First Time Solo

by Iain Maloney

  ‘So what the fuck is all this then?’ said Joe.

  We were outside our tents, smoking, the sun setting. It’d been three days since Terry and I went out. I had my trumpet out practicing what Nathanial had taught me. Any spare moment now, I played. People told me to shut up, but I ignored them. This was what I wanted to be doing. They’d be gone soon, or I would. I could stand their insults until then.

  ‘All what?’

  ‘All this? How have you suddenly learned a totally new style of jazz?’

  ‘A mate taught me it.’

  ‘A mate? Apart from me, Taffy and Doug, you havenae got any mates.’

  ‘Aye, Joe. That’s right.’

  ‘It is right.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘So what’s going on?’

  ‘Terry and I met some Yanks, one of them taught me the basics of bebop.’

  ‘This in that bar?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So youse two are going out playing jazz and it didnae occur tae you tae invite your drummer?’

  ‘Our drummer? The band’s over, Joe. We haven’t played together since Babbacombe.’

  ‘Aye, only because we havenae got a drum kit.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, is that it? Well, fuck me, now I’ve seen everything. You’ve gone and picked Terry over me. Taken fucking sides.’

  ‘I’m not taking sides, Joe.’

  ‘Aye, you are.’

  ‘Joe against the world. Seconds out, round two.’ I hadn’t seen Terry approach.

  ‘Fuck you, Taffy.’

  ‘Joe. I’m not scared of you, okay?’

  ‘You’d better watch.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Rifle butt in the back of the head? Or are you going to follow me overseas and fiddle with my kite?’

  I thought Joe would go for him, but he didn’t move. Instead he just stared at me. ‘So, you told him, did you? Thought I could trust you, Jack. Another Scot. No loyalty then, have you?’

  ‘Loyalty? That’s fucking rich, Joe.’

  ‘Aye, is it? Well, you’d better watch and all.’

  He flicked his fag at my face, walked off. ‘We’d better step this up,’ said Terry. ‘We could be posted any day and now he knows, he could do anything.’

  ‘But what are we going to do?’

  ‘It’s all worked out.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Simple. He can’t be nicked for one crime, so we just make sure he’s nicked for another.’

  ‘Frame him?’

  ‘Like a watercolour.’

  Get involved, Jack.

  A few nights later we got out again, back to the bar, met up with the Yanks. I’d been practicing hard and it paid off. We jammed for hours. I didn’t drink more than a pint, just using it to wet my lips. This was it, the stuff I’d been looking for. The band, the groove, I never wanted to leave that bar. Joe had been right after all. My first band was special, but it wasn’t the best.

  I still wanted to hear some bebop, see what else was there, what Nathanial hadn’t taught me, what I could find for myself, but there were no records in Britain and nothing on the wireless. America, please, America. After, Terry took me to one side. ‘Are you still up for it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And you’ve got the money?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  ‘Now remember, this is a business transaction. This is not romantic. This is not love. She does not love you, she’s paid to pretend. It’s no different than going to a restaurant. You order off the menu and if you don’t get what you ordered, you complain. Right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Up three flights of stairs. The place was a firetrap, wall hangings, candles, scarves and weird Eastern decorations hanging from the ceiling. Five pints in me, ready for this. Strangely, I couldn’t help thinking of the jazz club in London. It had the same feel, some atmosphere. To think of it like jazz made it familiar. Five girls. Low light. ‘You have to choose one, Jack.’

  ‘His first time?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Take Shirley, she’ll be gentle with him.’

  I looked at Shirley. She looked like one of the girls in The Windmill, like she’d been in my year at school. Not that. I didn’t want that. ‘No. I want that one. Sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  She was black. I hadn’t planned it. Maybe it was the jazz. The exotic. Jazz, black music, America. ‘Kay?’

  I felt bad turning down the first girl, but she just shrugged. Business, I reminded myself. Just business. Kay led me through a curtain. Terry was behind me with his choice. We went into one room, they went into another. He slapped me on the back as he went by.

