Day (23 page)

Gramophone and records to Pilot Officer Sandy Gibbs. Also my programme from the Folies-Bergère.

The crew, the unfinished crew, they stood with each other and saluted and they did as they should, carried the box to the hearse: lifted the coffin full of pieces. Alfred behind Torrington and Molloy and thinking how neat it was that one man dying left six behind to shift him – three each side – and thinking his shoulder was used to this now and thinking himself down into the beat, the drag and slip of step, the slow march, that respect, and imagining he might hinge down his jaw, open his face and try to scream, but certain not a sound would come from him, not a song.

Alfred knew they were being stared at, this crew – small glances, people wondering if they weren't lucky, if they weren't safe any more, and their fresh navigator – Parks, Cyril Parks – watching them send off their last and new bods wanting to understand what nobody fucking could, or should want to, and old hands fretting against that terrible outrage, the rush of happiness and guilt that took you when the squadron had a loss.

Wisest thing to do was just get on – standing about like this with your dead, it didn't help anyone. And Pluckrose would never have liked it and now Pluckrose couldn't care.

The chaplain talking fucking nonsense – ‘lighten our darkness we beseech thee' – well, who wouldn't ask that and how could it possibly be that we'd all get our way?

It was balls.

Then the hearse pulled away with him loaded inside. Pulled far away.

My Austin 10 (Reg HU 8962) to Sergeant Richard Molloy. Keys left in Briefing Room.

Funny little bloke that drove the hearse – motored the full distance from Scotland, Christ knew how he got the petrol, and going straight back up again. Didn't say much, but he seemed all right. You'd trust him. You'd let him take your friend. As if you could stop him.

Too quick at the end, the leaving. Felt wrong.

Alfred had run for the phone box after, called Joyce, and she was there and he'd had to ask her, couldn't explain, simply pressed on and asked her. ‘Could you come here? Do you think? I mean now.'

‘What's – Alfie? What's the matter? I . . .'

Her voice softening him, bringing him close to losing his own. ‘I'm sorry, I just. I shouldn't have, only I –' A silence sweeping out beneath him like the bomb door's gape while he swallowed and breathed and kept his feet. ‘I shouldn't have asked.'

‘No, I'm just thinking . . . would tomorrow do? I could come tomorrow. I mean, it's nearly six o'clock now. Are you all right? Are you hurt? Is there something –'

So wonderful to hear that she was worried, wanted him not to be hurt.

‘You don't have to. I'm sorry, I just –'

‘Well, of course I have to. If you ask and it's important, then I have to.' The way she might sound with a child: brisk and bright and a care set under both. She would be a good mother – to someone else's children.

‘It's important.'

‘I'll fix things up here and horribly offend three dreadful ladies I'm meant to play bridge with, which I do hope will mean they never speak to me again, and, and . . . someone else can dole out the tea and sandwiches for once. I'll fix things up. I'll come to Lincoln and then get word to you. Do you know of somewhere I can stay? – no, don't bother with that, I'll work that out. You don't bother about anything, Sergeant Alfie. Are you all right, really?'

‘Yes . . . I'm . . . Yes.'

‘Will you tell me when I'm there what the matter is? Alfred?'

‘I will.'

He'd been right, he shouldn't have asked, but he left the phone box with the smile she'd given him, the one that he had to tamp down, eat, because it wouldn't do, not today.

Inside your skin, though, behind your teeth – she was lovely there.

He wandered towards the mess, needed their company – walked in and found a small cluster of chaps, all lurking about near the door and watching a bod he didn't know– fellow called Wilkins – taking great handfuls of newspapers and
Picture Posts
and
Tee Emms
, crumpling them up and dropping them round his chair. He was doing it with a funny kind of precision, almost ceremony.

Chess set to Warrant Officer Bill Torrington. Also two pairs marcasite earrings for which he may find grateful owners.

Finally, a little wall of paper built up on every side, Wilkins sat, took out his lighter, fired it up and threw it down between his feet.

Alfred and the others ran at him, hauled him out of his seat, stamped on the flames which were spreading remarkably quickly, petrol spilling from the lighter as Wilkins had intended.

