Tornado Pratt

by Paul Ableman

  PRATT ARMED

  I kept inspecting the map of Europe, Horace, and watched Germany spread like a stain. I had this idea that if they’d drop me anywhere in the occupied territory I could scrub it clean single handed. With a cannon in my mouth and machine-guns in each hand I’d go whirling down the German lines. I’d erupt in their base HQ’s like a volcano. I’d burst like thunderbolts on their panzers. I—knew I was the fittest, best trained captain in the marines. Then the general sent for me—yeah, well it’s classified information, Horace, top secret. If the Hun knew who we were he’d send commandos to pick us off individually. There were only twenty of us but the General said he reckoned each of us was worth a battalion, in certain situations a division. We were all colonels but for the first year, though I drew colonel’s pay, I still wore bars on my shoulders. That was to keep us inconspicuous. When the action started and the ETO was crawling with juvenile colonels I put my eagles up. We were trained to do anything from commanding a battalion, or even a corps, to operating single-handed behind enemy lines. We were good enough pilots to mix it with enemy fighters. We were expert with most hand guns. We could do things like pick locks, signal with heliograph, talk German and many others. We were the greatest, the elite!

  The day of Pearl Harbour—yeah, I think I told you wrong earlier, Horace. I said I never got laid by Alex which is true but there was another time, which I failed to mention, when it nearly happened. Damn nearly happened. Didn’t I say, about the first time, the abortive time, that her nose got bony? Well I must confirm that. It did get bony—in the end. But it so happens that that was later, after the second time I fancied her and we nearly mixed juices. Her nose got bony at the tip with fleshy wings of a purple hue. It was really the fleshy wings that offended me more than the boniness. But the second time—day of Pearl Harbour—her nose was practically as good as on the first time when that bitch of a Hitler sabotaged our link. Then we met again after three years and became friends. But on the day of Pearl Harbour we were stretched practically naked on the screened terrace of her Washington house in the sun. What follows now is an irony, boy, the most conspicuous single irony I can recall in the life of Tornado Pratt, which has been rich in irony.

  I’m pretty sure I was stripped down to my jock-strap and Alex was wearing nothing but lustrous white pants and for a couple of hours we’d drowsed and talked and petted each other’s pubic regions. My head was on her belly and our bodies made a T. Once in a while I’d bend my head sideways, lift the band of her pants and peek at her black fleece. We both knew that sooner or later I’d start to caress more urgently and we’d rev slowly up into the sumptuous fury of sex. But there was no rush. Above my head gleamed a net of maiden-green, a universe of leaves, that rippled faintly in the faint breeze. And when the zephyrs came the shattered sun sprinkled fire down through the tree. We basked on huge cushions. I turned my head again, this time to the breast side and, as I licked salt from her taut belly, Alex put out her hand and switched on the radio—and a charged voice spoke of bombed battleships. I sighed because I wanted the rage of Alex’s loins not of flaming steel and I was just about to grunt: switch it off, when the message reached me: American ships! The emotional guy was saying that American battleships had been bombed.

  So do you dig that irony, Horace? Pearl Harbour. On the second and last time I nearly coupled with my beloved Alexandra Wilks, the Nips bombed our union. And so twice, once by Hitler and once by Hirohito, war-lords of the first age of the machine, we were flung apart. I only taste the true bitterness now, Horace, here at Terminus, for she was the second love of my life and I never plumbed her sweet depths.

  Alex asked: “How bad is it?”

  “Bad?”

  “Is that the whole Pacific fleet?”

  “There’s carriers—he didn’t say anything about carriers.”

  “Why are you dressing?”

  “Have to phone base.”

  I couldn’t tell Alex that we of the Support Unit (our code name) had orders to report immediately if there was any kind of crisis. This obviously qualified. I put on my uniform and felt something which could have been fear or exhilaration stir in my belly.

  “You don’t have to dress to phone.”

  “No, but—they may want me—”

  “I’ve lived in Japan. Did you know that, Tornado? And—want you? What do you mean, want you?”

  “Well, I’m a soldier. They may want me to join my—unit.”

  “But we’re not at war. Are we? God, I suppose we are. They won’t send you to fight the Japanese?”

  “You never know.”

  “But I like the Japanese. I don’t want you to fight the Japanese. I want you to fight the Germans who have wrecked Europe—wrecked it! But do you have to go now, dear Tornado? I thought—didn’t you?—that we were going to make love? My God, aren’t we ever going to make love? You could get killed, couldn’t you? What an amazing thought. Oh, you mustn’t—you mustn’t—promise me you won’t? Oh really—I must stop. You’re only a captain. They may not send you for ages. Oh, those poor men and women—isn’t bombing terrible? And those Japanese—so delicate, aesthetic—the militarism. I always thought it was some kind of ritual, like the tea ceremony. Whoever heard of the Japanese fighting real wars?”

