The two formations halted almost nose to nose in the wet and deep cut of the lane. Fresh American faces peered out of the leading vehicles, as anxious as if they feared ambush. Those in the front were astonished to see a monster traction engine, great-wheeled, high chimneyed, like some steam-roller from pre-history. In the dusk it soared above the leading jeeps. Hulton swore, as had become his habit, and left the lead car. His tentative countrymen watched as he straightened his tunic and brusquely advanced on the behemoth. As he did so he saw the extent of the line of vehicles behind it, jamming the narrow lane, their various rickety superstructures standing against the dying sky. From the iron deck of the vanguard traction engine the cheerful West Country face of Doey Bidgood beamed like a spring moon. ‘How be then, my old dear?’ he greeted the captain amiably. Hulton looked up and thought he recognized the man from the inn on New Year’s Eve. Beside him was a plump woman clutching a baby to her bosom, and behind them another character he recalled, Lenny Birch. The American remembered they were the pair who had the donkey.
‘You’ll have to go back,’ said Hulton pompously. ‘These are military vehicles and they have priority.’
‘There now,’ breathed Doey. He leaned over the side of the great iron vehicle. ‘It might be, it very loikely is, that you’ve got what you call priority, my old darlin’,’ he said confidingly. ‘But this incinerator unt got no reverse.’
Stiff-legged, Hulton moved a few paces to the rear and saw that the grotesque machine was towing a farm cart heavy with sacks and with a new lamb wedged below a net at the front. As he watched a small boy’s face rose uncertainly alongside that of the lamb. Hulton cursed.
He returned to the front. Lenny Birch had now come to the foreground. Doey said: ‘You talk to Lenny, zur. ‘Ee got a better tongue than oi.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ insisted Hulton. He realized he was sweating under his tunic despite the chill of the late day. He thought he heard someone laughing from his own convoy of troops. From the tailed-back rustic convoy he was aware of figures moving in the dusk and voices calling, demanding to know why they had stopped. Doey, hearing this, summarily climbed on to the seat of the traction engine and bellowed back into the dusk, ‘Us can’t get on! ‘Tis the Yankee army!’
He sat down and nodded with a kind of rough friendship at Hulton. Lenny said: ‘We be moving Mary Lidstone ‘ere, zur.’ He nodded to the plump woman enfolding the baby. “Er Ernie be away in Burma, see. A prisoner in the ‘ands o’ the Japanese.’
Hulton felt the familiar clamminess of defeat creeping across him. ‘You’ve got to reverse,’ he tried to insist. ‘The military must get through.’
‘God himself couldn’t get through ‘ere, darlin’,’ offered Mary Lidstone benignly. ‘Not if this contraption can’t go backwards. And it can’t, I tell ye that for sod all.’
‘Christ,’ swore Hulton. He clenched his fists and beat them on some invisible surface. The civilians watched him with some sympathy. ‘Christ, Christ, Christ …’ He repeated the litany as he walked without hope back towards his jeep.
Doey called kindly after him. ‘Gaffer! There be a gate back there. Into Blackstone’s field. Get your army in there. ‘Twill be all right.’
Hulton, still muttering, went to the car immediately behind his own. The officer commanding the unit, a grumpy Texan, was crouched into his overcoat. ‘What the hell’s going on, captain?’ he demanded.
‘They can’t reverse, sir. There’s no reverse on that wagon.’
‘Damn it all,’ sighed the officer.
‘That’s what I say, sir. But I guess there’s nothing we can do about it. We’ll have to reverse along this lane. There’s a gate up here. We’ll get the vehicles into the field and let these hicks through. It’s the only way.’
The Texan sighed. ‘I didn’t come here to retreat,’ he said. ‘And now, I’m retreating. Go on, captain, let’s get the goddamn thing done.’
Sulkily Hulton saluted and marched along the line of US Army vehicles. Faces turned expectantly on his as the newcomers sought reassurance. ‘What is it, sir?’ inquired a nervous young voice from the back of one of the trucks.
