Silent War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘Cyprus too? Something has gone terribly wrong with the world,’ M’smith remarked. ‘I’ll have another please.’ He pushed his glass forward. The foam clung around the inside in discrete rings. Something else had been bothering me.

  ‘Any idea how long we’re likely to be here before we move on?’

  ‘Two days, I believe, sir. The SWO says to tell you he’ll touch base with you this evening, and the Adjutant asks that Pilot Officer Bassett presents himself at Hut 7 tomorrow morning; after breakfast. You’ll find we’re quite relaxed here, sir.’

  ‘What’s in hut number seven?’

  ‘They don’t tell me that sort of thing, sir.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Alongside Hut 6 I’d imagine,’ said M’smith. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll find it.’

  ‘You can take me to supper in the Mess tonight,’ I told him, ‘and teach me how to eat like an officer.’

  ‘Easy, dear chap. Just grab everything in sight, spill grub all down your shirt, throw up when you’ve drunk too much, and don’t pay for a damned thing. No one will notice.’

  Promotion was a bit like being mentally raped; it corrupted you utterly. I never forgot that, or M’smith’s advice.

  After he left the bar, I sat down for half an hour with the January Picturegoer magazine. There was a girl called Monica Lewis on the front cover. I’d never heard of her, but she was showing bags of leg. She had a nervous smile, and I hoped she hadn’t given away too much to get a front cover. I took it to my cabin, which was a room in a square building like an electricity substation, with four bedrooms and a large sitting room. It was where the RAF parked their transiting officers. There were snores coming from three of the rooms – one would be M’smith, I supposed.

  I couldn’t settle, and found it was pleasantly cool on the shaded veranda. I smoked my pipe, drank water from a new cooler inside, and watched a Varsity arrive. One engine sounded horribly rough to my tutored ear. The troops who trooped off it looked around as if they didn’t know what was going on. They had pale skins, and carried their gear awkwardly. I was glad that I wasn’t a national serviceman and knew more or less what was expected of me, and how to avoid it most of the time – which was the important thing. There was a big black Bakelite telephone clinging to the wall of the common room. I decided to try it out.

  I told the base operator who I was, and where. He sounded pretty cheerful; I was beginning to suspect that Cyprus was the place to be . . . when the Greeks weren’t shooting at you, of course.

  ‘Can you give me your service number, please sir.’

  ‘22602108. Bassett C.’

  ‘Have you a mess number yet, sir?’ I gave him that as well.

  ‘Can I make a call back to Blighty?’

  ‘Not a personal one?’

  ‘No, a WD number in London.’ I gave him Dolly’s number. If I didn’t make it plain before, I will now. Dolly worked with RAF Intelligence. When I met her she had been a driver in the car pool. Then she worked her way up. Then she worked her way back down to the car pool again. I didn’t know what ebb her career was at now, but from the way she’d treated me earlier I guessed that she would be bossing people around again. I had to wait for five minutes for the call to go through, and then another five for someone to run her down. When she spoke, she sounded as if her mouth was full. I asked, ‘Why are you stuffing your face in the middle of the afternoon?’

  ‘Because it’s not. It’s lunchtime over here, and that means you’re no longer in the country.’

  ‘That’s very clever Dolly; you should be in Intelligence.’ Dolly didn’t like me talking about her job on the telephone. She liked me taking the piss out of her even less. I waited while she decided whether or not to hang up. ‘. . . Dolly?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here. What do you want?’

  ‘Something odd happened to me in Malta yesterday. I told a whitetop about it, but I’m not sure he understood the significance, so I wanted to tell someone who knew what she was doing.’ Dolly would have liked that, but I was telling her the truth for once. Another one of those pauses as long as the intro to a decent jazz number . . . ‘The big noise from Winnetka’ maybe . . . da,da, da – de-da, da . . . da, da . . . But she wasn’t buggering me about this time. The noises I could hear communicated someone searching for a confidential pad to write on, and a pen to do it with.

