Right of Reply

by John Harris

  ‘Davey,’ he said. ‘Good God! Fancy bumping into you! What are you doing here?’

  She frowned. ‘At the moment I’m making myself a pain in the ay-double-ess to the harbour police about my camera.’ She indicated the slender young Malalan with two pips on his shoulder who was standing behind her. ‘This guy’s trying to take it away from me.’

  Leggo lifted his long legs out of the Landrover and crossed to the police post.

  ‘Sir!’ The young Malalan clicked to attention and saluted as he saw Leggo’s rank. ‘My orders say no cameras. I must follow my instructions. Miss Davies must not claim exemption.’

  The woman bridled. ‘I represent Now,’ she said sharply. ‘One of the most influential magazines in the United States. Stuart, tell this guy…’

  Leggo took her arm and pulled her to one side. ‘Let’s just talk for a moment first, old love,’ he said gently.

  Across the road he could see a bar, a small dark place with a few Africans sitting at the counter, and he pulled her towards it. Normally, his rank would almost have precluded him from entering, but the moment was urgent, and he didn’t quibble. He pushed her gently into the shadows and pulled a stool forward.

  ‘What’ll you have? Whisky?’

  ‘Beer. You know I never drink anything else but beer. I haven’t changed. I’m still the same Stella Davies.’

  Neither of them said anything as they waited for the drinks, though she lit a cigarette and puffed at it quickly, her eyes on Leggo, and when the beer was pushed across to them, she picked up her glass and took a deep draught of it. Leggo watched her, his eyes amused.

  ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘You still drink like a horse at a trough.’

  Her angry face softened and he grinned.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Davey,’ he said warmly.

  Her expression melted once more. ‘Honest?’

  ‘Honest.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ she said. ‘You bolted like a rat up a drain last time.’

  He laughed. ‘I was scared. You scared me.’

  She was silent for a moment, looking at her cigarette. ‘I guess I was a bit younger then,’ she said slowly. ‘And growing a bit desperate. I’m not so young now and I’m not desperate any longer. I’ve gone past all that. It’s much nicer.’

  He wiped the perspiration from the back of his neck as he looked at her. ‘Married yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Uhuh.’ She shook her head. ‘You?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  They laughed together, then her face became serious and she leaned forward.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  He shrugged, hedging. ‘Duty,’ he said.

  ‘Was it duty that took you away from Hong Kong?’

  ‘Yes. But I was glad to go. I was scared.’

  ‘Are you still scared?’

  ‘No. You’re different.’

  She stared at him for a second, a faint hurt look in her eyes, then she stubbed out her cigarette abruptly with a nervous gesture and changed the subject.

  ‘Stuart, that camera: I was only taking a few pictures. Nothing to sweat bullets about.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, Davey. Once a newshound, always a newshound.’

  She paused, staring at him, then her eyes fell again, and she reached for her glass. She took another gulp at it before she spoke, and he noticed that she deliberately avoided looking at him and used her head to indicate the ships and the furious, sweating soldiers.

  ‘What gives, Stuart?’ she asked.

  He studied her, his eyes shrewd, then he smiled. ‘It’s an exercise,’ he said evasively. ‘British and Malalan armies putting on a show together. First of its kind.’

  Her voice showed her disbelief. ‘Can’t your country find anyone bigger than Malala to play soldiers with?’

  He shrugged. ‘We’re rather keen on the Malalans at the moment. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was in Machingo. Story on Braka. Arranged months ago. Then I heard things were jumping up here. Thought I’d take a look.’

  He smiled at her, urbane, handsome and calm. ‘You were never a good liar, Davey,’ he said.

  She lifted her eyes to him and smiled. ‘No, I never was,’ she admitted. ‘I’m interested in what’s going on. What’s your angle?’

  ‘I’m Chief-of-Staff these days to the General Officer in Command here.’

  She lifted her eyebrows. ‘You’ve got on,’ she said.

  ‘Sheer ability.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Make sure everything goes smoothly with the exercise.’