‘Silly bastard.'

Someone chucked their pot of tea in a helpful direction and the curling ashes hissed, smoked appallingly.

‘Let me go.' Wilkins not shouting, not sounding too interested, but still repeating, ‘Let me go.' While a lanky W/Op frisked him as if he'd searched people before and took charge of his matches.

‘Let me go.'

‘He's ruined that bit of bloody carpet.'

‘Christ, it takes you enough time to get things decent.'

‘Fancy' lighter to Sergeant John Hanson.

Alfred – not wanting to look at Wilkins, or hear him – had started to scoop up the charred papers but then couldn't think where to put them and just stood reading an item about a plucky submarine crew – sixteen ships sunk and 40,000 tons – two VCs, one DSO. That and an advert for Barney's pipe tobacco, an overseas flying officer saying how fine it was –
The Barney's ‘EVERFRESH' Tin has conquered time, distance and climate. In the desert of Sind Barney's opens out as sweet, fresh and fragrant as when it left Tyneside.

‘Let me go.'

Miles appeared soon after that with Chiefy and some burly chaps in tow. They didn't seem surprised, only highly keen to get Wilkins out.

‘Clean that bloody mess up, will you.' Chiefy in a rush. ‘Don't just stand there. Inspection at 16.30 tomorrow.' And he two-sixed their man off.

‘Let me go.'

The mess adjusted itself with chatter. Kicked about the ruins and lit new cigarettes.

‘Poor bastard.'

‘Poor bastard nothing – I was reading that
Picture Post
.'

‘Reading nothing – you were eyeing up that bint with the bathing cap in
London Opinion.
'

‘Bugger me. He hasn't tried burning her, has he?'

‘He'll be cleaning fucking toilets for the rest of the war.'

‘Quite bloody right. If he's ruined page seventeen. She was all that got me through.'

‘Oh, yes. Poor sod.' Hanson dropping into an armchair with the air of a man who intended he should stay. ‘Scrubbing away at that porcelain, while we have all the fucking fun. We're the lucky boys, we are.' He yawned, scratched inside his shirt and pulled out a
London Opinion
– opening it carefully and then licking his lips. An unscathed paperback was flung towards his head, its previous owner protesting as it flew.

‘Oh, now look, you bleeders – I was reading
that
.'

A couple of bods laughed, Alfred heard them. Last week, he'd have laughed as well.

My books, what there are, I give to Sergeant A.F. Day. He's read them all, anyway.
Other effects to family if crew don't want them.
With apologies for any inconvenience and my thanks in advance.

drop

Vasyl caught Alfred about nine o'clock, ran across the junction between huts that a bright and patriotic spark had christened Charing Cross – but after the one in Glasgow, apparently. ‘I saw when you were talking to that German cunt.' A kind of anguish in the Ukrainian's face and the evening falling down at his shoulder – colours heating, deepening.

‘Seemed a pleasant type.' Alfred sure Vasyl wanted to take his arm, so he drew off to one side, which would seem defensive, but never mind. ‘What's it to you?' Alfred had wanted to watch out the end of the day, be undisturbed.

‘He tells you he suffered?'

‘Not particularly, no.' Now he could see it coming. Vasyl was the type who'd want to have suffered, whose suffering was special, who'd want to tell that kind of story. ‘Have to go, now, Basil. Spot of tin bashing to get on with. Trying to make a coffee pot. This time, if it works, I can take it back home.' Which would be pointless, given that no one in London – not even Ivor – would care for a tin-can coffee pot.

Vasyl pushed at his Jerry headgear, some kind of thought going on, then made a tiny lunge forward. ‘Please. No.' Hands up in surrender, but preventing Alfred moving off, eyes attempting to be gentle, innocent. ‘You should know. People should know.'

‘All right.' Alfred sighed, folded his arms. ‘What is it I should know?'

‘I was prisoner, too. Of the Americans. I was mislaid for a while and caught and then put in the Rhine Meadow. I ended in Remagen and the Amis took my watch.'

‘You poor thing.'

