by John King
Along with Second World War stories, Harry and his generation were raised on Vietnam, the images big and exotic with hills burning in the distance, soldiers picking their way through tropical rainforests. They saw the scale of the bombing and the freedom of Hollywood gunships. It added something to Dam Busters and The Longest Day. It was better than Northern Ireland because that was bitter city street-fighting through British housing estates, and every now and then you heard about someone’s older brother or cousin who’d been killed or wounded, almost every day a name announced on the news, blokes you didn’t know personally but understood were a bit too near you and yours for comfort. Northern Ireland was grim and miserable, while Vietnam was the other side of the world, the enemy small and unseen, the news footage of childhood blending into the films of their youth. The squaddies listed on the news were young and white, their heads shaved and the faces familiar. They looked like you’d look when you grew up. They were English and counted. In the Far East it was jungles burning, not people. It seemed unreal, the difference between the Gulf and the Falklands.
It was the Yanks who’d turned Thailand into a knocking shop. Harry’s mate Mango had been to Pettaya and said a lot of bars were run by former servicemen who’d gone back and set up in business. During the Vietnam War they were flown into Pettaya for some rest and recreation, and afterwards the place kept going. Tourists came to join the Gulf workers and soldiers. When the Gulf War ended Pettaya suffered what they called the mother of all hangovers. Along with the bombing raids went sex missions. Mango said it was a mental place, going on about the go-go bars, sex clubs, blow-job bars and so on. Harry imagined kids forced to work hard for their bowl of rice and felt sorry for Nicky.
He jolted when he wondered how she’d managed to avoid Aids. She said she was clean and he believed her, but had been careful anyway. It was chemical warfare, poison in the blood stream. You didn’t have to bother with invasions and air strikes any more, just send over the rich holiday-makers and fat nonces to fuck the poor and the thin up the arse. Make them squeal and get girls like Nicky to lick the sewer clean. Harry sat up and had another drink. He had to get that woman out of his head. He was here to enjoy himself. What was the matter with him? He was part of the Expeditionary Force and they weren’t taking any prisoners.
—I sit in the meeting but don’t really listen to what’s being said. I think of Europe and the way the English behaved. I believe we did what had to be done and compared to the Germans and the Russians we were decent and honest. I sit between Eddie and Barry. These two and Ted are good, decent men. They all have their experiences and their lives after the war. It is the same for me and for Dave Horning. I think of the men I killed now because I have it all laid out in some kind of formation. I have thought about what we did and it makes sense. Dave Horning is Mangler and he was with me in Normandy. He was in the same landing craft and he would have smelt the same shit and heard the same sobs. I don’t know if he will remember things in the same way. I have my version of events and one thing I have learnt and observed through the years is how history is reinvented. It isn’t just the people who make a living from the subject, because in some ways it is the people who were there as well. I hope I haven’t done this myself. The thing is, sometimes I wonder. I have done my best to keep my mind clear and remember things clearly, but try as you will you can never fully escape your surroundings. Little things start to niggle. I think of the boy, the last German I killed. I shot him in the head. He was crawling away through the rubble but there was a gun in his hand. The village was a ruin and there were many corpses. I didn’t want to come this far and die. It was more than that, because maybe I could have kicked the gun away. Would it have made a difference? I find it hard to know after all this time and I wonder how Mangler would see things. I remember him with his bayonet threatening to castrate a man. I remember other things I don’t want to remember. It was war and you can do anything. I know what Mangler did in that village. I saw the woman with her dress up around her hips and the bloody cuts along her legs. His eyes were wild and he was mad. I wonder if he’s mad now. There was more gunfire from the enemy. The woman could be alive today, but she’d be ancient. We were numb and I swore at him and asked him what he’d done. I could have turned my gun on him but there was another enemy. We fought on. I wonder if he saw me kill the boy, but I know he didn’t. There’s always a possibility. Mangler was elsewhere doing other things to other people. I think of the woman and I think of my wife who was raped in the concentration camp. I hate rapists. I don’t want the bitterness and the anger, but I hate Mangler. I didn’t see him rape the woman, but this is what I believe happened. I am not certain. I don’t want to be a moral Christian because there’s no God that would let these things happen. I prayed in the landing craft, but how can you trust God? It is bad enough that Mangler could have raped the woman, but I don’t want him to think about the boy. Germany was in ruins, like the rest of Europe. We were monsters roaming the earth. There’s music and flags and medals to cover the madness and make sure the means justify the ends. I think of the boy and the doubt goes. It was me or him, a battle for survival. A clean shot to kill an enemy soldier.
