Rising Summer

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Can’t believe it of old Jim, can you?’ I said.

  ‘I can. And if it’s true, he’s a saboteur, a fifth columnist.’

  ‘Never. Not old Jim. He’s a Suffolk cockney, the soul of old England.’

  ‘Don’t make me hysterical, old buddy,’ said Kit. ‘By the way, if you’re worried about yourself, I can tell you your name hasn’t been mentioned.’

  ‘Hasn’t been mentioned by whom?’

  ‘One can’t answer every question. I just thought you’d like to know it’s only your friend, the soul of old England, who’s due for comeuppance.’

  ‘I might not like it too much,’ I said, ‘I might be someone who worries about his friends. In any case, I could still be sunk myself. They’ll check the spare cans of every vehicle. Every driver is logged for every journey. I mostly drive the Austin. If they find its can empty, they’ll work backwards to find out who emptied it.’

  ‘You can say you did, can’t you? You don’t mind lying, do you?’

  ‘Well, we’re only talking about allowable perks.’

  ‘Allowable perks?’

  ‘Goes back a long way. It’s traditional. Take your lot in your Civil War, nicking chickens. That’s perks. Look, if I said I used that spare juice, I’d have had to log it and report it to the workshop staff-sergeant.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I had some eggs to fry, I’d missed dinner.’

  ‘Hasn’t anyone driven that mousetrap since then?’ she asked.

  ‘Probably and they’ll be suspect too.’

  ‘So you’ll own up?’ she said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, you do have a conscience, don’t you?’ she said, her skirt swishing in the darkness.

  ‘Look, love,’ I said, ‘everyone concerned will fall down in a fit if I own up. When they’ve got you in uniform for the duration, you leave your Sunday School conscience at home and concentrate on survival. Doesn’t it strike you as trivial, fussing about a spare can of porridge?’

  ‘So that’s what you call army gasoline. Poor old buddy, don’t you know chickens always come home to roost?’

  ‘Not if you can get them into the oven first,’ I said. We were well out of the village, walking along the quiet country road towards BHQ. It was winding, and hedged on both sides. And the night was dark and someone was behind us. I stopped and turned. I could only see shadows. Even so, I thought about someone with frustrations and the sex appeal of Sergeant Masters. She stopped herself then, some twenty yards on. One shadow moved and materialized into something dark and wiry. Under a hat.

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ I called to Kit and went to have a word with Jim. ‘Stop lurking about,’ I said, ‘you’ll frighten people.’

  ‘I ain’t lurkin’, just follering,’ said Jim in a hoarse whisper. ‘You got yer female sergeant there. Good ’un, is she, Tim? Ain’t ’er fault she’s soldiering, it’s the cock-eyed war, that’s what it is. Only she’s in the way just now, seein’ I got what we need.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘This. Some o’ yourn.’ He showed me a rusty can. I could just make it out. ‘Me reserve stock, like. Keep it in a potato sack.’

  ‘It’s WD stuff?’

  ‘Ain’t like the muck they took,’ he said. ‘There was a bit of WD in that there drum but not much and what there was was mixed with paraffin an’ turps. I wasn’t born yesterday, it don’t do to be born yesterday.’

  ‘You’re right, Jim. What’s this can of WD for?’

  ‘Refill.’ He grinned. ‘There’s an empty can, ain’t there? That’s ’ow they’re goin’ to nick you, Tim boy, on account of the empty one. Know what they done with all the cans?’

  ‘I only know they pinched your drum.’

  ‘That won’t give ’em no joy. Listen, they got them cans cuddlin’ up in your vehicle workshop, me young mate. I got to hear round about teatime today. A friend knocked on me back door. Them cans is being inspected official in the morning, to see what’s full and what ain’t. One’s empty, you reckon?’

  ‘The Austin’s, for sure, unless any of the workshop staff checked it and had it filled up. But then, Staff-Sergeant Dix, who’s in charge, would have wanted to know more about why it was empty.’

  ‘Well, lad, you show me and if it’s still empty, we’ll fill it up with this canful,’ said Jim. ‘You don’t want no army messin’ you about. Missus likes you. Make sure our Tim don’t get executed, she said. So you lead and I’ll foller.’

  I had a few more words with him first, about how to get into the workshop without being spotted, then rejoined Kit.

