Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘I’m going to need you here for a while.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No doubt Grant filled you in back in London. This is a new office; we’ve a great deal to do, mostly, at this stage, relating to the processing of prisoners.’

  ‘Processing?’

  ‘Translating, you know, interpreting and so on when we question them. We’re collecting quite a few, Italian and German – I gather you’re fluent in both.’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘We’ll retrieve your belongings, fix you a billet, fresh uniform and so on.’

  ‘What about 2nd Battalion?’

  ‘You’re being detached here.’

  ‘But with respect, sir, my duty’s with them.’

  ‘Not for now it isn’t. It’s here interpreting for us.’

  ‘But 2nd Battalion—’

  ‘Has gone!’ Yale leaned forward. ‘Ceased to exist. Don’t you get it?’

  ‘Ceased...’

  ‘The 2nd Parachute Battalion is not currently a functioning unit. It’s been stood down. Frost too. He’s lodged complaints, and there’s an investigation ongoing.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘But nothing. That’s all you need to know. Except that you have been detached here for the foreseeable future.’ Yale tapped the file. ‘Do you understand?’

  Trickey’s eyes bored into him suddenly. ‘Where’s Major Teichman?’

  Yale sighed. ‘Teichman’s dead. He was killed trying to lead C Company survivors through enemy lines.’

  *

  Yale showed him to an adjoining office and handed him over to an orderly. The orderly, an overbearing corporal named Bryce, gave him money, a chit for a fresh uniform, and directions to his billet, which was in a requisitioned boarding house two streets away. Take the weekend off, Bryce instructed, and report for work first thing Monday. More instructions followed. Stay away from Maison Carrée. Make no attempt to contact 2nd Battalion. Keep clear of the harbour at night – unless you want your throat cut. Watch out on the streets, Algiers is crawling with spies, double agents, fifth columnists, deserters, thieves and prostitutes. Trust no one and don’t mix with the locals, especially the French. Curfew’s at 2200 hours; be indoors or else. And keep away from the casbah, it’s banned to all servicemen.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s a hotbed of crime and depravity. In fact, my advice is stay in the billet and go nowhere at all. Sign here.’

  Theo signed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bryce grimaced. ‘Take a bath, for God’s sake. And while you’re at it put that ghastly smock thing in there too, it smells like a backstreet butcher’s.’

  He found the billet, ate a stale sandwich in the mess, bathed and changed, then went to his room, which was a cramped garret on the top floor with flaking walls, furnished with two army cots, chairs and a table. Personal effects littered one cot, so he selected the other, stretched out and tried to sleep.

  Though his statement to Yale was accurate, including his summary of the Depienne operation, he wished he’d left out the part about Teichman and Frost arguing. Because it felt disloyal. 2nd Battalion stood down, Yale had said, an investigation ongoing, but what did that mean? Was Colonel Frost in trouble? Yet he’d only done everything possible to save the situation. He tossed and turned on the cot, reliving the nightmare. The carnage and slaughter, the shelling and the sniping, the night marches and the rain, the cold, thirst and hunger. The desperate last-ditch defence of Sidi Bou. And the final night, wandering the hills with Euan searching for help. He regretted reporting that too. How he had failed to stop Euan entering the hut. The shocking flash and bang of the booby trap. Holding him in his arms afterwards. Trying to calm him when he cried out. The look in his eyes when he passed, and the dreadful loneliness after. These things were not for sharing.

  The rest was as he’d reported it. After finally leaving Euan, he’d made his way slowly south, keeping away from roads, avoiding towns and villages, travelling mostly by night. He lived off the last of his rations, a rabbit he snared and stolen fruit when he could find it. For two days he had to hide beneath an embankment when a German motorized patrol stopped and made camp. At night he could hear them talking around their campfires. Finally they moved on and he set off once more. On the fifth morning, exhausted and starving, he spotted a well at a crossroads and descended in search of water. As he was filling his bottle a half-track roared round the corner bristling with infantrymen. But they weren’t German, they were American, a recce patrol, and once satisfied he was not a ‘kraut saboteur’ they made him welcome, gave him food, and drove him back to their base, which was a huddle of tents outside Quballat. No, they said, in answer to his repeated questions, they knew nothing of a missing Brit unit, but they’d seen plenty of Jerry and been hearing their artillery for days. After a week at Quballat they gradually started shunting him rearwards, before flying him to Algiers from Oran this morning.

