Life got more and more unreal for Stan. He would stop in the middle of teaching Chaucer to the Sixth and remember the Germans. For Stan had actually fought them, for three incredible months in 1918. Old Jerry wasn't a comic figure to Stan; Old Jerry was a grey flicker of distant men, who killed unerringly and were very hard to kill; Old Jerry was a tattered faceless corpse on the barbed wire, mud, stink and exploding chaos.
And Old Jerry was coming again. Already, in Stan's mind's eye, every Garmouth field was pitted with shell holes, every neat terrace a row of eyeless windows, every winter tree not only leafless, but twigless and branchless.
It didn't bear thinking about, but Stan could not stop thinking. He watched every newsreel, read every newspaper that might tell him how Old Jerry had changed his tricks since 1918. For if Jerry crossed the sea, Garmouth Home Guard—eighty-four old men and boys—would be the first to greet him.
Stan lectured them, drilled them, taught them everything he knew. They were keen; but which were worse— the boys who treated it like a lark, or the old men who had fought on the Somme and the Marne, whose lungs wheezed every time they ran twenty yards?
They had rifles; rifles the Canadian Army had packed away in vaseline because they were out-of-date in 1912... rifles the Boer War had been fought with.
And a weapon against the invincible Panzers too! A lump of drainpipe with a foresight welded on by the local blacksmith; a pipe that fired rockets (when they didn't misfire and drop fizzing out of the front end, making everybody run for it). They had a target—an old car pulled along by a winch. It was plated up with corrugated iron, and given a wooden turret with a broomstick gun. They painted swastikas on it, and gave demonstrations to the public. Sometimes a rocket actually hit the crawling "Jerry tank" and burst in a shower of blinding thermite, and set the wooden turret ablaze. Then the public would clap and cheer and slap each other on the back saying "Jerry better not land here!" Didn't the fools know that German tanks had armour three inches thick? The Home Guard was a con, to keep the housewives feeling safe in their beds.
Yet it was to the Home Guard HQ that Stan walked every day. It was better than a wrecked school where plaster fell off the walls, and rusting desks oozed black water if you touched them with your finger.
It had Sandy.
That morning, Stan noticed, Sandy had been busy again. A bank of earth had been raked clean, and the legend 1ST COMPANY (GARMOUTH) HOME GUARD had been impressed with whitewashed stones.
"Morning, sar. Lovely morning. Think it's the day for Jerry?"
"Ah, urn," said Stan. It was raining.
"Two letters came for you, sar. Poster from Northern Command about disguised German paratroops."
"Put it up," said Stan. But he could see it was already up.
"And an offer of two shotguns from Farmer Moulton at Preston."
"Sounds good!"
"They are, sar, they are. Came up nicely with a drop of oil." Sandy indicated two new guns in the rifle rack. "No ammo, though. But I think I can win some from a mate at the War Ag. Told him we were terrible pestered with rabbits."
"Sarnt-major!" said Stan, in the voice of dismayed approval that he knew Sandy expected.
"It's all for the War Effort, sar. Jerry could be here by lunch. Can't go over the top without ammo, sar. And I got a new copy of Fire Regulations from the Castle. They had a spare copy doing nothing, so I won it. Oh, and there's a civvy policeman to see you, sar."
Stan tramped on upstairs in his thin shabby Home Guard uniform. He wore it all the time now. It made him feel better; more ready. The sergeant with a limp was sitting in the company office.
"Not that machine gun again?" said Stan irritably.
"Fraid so. Two more bits of evidence come up. Both trivial in themselves but..."
"Go on!"
"First, I found an old complaint in the files from Mary Brownlee, mother of John Brownlee, a mental defective aged forty."
"What's he been up to?"
"Getting himself dirty—plastered with clay and mud. His mother—she's a well-meaning body—always tries to keep him nice. Seems she hasn't been able to, recently. He comes home whacked, boots soaked."
"What does he say about it?"
"Can't string two sensible words together. His mother's tried following him. When she does, he just wanders round in circles, keeping clean. But the moment her back's turned, he vanishes and comes back filthy."
"No clue?"
"One. He's been seen in the company of guess who?"