  The room was tiny, a mattress, a seat and a candle burning on tiny table. In the darkness I could hardly see Kay, her skin so black. There was a smell in the room, stale. No window, just the flickering fire. We could still hear the music, the trumpet blowing soft and sad. That world, jazz. Exotic. America. Africa. ‘Do you like jazz?’ I said.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ When I looked at her I thought of jazz. America. Smoke.

  Dancing. She slipped out of her thin dressing gown, stood naked before me. Jazz.

  New Orleans.

  Black music.

  Slave music. She put a finger against my lips, started to undress me. I reached out, tentatively ran a hand over her breast. My cock hard. She stroked a finger along it, guided me down onto the bed.

  The candle flame. The smell.

  No windows. Jazz.

  Black music. Black skin. Slave music. I left. I left alone, out before Terry was done. Waited for him outside. I hadn’t done it. Couldn’t. That thought. That room. That music. Like Terry said, it’s all just business. Willie was wrong. Duty. Right and wrong. Maybe he didn’t give a fuck anymore, but I still did.

  When we got near the gates, Terry stopped me. Pulled me behind a tree.

  ‘Watch.’

  The guards were examining every pass carefully, something they never did.

  ‘I thought he’d do this,’ said Terry.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joe. He’s grassed on us. We’d better go over the wall.’

  It was almost over, and we knew it. Countdown. Doug was the first to leave. A group were taken off and given their aircrew categorisation. Doug was made a navigator. He was gutted. We all were. They gave him the Rhodesia kit back. Joe letting on about the forged passes meant it was all but impossible to get out the park, so we couldn’t have a decent farewell party for Doug but Terry still managed to produce some whisky. We sat drinking until four in the morning, when he had to make his unsteady way to the station. We shook hands, tight.

  ‘Take care, Doug. Write to me, let me know what Rhodesia’s like.’

  ‘Will do, Jack. And after the war…’

  ‘After the war…’

  I was really sad to see him go. He was the only one in our group that had never been any trouble.

  ‘It’s tomorrow,’ said Terry.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Operation Get Even.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me what we’re doing.’

  ‘Safer that way. But I’ll need your help. Joe’s on guard duty tonight and I need to smuggle some stuff into the camp.’

  ‘How are you going to manage that? We can’t get passes.’

  ‘I’ll go over the wall. It’s easy enough, I’ve been doing it most nights.’

  ‘You go out every night?’

  ‘Most nights.’

  There was so much about Terry I didn’t know. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘I want you to be on this side of the wall at one in the morning. I’m going to chuck some stuff over. I need you there to make sure it’s clear before I do. Right?’

  ‘Aye, all right.’

  Shortly before one I made my way to the spot below the wall. It was a cold, wet night, and I was shivering by the time I heard Terry call.

  ‘All cle
ar.’

  A canvas kit bag landed about a metre from me. Another one followed. Then Terry came over.

  ‘Quick, grab a bag, get back to the tents.’

  We got back without being caught, although we both slipped in the mud. I laughed a little, nervous. We looked camouflaged, perfect for secret work.

  ‘So, what do we do with these?’

  ‘In Joe’s tent.’

  ‘In his tent?’

  ‘Yes, under his kit bags, squash them as much as you can so the pile looks the same size.’

  ‘Won’t he notice?’

  ‘He’s on duty. He won’t have time.’

  We cleaned up, got back into our tents. Awoken by a shout. Snap inspection. Bleary, we lined up.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I whispered to Terry.

  ‘Snap inspection.’

  ‘Obviously. Why?’

  ‘Someone believes stolen US Air Force property is being hidden in the park.’

  ‘Why do they believe that?’

  ‘Because someone told them it was.’

  ‘Terry?’

  ‘Eye for an eye, Jack.’

  It was inevitable. I watched it unfold with growing nausea. They pulled the kit bags out of Joe’s tent. He was still on guard duty. We were dismissed. ‘Where’s the whisky?’ I asked Terry.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I need a fucking drink.’

  ‘To celebrate?’

