‘Then where’s my fucking tank?’
Part of me thought this can’t be happening again, and that whipping two tanks inside a couple of weeks was gilding the lily a bit, so I kept my mouth shut. One of the Centurions we hadn’t lost was perched on the ridge behind us.
The tank commander hopped out, and strolled down. ‘Why’ve we stopped, lads? Trouble?’
‘Could be,’ I told him. ‘The last time we saw your third tank it was about four yards away from here without a track. It was going nowhere.’
‘Someone’s stolen it?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Bugger! How can you steal something that size?’
‘They stole a Comet a couple of weeks ago.’ I pointed out. ‘In Suez.’
‘That’s just a fairy tale, Charlie. The British Army doesn’t lose its tanks; not until now, anyway.’ Ah. So that was it: least said, soonest mended.
There was also a story I’d heard about two British drivers stealing a couple of Comet tanks from a tank park in 1948, and handing them over to the Israelis, but this wasn’t the time to bring that up either.
He looked pensive. ‘I could get cashiered for this; and Mr Owen could lose his stripes.’ He said it again, ‘Bugger it!’
I asked him, ‘What would you need to move a tank that won’t work?’
‘These buggers weigh more than fifty tons, sir.’ That was the Sergeant, Owen. ‘If you can’t get the track back on her you’d need a tank transporter. But you’d never get one of those big bastards out here on this stuff.’
‘So somebody got the track back on it.’
‘Not possible, sir. It couldn’t be done.’
His Lieutenant kicked at the dirt and stone a bit before telling us, ‘That only leaves one possibility.’
Trigger finished his thought off for him, ‘That it hasn’t moved at all. Some bugger came up during the night and buried it.’ He was obviously brighter than the boys who’d lost the tank at Suez. If they had come to a similar conclusion, they could have saved me the drive.
In my memory there are only minutes between what was just said, and one of the tank crew saying Oi, in a loud and startled voice. He’d wandered a few yards away from us, and had felt the earth move beneath his feet. Literally, that is . . . and it was nothing to do with a woman.
A few minutes later my jeep’s spade cleared a few inches of loose soil where he had been standing, and we found ourselves on the flat top of the Centurion’s turret. It settled another inch while I was on it, and seemed canted slightly to one side. I jumped off, and scrambled back.
‘Bollocks. This stuff must be like quicksand if you weigh fifty ton. Can you pull her out?’
The Lieutenant answered, ‘Not a chance. I’d better radio a report in. Will your people relay it on to mine for us? All of a sudden I’ve gone off the wilderness. Bugger knows how we’re going to explain this.’ Then the technician in him took over, and mused, ‘I wonder how far down she will go?’ At least he seemed quite cheerful about it; although it was inevitable he’d face an inquiry when we got back.
‘Do you want me to mark it for you?’ I asked him. ‘I could use one of your remaining radios to get an exact position for you if you liked.’ The tank gave another lurch. Soil trickled onto its turret top again.
‘Could you?’
‘Not a problem, sir.’ Although I had my doubts.
I used his own tank, Watson’s wavelength, and my Morecambe call sign . . . and was pleasantly surprised to get a good signal. M’smith wanted to know what I was doing. I asked him to set up a triangulation on me. He wanted to know why.
‘Don’t bloody argue, Hector. Just bloody do it.’
‘Do you want me to tell the boss?’
‘Might as well: he’ll probably use it as evidence at my trial.’
‘Are you in the shit again, Charlie?’
‘That is an exceptionally good guess; now do your job, and lose yourself. The man I’m with has other signals to make.’ It was as hot as hell inside a bloody tank, despite the blowers, and even with it just ticking over, it was difficult to hear yourself speak over the engine noise. I was damned glad to climb out into the air again.
‘Why don’t we stay with you until you reach the road?’ I asked the Lieutenant.
‘Won’t that annoy your temporary guv’nor with Sergeant Clare’s patrol?’
‘I’ll radio him. Considering the state of our relationship at present, one more bit of disobedience won’t make any difference. I’ll tell him you need my radio skills. If you put a rope around my waist I’ll get inside your sinking giant, and pull the radio out. You won’t want to leave that for the wogs.’