"Charles McGill?"
"Right. They live in the same street. When he saw Mrs. Brownlee watching, McGill sheered off, sharpish."
"What's the other complaint?"
"Even more trivial. Man called Parton. Same pattern. Daughter stays out till all hours, comes home filthy."
"Daughter's name Audrey? Red hair?"
"Yes. I've tried questioning her. Won't open her mouth, to me or her parents. They've tried hitting her, I'd guess, but it hasn't got them anywhere, and there's not much else they can do about it."
"That'll be Audrey Parton of 3A at our school?"
"Yes. And McGill's in 3A, and Jones his little mate, and the Nichol boy who was supposed to be killed by that bomb, and the Duncan boy who ran off home to Glasgow. And the Brown boy who took that German flier's helmet is in 3B. It's all too much of a coincidence."
"Supposed? But surely the Nichol boy is dead?"
"Well, if he is, he's the first case I've heard of, of death by bombing, that never left a trace. And young Duncan never showed up in any of his old Glasgow haunts—we checked."
"So..?"
"They've got that gun and they've built a hideout for it. Remember those sandbags that went missing? And Nichol and Duncan are living there, and the others are keeping them fed. I've checked all the families. The McGills keep on finding the odd pint of paraffin missing; the Partons are some candles short, and the Joneses a hurricane lamp. And there's been nicking from shops ... no proof, of course, they're too smart for that."
Stan fought down a wave of exasperation with both kids and sergeant alike.
"Told your Inspector about this?"
The sergeant shrugged. "I've tried. Trouble is Mr. McGill keeps on complaining that we're harassing his son. I got a flea in my ear and instructions to lay off the case permanently."
"And had you been harassing young McGill?"
"We've tried following him. No hope. He's onto us, and he's as fly as two monkeys. He's led us a dance for ten miles, and ended up throwing pebbles at tin cans in the river. You might as well try shadowing a seagull. He walks along the tops of walls, gets through holes in hedges a dog couldn't follow him into. Even my youngest constable can't keep up with him. And we haven't got the manpower..." The sergeant's voice went into a querulous wail, and it was all Stan could do to keep himself from laughing.
"How about following the others?"
"They're all the same, even the girl."
"So why not leave them alone?"
"Another two feet and they'd have killed that old woman in Simpson Street. Can't you think of something, sir?"
"But they know me better than they know you ... oh ... let me think about it, Sergeant." The sergeant got up, relieved. He had dumped the problem on someone else's shoulders... which was all he really wanted. Thanks very much, thought Stan.
He decided to go up to the observation platform on top of the mill. He always did that when he needed to think. The Home Guard shared the Polish binoculars and telephone with the Observer Corps. There was an observer on duty, purple with cold, his woolly scarf whipping in the drizzly breeze.
"All quiet?"
"All quiet. No Junkers 52s yet." The man laughed abruptly, as if he'd made a poor joke, and as abruptly stopped.
"Junkers 52s?"
"Yeah, haven't you heard? Jerry always uses them to drop paratroopers ahead of an invasion. Did it in Norway, and in Holland. Usually they're disguised, as farmers or women, even as Dutch soldiers. They take over ro
adblocks and bridges and telephone exchanges. Radio false orders, and raise all hell with the defence. Some of 'em, they reckon, can speak English better than you or I. But you can always tell the planes that drop 'em. Junkers 52s— the ones with three engines and corrugated wings." Stan's stomach gave a jump—more sly Jerry dirty tricks.
"Who told you this?" Stan's voice was sharp with fear.
"Why, it's common knowledge, sir. Everyone's talking about it."
"It's just bloody rumours. You know it's against the law to spread worrying rumours. It helps the enemy!" Stan knew he was being pompous, but he couldn't help it.
"Suit yourself," said the Observer Corps man huffily, and turned his back. Stan stared around gloomily.
"Can I use the binoculars?"
"Suit yourself. They're no damned good for aircraft spotting—shake all over the blasted sky. I bring me own." He tapped a smaller pair slung round his neck.
