A thick-set man with British army moustache climbs on to the tank beside Captain Robinson. He wears American boots, fawn trousers, brown leather jacket and carries US Army revolver.
Commentator
The only Britisher to whom the Americans pay any attention is Major Cleaver, the District Administrator who will be in charge of the pacified village. A former regular army officer, Major Cleaver is one of several thousand DAs sent out by the British government to run the civil administration of the recaptured areas. Part political commissar, part judge and jury, Major Cleaver will literally have the power of life and death over the people living under his rule, a power that he and his fellow DAs have been quick to exercise in the past.
THE CONVOY MOVES OFF
The infantry spread out ahead and to the side of the tank. They follow a road through wooded terrain with meadows and abandoned farms on either side. Now and then there is a halt as the tank is brought up.
Captain Robinson
Helicopters are the thing that’s happening these days. You can get in there real fast with heavy suppressive fire, and if you need to be pulled out you can get out real fast.
Sergeant Paley
It’s definitely the way to fight a ground war.
Captain Robinson
As I see it now we’re going to have two companies controlling the fire base, Bravo and Charley, who will go in by helicopter. They’ll clear the landing zone by the time we get in there, so the tactical side of the operation should be finalized. It’s also better from the psychological aspect that we don’t get involved on the tactical side too much.
Commentator
You mean the actual fighting around the village?
Captain Robinson
That’s correct.
RADIO OPERATOR PASSES MESSAGE TO CAPTAIN ROBINSON
Tank halts.
Commentator
But for Bravo and Charley Companies, who are supposed to be going in by helicopter, today is not the day for fighting a war. The weather in the target area has closed in, and the helicopters have returned to base. Alpha Company gets ready to move on alone, every man here hoping that the weather will clear.
Sergeant Paley
This country, weather’s the main thing. It rains a lot and you’re very wet most of the time, but you know as a soldier you can’t ask for a certain territory to fight on because you just have to make the best of what terrain you have.
Commentator
Sergeant, what do you think of the chances of peace here?
Sergeant Paley
Well, I think they’re . . . I don’t know, as I see it as long as Charley’s got a weapon and some ammo and using it he’s not going to give up. I think he’s pretty much got his heart in it, giving his own people a hard time here.
Commentator
How do you feel it’s all going?
Sergeant Paley
Well, it’s going well for the Cavs, I know that. Wherever we go we run into Charley – I know he doesn’t last very long.
Commentator
Tell me, sergeant, why are you in England?
Sergeant Paley
Why am I in England? Well, curiosity, I guess. I just wanted to know what the war was like.
Commentator
What is the war like?
Sergeant Paley
Well, it’s all right, I guess. For a year I’d say it’s a good experience. You really learn a lot from it.
Major Cleaver
Naturally one hopes that peace will come to the country as soon as possible. Positions have become very entrenched during the past year, there’s a legacy of bitterness on both sides. This is not the kind of civil war that resolves anything.
Commentator
What about the fighting itself? Don’t you find it difficult to be shooting at your own people?
Major Cleaver
They’re not our own people any longer. This is the whole point of the war. They’re the enemy now, and peace isn’t going to turn them overnight into our friends.
Commentator
But aren’t there a lot of desertions from the army?
Major Cleaver
Not as many as there used to be. Most of the men realize that conditions here are a lot better than they are on the other side. The bombing has killed hundreds of thousands of people. Sitting here eating C rations is a lot more comfortable than being boiled alive in napalm.
THE COLUMN MOVES ON
Slow penetration of forest on either side of the road. We see the tank stuck in a small stream. Cameo shots of individual American and British soldiers. Fade to early afternoon.
A long shot of farmland and the motorway on the left, the village to the right. Nothing moves. The camera turns and we see the American and British troops dug in along the edge of the field facing the village. It has been raining but the sky has cleared. Everything is very quiet. Machine-guns and weapons being set up. The tank is hidden in trees. Captain Robinson scans the low sky through binoculars.