  ‘I know who that old goat is,’ she said as we resumed our walk.

  ‘Yes, he’s a useful old handyman,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re fond of him too. Now, when we reach BHQ, you talk to the guard on the gates to keep him occupied—’

  ‘Come again?’ said Kit.

  ‘While I pop across to the workshop. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Right first time it won’t,’ she said, ‘I’m not doing it. Leave me out.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ I said, ‘you’re our anchor man and you can’t hide behind those upside-down stripes all the time. You’ve got to stand up and be counted when a friend’s having problems.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘It’ll be quite simple. I’ll explain.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said, swinging along at a brisker pace.

  ‘It’s part of the night guards’ duty to keep an eye on the workshop to make sure a vehicle doesn’t get nicked by some farmer short of transport for carrying cows to market. I’ll take you to a Suffolk market when the war’s over and you can buy a cow to take home to your family. Better than a fake brass rubbing from Birmingham. There’ll only be one guard on duty. Just keep him occupied with some encouraging female talk and keep him with his back to the workshop.’

  ‘Encouraging female talk?’ said Kit. ‘That’s out for a start. Nothing doing, old boy. When a crook gets himself stuck in the mud, let him pull himself out. Giving him a hand would be a mistake. He’d not only think he was entitled to it, but there’d be the risk of being pulled in with him. Is that loud and clear, Hardy?’

  ‘It ruddy well is, but is it friendly? Is it even right? Not on your nelly. You can’t stand aside and see a brother soldier go under.’

  ‘Can’t I?’ she said. We were nearing BHQ. Jim was a silent ghost behind us. ‘Listen, you crook, how long would I have to keep the guard occupied?’

  ‘Only about ten minutes. Easy for a good-looking sergeant like you.’

  ‘Cut the soap,’ she said. ‘Where’s the nearest Episcopalian church?’

  ‘Hold on, you’re not going to bring Jesus in, are you? Do we want to?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Your kind of church? Nearest one’s probably in Sudbury. That’s fifteen miles away and I don’t think you’ll catch a service at this time of night.’

  BHQ loomed up. Kit came to a halt.

  ‘I’m crazy,’ she said. The vehicle yard and workshop opposite BHQ were just visible from the gates. Occasionally, the man on guard would cross the road and patrol about the place.

  Jim sidled up. ‘Is she on, Tim lad?’ he whispered.

  ‘Oh, shoot,’ she breathed and left us. She was on. She walked to the open gates. We waited, tucking ourselves out of sight. We heard her voice. It sounded cooing. Cooing? A cooing sergeant? That had to do the trick.

  Jim and I slipped across the road, rounding a parked Bedford lorry to ghost into the workship. Everything was locked up, of course. Jim produced a small torch with a tiny but bright beam. The staff-sergeant in charge of vehicle maintenance had an office in the workshop, with upper glass panels. The torch picked out six petrol cans in lined-up formation on the office floor. The door was locked. Jim fumbled in a pocket and brought forth a ring of many keys. He began trying them, one after the other.

  ‘Don’t muck about, Jim, it’s not Christmas. Get it open.’

&n
bsp; The lock clicked.

  ‘Good ’un, you are,’ said Jim to the lucky key and we went in. ‘Where’s yourn?’ he whispered.

  ‘How do I know? They’re all WD cans, all the same. Just find the empty one.’

  Jim, running his beam of light over the identical cans, disclosed the fact that there was a chalked number on each. I hefted them, one by one. Four were full, two were empty. Two? Someone else was in the market?

  ‘Them two’s both empty?’ said Jim.

  ‘Ruddy hell, yes.’

  ‘Bleedin’ old system’s up the spout, then,’ he said. ‘Ain’t much help to you if we fill the wrong one. Missus won’t like that, she’ll knock me ’ead off.’

  ‘Fill ’em both,’ I said.

  ‘Corker you are, Tim boy,’ said Jim and filled one of the empties from his rusty can. I filled the other from one of the full cans. As the juice gurgled in he asked, ‘You after Minnie?’

  ‘Am I what? You off your rocker? What sort of a question is that at a time like this?’

  ‘Only askin’,’ said Jim.

  ‘Listen, Minnie’s too young for that kind of lark.’