Stan buried his eyes in the great Polish lenses. Twenty times magnification; they must have been hell to use on the deck of a heaving destroyer. But by God they brought things close. There was the harbour, with its guard boom and guard ship; the Castle on its beetling cliff, with the six-inch guns that defended the Gar buried deep in its cliff face; the beach empty of everything but waves washing through the barbed wire and tank traps.
Stan sighed comfortably and settled down. It was good to get up here, above things, for a bit. He moved the glasses across the town; it was fun watching people shopping, sweeping pavements, gossipping, not knowing they were being observed. Why, there was the Square, where young McGill lived; at that house with the green door.
Suddenly he stiffened. Maybe this was the way to trace that blasted machine gun!
The ginger boy had the pistol; it looked odd lying across the copy of Beano he was reading.
"Achtung!" said Rudi. "Pistole."
The blue eyes flicked up, and the black round eye of the Luger. Rudi put up his hands, and waved the barrel of the gun aside, nervously. The boy watched, a frown on his face.
Rudi tried something else. He mimed pulling a non-existent pistol out of his holster. He pretended to cock it, and then pulled the trigger. He made the noise of a pistol exploding, and traced the bullet ricocheting wildly round the shelter. First he showed it entering his own body, and then the boy's.
"Tot. All dead."
The boy looked thoughtful; he was worried about it too.
"See!" said Rudi, and went through the mime of uncocking the pistol, several times, slowly. The boy nodded again, but did nothing. He was wondering if this was some escape attempt. So Rudi went through the mime of tying himself to the bunk by the wrist.
The boy's face brightened; he called something to his friend. The friend came with a bicycle lock and chain. Rudi chained his wrist to the stout upright of the bunk. The boy examined lock and chain closely; he was no fool. Then, gingerly, he tried to uncock the gun, holding it well away from him, eyes screwed tight shut. Rudi sweated; that way it could go off.
"Nein, nein. So!" He mimed it over and over again. Finally, after great straining, the boy managed it. He grinned, cocked and uncocked it a dozen times, finally leaving it uncocked. Rudi went through another pantomime with the safety catch. When that was accomplished they smiled at each other. The boy pointed at the gun.
"Pistole?" he asked, with grotesque pronunciation.
"Pistole," Rudi repeated correctly.
"Pistole?" said the boy tentatively.
"Ja. Gut," said Rudi, and the boy laughed with delight. He pointed to a white enamel mug, lying on the floor.
"Krug," said Rudi. The boy pointed to the hurricane lamp that burned day and night in the shelter.
"Sturmlampe," said Rudi. Now the other, dark, boy was laughing too. They played the game all the morning, and it was lunch in no time. After that, they played the game every day.
Rudi looked up from the comic.
"Was ist Desperate Dan?" His grasp of English was starting to return. If he could make himself word perfect, it would help his escape when spring came. He was feeling stronger every day now.
"Dan," said Clogger, pointing at the cartoon of the cowboy; "Clogger," pointing to himself; "Rudi," pointing at Rudi. The German nodded.
"But 'desperate,' was ist das?" It came out as "dospreet."
Clogger rolled his eyes wildly and tore his hair like a madman.
"A nutter?" suggested Rudi.
"Nein... no." Clogger began to pace wildly up and down.
"Ach, yes," said Rudi, "but why desperate is he? In these stories he is always winning." Everybody laughed. Everybody was there. They didn't feel like guards with a prisoner now. More like a class with a teacher, even a family. Especially the little dark one. Every day he sat nearer and nearer to Rudi. Now he was actually leaning against him. There was something wrong with that boy; a terrible need. He moaned in his sleep, and awakened crying. The others were very protective toward him. Where were his parents? Killed in the bombing?
"Give us a song, Rudi," they chorused. "Ich halt einen Kameraden."
Rudi obliged. He had a creaky voice, but the confined metal space of the shelter helped, like singing in the bath. How long since he'd had a bath?
The children took up the words of the sad old soldiers' song. They sang so sweetly that Rudi was close to tears. What was happening to him? He grew less like a soldier every day; more like a Lehrer in some kindergarten.