  I said nothing. He handed me a three quarters full bottle. ‘Are you on duty today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll cover you at parade.’

  I nodded, grabbed my trumpet and walked off.

  A big park. Thank fuck for that, eh? Always somewhere to hide, somewhere where others aren’t there. Lots of places like that. Where others aren’t. Home. Others aren’t there. Dod isn’t there. I’m not there. But I’m here. Dod isn’t anywhere. And Doug isn’t here. Now Joe isn’t here. Clive isn’t here, Micky isn’t here, Soapy, Nev. They aren’t here. Am I?

  Up in the sky, just wood and canvas, a tent between me and the ground. Emptiness, nothingness. I can fly. I can fly.

  I can see my house from here.

  The bottle’s empty. Typical.

  StraightenupandflyrightStraightenupandflyright Straightenupandflyright, right?

  It was done. Joe was gone. His tent empty. I crawled into mine and passed out.

  I sat on the log Joe had used as a seat, smoking. Terry sat across from me.

  ‘You regret it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What’s the punishment for stealing military stores?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘It’s harsh?’

  ‘It’s harsh. What’s the punishment for murder?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘What is the point, Jack?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was a mate.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Look, I told you back in London he was trouble. If you stay too close to someone like him, you get burnt too.’

  ‘Yes, very prescient. Well done. You got burnt as well.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You got involved.’

  ‘Is that the same?’

  ‘You’re not sorry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘A number of reasons.’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘One, he had it coming. He killed Clive by fucking with a kite. That could’ve been any one of us up there, Jack, you realise that? He didn’t know for sure Clive would be up first, and in that kite.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Two, the politicos, they’re a menace, I told you that too, Jack.’

  ‘His politics? You set him up because he was a Communist?’

  ‘We set him up, and no, not because he was a Communist, but it was his politics that made him dangerous.’

  ‘Joe was right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said this, that your hatred had nothing to do with Clive, that you didn’t give a fuck about Clive.’

  ‘I didn’t give a fuck about Clive. It’s the principle of the thing.’

  ‘The principle? What aren’t you telling me? Why do you hate Joe if not because of Clive?’

  He sighed, lit another fag. ‘I have a brother.’

  ‘You told me, down the mine.’

  ‘Another. He’s in prison.’

  ‘In prison? What for?’

  Terry looked around, no-one was near. ‘He’s a conscientious objector.’

  ‘Religious?’

  ‘Political. He’s a Communist. At the outbreak of war Stalin and Hitler had that non-aggression pact. In thirty-nine the Communists were opposed to the war, called it a war of Imperialism. Owen refused to fight. Went to prison.’

  ‘But Joe’s fighting. Other Communists are fighting.’

  ‘Once Hitler invaded the Soviet Union, it was fine to support the war. Too late for Owen.’

  ‘So what’s this got to do with Joe?’

  ‘Have you any idea what it’s like having a brother in prison as a conchie?’

  ‘So what, you’re getting back at your brother through Joe?’

  ‘Jack, did Joe murder Aircraftman Second Class Clive Wellesley or not?’

  ‘He did.’ I hadn’t even known Clive’s last name.

  ‘And was he going to get away with that?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘A murder was committed, the murderer is going to jail. What’s your problem?’

  What was my problem? ‘It feels shitty, Terry. To do that to someone, to fit them up for something. We were trying to get justice, Terry. That’s not justice. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Justice isn’t about being fair, Jack. It’s about getting even. One life for another. That’s all this war is, Jack, getting even. They bomb London, we bomb Berlin. They flatten Coventry, we flatten Frankfurt. It’s not fair, it’s not anything, Jack. It’s just what there is. Does it feel shitty? Sure, but so does everything else these days.’

  The days passed with little change. Rain fell and we huddled under whatever shelter we could find, gas capes as umbrellas failing to keep us dry. We listened to the news every night, passed round papers until they were so faded you could hardly read a word. There were no more passes, no more sneaking out. Security had been stepped up. The jam sessions were over. I was back to playing by myself, alone in a field. Terry and I were civil, but no longer close. I thought I understood him better, but you never could tell with him. Maybe it was for the best, but I couldn’t help wishing we were all back in Babbacombe, mates, band mates, strutting down the street looking for women, playing cards in the tall grass, jamming.