Bill Farrell found himself squeezed between Eddie and another man Ted introduced as Rai. The meal put on by the kitchen wasn’t bad at all and Farrell was tucking into the curry, rice, bread and salad. The others said it was like being back in the army, but he’d never had all this when he was a soldier. The others were joking about something or other, but Farrell was concentrating on the food. He was hungry and had to agree with Rai when he said that it was well worth the fiver they’d paid. The meeting had been alright, but he wasn’t involved in the running of the place so wasn’t too concerned, his thoughts elsewhere. It was only when he’d cleared his plate and Rai mentioned something about Burma that Farrell started taking notice of his surroundings.
– I had a mate who was in Asia, Farrell said, wiping his mouth. His name was Albert Moss. He fought in Burma. He’s dead now, but he never forgot what the Japs did. He wasn’t a prisoner of war there, but he saw some of what they left behind.
– It was a hard place to fight, Rai nodded. Everywhere is hard in its own way. A lot of Indian boys died under the Japanese. I went back to see the graves in Thailand one year. The War Graves Commission looks after the cemeteries very well. There’s a lot of respect from the local people.
Farrell knew the Commonwealth had fought with the British, and this was one of the things wrong about the European Union. He was no colonialist, but believed the Commonwealth had evolved into something positive. A lot of people felt this, and you only had to look at the young for confirmation. It was a union based on something other than race and geography. This was forgotten by the vested interests. He knew the Thailand-Burma Railway had been built from both ends, with the British dying at the Thai end of the route. Albert had seen the living skeletons and heard about the Japanese torturers. There was the malaria and the snakes and the tropical conditions Englishmen found hard to handle. Even more men died at the other end of the railway line, Asians who were largely forgotten.
Albert had been a good friend. He carried a dislike of the Japanese to the grave, however hard he tried to forgive and forget. It was something that didn’t happen so much with the Germans. Farrell knew it was down to personal experience. Compared to the Russians, British POWs had been well-treated, while the Germans and Russians left millions of the other side’s men to starve. The same happened with the Japs. It was personal, and Albert didn’t like the Japanese selling their cars in England or their politicians shaking hands with the British. It was the same as Eddie and Palestine. It was natural enough.
– Are you having some more? Rai asked, looking at Farrell’s plate.
Farrell was and so was Rai, so they went along the counter again, and then to a table for the bread and salad.
– I’ve got an allotment, Rai said. I grow a lot of this stuff so it’s funny eating it when it’s not my own. I’m still
digging for victory.
Farrell laughed and said he’d worked in the parks. He missed grafting outdoors, but his years working manually with plants and the earth had given him good health.
– I’ve been there for thirty years now, and I’ve never felt better, Rai said. You get all sorts of people. There’s no class or prejudice there. Mostly it’s the retired people who keep their allotments up to scratch, but there’s others. We’ve got a punk who can’t be more than twenty-five. It’s a haven.
It sounded good and Rai told Farrell about the vegetables he was growing. About the way the soil had to be looked after and allowed to develop. He told him about roots, brassicas and others, and about the bulbs he planted. He had some frogs who lived there and helped keep down the slug population. He was growing everything from potatoes and spinach to pumpkins and corn. He had a good crop of chillis coming up and this year his tomatoes were already flourishing.