  ‘Exercise?’ She looked sideways at him.

  ‘Exercise,’ he said firmly.

  ‘You were never a good liar either, Stuart,’ she said soberly. ‘I knew it that time in Hong Kong.’

  ‘I’m a better liar now than I was then.’

  ‘OK.’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘I’ll try not to pump you. I thought you might be just the guy I was looking for. It isn’t an exercise, of course, is it?’

  ‘It’s an exercise.’

  Her brows came down in a frown. ‘Stuart, for God’s sake, come clean! Nobody else will. Neither in London nor New York. That’s why I’m here. I’ve come to this place from King Boffa Port and I know what’s going on. Down there, they’re talking of war.’

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘We’re going on exercise, Davey,’ he insisted.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she gestured, ‘you were always a stubborn bastard, Stuart! Perhaps that’s why…’ She paused and went on more slowly. ‘All the other guys I knew were always willing to come running.’

  ‘That’s because you tended to dominate them, old love.’

  ‘I couldn’t dominate you if I tried. And you goddam well know it.’

  He smiled and she tore her eyes away from him.

  ‘What is going on, Stuart? Put it on the line for me. I’ll give you my word I won’t use a word of it. You can trust me, can’t you?’

  His smile faded and his face became grave. ‘Davey,’ he pointed out, ‘officers can be broken for talking when they shouldn’t. I’m in a position to tell you everything I know, but I’m not going to. Let’s just say you can’t have your camera back with the film in. You’ve got to get away from this harbour, and you’ve got to mind your own business.’

  ‘This is my business.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. They had instructions to watch all immigration – both here and at the airport.’

  She made a faint gesture of contempt. ‘I didn’t come this way or through the airport,’ she said. ‘I flew from King Boffa Port to Freetown, and a charter company there landed me up-country. I came here by road.’

  He looked uncomfortable as old loyalties took hold of him. ‘I wish you weren’t here, Davey,’ he said shortly.

  She frowned. ‘Stuart, don’t kid yourself,’ she urged. ‘I’m only the first. Any day now you’re going to have all the news-hawks in the world descending on this place. You’ve got to face the fact.’

  He smiled again. ‘Let’s say that at the moment we’ve just got one or two – all British and well under control – and you. That’ll do for now. But you can’t take photographs round the docks, Davey. Nobody can. You can’t talk to the troops. And you can’t talk to me – except about old times.’

  She stared at her drink. ‘Stuart, you’re a bastard. But, OK, your job and mine don’t fit together.’

  ‘They never did.’

  ‘I was always prepared to give mine up.’

  He frowned. ‘Let’s not talk about that now,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m supposed to be out there now, working. Suppose we have a meal somewhere.’

  ‘I’m not coming to your goddam mess again. Last time all I did was fight off your general.’

  ‘My general’s in Machingo this time and he’s a nice old boy.’

  ‘Let’s eat at my hotel.’

  ‘Very well. I’ve got to fly down to Machingo tonight. When I come
back?’

  ‘OK.’ She seemed suddenly nervous.

  ‘Now let me get you a receipt for that camera.’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, tell the guy to keep it! I’ll pick it up later. I guess–’ she paused – ‘I guess it shook me up a bit seeing you, Stuart.’

  He followed her out into the sunshine and they found a patch of shade near her jeep, close to the fruit vendors and the white walls where lizards seemed to hang in the glare of the sun. As she climbed in, he waited beside her until she had started the engine. She sat for a moment in silence then she turned to him abruptly.

  ‘Stuart, I wish I could…’ She stopped again, ill at ease. ‘Oh God, I know so much more about what’s going on here than you think!’

  He grinned, unperturbed. ‘I haven’t the slightest doubt about that, Davey. I hope none of it came from our chaps.’

  ‘Your – chaps – aren’t the only source of information in the world.’

  ‘I guessed not.’

  ‘At the hotel then. Ring me when you get back.’

