The British public, by contrast, has always had an ambivalent attitude towards serving soldiers, from Rudyard Kipling’s Tommy Atkins (who complains in the poem ‘Tommy’ that the British public has no regard for soldiers during peacetime, but is lavish with empty praise and gratitude during wartime), to the ladies who gave out white feathers to off-duty officers wearing civilian clothing. How much more would this be so for soldiers serving in a war that is unpopular in the first place?
I wanted to write a story about that. What kind of reception might a soldier receive when he comes home on leave from Iraq?
REAL TEARS
‘Can you still do that thing?’
‘What? What thing?’
I was having trouble hearing him over the music and everyone talking. He was standing next to me, hands loosely clasped, resting on the bar. His wrists were thick and sunburned. The ring he wore – third finger, left hand – was a heavy gold number, engraved with some kind of insignia. As he talked he turned it round and round.
‘You know, that trick. You did it at Jake’s party. You’re famous for it.’ He smiled. Teeth white against his tanned face. I’d forgotten how handsome he was. He was a friend of my brother’s, or used to be.
‘Oh.’ I grinned back, catching his drift. ‘That trick. Now, let me think. A trick like that takes concentration.’
I’d perfected it when I was a small child. My brother is older than me. He won all our fights easily and used to tease me without mercy, laughing at my fury. There was only one way to get back at him. I felt the prickling pepper sting and the tears began to well and brim. It is important not to sneeze, or the effect is lost entirely. Then I blink once, twice, so that the tears spill and fall. I felt them find the channels at the side of my nose and imagined them reflecting the light, taking on a silvery glitter. I tasted salt at the corner of my mouth.
He caught a drop from my chin, held it on his fingertip.
‘That’s a good trick!’ He grinned at me, delighted.
I smiled back. I knew it.
I took out a tissue and dabbed my face. I’m the only person I know who can cry at will. No red nose, no puffy eyes. I just look tragic, although it’s good to wear waterproof mascara.
‘That deserves a drink.’ He turned back to the bar. ‘What are you having?’
‘A glass of white wine, please.’
He got served right away and I was glad he’d stood next to me. I’d been waiting ages. The bar was crowded. A level results had come out that day. Everyone was out. I was celebrating, rather than drowning my sorrows.
‘What are you doing here?’ I said, as we found a space to stand. Somewhere to sit was out of the question.
‘I’m home for a bit. Thought I’d come out for a drink.’ He looked around. ‘This place has changed. We used to come here.’
He meant with my brother.
‘It hasn’t really. Just a different crowd.’
‘I guess. I don’t know anyone now.’ He laughed and drained his pint. ‘They make me feel like a grandad. You ready for another?’
‘I’m all right, thanks.’
I watched him as he wove his way back to the bar. It would have been easy to make an escape, drift off and join any of half a dozen different groups, but part of me thought that would be rude. He had been my brother’s best friend when they were at school, and used to come to our house all the time. He never took any interest in me, of course, but I’d had quite a crush on him. At fifteen, I’d been in love. For certain and forever. I told everyone I was interested only in older men. I may even have written poems. They were at university then; he used to come to our house and hang out in the vacations. I’d drift round on hot summer days, wearing as little as possible, trying to catch his eye. I’d pretend to sunbathe and watch him and my brother doing pull-ups on the bar they’d rigged up between the house and the garage. I didn’t think he’d noticed, but he must have done. I’d done the crying trick at my brother’s twenty-first. At the end of that summer, there had been a falling-out. I don’t remember him coming round much after that.
‘Who’s the fit guy?’ My friend Stephanie bumped my shoulder, making me spill my drink. She’d obviously been celebrating harder than I had. ‘Are you keeping him to yourself, or what?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
‘Pass him on to me, if you can’t make your mind up. He’s hot!’ She giggled into her vodka and Coke. ‘I’m not the only one who’s noticed.’
I followed her line of sight and saw that my ex was ignoring his new girlfriend and staring in our direction. He looked past, frowning hard towards the bar. I had to turn away to hide the smile on my face. That made deciding even easier.
‘I bought you one anyway.’ He gave the glass to me. ‘Getting served is murder. Who’s this?’
He smiled at Stephanie, who did her special eyelash-fluttering flirty laugh, the one she thinks is really seductive.
‘This is Ben.’ I introduced them, knowing Stephanie wasn’t going anywhere until she knew his name, at the very least.
‘It’s such a row in here,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go out to the courtyard? It’s just that, oh—’ She waved her glass. ‘I appear to be empty.’
‘What would you like?’
‘A Duke Doubler,’ she said quickly.
‘A Duke what?’
‘They’ll know behind the bar. Just ask for it.’
It was double shots of white rum, vodka and something else, with that blue stuff to top it off. It came in a fancy glass with parasols.
‘OK. Look after my pint.’
‘I’ve always wanted one of those. Might as well make the most of it.’ Stephanie took a swig of his beer. ‘I bet he’s loaded. Officers earn tons of money.’
‘How do you know he’s a soldier?’ I asked.
‘Look how short his hair is, and he’s built! Besides, he’s got that ring. Don’t you notice anything? A regimental thing. My uncle’s got one like it. You’d make a rubbish detective.’
I knew anyway. That was why he’d fallen out with my brother. Jake is left wing. A trainee journalist on the Guardian. He couldn’t believe a friend of his could want to join the forces. Ben had said, no problem – and they were no longer friends. And I never said I wanted to be a detective.
Ben came back with Steph’s drink and we fought our way out to the courtyard. It was only slightly less packed but most of our friends were there, and at least it was open to the air, not choked with cigarette smoke.
As for the argument, I have to blame Steph. She was the one who told them that he was a soldier. Up to that point, all I’d been concerned about was the fact that he was older. He bought a pitcher of cocktails and beers for the boys and seemed happy enough to hang out with us, but he’d been there, done that and I was worried he could get bored with all the talk of A levels, school and university.
Ginny picked up on his job as soon as the words left Steph’s big mouth. She was the one with the most definite views – on everything. Not just the war. She’d gained her clutch of A grades, but did not intend to take her place up yet. She was going on a gap year.
‘I’m going to travel,’ she said, ‘see the world. It’s important to see how other people live. Poor people who are less fortunate than we are in the West. After all, it’s us who’ve made them like that. I intend to do what I can to make a difference.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Steph sneered. She’d heard the speech before and there’s not a lot of love lost between her and Ginny. ‘And just how is you lying on a beach with Stu going to make the slightest bit of difference to anyone? Please tell me.’
‘Because I’m not going to be doing that.’ Ginny’s voice was as cold as the ice in her glass. ‘I’m going to the Middle East. To teach English on the West Bank.’
We all stared at her. That was news. The last plan involved Ginny and her boyfriend, Stu, spending time in Thailand and Cambodia before going to stay with his auntie who owned retail outlets in Brisbane, Australia.
&nbs
p; ‘It’s important to put something back.’ She glared at Ben. ‘Help to repair the damage some people are doing in that part of the world.’
‘It’s dangerous there.’ His tone was mild, even affable. ‘You be careful.’
‘Oh,’ she flashed back, ‘and who’s made it like that? You. You and those like you. Look at Iraq.’ I groaned and shut my eyes. Ginny was about to make one of her great leaps of logic. ‘What conceivable excuse did you have for invading that country? None at all. Now look what’s going on. Children murdered. Innocent people slaughtered.’
‘Hey!’ He tried a smile. ‘I don’t do that. I’m in the Engineers, putting back the infrastructure that’s been destroyed—’
The smile didn’t work.
‘By who?’ Ginny was fairly squeaking with indignation. ‘By YOU! Don’t you feel the slightest bit guilty?’
‘Why should I? My job is to help people.’
‘Oh, please!’ Ginny rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t even think about trying to patronize me. We all know what’s happening out there: thousands tortured and killed every day …’
She was shouting across everybody, right into his face. At first, he tried to parry what she said, set out counter-arguments. When that didn’t work, he just listened. The more she battered him with words, the more silent he became. He didn’t look at her – he didn’t look at any of us – he just stared at the whitewashed wall, a distant, abstracted stare, as if there were scenes playing there that only he could see. The bright bloom of flame within roiling oily black smoke; people running in panic and confusion; the moment when the camera pulls back from the scene in the bomb-torn street, swinging up and away from the scrap of burned fabric, the gob of meat, the bloodstained smear that had started the day as a human being. We didn’t have to see, but he did. He could smell the charred flesh, hear the screams. Best you don’t know, his stare seemed to say. I’m not going to tell you, anyway, because you wouldn’t believe me if I did. Hasn’t that always been the way of soldiers?
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s right.’
‘What are you going to do about it, mate?’
One by one, the others joined in, taking turns to have a go at him.
‘Let’s leave.’ Ginny stood up. ‘No point in talking to someone who just won’t listen.’
‘Yeah. Let’s go to Lyle’s.’
Lyle’s was the local cheesy club. A consensus formed. It was clear Ben and I were not invited.
‘I’m not about to win any popularity contests with your friends.’ His grin was ironic, but there was a bruised, hurt look about his eyes. The attack had been savage. ‘Do you mind? I mean, you can go with them, if you want. Don’t feel you have to stay with me …’
‘Why should I mind? With a bit of luck I’ll never see any of them ever again.’
Steph had been in the toilet for quite a while, probably throwing up. She came back not looking so good.
‘Where is everybody?’
‘They’ve gone to Lyle’s.’
‘’K. ’S go.’
‘D’you think that’s a good idea?’
‘Prob’ly not.’ Stephanie sat down heavily, just avoiding my lap.
‘Maybe we better call it a night. I think so, don’t you?’
‘S’pose.’ Steph’ll go on till the end, but the Duke Doublers had taken their toll. She knows her limits.
‘Here.’ Ben stood up, pulling her to a standing position. ‘I’d give you a lift, but I’ve had a bit to drink.’
‘She’ll be all right. We’ll go down to the rank for a cab.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Exactly what I was hoping he’d say. A sudden ‘’Scuse me’ from Steph gave me time to make further arrangements. I could say I was staying with her. She’d never remember if I’d been there or not. That’s if he asked.
‘My folks are away,’ he said, right on cue. ‘I was wondering, after we drop Stephanie off … I was wondering if you’d like to come back with me.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Just like that. He was a really nice guy and he hadn’t deserved that kind of going-over. Some part of me wanted to make it up to him. And I still fancied him, I had to admit. All that dreaming on my bed and now it was coming true. It was the kind of chance that doesn’t come twice. Unrequited love about to be requited.
‘Hadn’t you better see about your friend?’
Lost in romantic reverie, I’d forgotten about Stephanie. I found her by the basins looking like Alice Cooper. I wiped the worst of the mascara streaks from her cheeks and made her drink some water.
‘How do you feel now?’
‘Fine. Jus’ fine. He seems like a nice guy. Don’ mind Ginny. She’s a silly bitch.’
Given the state she was in, that was a long speech.
‘Think you can make it?’
‘Course.’
I helped her out, and then Ben took over. He held her up, walking her all the way down to the taxi stand. There was one cab there, which was lucky.
‘OK. In you get.’
Ben opened the door, helping Steph into the back. I was just about to follow her when this guy began to shout.
‘That’s our effing cab. Get out!’
‘You are joking!’ Ben shook his head and grinned. ‘We were here first!’
The guy grabbed Ben’s arm and spun him around. He was smaller than Ben, but he made up for his lack of build with plenty of aggression.
‘What did you say?’ He was dancing on the pavement, jittering with rage.
‘I said, “No way. You’re joking.”’
‘I ain’t, mate.’
A bunch of others stepped out from the side of the kebab van.