– You watch that bastard, Eddie said, leaning over Farrell and jabbing his fork at Rai when they returned to the table.
– You bloody watch him, Billy boy. He’ll have you down that allotment of his tomorrow working your bollocks off while he sits in his deckchair brewing tea. It’s the tea that never brews. The teabags that never were. Just watch your step or he’ll have you breaking your back for him.
– That’s not true, Rai said. The tea just took a bit of time.
– A bit of time? Eddie roared, so Ted and Barry stopped and listened. It took hours. Am I lying, Ted?
– It was a nice cuppa though, Ted said. You’ve got to admit that, haven’t you, Eddie?
– And Rai bought us all a pint afterwards as well.
– True, Eddie admitted, feeling better.
– I bought you two pints each, Rai insisted. Don’t listen to them, Bill.
Farrell couldn’t help but listen as Ted explained how Rai had been ill a few months back and needed to get his soil turned over. Eddie had assembled a crack commando unit and organised an assault plan. Farrell snuck a glance and saw Eddie settle back to enjoy the tale. Ted explained how they’d had to meet at Eddie’s and then gone down in the Centurion, picked up Rai in Roehampton and continued to Putney Vale. The allotment was in a perfect site, on a slight hill but right at the top next to Wimbledon Common. Looking down you couldn’t even see the M3, just trees and allotments on one side, and the woods of Richmond on the other. They’d gone four days in one week and suddenly Rai was back in business. His groin-strain had healed and everything was fine.
Eddie nodded and Farrell could imagine the big man bullying the others into action. He was all front, but would do anything for anyone. That’s what made him special, and Bill thought about telling him, but it would sound soft and only be embarrassing.
– I’ve got some new potatoes for you all later, Rai said. They’re in a bag behind the couch in the bar. Shall we have another drink? I need something to cool my mouth down after the curry. The English never learn, do they? They love their chillies too much. English curries are too bloody hot.
They went through to the bar, and as they were the first ones in they got the couch. It was a nice position. Farrell sat in a chair that could have been made for him. It was so comfortable he’d gladly have taken it home. Eddie had the other chair, while Ted, Barry and Rai sat on the couch. There were five pint jugs on the table. Four contained bitter and the other lager. Eddie was telling Rai off for drinking a girl’s drink, but when he pointed out that the lager was chilled and that it was a hot day and they’d eaten hot food, the corporal graciously conceded defeat. He warned the others there could be no surrender. Exceptions could be made about everything, but in the end they had to maintain standards.
– I always maintain standards with the ladies, Ted pointed out.
– There must be standards when it comes to the fairer sex, Rai agreed. Men must guard themselves at all times against the power of the flesh.
The others laughed and explained to Farrell that Rai was a charmer from the same mould as Ted. The difference was that Rai was married, but had what he termed a modern relationship. He was a man of romance and thought rather than action, and had never been unfaithful to his wife. Farrell wondered if Ted was still having sex, or whether he’d also chosen love and romance without the physical side. Farrell hadn’t had an erection for years and didn’t think about women much these days. It was funny how it was so important when you were young and you spent so much time chasing the girls. He thought of Mary Peacock suddenly. He remembered having her when she was young, after a drink in The White Horse. Now that was a rough pub. He’d had his share of fights in the old days. Funny, because that had gone as well. No more sex and no more violence. It made life a lot less complicated.
Corporal Wicks led his squad to the staff car. Privates Farrell, James and Miller were pissed as newts. The corporal was drunk as well, but with a stripe on his arm had to set a good example. He was in charge of the transport and made sure the front-seat passenger was strapped in before starting the engine. Bill was next to Eddie and acting as navigator. He had his wits about him and was already looking for the enemy. Bill also had seven pints of bitter, a double whisky and a large brandy sharpening his senses. He was alert and invincible as he watched Rai stumble through the gates to a waiting mini-cab. Bill rolled down the window and shouted that he’d see him the day after tomorrow when they would blitz the nettles. Rai turned and waved and fell into the cab.