  Dolly said, ‘OK. Sorry about that. Shoot . . .’ I’d actually shot her last boss when he went crazy, but it wasn’t the time to go into that. I told her about the riot, and the policeman’s daughter who had steered us away from being blown up in a bus. I was right. Dolly was interested despite herself.

  ‘Did you get her address?’

  ‘Only the street, sorry.’ I gave it to her.

  ‘Thank you, Charlie. That sounds quite interesting. It would be nice to put one over on the Pongoes for a change; they think they own the bloody island.’ When Dolly was in work mode she rarely used proper nouns herself. ‘It was nice of you to think of me.’ I often thought about her, because we’d counted one another’s freckles a few times, but it wasn’t the time to remind her of that either.

  She asked, ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Do you still have the Major’s phone number down in Bosham?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in my book as an alternative one for you.’

  ‘Could you give them a ring, and let the boys know I’m OK? So far so good.’

  ‘Of course.’ It was the real reason for my call, of course, and Dolly didn’t mind. ‘You haven’t finished your trip out yet?’

  ‘No, I’m in Cyprus. And I’m here for two days. It’s warm and the beer is very, very good. I might even get to paddle in the sea.’

  ‘Please take care, and call me any time you want. Let me know as soon as you’re back.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re reconciled, then?’

  ‘We were never anything else, stupid. You’re my favourite little man, even when I hate you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Truly. You always have been; didn’t you know?’

  That was a bit of a yorker: I didn’t know quite how to respond, so I asked, ‘Didn’t you get married?’

  ‘No, not quite. I went out with some of my girlfriends the night before, and got rather sloshed. I’m afraid I was still asleep when I was supposed to be getting hitched.’

  I laughed, and then apologized for laughing.

  ‘Wasn’t that a bit of an irresponsible thing to do?’

  ‘No, Charlie. It was exactly the right thing to do, as things turned out. Mother hasn’t spoken to me since, but Daddy thinks it is all rather amusing.’

  ‘Dads usually come up trumps.’

  ‘Yours too?’

  ‘He’s never let me down; even when he should have. What happened to your fellah?’

  ‘At the moment he’s driving a car in the Monte Carlo rally, and doing rather well. I saw him on the Pathé News at the flicks last night. His co-driver is a Guardsman, and someone told me they’re in love. I don’t expect I’ll see him again.’ I’d heard those rumours about the Guards as well.

  ‘I miss you, Dolly. I always forget that I’m going to, and then I always do.’

  ‘And that is exactly the right place to end this chat, Charlie. Don’t worry: it’s only seven months, and it will flash by.’

  ‘Bye to you too!’ We were both giggling a bit when I put the receiver back. At least I knew how long my posting was now. But how the hell did Dolly know that?

  I once remarked that these bastards were so far up each other’s arses that only their feet were showing. How did Dolly know that? She knew it because David Watson knew it. And how did David Watson know it? He knew it because he was waiting in Hut 7 for me when I sauntered in the next morning. His old prewar KDs looked threadbare, and the soft-peaked cap on his desk was the type I’d seen pictures of Lawrence of Arabia wearing. I pulled myself quickly into a semblance of the shape assumed by a junior RAF officer.

  He was in a me
llow mood as usual, so he didn’t notice. ‘Come in, Charlie, pull up a pew. You’ve met M’smith.’

  I had; but I didn’t know where he fitted in.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  He almost nodded when I said sir; as if he’d been waiting for it. Hut 7 was more or less square – just the one room. Charts on the walls, old-fashioned blackout curtains drawn, and an old 1154/1155 radio set up on a table in one corner. We were playing the Aussies in the Test at Adelaide soon, so perhaps that’s what it was for: you always got great reception on the old Lancaster radio sets.

  Watson sat behind a desk. M’smith at another working on some charts. He looked back at me over his shoulder, and grinned. He looked as if he knew what he was doing. Bloody nav.

  I asked Watson, ‘When did you get in, sir?’

  ‘A week or so ago.’

  ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘Same as before. Same as you were doing at that dreadful place on the South Coast . . . where was it again?’