  He awoke with a start to the drumming of feet on stairs. A moment later a dark man in a suit burst through the door.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello! Is mus’ be my new bed fellow.’

  Theo sat up. ‘Was ist los?’

  ‘Keine Panik, Junge. I am Antoine. We share this room, no?’

  ‘What?’ He shook his head.

  ‘Is true. An’ you are?’

  ‘Um, sorry, I’m Theo Trickey.’

  ‘Theotricia.’

  ‘No, that’s Theo.’

  ‘Tadzio.’

  ‘No, it’s... I’m sorry, who did you say you were?’

  ‘Antoine. Sharif.’ He bowed. ‘Of the French army intelligence. Linguistics section, don’ you know.’

  ‘You’re French?’

  ‘French, Algerian, Arabic – you choose. Some English also. Call me Tony!’

  ‘Tony? But—’

  ‘Enough questionings, Tadzio, come. We go eat now, hup hup!’

  Ten minutes later, wearing ill-fitting civilian clothes forced on him by Antoine, he was hurrying along cobbled alleyways that twisted up through the town like creepers up a tree. Darkness had fallen. The alleys were poorly lit, shadowy images passing like pictures in a book; men playing cards, old women talking, children squabbling, someone smoking a hookah. In one doorway he glimpsed a chicken being strangled.

  ‘Where are we?’ he puffed.

  ‘Away from riff-raff, away from military, Randon quarter.’

  ‘In the casbah?’

  ‘Of course, is best food here. You bring money? Quick. Along this!’

  They turned a corner, ducked through an archway and emerged on to a narrow lane crammed with shops, stalls and cafés. Vendors sat on the cobbles touting goods by lantern light – ornately worked copper, fruit, spices, army equipment, smuggled cigarettes. It was like the market he’d bought his binoculars at, but quieter and more furtive. People seemed wary as they approached, until Antoine greeted them with laughs and handshakes. Halfway along, he grabbed Theo and dragged him into a tiny café. Embracing the patron, he collected a carafe and glasses.

  ‘Muscatel! Good stuff too, not slop they give GIs. Drink, Tadzio!’

  Theo tasted musky sweetness. ‘Very nice.’ He gazed around. ‘Um, isn’t there a blackout?’

  ‘Pah! Nobody give damn. Anyway Luftwaffe only bomb ships in harbour and never French quarter. I learn this from prisoner.’

  A while later their food arrived. ‘Ah – chakhchoukha!’ Antoine rubbed his hands. ‘Is local specialty.’

  Theo chewed. ‘What kind of meat is this?’

  ‘Lamb, idéalement.’ Antoine considered. ‘But this horse.’

  He was about thirty, Theo guessed, short and wiry, of Middle Eastern complexion with dark eyes and curly hair. His suit was linen and too tight; he wore a tiny bow tie at his throat, like a waiter. His shoes looked expensive.

  ‘Who did you say you worked for, Tony?’

  ‘For you boys! Alors non: BCRA, is Bureau Central de Renseignements et d’Action, except no, Action Militaire they cal
l it now. Is bloody mess, name changes every damn week.’

  ‘But you’re in the French army.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Sergent-chef, don’ you know. But ’ow you say, détaché now, to your Massingham chappies here in Algiers.’

  ‘Linguistics section.’

  ‘Yes, yes, French, Arabic, Inglés, prisoners and deserters mos’ly but plenty other bad boy traitors and spies in glasshouse here, you know. Et toi?’

  ‘Italian and German. And I’m trying to learn Arabic.’

  ‘An’ I want speak better English! We can help each other, no? Excellent!’ He patted his pockets. ‘Tadzio, you bring money?’

  After the meal, Antoine led him to a succession of bars and clubs, each one seedier than the last. Muscatel flowed, crowds swirled, rain fell, Theo’s head began to throb. Finally they arrived at a larger building with colonnaded entrance and two uniformed heavies at the door, which was wooden and ornately carved. Above it hung a sign: ‘Starlight Club’.