‘A panzer division,’ replied Hulton unkindly. ‘We got landed in France by mistake.’ Silence was the only response to this remark. Hulton realized some of them might believe him. Well, let them suffer; he had to. He saw the farm gate dimly on the right. It was about halfway along the convoy, so that the second half would have to reverse up the lane a short distance before going into the field front-first, then the fore end of the line would have to repeat the process. He pounded his fist on the flank of the car carrying the military police detachment. ‘Come on out, you guys,’ he bellowed. ‘You afraid of the dark or something?’
The snowdrops, their white helmets luminous, tumbled out uncertainly. Hulton explained the manoeuvre. The men kept looking over their shoulders nervously and one sniffed the air. ‘He’s an Indian,’ explained one of the others. ‘Well, half. He’s sniffing trouble.’
‘It’s cowshit,’ replied Hulton sharply. He went to the gate and pushed it open. There were cows, like a shadow army, at the far end of the field. Their curiosity aroused they began to advance on the gate. Hulton shut it again quickly. He marched the length of the convoy and then on to the traction engine. Doey, Lenny and Mary Lidstone were all eating great slabs of cake and drinking cider from a bottle which they passed familiarly around. Hulton declined the offer to make a fourth at the neck. ‘That field,’ he said heavily. ‘There are cows in it.’
They all nodded. ‘Blackstone’s cows,’ confirmed Mary through her cake and cider.
‘They can be Buffalo Bill’s for all I care,’ snorted Hulton, ‘but I can’t get the vehicles in the goddamned place if the goddamned cows are going to get out.’
Mary leaned over her shoulder. Hulton saw the tiny revealed face of her baby. ‘Davie,’ she called towards the cart behind. ‘Davie, go and help the soldier with Blackstone’s cows, there’s a good boy.’
The child that Hulton had seen with the lamb in the back of the cart appeared obediently. He had the lamb beneath his arm and he handed it to Doey who smiled towards Hulton and said: ‘Just borned … yesterday.’
‘I think I was,’ grunted the American. He turned briskly. The boy silently held his hand. Jesus, what sort of people were these? At the car containing the commander he attempted to hide the boy, but the gritty Texan leaned out and said caustically: ‘What’s the kid, a hostage?’
‘He’s going to handle the cows,’ shrugged Hulton as if it ought to have been obvious. The colonel accepted the answer and, with a sigh of impatience, sat back and lit a cigar. ‘I wish I was going home,’ he said to no one in particular.
The military policemen were grouped impotently around the gate, half a dozen of them, and on the other side of the gate were the cows. One animal, bolder or more curious than the rest, leaned and licked a snowdrop’s helmet. Haughtily the man took it off and wiped it with his handkerchief. They regarded the arrival of the boy with only brief curiosity. Obviously this was a country where the unusual was to be expected. Davie regarded them and their white tops with huge awe, not even aware that Hulton was opening the gate. He continued to stare back when he was inside the field. ‘The cows, son, the cows,’ Hulton reminded him.
The boy turned on the cattle with much more assurance. He made a clucking noise with his tongue and his gums and waved his small hands once or twice like a conductor bringing out a subdued movement from an orchestra. The cows backed away and then turned and retreated obediently into the darkness at the end of the meadow. ‘Okay,’ said Hulton, hugely relieved, ‘let’s get the wagons moving.’
The operation took almost an hour. The military vehicles turned into the field with difficulty, their lights ignoring the blackout regulations and picking out the pale winter grass and the scattered archipelago of cow turds. Eventually the road was clear and, at Hulton’s weary wave, the rural convoy started up again, led by the great traction
engine. ‘Thankee Yank!’ shouted Doey as they triumphantly huffed by, the swaying convoy of carts and vans following.
Two of the military vehicles became immersed in the mud of the fields and had to be towed out. Eventually the phalanx was on the tight road again and just about to set off towards Telcoombe and the coast when through the dusk appeared Barrington’s horse and trap, followed by the hearse recently utilized in the funeral of Old Pendry. Almost apoplectic, Hulton stamped from his jeep and confronted Barrington. Even recognition did not stem the American’s determination.
‘You’ve got to go back,’ he demanded. ‘This is a military convoy. We’ve wasted an hour already in a goddamned field. You must reverse.’
Surprisingly Barrington regarded the American officer without rancour. ‘It’s something you have to learn in these parts,’ he offered. ‘Reversing.’
‘Well, reverse, if you please, sir,’ said Hulton sulkily. ‘This unit needs to get through.’