"Hey, belt up, you lot," shouted Clogger. "Someone might hear us." They hushed, exchanging furtive glances. Rudi felt part of the plot. Who was on whose side? Had the children no loyalty to the British? Had he any loyalty left to the Germans? If he hadn't been shot down, he'd probably be dead by now. Blown apart in midair, or fried, or as full of holes as a colander and every one leaking blood, like some he'd dragged from wreckage.
It was good in the shelter, playing cards, learning English, plenty to eat, if you didn't mind endless corned-beef stew. If only he could have a bath.
Now the children were arguing again. He turned to listen.
"I tell you we can make him work. It's in the Geneva Convention."
"Yah, bollocks. You can't make a prisoner of war help you against his own people."
"You can if it's not war work. I know a farmer's got two Italians—they were captured in Abyssinia. They mend walls and milk cows and things."
"Yaah, nuts."
"Anyway, enlarging the Fortress is war work."
"Not building a bog and a storeroom."
"'Tis!"
"'Tisn't!"
"I quite prepared to build a bog am," announced Rudi. "It convenient for me will be too. I do not like going out into the bushes on wet nights. Bogs is not war work." It was the longest speech he had ever made in English. They looked startled.
"Wot kind of bog?"
"Oh, the very best kind, I you assure. As they had on farms when I a boy was. Mit a seat and bucket, and holder for the paper."
"We'd have to keep you fastened up by one ankle!"
"That will be in order." And so the bog was built. The only underground bombproof bog in the country, they informed each other, except for the King's and Winston Churchill's. The children produced heavy oak doors from the Nichol house, and a bucket and sandbags; and Rudi enjoyed getting his shirt off and sweating in the early April sun.
When it was finished, and joined to everything else by a covered trench, even Audrey agreed it was all right. She said her granny who lived in the country had one, and said they were All Right if Properly Aired and Seen To Regularly.
"A ventilator, so," said Rudi proudly, patting the sandbagged opening on top, "and to it I will see every morning. But not with this great drainpipe tied to my ankle, no!"
"Sorry, Rudi," they said, and untied him. They still carried round the pistol, uncocked; but they often left it lying carelessly on one side these days. Rudi fancied he could have reached it, twice, but somehow ... it would have spoiled the building of the bog. And it was a good well-made bog.
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br /> "What other thing can I make that not War Effort is?" asked Rudi. And building, as the April days lengthened and no enemies, either British or German, came, was all their joy. The Fortress became an intricate network of trenches, tunnels and underground bunkers that threatened to rival the Maginot Line. The children, Rudi could only assume, became better and better thieves. Daily they dumped bricks, doors, windows and even coils of barbed wire at Rudi's feet. Rudi did his best with the wire, but he was no infantryman. He stretched it (tangled into the briers and bushes) all round the Fortress.
"Ah, well," said Chas, "it will keep Boddser Brown out." Chas spent his days carefully lettering two signs to hang on the wire. One for the back, to keep out the British, read war department, no admittance. And one for the front (just behind the concealing fence) which had a skull and crossbones and read achtung minen! Everyone, including Rudi, pronounced them very effective. "It scare me silly would, if I a poor soldier were!" The little dark boy laughed, and thrust his arm through Rudi's. "That's good, Dad!"
"Hey, Rudi, were you really a fighter pilot?"
"Ja!"
"And shot down two Spitfires?" Rudi groaned; they didn't want that story again, did they?
"Well, how come you got out of your plane alive; the guns were still firing when it blew up."
"I tell you a secret. That day I was having a joy ride with a friend. I observer was."
"Rear gunner," said Chas starkly. "Messerschmitt 110s don't carry an observer; they carry a rear gunner."
"So... ?" Rudi knew what was coming.
"So you could mend our machine gun if you wanted to."
"Ha," said Rudi. He'd have been scared of them once, but not now. "What will you do to me if I do not mend it?"
"We could shoot you," said Chas.
"I the Geneva Convention plead. Prisoners of war are never shot."
"That's right!" shouted everyone indignantly, turning on Chas.
"Well ... we could hand you over to the Army!"
Rudi laughed.
"So many questions they would ask. Interrogate me with rubber hoses and bright lights, like in the American movies. I spill the beans might." Everybody laughed.
The Machine Gunners Page 11