  And do you know what she did then, Horace? With her natural crispness, she stood up, flicked down her pants, stepped out of them and nestled into my arms. I smelled her then, after the hot sun, and the pungent musk of her cunt plucked at my resolution. But a quick fuck—in parting? No, when we first made love, I wanted it to be long and rich. Anyhow, I wasn’t sure they’d order me to base immediately. Why should they? They weren’t going to send me to assassinate Hirohito—war hadn’t been declared yet. I squeezed her naked body to my uniform for a few seconds, and then said:

  “I have to phone, honey.”

  But all the lines to base were jammed and after half an hour I gave up trying. By that time, Alex had dressed and made some sandwiches. There was no more sex in the air. She drove me to the station and waited twenty minutes with me for my train—and that was the last time I saw Alex until after the war.

  So then—I got over to England, on a destroyer. No incidents. There weren’t many Americans in England at that time and I was instructed to wear civilian clothes and keep a low profile. I was given a nice apartment, overlooking Regent’s Park, now full of sprouting vegetables, and I had to phone HQ daily for instructions. Naturally, I soon contacted Harvey and, after a couple of weeks, I was given permission to travel down to Devon and visit him.

  PRATT PEEVED BY BRITISH RESERVE

  Peeved’s not the right word. In some ways—hell!—I was enchanted. I guess if I really probe for the truth I was offended or—yeah, hurt. Now, it had been no sweat maintaining my cover since I’d joined the Support Unit. I didn’t want to impress anyone, even Alex. But after a while with Harvey I wanted to shout at him that I wasn’t just a civilian visitor on an obscure official mission, which was what I claimed to be, but a rip-roaring daredevil who was going to wring Hitler’s neck with his own hands. Sad. I wanted to impress Harvey because—I guess I wanted him to take notice of me again, as he had done in the old days. He was, naturally, the soul of courtesy. Assisted by a deferential village lady, he looked after me like a prince. But I sensed that, deep down, he wouldn’t have minded if Tornado had remained on his own whirling grounds. Harvey wanted to forget that he’d ever lived out of England.

  No one else got off the train at Ashdale or Ashford or whatever that stop was called and Harvey was the only civilian on the wooden platform. Three soldiers, with heavy packs and rifles, got on the train between Harvey and me who were walking towards each other. As I got closer, a flush of love surged through me and I was on the edge of giving a yowl, leaping forwards and hugging him. But some subtle warning issued from Harvey. He was smiling and, at a glance, I saw how he had changed and how he had remained the same. He looked fifty rather than sixty, with hair shading from white at the temples to ir
on grey on top. He was still slim but he walked a trifle stiffly and carried a silver-headed stick. He was dressed English country style in tweeds and a cravat. He put out his hand first:

  “Tornado!”

  “Harvey!”

  “Good Lord—well, well—”

  And he chuntered on a bit like a squire. He was pure friendship, his eyes roving all over me and his hand wringing mine and yet—his dress, his very smile, suggested a degree of formality that should not be transgressed. He urged:

  “Well, come on, we’ll just be in time for tea.”

  And that doubled me up. It was straight out of a stiff-upper-lip type of English war movie. I snorted and Harvey asked:

  “Ah, now what have I said that’s funny?”

  So I explained and Harvey chuckled some. Then he led me out of the station to a quaint little automobile and in it we chugged away into the Arcadia of a fine day in superb English country.

  Huge chestnuts and elms stirred in grassy meadows. The roadside banks were a tangle of wild flowers. Thatched cottages and whitewashed cottages and old brick houses gleamed in quaint crooks of the road. We puffed through a pretty village and then, about a mile beyond, turned off the road between ramparts of glowing red and purple rhododendron. A moment later, across a sweep of inviting lawn, a small manor house came into view. I made the admiring sounds it deserved and Harvey explained that most of it was laid up.

  “It really needs a staff of four or five to run properly and, of course, that’s out of the question now.”

  “You live here alone, Harvey?”

  “Oh yes. Except for a village woman who comes in to clean and so forth. Rather a hermit as a matter of fact.”

  “How about your family?”

  “You mean my brother? He’s far too busy with war work. He’s on all kinds of regional boards. Anyway, there was never a great deal of love lost between us.”

  “Meaning, you still hate his guts.”

  Harvey coughed with what might have been amusement but I sensed a faint rebuke. He demurred:

  “Not really. We’re both too old for that nonsense. But we haven’t much in common and I don’t get on with his wife.”

  When we reached the house, we found that tea had indeed been prepared: thin sandwiches, scones, jam and cream—a lavish spread for those days. With the cups and saucers, the edibles were laid out on a small rustic table just outside the house and, as soon as we’d seated ourselves, a handsome, timid lady of about forty brought out the silver teapot and urn. Harvey introduced her as:

  “Mrs Beamish.”