  ‘You might be, she ain’t.’ Jim chuckled. ‘She’s been sayin’ you fancy her. I know she fancies you.’

  ‘Find her a decent GI when she’s sixteen.’

  ‘That won’t work, Tim. It’s you Min’s after.’ The petrol gurgled to a stop. A minute later we were out, the door locked again, the workshop at our backs. Jim got lost before I realized he’d gone. I approached the gates and went through. I heard the crisp patter of retreating footsteps. That sounded as if Kit had just finished doing her good deed. Good old American scout she was, after all

  The guard appeared and poked his rifle at me. ‘Friend or foe?’ he demanded. It was Gunner Dunwoodie. If I’d known, I’d not have worried so much. On the other hand, even a fellow squaddie short on brains can sometimes rate good conduct marks more important than comradeship. We all hoped for promotion and a corresponding increase in pay.

  ‘Don’t get excited, Woodie,’ I said. ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘Thought it was,’ he said, peering. ‘She said it would be.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘The Wac sergeant. You been followin’ ’er?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve just won her in a raffle down at the pub.’

  ‘Don’t gimme that. Think I’m daft? She told me you’d been actin’ queer, lookin’ at ’er in the pub with staring eyes. That ain’t good, yer know. She said you were creepy and asked me if you’d got a prison record.’

  ‘Poor woman, what a sad case,’ I said. ‘Enjoyed your chat with her, did you?’

  The gormless turnip smirked. ‘She told me what a healthy change I was after your staring eyes. You ain’t gone peculiar on ’er, have you? Tell you what, I think I fancy ’er meself, I think I wouldn’t mind meetin’ ’er under the ATS shower.’

  ‘All right, lovey,’ I said, ‘I’ll hold your rifle while you join her in the ATS ablutions. But take your towel with you or she’ll think you’ve come for more than a shower.’

  ‘What d’yer mean?’ he asked.

  ‘And keep your trousers on as well,’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Or you’ll get arrested yourself,’ I said and went off to bed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘RIGHT,’ SAID MAJOR MOFFAT. Broad, rugged and vigorous, he had been a territorial officer when the war broke out and had worked his way up from first lieutenant to battery commander by sheer dedication. He expected similar dedication from everyone in uniform. He also expected military smartness. Even the ATS personnel weren’t safe from his eagle eye. If he saw any girl with the slightest wrinkle in her khaki stockings he’d rap out, ‘Pull ’em up, girl, pull ’em up.’

  He had seven men lined up in the workshop, including me. He cast his glinting eyes over us, looking as if he was quite sure one of us was a traitor. His enormous Dalmatian hound and Staff-Sergeant Dix stood by. The dog was not without the right kind of instincts, especially where food was concerned. I think it knew one of us was to be served up for its dinner.

  The spare petrol cans were to be checked in our presence. The major, on a point of principle, wished us to know the inspection wasn’t going to be carried out behind our backs. All seven of us had been logged as having taken out transport on a particular day. I was sure I knew which particular day. No-one cared to advise the major that there was a certain amount of friendly casualness concerning spare petrol, that it came under the heading of perks.

  The cans were brought from Staff-Sergeant Dix’s office and placed in a neat line. The major surveyed them and his hound nosed them. The major smacked one gloved hand with his cane. ‘Staff-Sergeant Dix,’ he said, ‘in the event of any of these cans being empty, I’ll want to know which vehicles they belong to and which driver or drivers used that vehicle on said day. I’ll want to know why it was that use of spare petrol wasn’t reported, wasn’t logged and wasn’t even bloody well noticed.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Staff-Sergeant Dix smartly.

  ‘A quantity of petrol has been removed from the premises of a civilian,’ said the major. ‘It’s being analysed. I hope it doesn’t prove to be WD petrol emanating from here. It could mean the gallows for some despicable fairy. Is that clear? Carry on, staff.’

  Sergeant Dix produced a notebook. A gunner in denims put his hand on the can chalk-marked number one.

  ‘Full,’ he reported, as he hefted the can.

  ‘Bedford, sir,’ said Sergeant Dix, referring to his notebook.

  Number two can, full. A Morris. Number three can, full. The Austin utility. Number four can, empty. The Hillman, Major Moffat’s own official transport.

  ‘What?’ said the major.