Commentator
Three o’clock the same afternoon. Alpha Company has arrived at its objective. No signs of the helicopters, so Captain Robinson and his men will have to go in alone. How many Liberation Front soldiers are facing us? Perhaps fifty, perhaps a hundred. Will they fight? Or will they fade away into the surrounding countryside, leaving their women and children behind until night comes again?
THE AMERICANS AND BRITISH ARE WATCHING QUIETLY
A farmer appears and walks along a pathway on the far side of the field. He carries a rifle over his shoulder. Sergeant Paley watches him cross the sights of his machine-gun. Nobody moves.
THE VILLAGE IS COMING TO LIFE AFTER THE RAINSTORM
Young men and women appear. They go about their work. A stall is set up and food is distributed. Young mothers in their khaki mini-skirts drop their children into the communal crèche. Others move towards the fields and farm buildings with rifles over their shoulders. A damp Union Jack is run up on the village flag-pole. Meanwhile, the American and British government forces watch quietly over their gun-sights. Through the zoom lens we focus on individual soldiers, and then on individual villagers in their sights: a young man with a headband who is the kibbutz leader; his girlfriend with a baby; a coloured girl with a pistol on her waist. The leader speaks through a megaphone, the sounds just carrying across the field. He is making some kind of joke, and everyone in the village laughs.
THE FIRST FARMERS WALK OUT ACROSS THE FIELD
They are still unaware of the government forces, and carry their rifles slung casually over their shoulders. One of them, a young Pakistani, has spotted something moving across the field. He follows it between the cabbages, then bends down and picks it up. It is an American cigarette pack. Puzzled, he looks up. Ten feet away he sees the barrel of a light machine-gun aimed at him by Sergeant Paley. Crushing the pack in his hand, he opens his mouth to shout.
CAPTAIN ROBINSON SIGNALS
Sergeant Paley opens fire straight at the young Pakistani. Torn apart, he falls among the cabbages. Massive firing breaks out. The other young men and women in the field are shot down. Mortar fire is directed at the village, the tank lumbers forward, its heavy gun opening fire. Through the long-distance lens we see isolated men and women being shot down, others running for shelter. The food stall is overturned. A barn is burning. Captain Robinson signals again, and the men move forward in a general advance, firing as they go. The World in Action commentator and Major Cleaver move up with them, taking shelter behind the tank. Counter fire is coming from the village, from a small blockhouse built behind a bicycle shed. Two British soldiers are shot down. In the village now everything is burning. Bodies lie around, there are burning motorcycles and food scattered everywhere.
EVERYTHING IS QUIET
The battle has been over an hour or so. A few fires are still burning, smoke drifting towards the distant motorway. The British government troops break down the doors of the houses. They stare at the lines of bodies, mostly young women
and children. Six prisoners have their hands wired together. The remaining villagers are driven out into the field.
2nd Commentator
Two hours ago, in the attack on this small village beside the M4, the World in Action commentator was killed. As he followed the first wave of American soldiers he was shot by an unknown enemy sniper and within a few minutes died of his wounds. His report on this war has been shown as he made it.
VILLAGERS SQUATTING IN FIELD
GIs prepare demolition charges.
2nd Commentator
Alpha Company prepares to pull out. The weather has closed in again, and there will be no support coming in by helicopter. The action is called off at the request of Major Cleaver. Ten British soldiers have been killed or wounded. Without the Americans and their tank he could never hold the village.
Captain Robinson
We’re moving them out, just generally get them out of the way. You can bomb their houses flat easier that way without the conscience of the people on your mind. Put them out in the field.
EXPLOSIONS RIP APART VILLAGE BUILDINGS
Close-up of bodies of rebel soldiers dragged along in mud behind the tank. The column pulls out through the dusk, heading back to Cookham.
Major Cleaver
To help another human being out, it’s worth the expense and loss of life. It’s just that I sometimes wonder whether some of the people that I know who have died knew what they were dying for. That’s about the hardest thing to think of, you know. If a man doesn’t know why he’s dying, it’s a bad way to go.
Acknowledgment: For all the dialogue above, to General Westmoreland, President Thieu of South Vietnam, Marshall Ky and various journalists, US and ARVN military personnel.
1977
HAVING A WONDERFUL TIME
3 July 1985. Hotel Imperial, Playa Inglaterra, Las Palmas
We arrived an hour ago after an amazing flight. For some reason of its own the Gatwick computer assigned us to first-class seats, along with a startled dentist from Bristol, her husband and three children. Richard, as ever fearful of flying, took full advantage of the free champagne and was five miles high before the wheels left the ground. I’ve marked our balcony on the twenty-seventh floor. It’s an extraordinary place, about twenty miles down the coast from Las Palmas, a brand-new resort complex with every entertainment conceivable, all arranged by bedside push-button. I’m just about to dial an hour’s water-skiing, followed by Swedish massage and the hairdresser! Diana.
10 July. Hotel Imperial
An unbelievable week! I’ve never crammed so much excitement into a few days – tennis, scuba-diving, water-skiing, rounds of cocktail parties. Every evening a group of us heads for the boıˆtes and cabarets along the beach, ending up at one or more of the five nightclubs in the hotel. I’ve hardly seen Richard. The handsome cavalier in the picture is the so-called Beach Counsellor, a highly intelligent ex-public relations man who threw it all in two years ago and has been here ever since. This afternoon he’s teaching me to hang-glide. Wish me happy landings! Diana.
17 July. Hotel Imperial
The times of sand are running out. Sitting here on the balcony, watching Richard ski-chute across the bay, it’s hard to believe we’ll be in Exeter tomorrow. Richard swears the first thing he’ll do is book next year’s holiday. It really has been an amazing success – heaven knows how they do it at the price, there’s talk of a Spanish government subsidy. In part it’s the unobtrusive but highly sophisticated organization – not a hint of Butlins, though it’s British-run and we’re all, curiously, from the West Country. Do you realize that Richard and I have been so busy we haven’t once bothered to visit Las Palmas? (Late news-flash: Mark Hastings, the Beach Counsellor, has just sent orchids to the room!) I’ll tell you all about him tomorrow. Diana.
18 July. Hotel Imperial
Surprise! That computer again. Apparently there’s been some muddle at the Gatwick end, our aircraft won’t be here until tomorrow at the earliest. Richard is rather worried about not getting to the office today. We blew the last of our traveller’s cheques, but luckily the hotel have been marvellous, thanks largely to Mark. Not only will there be no surcharge, but the desk-clerk said they would happily advance us any cash we need. Hey-ho . . . A slight let-down, all the same. We walked along the beach this afternoon, together for the first time. I hadn’t realized how vast this resort complex actually is – it stretches for miles along the coast and half of it’s still being built. Everywhere people were coming in on the airport buses from Sheffield and Manchester and Birmingham, within half an hour they’re swimming and water-skiing, lounging around the hundreds of pools with their duty-free Camparis. Seeing them from the outside, as it were, it’s all rather strange. Diana.
25 July. Hotel Imperial
Still here. The sky’s full of aircraft flying in from Gatwick and Heathrow, but none of them, apparently, is ours. Each morning we’ve waited in the lobby with our suitcases packed, but the airport bus never arrives. After an hour or so the desk-clerk rings through that there’s been a postponement and we trudge back to another day by the pool, drinks and water-skiing on the house. For the first few days it was rather amusing, though Richard was angry and depressed. The company is a major Leyland supplier, and if the axe falls, middle-management is the first to feel it. But the hotel have given us unrestricted credit, and Mark says that as long as we don’t go over the top they’ll probably never bother to collect. Good news: the company have just cabled Richard telling him not to worry. Apparently hordes of people have been caught the same way. An immense relief – I wanted to phone you, but for days now all the lines have been blocked. Diana.