  As Colonel Leggo returned to his Landrover, below him, on the slipway, Captain White was conferring with another Reservist, Sergeant Frensham, on the things that had already gone wrong, with their own particular part of the embarkation.

  His first days at Pepul had been spent licking his signallers into shape under the eagle eye of Frensham and, though the men were mostly newcomers, he had been relieved to find they weren’t quite so bad as the men of the 17th/105th who, until a few days before, had been without a commanding officer. Between them, he and Frensham had taught them a little of how to behave in the event of being fired on, while Frensham had actually brought them up to some sort of pitch of efficiency as wireless operators, making them work blindfold and in traffic where, among unsuppressed vehicles and power cables and screened by tall buildings, they had had to slave merely to keep in touch with each other.

  It had not taken White long, however, to find out that, thanks to the interference from London and the changed plans, whenever they disembarked wherever they were going – and White had long since hazarded a guess where that was – they were going to have to offload tools and personal equipment before they could get at the wireless cable that was so essential for them to maintain contact between the forward troops and the aircraft that were supporting them.

  What was more, it was clear that brigade and battalion commanders had been told not to communicate their instructions to anyone, with the result that only hints and nods were coming across, and junior officers were having to make up their minds on the merest suggestions. If such secrecy were kept up to the last minute, White realised, the less intuitive would find they were short of things when they badly needed them because they’d not been told in as many words what to expect.

  He frowned, hoping to God the problems would be ironed out before too late, and glanced at a group of men of the 17th/105th Assault Battalion who were unloading a lorry alongside him. They weren’t enjoying it and there was a certain amount of bad language flying about in the heat of the day.

  Their officer, Lieutenant Jinkinson, was a very young man with over-long hair who had already had one or two brisk passages of arms with White, and, with Sergeant Frensham’s loud and acid comments on the hamfistedness of the infantrymen adding a little more to the tension, he now waved to the NCO in charge of the group and moved thankfully to the water’s edge for a smoke.

  It was still a matter of surprise to Jinkinson that one of his best men should be a pure Negro whose father had come originally from a village not more than a hundred miles to the south of where he now stood. Acting Lance-Corporal (Unpaid) Jesus-Joseph Malaki had grown up in England and, although his father had probably not had more than a few days of mission schooling in his life, Jesus-Joseph himself had gone to a modern comprehensive school, was intelligent and quick-witted and possessed a surprising dignity which none of the good-humoured jibes to which he was sometimes subjected could even begin to shake.

  There was, however, still a vague unspoken doubt at the back of Jinkinson’s mind because of an indefinable unsureness about him, as though he seemed unable to grasp the fact that he was accepted by the other men and felt the need always to prove himself.

  While Jinkinson puffed energetically at his cigarette Captain White – since he felt he needed to know something about them – kept a quiet eye on his men. The efforts to get aboard Banff had become an unmitigated shambles and Sergeant Frensham’s disapproval became more marked as he stood beside White and watched the attempts further down the mole to sort out the tangle.

  A Malalan lorry driver, objecting to the presence of white troops on his doorstep, had placed his vehicle in the midst of the stream of tanks, guns, armoured cars, bulldozers, jeeps and trucks that was heading for the waterfront and left it there, and it had become obvious at once that the Malalan roads were far too narrow for the military traffic of Stabledoor.

  There were a few Malalan soldiers from Korno lounging about as the move on board halted, built up, and finally became chaos, but none of them made any move to help. They wore jungle green with American-made weapons hanging off their shoulders, and grenades fastened to the pockets of their blouses. They looked inefficient and remarkably dangerous, and most of the British officers considered it fortunate that for the most part they were confined to the other end of the town.

  Frensham scowled as the Military Policemen moved in, shouting and waving their arms, and turned his attention to the shipping.

  ‘Don’t think much of the task force,’ he said. ‘LSTs that have been carrying civilian cargoes in the Middle East, obsolete army craft and all that remains of the mothball fleet.’ He indicated Banff, her grey anti-radiation paint scarred and scabrous with rust along the water line. ‘There’s probably a notice on the stern,’ he said sourly. ‘Advertising trips round the bay.’