  ‘’Ello, boys!’ Antoine greeted the doormen. ‘Is me, Tony!’ Then he spoke rapidly in Arabic, money changed hands, and they were ushered in.

  A haze of smoke filled a large salon. The air was hot and foetid, heavy with the scent of perfume, incense, sweat and tobacco. Furnished in Moorish style, the space featured rugs and carpets scattered with divans and cushions, upon which lounged middle-aged men in suits. The centre of the room was bare, like a stage; a bar lined one wall, a reception desk another, and stairs led to a balcony with numbered doors leading off, like in a hotel. Leaning over the balcony, smiling and waving, flimsily dressed and heavily rouged, were several young women, some European-looking, others Algerian, one ebony-black. More girls circulated among the men downstairs, serving drinks and lighting their cigarettes. An older woman appeared, small and business-like and smartly dressed in a Parisian suit. She spoke briefly with Antoine in French, took their money and led them to a sofa beside the stage.

  ‘Tony,’ Theo began uneasily, ‘Listen, I am rather tired, and there’s something—’

  ‘This very old place, you know.’ Antoine gestured at the ceiling, ‘Ottoman, seizième siècle, is once gathering hall for Barbary corsairs. Pirates and that.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Watch now. Best floorshow in casbah.’

  Lights dimmed, a hush fell, French accordion music began on a gramophone. Two of the girls from the balcony appeared on the floor, and immediately began kissing and fondling each other. Their clothes – thin shifts and wispy chemises – were quickly discarded, then they knelt, naked, and the kissing became more ardent, and the fondling more intimate. Before he knew it they were lying on the floor, barely yards from his feet, their arms and legs tightly entwined, groaning and sighing and caressing each other, including between their legs. He swallowed, shocked yet transfixed; all around him the men on the cushions sat as though frozen, eyes wide, faces glistening with perspiration. The girls’ movements became more rhythmic, and more urgent; they rolled aside, and opened their thighs so the men could watch as they rubbed one another. A minute more and they were gasping, their bodies thrashing and jerking as though in spasm, before, in a climactic torrent of shouts they went rigid, then subsided, and fell apart, arms and legs splayed, into breathless silence. Then they picked up their clothes and left the stage.

  *

  It took him an hour to locate Yale’s office. He had no memory of the route Antoine had taken to the Starlight Club, let alone the café where they’d eaten, only that it had been endlessly uphill, so by heading downward he reasoned he would find a way out of the labyrinth. Leaving Antoine and the club behind he hurried away through fresh rain. By now the curfew was in force, yet the alleys still bustled. A few red-capped Military Police prowled, and he hid in doorways when he saw them. Finally he emerged on to a street he recognized; from there he located his billet, then it was a short walk to the administrative quarter. He found the window in the lane where he’d heard the Algerians arguing. As he’d hoped, it was latched shut, as Yale had left it, but not locked. A minute’s probing with a bent wire and he was in.

  The Depienne dossier consisted of a dozen mimeographed documents, reports, statements, letters and memoranda covering the six days of the operation. The longest was Frost’s official record, which was factual, unembellished, and seemingly without emotion. Yet between the lines Theo could detect his frustration at the poor planning, the bad intelligence, lack of support, transport and radio communication. And especially the absence of an extraction plan, compounded by the ‘we’re not coming’ radio message from 1st Army. Appended to the report was Frost’s covering letter to his new superior, Brigadier Flavell. Here his tone was unrestrained, angrily despairing at ‘the disgraceful way 2nd Battalion was thrown to the wolves’. He went on to request a formal investigation: ‘to establish how on earth HQ could ever have sanctioned such a pointless and poorly thought-out operation’. And his final sentence was a shock. ‘We dropped into Depienne as a battalion of 540 men. Six days later we crawled into Medjez with less than 170. And for what?’

  The next document was Flavell’s reply, which sympathized with Frost and assured him the matter was being investigated. ‘Plainly the planners at HQ have no grasp of the purpose and value of a force like ours,’ he wrote, adding ominously, ‘I hear they are proposing no more airborne ops for us, but some kind of infantry role. All three battalions have been withdrawn accordingly.’