‘I don’t want to fight.’ Ben put up his hands, palms out. ‘I have to warn you, I’m trained in unarmed combat …’
‘Oh yeah?’
The guy had been stepping backwards, now he lunged forward fast and hit Ben hard. Then he was gone, his mates running after him.
‘You all right?’ the taxi driver finally came round from his side of the cab.
‘I don’t know …’
Ben tried to straighten up but sank to the ground, bent over like a puppet. He pulled his hand from inside his coat and stared. His face creased, somewhere between grin and grimace, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, couldn’t believe this was happening.
Steph was out of the cab. Sober in an instant.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ She screamed at me, the taxi driver, the small group gathering. ‘Call for an ambulance. Call the police!’
Phones came out. Calls were made. We knelt by Ben, cradling his head, trying to make him comfortable.
‘Don’t move him too much.’ Steph made a pad with her wrap, pressed it against his chest. ‘Hold on,’ she kept saying to him. ‘Hold on.’
But it was too late. She knew it, even as she said it. We looked at each other over his head. I cried then. Real tears.
Author’s note: Violence is everywhere and war is full of savage ironies. The direct inspiration for this story was a news report I read about a young British soldier on leave from Iraq. He was going home to see his mother but never reached his destination. He was murdered while waiting for a bus.
Nina Bawden
I was evacuated from London with my school in the Second World War. My brother Peter and I were billeted with a family in Aberdare, a coal-mining valley in South Wales. My mother and my little brother, Robin, had escaped from the bombing to the farmhouse I describe in my story. I loved going there in the holidays. The farmer and his wife had a son of about my age, which was thirteen, and two daughters – one a baby and the other grown up and married to a farmer. I loved to help on the farm, but there was a lot of work to do, which was why the farmer engaged our Italian prisoner of war. He was young and very handsome and I felt very romantic about him. He once kissed me when we were cleaning out the cow shed together! But when we came home the next holidays he had gone, and the farmer’s wife told me hi
s sad story, and why he no longer wanted to work for the farmer. The farmer was now – after all – his ‘enemy’. So our Italian went back to the prison camp.
A great many Italian prisoners did come back to Wales after the war, and some of them married the daughters of the farm families they had lived with – which is why there is a surprising number of families in Wales who now have Italian names!
OUR ITALIAN PRISONER
This story started a long time ago, in the Second World War. My father was an engineer-commander in the Royal Navy on a ship that was guarding the convoys crossing the Atlantic against attacks from German submarines. Bombs were falling on London and my family had been evacuated – my brother Peter and I to South Wales and our mother and baby brother to a farm in Montgomeryshire where, up in the hills, most farmers spoke Welsh, or at least a lovely, lilting English with a Welsh curl to the words.
Peter and I went to the farm in the school holidays. It was a beautiful farmhouse that had once been an old monastery and our mother had rented an enormous room on the first floor, with windows that looked over the wide valley and the smooth blue mountains beyond. She slept with the baby in a corner of the big room and Peter and I had camp beds in the apple room, where the apples were stored in the winter, spread out on the wide, polished floorboards. That room always had a sweet apple smell even before the apples had been harvested and there were no apples there.
There was a bathroom attached to our mother’s big room, but since there was no running water in the house it wasn’t much use. All the water we used in the farmhouse was fetched either from the brook down the lane or, if it was for drinking, from the well in the farmyard. The lavatory was an outside privy at the end of the vegetable garden at the back of the farmhouse. It was an airy and comfortable privy with a wooden board to sit on that had three holes in it: small, medium and large, for different-sized bottoms. ‘Very sociable toilet arrangements,’ my mother said, which we thought very witty. But we discovered the disadvantage of having three holes in windy weather; when you threw the cut-up copies of the Farmers Weekly we used instead of toilet paper into one hole, it blew up through another. I wrote to my father and told him about this to make him laugh; and when his ship came into port one day and I went to meet it he gave me three wooden lids with brass knobs to lift them that the ship’s carpenter had made for us to solve the problem!
War Stories Page 5