  Finally, after five weeks, about thirty of us were marched out of the park and into the local cinema. Baffled, we exchanged theories about what was going to happen. Terry wasn’t with us. ‘Are they actually showing a picture?’

  ‘It’ll be some sort of educational thing.’

  After twenty minutes or so an officer climbed onto the stage.

  ‘Shit. This is it. Aircrew categorisation time.’

  Silence in the cinema.

  The officer read out names and their categorisation. Aitken, F; Navigator. Anderson, J; Pilot. Caldwell, S; Bomb Aimer. Clark, P. T.; Bomb Aimer. Devine, J; Pilot.

  Those who got what they wanted attempted to commiserate with friends not so lucky, but few got the tone right. Today’s friends wouldn’t be there tomorrow. I had no friends there. We trooped back to the park to pack. We were off.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Terry. He looked like he meant it.

  ‘You’ll get your orders soon enough.’

  ‘Hope so, there’s no-one left to have any fun with.’

  ‘You can always find fun.’

  ‘True. But it won’t be the same without you, Jack.’

  Did he mean that? ‘Maybe after the war…’

  ‘After the war…’

  We shook ha
nds. ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘All of this… forget it, right? We’re at war. Don’t let it fuck up your future. Joe isn’t worth that.’

  At zero four-thirty hours, far from our best, we assembled and marched over to the train station. The usual panic and crush as seats were fought for and luggage stowed. I couldn’t be bothered to fight, ended up in the doorway. Head against the wall. Where was I going?

  Honour, duty, Henry the Fifth.

  Morning in Cumbria.

  Wrongs upon wrongs. Is that what we were fighting for?

  Crossed the border somewhere. Home.

  You stand by your mates.

  Into Glasgow. Off the train. Onto another. All those voices, accents.

  Joe.

  Moving again, to the coast.

  Straighten up and fly right, Jack.

  End of the line. Six of us tasked with the kit, overseen by a Warrant Officer. I didn’t know them. Everyone else onto the boats. We swung bags, emptied the train, filled a launch.

  Salt in the air. Memories.

  Loaded.

  Decision time.

  ‘Sir, could I speak to you for a moment? It’s very important.’

  RMS Queen Elizabeth, Atlantic Ocean. October 1943

  A wild ocean at night. Mountainous waves, wind like a brick wall, sharp salt whip. How religion takes hold. Early man, huddled in caves along the coast wielding stone axes, flint knives to protect himself from the crazed demon beyond the cave. No atheists in a war, they say. Precious few in a hurricane at sea. Dear God, please God, oh God. Retch. Easy to feel the world is against you at times like that. Primitive. Survival. Elements.

  A hurricane. Lightning. A blood moon. The sky falling on our heads. It’s in our blood. An island race. Britannia rules the waves. Filled with the sea. Our language, the salt of the Navy, barnacled idioms. Brass monkeys. Three sheets. High and dry. All at sea. Those who weren’t bed ridden with seasickness were on watch, four hours on, eight off. U-boats. Spot a periscope and save lives. Black on black, waves the height of cliffs, a tempest. We cursed those lazy bastards in bed all day. Men who could manage a forced march after a night of ale and dancing but were poleaxed by nothing more than water and salt. Those hours on watch. Binoculars sucking my eyes out, exposed to the elements. The bridge really was a bridge on that thing, across the whole width of the ship, jutting out into space so from my station I could see back along the length of the ship as well as out and down. Take your eyes off the sea for a second and the Captain would give you a roasting, and by Christ that man could swear. Folk swore on the farm: when a sheep kicks you in the balls it’s impossible not to, but the Captain used words and phrases I could only imagine the meaning of. Wondered if Queen Elizabeth knew what was being said aboard her namesake.