Barrington glanced at his wife, a worried face beside him in the gloom. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘The horse might, but I don’t. And the hearse behind … they’ll oblige, I’m sure.’
‘Then, please, do it,’ pleaded Hulton. But he guessed, he knew, with his fortune, there had to be something else. There was.
From the greyness behind the hearse emerged a tall man in US uniform. He and Hulton saluted each other awkwardly. ‘What’s the hold up?’ asked the new arrival.
‘US Army unit, heading for the evacuation area,’ sighed Hulton. ‘Disembarked this morning at Avonmouth.’ It did not help.
‘Unfortunately, captain, I have General Georgeton in the car behind. I’m Scarlett, his ADC. I’m afraid you’ll have to let us through.’ Hulton knew without looking that Barrington was laughing silently. The British bastard.
‘Yes, okay,’ surrendered Hulton. ‘Sure thing.’ He turned wearily. ‘Back!’ he shouted at his convoy making a motion of the cow-herding boy. ‘Back to your field, come on, back to your field.’
At night the dark wind pummelled the sides of the nissen huts set around the anti-aircraft gun. Sometimes it seeped through the seams and whistled into the soldiers’ quarters until someone kneaded some mud and blocked the crack. Gilman was writing, scribbling so quickly on an army block pad that he appeared to be sketching. Catermole was languidly polishing a boot. The dog they had acquired was chewing the lace of the other boot. Catermole gave it a push with his stockinged foot.
‘We’re not going to be able to keep this bugger, you know,’ sniffed Catermole. ‘Bullivant will soon sniff him out.’ He poked his tongue out to see if he could see it reflected in the toe-cap of the boot. He could not, but he did not care. ‘Anyway, I like the way you got given the dog, but I have to keep it under my bleedin’ bed,’ he complained. ‘I’m the one who’s on a charge if it gets found out. Say it does a shit under there. I suppose you want me to say it was me.’
Gilman grinned. On that sort of evening, midweek, mid-winter, there was a strangely comforting domesticity about the hut. The blackout blinds were fixed over the windows, and Killer Watts had rigged an unofficial circuit of lights to supplement the dim official illumination. The fire enclosed in the iron stove burned amiably. Men sat on their beds reading, writing letters or lay staring at the iron curve of the ceiling as if it were a rainbow. Gilman had asked his other neighbour several times what he was doing as he stared so vacantly. Eventually, the man, Walt Walters, rubbery Midlander, replied dully: ‘Considerin’, mate, just considerin’.’
Across the corner at the far end of the hut was a radio loudspeaker, connected to the set in the canteen two huts away. It bawbled on throughout most evenings, low in tone for there was no way of increasing the volume, the knob being absent. It was like some constantly mumbling relative relegated to a corner, out of the way. Except on special occasions, like a broadcast by Churchill or an Andrews Sisters show, it was generally left unattended, the noises of regular broadcasts fixing the evening of the week for even those who were only half listening. Tonight it was a programme called Garrison Theatre.
The gossiping tones of two women droned from the set. ‘Christ,’ complained Catermole, ‘Elsie and bleedin’ Doris Waters. Just like being at ‘ome. Nag, nag, nag. Except there’s two of them.’
He gave the dog another push because it had begun to suck his sock. ‘That bit of stuff that was in the house,’ he began. ‘The one that said she knew the old bloke what had the dog. Known her long then?’
‘New Year’s Eve,’ answered Gilman, not looking up from his pad.
‘Oh, in the pub. Just my bloody luck. I do half your stag so you can go and get a pint and you end up with her. I might have got myself arranged there.’
Gilman turned. ‘That dog’s sucking your sock,’ he pointed out.
Catermole said he knew but he did not mind. ‘It’s the nearest thing I get to affection,’ he shrugged. ‘As long as ’ee don’t dig ’is teeth in. It’s just like my missus. I’m always afraid she’ll dig her teeth in.’ He returned to the question. ‘’Ave you got your feet under the table there, then?’ he asked. ‘With that bit of stuff.’
‘Not under the table nor anywhere else,’ replied Gilman casually. He studied Catermole’s damaged, interested face. ‘I went into her house because Bryant was creeping up the hill just as I was going to the pub. She let me in.’