  And she flushed and damn near curtsied. Harvey suggested that she join us for tea, but she said:

  “No, thank you, sir. I have to finish in the kitchen.”

  She was all “sirs” and feudal deference and Harvey, although benevolent and courteous, seemed to accept it as natural. So then Harvey and I had tea together and talked. But I found that I had to make the running and it began to aggravate me. What the hell was it?

  Okay, so our situations were reversed. I’d figured that one out in advance and thought I’d made allowances for it. In the States, Harvey had been my dependant. Oh sure, we’d started it all with his cash but from early on in the partnership I’d been the boss, the brains and the energy and Harvey had been happy to accept that. Here, of course, I was under his roof. He was independent and on his home territory. I’d never patronized him in the past but in a thousand subtle ways difference of rank asserts itself. Harvey was now my host and entitled to define the new limits of intimacy. But why did they have to be so goddamm narrow? During the hour we sat over tea I became more and more aware of a kind of tacit snub. He asked me nothing, beyond what perfunctory politeness required, about myself, America, Chicago, any damned thing. I’d anticipated that we’d have a real nostalgic bull session, chewing over old times, laughing and drawing close again. Hell, I loved this man and I wanted him to love me.

  Instead, over the next few days, Harvey turned me by imperceptible degrees into a loud-mouthed Yank. Was he, perhaps without realizing it, getting his own back for the years when I’d been on top? I guess that must be it. Feeble creatures we are, Horace! Every gust of time blows us into a different shape. We think we’re made of granite or steel and we’re like quicksilver, flowing helplessly into new shapes. When the context of our lives changes, we change too. Try and transfer a love or friendship, or come to that an abiding hatred, across a few decades or continents and it’ll emerge a different thing, perhaps its opposite.

  On the second evening, we went out to dinner with a rich farmer. There were eight or ten people at table and it was a very genteel occasion until the farmer’s ten-year-old son mischievously loosed three little pigs into the drawing-room. After that everything got wonderfully relaxed and it ended up with the host and me having a race on sows across the stable-yard. I won by twisting my sow’s ear but was disqualified for it.

  The next day I walked into the village to telephone HQ. To keep in training, I ran half the distance and when I got back to the house, I heard voices from the library. In spite of Harvey’s claim that he lived like a hermit, there was really a continual flow of visitors, including a famous writer who lived nearby and was always darting in with a script for a radio speech or something for Harvey to criticize.

  I reckoned the voices indicated the writer was visiting. He tickled me because he always called me “my dear chap” and so I made a bee-line for the library. It turned out only Harvey and Mrs Beamish were there, standing by the fireplace. Harvey turned when he heard me enter and exclaimed:

  “Good Lord, are you back already?”

  “I ran some of the way—to keep fit.”

  “Well—is there anything else, Mrs Beamish?”

  “Oh no—no, sir.”

  And the lady departed. But who did they think they were kidding? There had been in their postures and also, even though I’d originally taken her voice to be that of a man, in the tone of the conversation I’d dimly heard, an unmistakable hint of intimacy. If I’d marched in and found them coupling on the carpet I wouldn’t have been more sure that Mrs Beamish was Harvey’s mistress. The instant she’d left, I said playfully:

  “Congratulations. She’s a fine woman.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, quit kidding, Harvey. She’s your mistress, isn’t she?”

  He said coldly:

  “Mrs Beamish is married and has three children.”

  From this unpromising start the session deteriorated. I got brasher and Harvey more and more reserved. We were both parodying ourselves but, cursing myself for having started it, I got hooked on making Harvey admit the relationship. He became equally determined not to and, although we somehow avoided a row, mainly by me tapering off feebly with something like “okay, let’s forget the whole thing”, it left a hostile chasm between us which lasted all the next day. On the evening of that day, which was my last before heading back to London, Harvey drove me to a country pub for dinner and afterwards to another pub that had an amazing view over cliffs and sea. We downed a hell of a lot of whisky and Harvey, who’d always had a weak head, got drunk. When the pub closed, I suggested that I should drive and Harvey agreed but his little car had such a weird gear-shift that I couldn’t handle it and so we telephoned for a taxi. In the taxi, Harvey, after a spell of silence, suddenly admitted:

  “You were perfectly right.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “About Mrs Beamish. She is my mistress. Damned fine mistress too.”

  At this, I poked him sharply in the ribs and indicated the driver who sat immediately in front of us, not separated by a partition, and who was doubtless a local man who would spread the happy tidings. Harvey grunted:

  “What?”

  He frowned hard at the driver, then nodded as if in comprehension and murmured:

  “Of course.”

  But to my amazement, a minute later he began again, in a loud, clear voice:

  “Her first name’s Ellen
. Only call her that in bed. My God, Tornado, we often come together. Marvellous. Never happened before.”

  I hissed:

  “Harvey! For Christ’s sake!”

  And jabbed my finger fiercely at the driver.

  He said loudly: