by John King
I don’t know how long we were fighting. It was slow and dirty. Eventually we were off the beach. There were German soldiers waiting for us, moving back from their burning pillboxes as flames licked through the cracks incinerating their mates. I suppose they must’ve been more terrified than we were. They didn’t scare me much individually. It was better hand-to-hand. Better than being picked off in the open. Hand-to-hand fighting suited me fine. I really wanted to fight now with the actual landing behind us and people I knew ripped apart. For years we’d been pinned down in our own country fearing invasion while Hitler killed our women and children, and now we were fresh from another assault with the chance to make amends. I felt brilliant. For the first time I felt great, though it wouldn’t last long. I was concentrated and all my fury came through. This is what we’d been waiting for. Without uniforms the Germans would’ve looked like us, I suppose, but I didn’t think of this at the time. There was an older German turning towards me and before he could fire I stuck him with my bayonet. The steel jammed into his heart and I had trouble pulling it out. He was a murdering kraut bastard and when the bayonet sprung out it was red and gleaming. His blood suited the steel and I enjoyed the kill. Not like a sadist, but like a soldier killing the enemy. It was me or him. It was us or them. I cut him across the neck and he dropped. I shot two Germans running towards me. One I killed and the other looked as though he was dying. Other Germans started to run and we followed. I was with Mangler and some others. There were fires everywhere and the burnt wrecks of cars and trucks. The smell was incredible and it was hard to breathe as we passed one burnt-out wreck. Mangler was shouting at the Germans and some other English soldiers cornered them. The Germans stopped and threw down their guns. They put up their hands. Mangler hit one in the face with his rifle butt and forced his bayonet against the man’s balls, pushing him against a wall. He laughed in the German’s face and said he was going to castrate him for Billy Walsh. The German was shaking. A sergeant intervened and, with some difficulty, pushed Mangler away. Maybe I wouldn’t have cared if Mangler had done it at the time because I was mad. I don’t know for sure. I think we were all a bit mad because you have to be mad to fight in a war. To kill people and see your friends butchered. Every normal value is forgotten. Afterwards they try and patch things up and apply a nice coat of paint, hand out some medals and compose tunes, but I know how I felt. I’m being honest with myself. We left the Germans and I suppose they were lucky. I like to think I would have stopped Mangler if he’d ripped the bloke’s trousers and started cutting. I’m sure I would. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone through with it and was trying to scare the man. That’s what it was. It worked because the German started crying and his mates looked at him with disgust. We moved forward and the fighting continued. The killing went on. The German soldiers eventually surrendered. Men died and it became dull and repetitive as the killing on the beach was repeated, but more deliberately. Our senses were shattered. The noise and smell were sharp for a while, then disappeared. My ears were ringing and smoke made my eyes sting. I saw things I’d never forget, maybe because they were new, but the man having his head blown off and Billy Walsh losing his genitals, and shortly after, his life, stuck. The same things happened many times during my time in Europe and after a while I stopped feeling sick and there was a dull throb in my head that passed right through me. It was inside now and when we’d taken the beach we were able to stop for a while. Someone gave me a fag and even though I didn’t smoke I took it and enjoyed the taste. It showed I was alive. I have to try and remember what I felt at that moment because it’s over half a century away. Some things you never forget, and landing in Europe is one of them. I knew it was something I never wanted to experience again, but this was naïve. This was the beginning. I would see other things that would affect me, but this was where the liberation began. The men from Dunkirk had been through a lot already, but they seemed stunned. I sat there and smoked the cigarette and looked around for Mangler. I was glad now the sergeant had arrived and saved the German soldier. I wondered what Mangler was doing, because the sergeant had struggled to stop him. I thought of the beach and how the smell and colour of the blood had got inside my head. It’s hard to be honest about those twenty or so minutes immediately after we knew we’d secured the bridgehead. I can’t remember any of our mob cheering, and no-one seemed over happy. What did I do? How did I feel? Even though it would be unmanly, I’d like to say I shed a quiet tear or two. But I didn’t. I think I just sat there and didn’t feel anything at all.
NO-MAN’S LAND
IT TOOK HARRY a few seconds to remember he was in an Amsterdam hotel and not back home in London. The room was dark, but a beam of light had broken under the curtains and created a spotlight effect on the floor. He looked at the clock on the bedside table, at the glowing digits swearing it was nine o’clock, and realised he felt fine after the ferry crossing. He hadn’t slept long, but that childhood excitement of going on holiday was coming through with a vengeance. The sheets were crisp and the room airy, everything smelling clean and new. He definitely wasn’t in London.
Once his eyes had adjusted he could see the shape of Carter under the duvet in the second bed, the sex machine snoring like a pig. The old hog-fucker was doing what pigs do best and he’d let the bloke sleep. The sex machine needed his energy for the girls running their way, and Harry would be spending enough time with him later when the action began. Once the lights went down and the birds started stirring, he’d stick closer than a shadow. He was learning some overdue lessons and could taste those red ruby lips already. He’d woken up with half a hard-on and thinking of the girls they’d be knobbing finished the job. He thought about banging off a quick one, but resisted the temptation. He wanted to be at his best. The lucky woman he was destined to meet later that day was going to get the back of her fucking head blown off.
Ten past and Harry was off down the hall for a shit, shower and shave. He stood under a full-throttle nozzle generous with the hot water, using a brand new Bic to remove the stubble on his face. He was impressed, because in England the hot water would’ve run out after five minutes they were so tight. People went on about Jocks and yiddos being mean, but the English even counted the peas on your plate to make sure you weren’t getting one too many. He dabbed aftershave on his cheeks and checked himself in the mirror. He looked the part and went back down the hall with a towel around his waist, a middle-aged woman passing and not taking any notice. This was Holland and they didn’t give a toss. Do that in a bed and breakfast in Bournemouth and they’d have the Tactical Support Group battering down your door.
Carter was still snoring and Harry got dressed quickly, selecting yesterday’s Levi’s, trainers and a crumpled shirt, running his hands over the material to try and get rid of the creases. He left Carter well alone, closing the door quietly and going down a narrow wooden staircase to the reception. He almost fell arse over tit it was so tight. Hank behind the counter was a middle-aged man with a balding head and a cup of coffee on the go. A typical Dutchman, he spoke perfect English.
– Did you sleep okay? he asked, radio low in the background and the smell of fresh coffee rising from the mug. You boys were tired when you got here and still you went out for a drink.
– Slept like a baby, Harry said.
He wanted to add that he’d done it without a nappy and hadn’t wet the bed, but knew the joke would probably get lost in the translation. He didn’t want Hank sniffing the sheets while he was out.
– Best night’s rest I’ve had for a long time.
It was gone three by the time they arrived in Amsterdam. They’d had a few cans while they fucked about with the trains from the Hook, done the fifteen-minute walk from Centraal, dumped their gear, and then found a bar down the road. They’d lined the hotel up ahead of time, otherwise they’d have been fucking about all night banging on doors. Tom had stayed there before and got them a bulk discount.
The bar was quiet and they’d had a couple of lagers to wash a
way the dust before turning in for the night. Four in the morning and they were fucked. When they arrived in the Hook, the Dutch old bill had turned up in force decked out in riot helmets and backed up by dogs, and the Pompey and Southampton boys were identified by members of the ferry crew. With a few whacks from the truncheons the seasiders were rounded up ready for deportation. They’d gone through the rest of the English and Facelift was sent home along with High Street and Biggs, both caught with their nicked gear. Facelift was pissed and mouthy and started sieg heiling the coppers. He was a thick cunt, because this didn’t go down too well with the Dutch. They didn’t fancy the Union Jack tattoos and the beer bottle in his hand, but worst of all the Gestapo routine wasn’t too clever in a country where the Germans were hated for what they’d done during the war. Harry didn’t know Facelift that well, he was Mark and Tom’s mate, but though it got a laugh from the rest of the chaps, Facelift was a mug.
The rest of the lads kept quiet and did their boy scout routine, and Tom, Mark, Carter, Billy and Harry had got the train along with Gary Davison and his mob, plus Kevin and the lads from Crewe and Bolton, the rest of the English scattered through the carriages. There were probably a good twenty English kicked out for fighting, being pissed, thieving, or because the old bill just didn’t like the look of them. The papers would have a field day back in England and there was bound to be some wanker on the boat ready to tip them off. Thank fuck that was over. Harry hated ferries.
– Breakfast is along the corridor, Hank said, shifting his head. It’s not your traditional English food, but there is ham and cheese. The coffee is very good. It is an Italian blend I buy specially for my guests.
Harry went down the hall to a small room. He was the only one there and Mrs Hank brought him his food right away. The coffee smelt fucking brilliant, while the breakfast looked so-so. It was on the light side, and though he loved a good fry-up like the next man, there was more to England than greasy spoons. Harry started running through his favourites: jam donuts and bacon rolls from the baker’s where Mango’s sister worked, cod and chips from the chippy, chicken jalfrezi down Balti Heaven, spare ribs from the chinky, a double egg burger from the Istanbul Kebab House, patties and dumplings from the Jamaican, Heinz tomato soup and crusty rolls with a ton of butter in front of the telly. He could go on, but his mouth was watering and he wanted to forget London, that’s why he was on holiday. Even the biggest food snob had to agree that England had its own fair share of decent grub. Or scran as Kevin would say when he came in and sat down.