‘Don’t worry about that, we’ll just blow her up where she is.’ I suppose sharp decision making is what we pay young Army officers for, and should be grateful when we find one capable of it.
That’s exactly what he did, and the leviathan settled another couple of feet as he prepared her. It was like watching the end of The Flying Enterprise on a cinema newsreel, except that no one put her out of her misery, did they? The Army is exceptionally good at blowing things up: from a quarter of a mile away they made a very satisfying bang . . . which was followed by a number of others as the blank ammo went up in sympathy, and a black cloud of oily smoke. Everyone looked happy except Sergeant Owen, his driver and two men. They looked as if they’d lost a friend. Then we went back, and filled the hole in with spades. That took a couple of hours, and everyone took a shot. I needn’t have worried about an excuse for Smart Alec, since the tankies needed me and my jeep to get their tankless crew back to civilization anyway – they would have fried riding on the tank hulls.
We drove out of the blue, and back onto the black stuff two days later, and an hour down the road came across Smart Alec’s little convoy waiting for us. I swapped the jeep for the old Austin again. Trigger hopped down at the Deversoir turn-off; we stood in the road and shook hands. Peter Clare also came back to shake hands with me. We didn’t say much as an insistent bleating horn from Smart’s jeep contracted the goodbyes.
Clare said, ‘This was an interesting trip, sir, but don’t take it to heart. We get them right sometimes.’
‘I know you do, Sergeant. A lot of that crap was out of your control.’ I regretted the phrase as soon as it came out. He grinned.
Trigger said, ‘So long, sir. See you in Ish sometime.’ I’ll swear that the word Charlie was on the end of his tongue.
I had to queue at the Deversoir gate behind a line of Water Carriers – Commers, I think – and as I drove the old Austin up to its slot behind the stores shed I felt kinda blue.
I needed a bath and a beer. Let’s run that again, and put the words the other way round: first things first.
PART THREE
Snap, Crackle and Pop
Chapter Seventeen
Love me or leave me
When I awoke the tent was beginning to light up with the morning. A shadow passed the tent wall silhouetted by the early sun. It was low, slinky and lion-shaped.
Nancy lay on one side on his camp bed, his head propped up by hand and elbow. He was watching me.
He said, ‘Hello, Charlie.’
He was wearing exactly the same clothes I had last seen him in. They looked OK, except maybe a little charred around the edges. He smelt of gasoline and cooked pork, which was a smell I was familiar with – a very pink smell.
I was so tired that I literally couldn’t lift a limb. I managed, ‘I’m still asleep, aren’t I?’
‘If you say so, old boy. I wish I was.’
‘Go away. I’ve seen things like you before. You’re dead.’
‘Got it in one. Dead and gone to Heaven.’
‘What’s Heaven like?’
‘Just like the Muslims tell us; all wine and willing women they have a much better Heaven than us, so I chose theirs.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘I don’t quite know. I was looking down, fiddling with a camera, when it happened.
’
‘When what happened?’
‘When I died; just like that – I never felt a thing.’
‘Where’s your aircraft?’
‘Where do aircraft usually go when they die? Buggered if I know.’
‘You know what I mean, Oliver.’
‘Yes, but I’m trying hard not to think about it. Somewhere out in the Sinai, I suppose.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Apart from your company? Nothing much . . . nice to say à bientôt, though, don’t you think?’
‘Nothing else?’
‘I’d prefer you to get your hands on my photographs before anyone else does . . .’
‘Where are they?’
But I was losing him. He shimmered as if a series of invisible waves ran through his image. I yawned. It was the first movement I had been capable of.
Nansen whispered, ‘Bye, Charlie. Until the next time. A la prochaine.’ I didn’t want there to be a bloody next time. I blinked slowly, and he vanished. The bed was empty. Two blankets neatly folded at its foot. Who did that? I thought, and was helpless to prevent myself drifting into deeper sleep. The smell was still there, and my mind turned back in upon itself.