  The other documents were reports from the individual company commanders and officers who survived. From these he was able to piece together 2nd Battalion’s final hours. HQ and A Companies had fared best, struggling into Medjez more or less intact. But coming down from Sidi Bou, B Company became separated from the main body. At dawn next day they stumbled into an enemy ambush and found themselves surrounded. Desperate fighting followed during which many in B Company were killed, including its commander Major Cleaver. The rest were captured. Only a few made it to Medjez, including one lieutenant, Crawley, who walked for two days led by the hand having been blinded by a shell.

  John Ross staggered in later the same day, together with one subaltern, Spender, and six other C Company survivors. The rest, Frost’s beloved Highlanders, the wild men of Sidi Bou, the raucous heroes of Bruneval, had vanished. Theo read on in disbelief: Berryman, Duncan, Falconer, Fletcher, the casualty list was bottomless. C Company gone, B Company gone, 370 men killed or captured. The heart had been torn from the battalion. Even if replacements were found and trained, it would never be the same. 2nd Battalion, as he knew and loved it, had ceased to exist. Exactly as Yale had said.

  A sheet slipped from the file. He picked it up. It was a poem, handwritten by Ross’s subaltern, Richard Spender. Theo didn’t know him well; ‘Dickie’ Spender had joined C Company after Bruneval. But he’d quickly established a reputation as a quirky and flamboyant lieutenant of the Royal Ulsters, who wore a huge green hackle on his regimental bonnet, carried a blackthorn stick, and marched his men to a piccolo he kept in his pocket. Few knew that he was also a writer of poetry.

  Perhaps some God looking down

  With dull, cold eyes, by the near stars, will see

  One lonely grim battalion cut its way

  Through agony and death to fame’s high crown...

  Returning the sheet to the file, he tidied Yale’s desk, turned off the light, and slipped through the window to the street.

  *

  On the Monday morning he reported for work. ‘Major Yale is in meetings,’ Bryce told him brusquely, ‘in any case you report to me, not Yale, as he’s busy with more important matters.’

  ‘Yes, Corporal.’

  ‘Right, here’s your list, and here’s your pro forma. You know what to do.’

  ‘Yes, Corporal. Although, um, actually no, Corporal.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘But you’ve done this before.’

  ‘Done what, Corporal?’

  Bryce rolled his eyes. ‘Question
prisoners, you ass!’

  A girl in FANY uniform was typing at a desk. Though her eyes were on her work, her mouth stifled a smile.

  ‘Well, no, Corporal.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Although I have done it the other way round. Once or twice.’

  ‘What are you babbling about?’

  ‘Well, I have been questioned, as a prisoner, as it were, by other people. But I’ve never actually done the, um, questioning. As a questioner.’

  The girl’s shoulders were now shaking.

  ‘Are you taking the mickey, Private?’

  ‘No, Corporal!’

  ‘You’d better bloody not, or I’ll have you on a fizzer fast as flash!’

  ‘But—’ The girl made a tiny shake of her head. ‘Yes, Corporal. Sorry.’

  ‘Right. Well, you just watch it, that’s all.’

  The list, Bryce explained slowly, as though to a deaf pensioner, contained the names of the prisoners Theo was to question that day. The pro forma contained the questions he was to ask them. He was to fill in one form for each prisoner, like a questionnaire, then at the end of the day return to the office and put the completed forms into Driver Taylor’s basket for typing.

  ‘Now, have you got all that?’

  ‘Driver, um...’

  ‘That’s me.’ The girl smiled. ‘Clare Taylor. Hello.’

  ‘Oh, right. Hello. Yes, Corporal, I’ve got it now.’

  ‘Thank Christ. Right, off you go, and don’t hang about, you’ve a lot to do.’

  ‘Yes, Corporal.’ He strode to the door. ‘One thing, Corporal.’

  ‘What now, for pity’s sake?’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  It was a transit camp on the western edge of town. Red beret on head, a leather satchel under one arm, it took him an hour to march there, finally rounding a bend to find a ramshackle cluster of tents and huts parked beside a railway line. Smoke rose from fires, limp laundry fluttered, inmates stood around aimlessly; in the desultory January drizzle it reminded him of the Kempton camp where his mother had been. He found the gate, presented his papers and was directed to a wooden side-office. Ten minutes later the first prisoner was ushered in.