Bill could hear Ted and Barry laughing in the back telling Bill that they wanted to head west, not east. They were part of the West London Brigade and didn’t want to die on the Mile End Road. Like the Germans, they wanted to be taken prisoner in the West. Ted and Barry were paralytic. He was the only one keeping up with Eddie. The corporal started crunching gears. It took him a couple of goes to find reverse, but he reassured Ted he was in total control. It was after eleven and they were the last to leave. He reversed and stalled. Eddie hit the brake hard to stop the car rolling and Ted and Barry swore. He turned the key and inched backwards.
– Fucking piece of shit, Eddie mumbled. I learnt to drive in the army, in lorries. You know where you are in a lorry. I wouldn’t mind driving a tank right now. That would be fun.
Bill nodded and wondered if this was a good idea, but he was as pissed as Eddie and the alternative was trying to find a night bus or a tube. Corporal Wicks had always been the British bulldog at its best and nothing had changed in later life. He would see this operation through and clicked into action.
– Keep looking straight ahead, Eddie ordered, as they rolled towards the gate. We don’t want the SS coming over and smelling our breath. Getting through the gates has to be perfect. We could dig a tunnel and crawl out like rats, but I’m going through the front door. If those wankers get a smell we’re dead. We’ve got to stay calm. They’ll smell the drink on our breath.
– We should’ve drunk lager so they thought we were Nazis, Ted pointed out. We’ve had it now, boys.
– Don’t panic, Barry shouted.
– Come on Captain Mainwaring, Ted said. Sort it out, chief.
– They don’t like it up them, Barry laughed, almost pissing himself. The fuzzy wuzzies don’t like the cold steel of a bayonet up the jacksie. Who can blame them?
– Stupid boy, Eddie muttered, looking in the mirror at the drunks behind him. You lot can’t hold your beer. No English now lads, we’ve got to be German for a couple of minutes to get past the guards.
The barrier was lifted without a problem and they were on the move. They all agreed that the King’s Road was a funny old place. It wasn’t really part of London at all. It was a strip of Occupied Europe transported to London, with Mussolini fashion, Vichy food and the kind of prices only a Swede could afford. The people were young as well and Bill honestly wondered how they ended up so wealthy. It didn’t matter of course, and he advised turning right towards Earl’s Court, but Eddie had his own plan, and carried on till they were passing Stamford Bridge. Ted had watched Chelsea play when he w
as a young man. He’d been been born in Fulham, but moved to Notting Hill in the fifties, before the teddy boy riots. In the sixties he’d gone to Shepherd’s Bush and stayed there ever since. Fulham had changed since he was a boy and now the streets around the football ground were empty of life.
Ted got Eddie to slow down so they could look at the new stadium. The hotel was huge. Funny thing was, Ted had been a big football fan in his youth. He’d watched the club win the League in 1955 and gone on the pitch at the end to celebrate. He’d spent his pennies on Drake’s Ducklings and Docherty’s Diamonds, and had even been to Wembley and Old Trafford to watch the Cup Final games against Leeds in 1970. He remembered the mods and skinheads in the sixties and the time when Manchester United had gone into The Shed and there’d been a lot of trouble. He’d been to the League Cup defeat against Stoke City in 1972 and the FA Cup Final against Spurs in 1967. When they sold Osgood and Hudson he stopped going. Selling those two was unforgivable, and their loss plus his age meant he’d never been since. The wages some of these players were paid now was ridiculous and the football methodical and system-based. It was all money-motivated. He had lost interest, but was curious to have a look. He remembered the streets and the crowds of people. There’d been some rough pubs in the area, but it was the sixties when he remembered the first real hooliganism. It was annoying, but if you watched yourself you were okay. There were skinheads everywhere in those days. It was another era and he didn’t care any more. There were better things in life than football.