldn’t make the Germans come. They blew the chance.’
Bryant said quietly: ‘We would have set fire to the sea with oil. It was all ready. They would have been roasted. And anyway, they didn’t have the boats, the landing craft. It’s all right having a big army. You’ve still got to get across the Channel.’
Schorner looked at him seriously. ‘I think that’s what we’re going to find out for ourselves pretty soon,’ he said.
The village school at Telcoombe Beach was romantically set almost at the edge of the sea. A brief, steep path went down from the small walled playground to an area of the beach clear of the barbed wire coils which had been there since the threat of invasion in nineteen-forty.
Bryant went in the bulky American staff car with Schorner. Albie was driving and they left him outside the greystone school and walked around to a promontory where they could see the wide arm of Start Bay opened out. The wind was sharp from the Channel and the winter rollers came headlong to the sand, shredding against the barbed wire. From the school they could hear the singing voices of children.
‘It’s a great name, Start Bay,’ commented Schorner. ‘A place to begin.’
Bryant smiled and agreed. Schorner could have been his father and yet here they were in the same war. The wind was stiff and they both took off their caps. ‘This used to be mined as well,’ said Bryant. ‘Now they’ve taken them up. It was difficult to stop the kids wandering down there.’
‘Show kids a beach and they’ll want to be on it,’ shrugged Schorner. ‘I wonder how quickly the Germans would have gotten through that wire. I wonder how the GIs are going to get through it. What are the kids singing?’
‘ “Widdicombe Fair”,’ replied Bryant. ‘Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and All. It’s a Devon song.’
‘Let’s take a looksee,’ said Schorner suddenly. He turned and walked through the low gate into the playground. He sniffed at it. ‘Schoolyards look the same the world over,’ he grinned. ‘With the little outhouses there.’
They walked towards the school door. It was arched and made of stout, weathered wood, like that of a side entrance in a church. Schorner hesitated, then, curiously, knocked. The singing wavered and stopped. A young woman’s voice called them in.
It was a single classroom, ranks of inky desks, bright drawings on the tiled walls, a blackboard like a square sail, and, in one corner, an iron stove breathing warmth into the room. The children were small, up to seven years of age, Bryant guessed. Two had stood on their desks to see the American staff car outside. They and the others turned to face the two men. The teacher, slight and dark, in her twenties, nodded to them nervously. Schorner remembered seeing her sitting next to Beatrice Evans in the church.
‘I’m sorry to intrude, ma’am,’ he said. He introduced himself and Bryant. She shook hands with them. ‘I’m Dorothy Jenkins,’ she said. ‘We’re having one last day at this school.’
‘We’re surprised that you’re still here,’ said Schorner.
‘So be we!’ interrupted a cherry-faced girl in the front desk.
‘Mary Steer,’ sighed the teacher. She said to Schorner, ‘Everybody thought it might be a good idea to have them in school today, it all being a bit confusing with the evacuation and everything. They’d only be getting in the way. Making it worse than it’s going to be.’ Her voice was calm, West Country.
The American officer stepped three paces to the window. ‘Sure a good place to have a school,’ he said again.
He turned to the children, then quickly back to the young woman. ‘Mind if I just say something to them?’ he asked.
‘You go ahead,’ she sai
d firmly. Her voice was simple and soft.
Schorner thanked her and faced the class again. Twenty-three round, attentive and expectant faces looked towards him. Silence settled through the room. Mary Steer smiled wilfully at him. He leaned forward and touched her on the shiny nose. She reddened and looked around at the other children to make certain they had seen.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began Schorner. They all giggled and put their hands over their mouths. ‘I expect you all know by now that you won’t be going to school here for a while.’
‘We don’t want to go to school in Wilcoombe,’ said Mary cheekily.
‘Mary Steer,’ muttered the teacher. The little girl blushed. Quickly her eyes returned to the American.
‘I guess you’ll always have to go to school,’ he answered. ‘We all have to do things we don’t like, at times. Me, I don’t care very much about being a soldier.’ He glanced mischievously at Dorothy Jenkins and added: ‘I’d like to teach school.’ The children laughed and the teacher acknowledged the point with a quick smile. He turned to the class again.
‘No, the reason I wanted to talk to you is … well, it’s a very serious matter, children. It’s a warning. You know what a warning is?’
‘Like the air-raid siren,’ called a boy from the back.
‘Right. What’s your name?’
‘Billy Steer,’ answered the boy. He had a sharp face, with a tooth missing in the centre of his mouth.
‘Billy Steer,’ repeated Schorner. He looked at the girl in the front desk. ‘Are you this young lady’s brother?’
‘Yes, sir, but I don’t like ’un,’ replied the girl. Billy Steer blew a raspberry towards her and she turned and poked out a cherry tongue. The teacher hushed them.
Schorner waited, then said: ‘Okay, Billy Steer, you’re right. It’s a warning, like the air-raid alert. But it comes from me, and this might happen at any time. Okay – so remember.’
The Magic Army Page 12