15 August. Hotel Imperial
Three more weeks! Hysterical laughter in paradise . . . the English papers flown in here are full of it, no doubt you’ve heard that there’s going to be a government inquiry. Apparently, instead of flying people back from the Canaries the airlines have been sending their planes on to the Caribbean to pick up the American holiday traffic. So the poor British are stuck here indefinitely. There are literally hundreds of us in the same boat. The amazing thing is that one gets used to it. The hotel people are charm itself, they’ve pulled out all the stops, organizing extra entertainments of every kind. There’s a very political cabaret, and an underwater archaeology team are going to raise a Spanish caravel from the sea floor. To fill in the time I’m joining an amateur theatrical group, we’re thinking of putting on The Importance of Being Ernest. Richard takes it all with surprising calm. I wanted to post this from Las Palmas, but there are no buses running, and when we set out on foot Richard and I lost ourselves in a maze of building sites. Diana.
5 September. Hotel Imperial
No news yet. Time moves like a dream. Every morning a crowd of bewildered people jam the lobby, trying to find news of their flights back. On the whole, everyone’s taking it surprisingly well, showing that true British spirit. Most of them, like Richard, are management people in industry, but the firms, thank heavens, have been absolutely marvellous and cabled us all to get back when we can. Richard comments cynically that with present levels of industrial stagnation, and with the Government footing the bill, they’re probably glad to see us here. Frankly, I’m too busy with a hundred and one activities to worry – there’s a sort of mini-Renaissance of the arts going on. Mixed saunas, cordon bleu classes, encounter groups, the theatre, of course, and marine biology. Incidentally, we never did manage to get into Las Palmas. Richard hired a pedalo yesterday and set off up the coast. Apparently the entire island is being divided into a series of huge self-contained holiday complexes – human reserves, Richard called them. He estimates that there are a million people here already, mostly English working class from the north and midlands. Some of them have apparently been here for a year, living quite happily, though their facilities are nowhere as good as ours. Dress rehearsal tonight. Think of me as Lady Bracknell – it’s mortifying that there’s no one else quite mature enough to play the part, they
’re all in their twenties and thirties, but Tony Johnson, the director, an ex-ICI statistician, is being awfully sweet about it. Diana.
6 October. Hotel Imperial
Just a brief card. There was a crisis this morning when Richard, who’s been very moody recently, finally came into collision with the hotel management. When I went into the lobby after my French conversation class a huge crowd had gathered, listening to him rant away at the desk clerks. He was very excited but extremely logical in a mad way, demanding a taxi (there are none here, no one ever goes anywhere) to take him into Las Palmas. Balked, he insisted on being allowed to phone the Governor of the Islands, or the Swiss Consul. Mark and Tony Johnson then arrived with a doctor. There was a nasty struggle for a moment, and then they took him up to our room. I thought he was completely out, but half an hour later, when I left the shower, he’d vanished. I hope he’s cooling off somewhere. The hotel management have been awfully good, but it did surprise me that no one tried to intervene. They just watched everything in a glazed way and wandered back to the pool. Sometimes I think they’re in no hurry to get home. Diana.
12 November. Hotel Imperial
An extraordinary thing happened today – I saw Richard for the first time since he left. I was out on the beach for my morning jog when there he was, sitting by himself under an umbrella. He looked very tanned and healthy, but much slimmer. He calmly told me a preposterous story about the entire Canaries being developed by the governments of Western Europe, in collusion with the Spanish authorities, as a kind of permanent holiday camp for their unemployables, not just the factory workers but most of the management people too. According to Richard there is a beach being built for the French on the other side of the island, and another for the Germans. And the Canaries are only one of many sites around the Mediterranean and Caribbean. Once there, the holiday-makers will never be allowed to return home, for fear of starting revolutions. I tried to argue with him, but he casually stood up and said he was going to form a resistance group, then strode away along the beach. The trouble is that he’s found nothing with which to occupy his mind – I wish he’d join our theatre group, we’re now rehearsing Pinter’s The Birthday Party. Diana.
The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard Page 141