  ‘Dungeness, sir.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So . . . I’m going to be flying about, or sitting on my backside in a place like this, listening to the Reds all over again? I didn’t even know they were out here.’

  ‘Not exactly, Charlie – but for your information the Reds are everywhere.’

  I had learned to distrust his not exactlys.

  ‘Tell me, then, sir. Tell me the worst.’

  ‘Do you know what I wrote in your B107 the last time we served together, Charlie?’ Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to like it, was I? So I didn’t reply. Watson shoved on. ‘I wrote almost insubordinate.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Knew y’d like it. We’re going to be driving around all that sandy stuff in North Africa and the Sinai, eavesdropping on the wog army and police force. They mean us no good.’

  ‘When you say we, sir, you actually mean poor buggers like me, don’t you?’

  He turned to face M’smith, and told him, ‘See, I was right. Almost insubordinate.’ Then he looked back and said, ‘Yes, Charlie. I mean poor buggers like you.’

  ‘You’re sending me out into the desert?’

  ‘Yes, Charlie. It’s not our desert really; but the bold British Army is out there holding the foe at bay. You will be a passenger on some of their patrols; all on account of your skills with the old knobs and switches. Your training CO at, where was it again . . . ?’

  ‘Dungeness, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Dungeness. She wrote that you were the best she’d seen, and recommended you specifically for desert-penetration patrols to the most dangerous places. Did you upset her? She seems to have it in for you.’ Ah, the revenge of the dark blue woolly knicker brigade.

  The radios against the wall suddenly started to chatter Morse. Watson said, ‘Get that, will you . . . then acknowledge.’

  Whoever the sender was he was quite handy. He had a fast, musical signature. One of the immaculate hands. I relayed to Watson, ‘It’s from someone good called Broadstairs. He reported it as a positioning reflex, and then signed off. What do you want me to send?’

  ‘Just acknowledge, and sign off Harrogate. As fast as you can, please, Charlie. The Gyppoes are listening to us back.’

  ‘Broadstairs?’

  ‘Field radios are all seaside resorts, and controls are inland spa towns . . . I shall find you something suitably plebeian. Morecambe, maybe. I never liked Morecambe.’

  Personally I’ve never had a problem with Morecambe, so maybe it was a class thing.

  Less than a minute later, the green telephone on Watson’s desk rang – he always managed to get green telephones – and he listened to it, wrote something on a pad, grunted and put the telephone down. Then he got up and passed what he’d written to M’smith, who stood up in turn, went across and made a pencil mark on one of the charts on the wall. Somewhere southeast of Tripoli. In bloody Libya . . . I wondered if their King Idris knew about that. I also wondered why the king of Libya had a Welsh name. Maybe he was a secret Taff.

  ‘Triangulation,’ Watson explained to me. ‘The patrols have a broadcasting schedule, rather like the BBC. They just send the words we’ve briefed them with, which tells us they are still in contact . . . but we’ve got a sub and surface vessels off the coast who tell us where they are.’

  ‘But if we can do that, so can the opposition!’

  ‘I know; that’s why we lose an operator from time to time. The man you’re replacing went off the air more than a month ago.’

  Bollocks – or probably without any, if half what I’d been told about the Arabs was true.

  ‘Who knows that we’re doing this, sir?’

  ‘Apart from the wogs? Not many people. Careless talk still costs lives, you know.’

  Idiot. My dad was right about us; not content with winning one decent war, we’d been losing others ever since, and it was time to stop. The reason I’d asked Watson the question was because he’d already implied that we were wandering all over other people’s countries again, provoking the neighbours and pretending we weren’t doing any harm. Police action my arse; we were the ones who needed bloody policing.

  As if Watson had read my mind he said, ‘Ah yes, your father.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ What now?

  ‘I had a call about him yesterday. I was asked to tell you he’d been arrested in London.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘They didn’t tell me that. I assumed that it was for the first time.’

  ‘No. The same thing happened a month ago. He’s become a militant pacifist.’