  White studied Frensham for a moment. There was a question he wished to ask, and it was a delicate one.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he said, at last. ‘How do the men regard all this?’ Frensham hesitated, because the question had taken him unawares and he needed a little time to think about it. He was no happier about Operation Stabledoor than White but he’d been a soldier long enough to keep his own counsel about his likes and dislikes.

  ‘How do the men regard it?’ he repeated, sounding faintly shocked.

  White subdued a smile. He knew Frensham was trying the old soldier’s trick of denying everything until he could come up with a good answer.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, to give him more time. ‘What’s the chaps’ reaction to this operation?’

  Frensham had recovered a little by this time and felt he could say what had to be said. ‘Well,’ he observed, ‘they don’t talk to me a lot, sir.’

  ‘Nor to me, Sergeant,’ White pointed out. ‘But at least you’re in a position to hear the comments they make to each other, and I’m not. You must have formed an opinion.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have, sir.’ Frensham saw it now as a fair enough question, and he tried to answer it honestly.

  ‘I suppose, sir,’ he said, ‘most of ’em don’t think much at all. Most soldiers don’t. On the other hand, I suppose we’ve got more than our fair share of talkers – like everybody else in this operation.’

  ‘Talkers, Sergeant?’

  ‘Sir, the Army’s so small these days that when they wanted to mount this operation, they just couldn’t move units about. They had to make new ones. They scraped the depots a bit. Asked COs for ten per cent of all effectives. You know that, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘What would you have done, sir, if you’d been asked to supply ten per cent of your effectives? With no names mentioned.’

  White grinned and Frensham went on: ‘If you’d had ten wireless operators, sir,’ he said, ‘you’d have sent the one who could never manage to get to the shack in time to take his watch. If you’d had ten electrical mechs., sir, you’d have sent the one least likely to repair a p
ranged set. If you’d had ten of anything, sir, you’d have sent the worst. And you know, sir, as well as I do, who’re always the worst ones.’

  White’s smile had vanished again. ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he said soberly, ‘I know who’re the worst ones.’

  ‘The troublemakers, sir. That’s who. The sort who ought to be slung out and would be if it weren’t so bloody hard these days to get recruits.’

  White was frowning now. Frensham’s difficulties were only an extension of his own.

  ‘These talkers,’ he said reflectively. ‘What are they talking about?’

  Frensham flicked a piece of fluff from his immaculate uniform. ‘Cuts in pay chiefly, sir,’ he said. ‘Bad move that. Especially as it don’t hit people like me and you.’

  White nodded. ‘You’re being very helpful, Sergeant. But, actually, this isn’t quite what I asked you. I asked how they regarded this operation. There’s been a lot written in the newspapers. There’s been a lot argued on the radio and the television. They must have seen and heard it. They must have formed their opinions. A lot of people are against it. Are they?’

  Frensham frowned, pinned down on something he’d hoped to avoid. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t say they were for it.’

  Five

  The following evening, with the sweat dropping off the end of his nose as he worked, Ginger Bowen was again in the little room at the back of the guardroom at Pepul, painting with red paint the fire bucket he had so laboriously polished the previous day.

  He was almost alone, because Sergeant O’Mara was at the main gate busy with the ceremonials attending on the departure of General Hodges. Everybody in Pepul above the rank of major had been aware of the ‘blitz’ that had gone on throughout the camp, because of the urgent calling for details such as medical officers’ reports, provost officers’ reports, daily returns and so on, and the shaken look on the faces of the infantry brigadiers, Calhoun and Dixon, as they had emerged from the conference, had been reflected shortly afterwards in the faces of their staffs as the stirring-up process had been promptly passed on to them. Now, with General Hodges installed with a drink in the officers’ mess waiting for a broadcast by the Leader of the Opposition from London, everybody in camp, sensing a new atmosphere about them, was suddenly on his toes.