  ‘Empty, sir,’ breathed the workshop gunner hoarsely and the major cast a fiendish eye at Sergeant Dix, who referred again to his notebook.

  ‘Yes, Hillman, sir,’ he said faintly and carried on dazedly. The fifth and six cans were both full. ‘Sir?’ said Dix in an ill voice.

  ‘Almighty Jesus,’ said the major and looked at his driver, Lance-Bombardier Burley, lined up with the rest of us. Burley closed his eyes and silently prayed. The Dalmatian rumbled impatiently. The major walked slowly around the cans. He struck the empty one with his cane. It rang hollowly. Getting his breath back he said, ‘This one belongs to the Hillman, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Numbly, Sergeant Dix explained that each can had been carefully numbered before being lifted from its vehicle and placed in his office, all under his careful supervision.

  ‘You weren’t told if a can was full or empty?’ enquired the major.

  ‘Orders, sir, were that we were only to number the cans and deposit them under lock and key.’

  ‘The clot who lifted that can from wherever didn’t mention it was empty?’

  ‘No, sir, not to me,’ said Sergeant Dix.

  It was obvious what the major thought. That an empty can had been filled from the Hillman’s can. His face was a study, his eyes a metallic grey. He addressed us. ‘You bleeders,’ he said. We stood rigidly to attention. ‘It’s an out-and-out fiddle, you hear me? By God, I never thought I’d live to see the day when some conscripted disciples of Fagin would frame their battery commander. You horse-tails, which of you is the big shot, eh? Who’s the smart Alec who’s master-minding the piracy?’ He walked up and down the line, eyeing each of us in turn. He knew he’d not only been diddled, he also knew he had no hope of discovering how. His dog seemed to share his frustration. It growled. ‘Down, Jupiter,’ he said, ‘down, boy. You’ll have to wait. But we’ll get ’em. The whole festering bunch are in on it, I shouldn’t wonder. But who’s the ripe pineapple, who’s the po-faced ringleader?’ He looked piercingly at me. ‘Is it you, Hardy?’ I kept quiet. ‘You’ve got all the chat and the crust and he’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘The village black marketeer, Jim Beavers.’

  ‘I wouldn’t c
all him that, sir.’

  ‘I’ll get the bleeder,’ said Major Moffat, ‘and anyone else who’s his partner in crime. This is a deferred hanging party. All right, dismiss them, staff.’

  Dismissed, we filed out. The Dalmatian rumbled. I made my way to the orderly room. Heads lifted as I entered. Corporal Deborah Watts, standing beside Sergeant Johnson’s desk, showed a slight wrinkle in one stocking.

  ‘Pull ’em up, Deb,’ I said.

  ‘Beg your pardon?’

  ‘Yes, message from Major Moffat. Pull ’em up.’

  Knowing what that meant, Corporal Watts took a look at her stockings. ‘Some people,’ she said and retired behind her desk to sit down and do what was necessary.

  ‘Well, Hardy,’ said Sergeant Johnson, ‘been remanded pending a court-martial, have you?’

  ‘Tim, was it really you?’ asked Corporal Deirdre Allsop, currently the ambition of a GI from Baltimore and accordingly looking most of the time as if the war was a bit of an irrelevance.

  ‘Was it me what?’ I asked, sitting down.

  ‘Were you the juice flogger, that’s what,’ said Bombardier Wilkins.

  ‘It fell down dead,’ I said.

  ‘What did?’ asked Frisby, in line to become Cecily’s friendly psychoanalyst.

  ‘The inquiry. It fell down dead. False alarm.’

  ‘Sounds like the triumph of iniquity to me,’ said Sergeant Johnson.

  ‘No, survival of the innocent,’ I said. ‘Jesus was with us.’

  Later, I ran into Sergeant Masters. In the hall. ‘I was coming to see you,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  ‘You got away with it?’ she asked disbelievingly.

  ‘It all went up in smoke,’ I said. ‘You’re a good old sergeant, thanks for your help and I’m overlooking what you told Gunner Dunwoodie about me.’

  ‘I’m touched,’ she said, ‘but why I let you turn me into a half-wit I’ll never know.’

  ‘Hand of friendship, that was,’ I said. ‘Look, we could have a few dates, if you feel keen enough.’