A few hours later I did wake up. I still had the taste of beer in my mouth. Someone was outside the tent calling my name.
‘Charlie. Are you in there, Charlie?’ Daisy.
‘Yes. Give me a minute.’
‘Are you decent?’
‘I said, give me a minute.’
I pulled on the spare shorts and shirt I kept in the small locker, and then opened the tent flap. The daylight dazzled me: I would never get used to it.
Daisy asked, ‘Ugh. What’s that horrid smell? Have you been cooking in there?’ I didn’t answer so she added, ‘Mr Watson is in wing commander form again this morning, and is asking for you. I think that you’re in trouble again.’
‘Make an excuse for me – say twenty minutes? I haven’t washed yet. Any news about what happened to Oliver?’
‘No. I wonder what’s happened to his photos.’
I remembered what he’d said in my dream. ‘What photos?’
She didn’t reply immediately, then, ‘I think he was planning to set up an exhibition of photographs from the Canal Zone when he got back. He thought it might get him a job with a news or photo agency.’
‘He never told me that.’
‘. . . maybe I was mistaken.’ She looked away, and rubbed an eye. ‘Speck of sand; there’s a bit of a breeze this morning.’ It was kinder to leave it at that. ‘Anyway, I brought you this. It arrived the day before yesterday.’
She handed me a postcard of a pretty girl in a spotted bathing suit. In one corner of the picture were the masthead words from the magazine Tit-Bits . . . it must have been given out free with the mag. It was addressed to me, but all the message area bore was the imprint of two lipsticked lips. The UK postmark was too obscured to make out a place name. Silly really, but my heart lifted immediately. I didn’t know who it was from, but somebody out there liked me. When I ducked my head back inside the tent Nancy’s smell had gone.
‘I suppose you’re expecting some leave after that shambles?’ Watson said. So far there had been no complaints, and he’d offered me a mug of char. I was worried about that.
‘I wouldn’t mind, sir. What I would like is to get on with whatever job you’ve brought us out here to do, and then go home.’
‘Wouldn’t we all; but be patient. It’s coming. Just wait for us to get the hardware and bodies together.’
‘I thought it was urgent.’
‘It is, but that aeroplane has been out there nearly eight years now. Another month won’t make any difference.’
‘What’s my role in the operation, sir?’
‘Identify the bally thing to begin with, and after that make yourself as useful as possible until we fetch you out. I’ll make sure you have a usable radio.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘You can be, if you like, but I’d leave it to Hudd if I was you: he’s good at this sort of thing.’
‘Just what sort of thing is it, sir?’
‘An irregular sort of thing.’
‘I don’t think I like Hudd.’
‘Hudd doesn’t like you either. Thinks you’re a bit of a girl.’
We slurped tea at each other: a period of relative calm.
Then he asked, ‘You didn’t really hurl shite all over your patrol commander last week, did you?’ I heard Daisy giggle from her den in the side room. ‘Shut up, Daisy; it’s not funny.’ Then he added for my benefit, ‘I have a suggestion from a Major Manners that you should face charges.’
‘What is it, sir, conduct prejudicial?’
‘No, not quite as bad as that – conduct unbecoming. You could end up back in the ranks again.’
‘Frankly, sir, that could come as a relief. Guilty as charged.’
‘But then it would be difficult to send you home. As an Other Ranks reservist you’d probably have to do the three full years out here.’
Bollocks! ‘I’m innocent I tell you!’ I tried to sound like Eccles, from The Goon Show. I heard Daisy giggle again. This time he didn’t correct her. His grin cracked his face.
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened, my boy? I’ve been looking forward to this since the signal came in.’
I told him. He giggled a lot, just like Daisy. Despite what Hudd thought, it was Watson who sounded like a girl, not me. Then he went to his cupboard, and poured us a couple of drinks. The sun wasn’t over the yardarm yet, but it was readying itself for a bit of a jump.
‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ he said. ‘To the RAF dropping the Brown Jobs in the shite for once.’
‘What about me, sir?’