Catermole grinned raggedly. ‘Sort of sheltered you?’
Gilman said deliberately: ‘Succoured me.’
‘That’s what I mean, rotten bastard. Didn’t tell me, did you?’
‘I don’t tell you everything, Pussy.’
Catermole sniffed like a boy, leaned over and picked up the Daily Mirror from the foot of Walter’s bed. He found the comic-strips page expertly. ‘That Jane’s got some tits,’ he commented, running his tongue along his teeth. He looked towards the dopey Walters. ‘Even you like Jane, don’t you, Walt? Dozy as you are.’
‘What’s the good of paper tits?’ muttered Walters, his expression unchanged.
Catermole let the dog gnaw his toe. He watched it. ‘How long’s this bloody war going to last, then?’ he asked Gilman.
‘I don’t know.’ Gilman was unsurprised. Barrack room conversation was predictable. ‘Until we surrender, I expect.’
‘The Yanks’ll finish for us,’ said Walters. ‘And I wish they’d get a move on. I’ve got a lot of things to do.’
Gilman looked at the lumpish form. ‘Like what?’
‘My pigeons and stuff,’ said Walters. They knew he had ended it there. He would say no more. It did not matter.
Killer Watts appeared anxiously through the door of the hut. There was a smear of drizzle on his waterproof cape. He was wearing field service marching order and carrying his rifle with the barrel pointing at his foot. ‘Gilman,’ he said, ‘there’s a woman at the gate for you. She came up when I was on guard. I said I’d get you as soon as I came off.’
Gilman eased himself up on the bed. Catermole laughed coarsely. ‘There, see, I knew you’d be rogering away there before long.’
Watts said uncertainly: ‘She said to bring the dog.’ He looked down and saw the mongrel with Catermole’s socked toe in its mouth. ‘That one, I s’pose,’ he said.
Catermole said: ‘We got a million dogs in this ’ut, Killer. Have a gander under the beds.’
‘I don’t care,’ Watts returned solemnly. ‘I don’t give a fuck. I just said I’d tell Gilman.’ He produced a cigarette with a pleased flourish. ‘She gave me a fag,’ he said.
Gilman was already pulling on his boots. Walters said: ‘Bloody Jane ought to be banned. It makes blokes randy.’
Watts hunched out of the hut and Gilman followed him. He picked up the dog as he went. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Puss?’ he said to Catermole. ‘We can’t keep it here anyway. She’s got somewhere for it, I expect.’
‘She’s got somewhere for it all right,’ muttered Catermole. He patted the mongrel heavily. ‘Just when I get someone what loves me,’ he g
rumbled.
Gilman pushed the dog under his tunic in case Bullivant or the orderly officer should see him. Outside the rain was enclosed in the wind funnelling in from the sea. It was a pitch night. The dog wriggled against his ribs. He walked with caution towards the gate.
She was standing in a doorway across the road. The sentry, having been primed by Watts, watched him lasciviously. He went smartly across and saw her pale face peering.
‘I thought I’d take the dog back,’ she said before he could speak. ‘The old man’s asking about it. I have enough grumbles without that.’
He smiled uneasily. ‘That’s all right,’ he answered. ‘Catermole, my pal, was getting fond of it.’ He produced the thin mongrel and patted it. ‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t have been long before somebody found out,’ he added. ‘And there’s all sorts of King’s Regulations about livestock in barracks.’
‘You’d have thought the King would have had more to think about, wouldn’t you,’ she said. ‘He ought to have my worries.’ She held out her slim hands and took the dog from him.
They were standing under the doorway of a small shop. ‘I’ll walk up with you,’ said Gilman. ‘Do you want me to carry the dog?’
She handed the animal back to him. ‘He should try feeding the thing,’ she said. It was as thin as a rabbit. They began to walk up the hill.
‘Are you allowed out?’ she asked. It was half-mocking.
‘Till ten-thirty,’ he told her.
She looked at her watch. ‘It’s just gone nine,’ she said.
He grimaced. ‘A grown man allowed out till ten-thirty,’ he said. ‘It’s bloody ridiculous.’
‘A lot of things are,’ she said. ‘I’ve been landed with the old man. He moans and he smells.’
The Magic Army Page 16