  ‘Contradiction in terms, Charlie boy. Anyway; I’ve arranged that you’ll speak to the police officer involved. Privately, from here this afternoon. OK?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘. . . and you’ll let us know if we can help?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I just needed some time to think. ‘When do I fly out?’

  ‘You don’t. You leave for Port Said in three days. It should have been two, but the Navy’s been late for everything since Trafalgar, and it even almost missed that.’

  ‘The Navy?’

  ‘Yes, Charlie, the Navy. Port Said is a port, as its name implies – so you will travel in style in one of Her Majesty’s ships. I understand that this one is called a corvette, and it’s probably very smart.’

  ‘A corvette . . . ?’

  ‘You’ve begun to repeat everything I’m saying, Charlie. Are you all right?’

  ‘I don’t like boats, boss, and I can’t swim.’

  ‘Soon do something about that . . .’

  Later I asked him, ‘So what is going to happen to me for the next few months, sir? Can’t you give me any more details?’

  ‘No. But when you get to Port Said, you’ll be allocated a camp up-country, which in Egypt is down – somewhere in the south . . . probably RAF Fayid. But before that you’ll have a week’s Middle East acclimatization training – that’s like a school for surviving Egypt. After that you’ll be in a camp with the other wallahs, but listening to whom I tell you, when I tell you . . . and occasionally you will going out into the blue with a patrol, or on a scheme . . .’

  ‘. . . and on those?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’ve already got it. You’ll do whatever I tell you to, whenever I tell you. Couldn’t be plainer, could it?’

  ‘No, sir. What do you want me to do while I’m waiting here?’

  ‘Don’t go off the base, but otherwise enjoy yourself. Relax. There’s a half-decent beach club, a couple of bars, some sports facilities . . . even a bit of motorcycle scrambling if that interests you.’ It didn’t, although the beach club and the bars sounded all right.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Come back at three to make that call. OK? . . . and take M’smith with you. He works all the time: I can’t stand the sight of the beggar already.’

  Before we’d got through the door he’d retuned the receiver to British Forces Network. David Whitfield was still singi
ng that silly bloody soldier’s song. They played it a lot in those days. Watson pulled open a lower desk drawer. I heard the bottle clink. He was back on it again.

  The telephone hissed and crackled for half an hour, and then I heard someone clearing his throat. It wasn’t me, and the office was empty. The Wing Commander and the rest of Cyprus had retired for their siestas. I’m sure the Daily Mirror would love to know how we were spending the taxpayers’ money.

  I spoke, ‘Sergeant Pike, is that you?’

  ‘Sergeant Pry, Mr Bassett. Pry. Did they tell you that your father was in trouble again?’

  ‘Only that he’d been arrested. What was it for this time?’

  He paused, as if ordering his thoughts. ‘Are you familiar with a delicacy known as a Scotch Pie, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. I’ve even eaten a few. Smashing. Round hard pastry pie crust with a filling of mince, onions and loads of really sloppy gravy. The Jocks eat them with chips . . . pie and chips. I’m babbling, aren’t I?’

  ‘Only a little, sir. It would appear that your father made another of his special little excursions down here, with half a dozen of the tasty little beggars in his rucksack.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To throw at people, apparently. He got both the Chief of the General Staff and the First Sea Lord on the steps of the War Ministry. It was the gravy that did all the damage – it went everywhere.’

  ‘Is it in the papers?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘That will disappoint him. What can I do from here, though?’

  ‘If you can find someone to stand for him, he’ll probably be let out on bail and sent back to Glasgow, with his tail between his legs. The bail conditions would banish him from London. That would be a start.’

  ‘He’s been charged, I suppose?’

  ‘Assault, threatening behaviour and damage to government property – to wit two uniforms, one gravy-ed door, and mince all over a nice set of granite steps. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t come to anything, provided you can get him to stop.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘That’s the style, sir. No one wants the publicity of a trial, do they? What about a bail surety?’

  ‘I’ll make a few calls, OK?’