‘Promoted. Flying Officer at least, I should think, once they hear about this back at Command. The story’s all over the Canal Zone, after all. I heard it before you got back. You’ll probably get a medal.’
‘You mean it’s OK?’
‘I mean that I shall have to teach Major Manners some manners. Something to do with his man leading a patrol into jeopardy, and unnecessarily exposing them to enemy fire. It won’t come to anything of course. They want the problem with that tank hushed up.’
‘You heard about that, too?’
‘My job: hearing things. Take a couple of days, if you like.’
‘Can I have my fifty quid back yet?’
‘No. I might keep it to pay for all my drink you swallow, and to take Daisy out on the skite one night.’ I suppose that I should have been grateful that God was back in His heaven.
When I went to see Pat he did the usual thing of walking me down the stores shed away from his leader. The latter scowled but didn’t complain. I guessed that Tobin had his hooks into him as well. Before I could ask him anything he asked for my bank book, and credited me another thirty-two quid which he signed off with a flourish.
‘What was that for? I didn’t think I had anything left to sell,’ I asked him.
‘Several KD uniforms, four pairs of working boots and another set of blankets. The Gyppo tailors love ’em.’
‘I don’t have them.’
‘That’s the point, Mr Bassett. We indent for the stuff you don’t have, and flog them.’
‘Won’t Daisy figure out how much I’m using, and get worried?’
‘Do you know how much knickers and ladies’ pyjamas go for on the open market, sir?’
So Daisy was in on it as well.
‘Can you give me some wog money? Thirty quid should do. I’ve got a bit of leave coming.’
‘By this afternoon, sir, don’t worry. But that’s not what you came for . . . I can guess.’
‘No. I want a gander in Mr Nansen’s private locker. I’m sure you have a spare key.’
‘ ’ow could you ever be sure I’ll keep your private things private, if I shows you his? It wouldn’t be ethical . . . he’s only been gone a few days.’
‘I won’t care w
hen I’m dead, Pat, and Nancy’s dead. Gone to heaven. I met him in a dream last night, and he told me so.’
RAF guys are a superstitious lot. He said, ‘You don’t mean that, sir.’
‘Yes, I do. He’s bloody dead – cooked to a turn . . . and he told me to look in his locker,’ I lied. ‘I want to lift anything embarrassing out of there before the CO gets his mitts on it. I’ll order you to, if you like.’
He gave up. ‘That won’t be necessary, sir. We’re all in this together, aren’t we?’
I left him all of Nansen’s clothes, and there were a bloody sight more than you might imagine – interesting knick-knacks – souvenirs he had picked up. A dozen unexposed rolls of film. Some bazaar leather suitcases and four rare bottles of Whyte and MacKay’s. In the bottom of the capacious locker – which was the size of a small cupboard – I found a carved rosewood box with a barrel-shaped lid. It was about a foot deep, and a foot and a half long. It was full of long, flat cardboard boxes of photographs and negatives, and a couple of notebooks. I left him the chest, and took the contents away stuffed into a nice leather music case. Honours even. I even had that warm mission accomplished feeling when I walked back into the tent. When I sat down on my bed with them, I thought I heard Oliver say Thanks, but when I looked up I was alone. I wish dead people wouldn’t do that.
I had looked in on Daisy as I passed back, and told her, ‘I found Oliver’s photographs; so no sweat,’ but was unprepared for her reaction. She played an absolutely straight bat. These days a youngster wouldn’t understand a cricketing metaphor, and would say she blanked me. In fact a youngster wouldn’t understand the word metaphor, would they? Our language has become peculiarly uncomplicated over these last few years.
‘What photographs?’
‘The ones you were wondering about.’
‘I don’t remember that, Charlie.’
There was one of those pauses I play the music in. This time it was one of those wog songs ‘Ah yaa zain’, which means Beautiful one.
Daisy dropped her eyes first, so I said, ‘Sorry. My mistake.’ I could have said I wasn’t born yesterday, either . . . but I was never that cruel. It did make me curious to see what I had.
Silent War Page 33