‘But no, this isn't right. Some Amis with five watches, six. They steal our watches. But they give us no food. It rained. In that April it rained. And we were sleeping in holes – no tents, no huts, they put us in fields like animals and some they were drowned like this in these holes.'

It was odd, Alfred almost believed him: the way his palms waved in front of him, helpless-looking, and his voice wavered. It was somebody's true story, anyway – even if it wasn't Vasyl's.

‘We could see the boxes of food, but there was nothing for us. Almost nothing. I ate grass. You ever eat grass?'

‘As it happens.'

Vasyl ignored the interruption. ‘At night sometimes they fired tracer over our heads, so we would be down all the time, on our hands and knees – to make us crawl. Why would they want this?'

‘I can't imagine.'

‘Policemen, firemen, postmen they just take everyone in a uniform. I was in a good uniform. They could tell I was not SS. I had a good uniform.'

And you could see then a little tick of truth and Vasyl paused for a moment and blinked at you. He'd got himself a
Wehrmacht
uniform, or a policeman's, fireman's, postman's, and he'd tried to hide and been taken anyway. He'd been SS.

Alfred grinned at him. ‘Well, none of us enjoyed ourselves too much. What with one thing and another.'

The hands rose again. ‘They keep me ten months like this. Men dying everywhere – men have the
Ruhr
.'

Ruhr – you haven't heard that for a while – the German slang for dysentery. A sense of humour there – all of that heavy industry in the Ruhr Valley making its river the colour of running shit. All of that heavy industry making you bomb it, bomb the Happy Valley, night after fucking night. Some places have no luck.

‘Very bad
Ruhr
among everyone, you understand.

‘Dysentery.'

‘I –'

‘Yes, that'll kill you, often as not. By the way – that bod you gave the third degree – that man you beat. What had he done?'

Now it was Vasyl's chance to grin. ‘I don't beat anyone. I could never do such a thing.' He sloped his fists down into his pockets. ‘But there are bad people here – ones who have done terrible things.'

‘I'm sure there are, Basil. And I'm sure there are other people who want to say so.' Alfred began walking, Vasyl staying with him.

‘Perhaps.'

‘How did you come to be a DP – that's for civilians, isn't it?'

‘But I was forced. We didn't wish to be soldiers, we were just glad to be free from Stalin when the Germans came – and then – and then I was a kind of slave.' He made a different, softer smile, as if such a bad lie was a disappointment to him, an amusing example of human frailty, and so he would disown it as he spoke. ‘They have to keep us as DPs – if they don't we are sent back to the Russians, the Communists, and nobody loves the Communists any more. Everything changes, Mr Alfred, and one must be on the clean side when they do. A man must be clever.'

‘I'm sure.
Sehr schlau
.' And rather than have to put up with this any longer, Alfred stepped up into a hut he didn't know, hoping that Vasyl wouldn't follow.

Although they hadn't seemed to be there a moment before, he found himself walking into a pair of quite large gentlemen – ‘Hello there' – solidly made. ‘Can we help you?' They were friendly enough – in a brick shithouse kind of way. ‘We're busy in here, you see.' But Alfred knew they wouldn't mind a fight and probably wouldn't lose it, not unless he did bad things to them, and they might have learned some bad things of their own. ‘Yes, laddie. Highly occupied.'

Alfred half turned, checking for Vasyl: but the Ukrainian was yards away now, a queer look about him – amusement and worry blended. He gave a carefully insolent salute, turned on his heel and sloped away.

‘Laddie?' The voice at Alfred's side rumbling so deep he could feel it in his arms. ‘You really should think of fucking off.'

‘No, no – he's all right.' Somebody calling from further indoors. ‘He's one of ours.' A Scottish twang and a sense of authority, of matters being taken efficiently in hand. The guards shrugged, parted, and Alfred was facing a slim, restless man dressed in filthy long underwear – very blue eyes in a filthy face, filthy hand extended. ‘You are, aren't you?' The man glanced down at his own general disarray and let his hand drop before Alfred could shake it. ‘You're the boy who fainted, aren't you?'

‘I . . .' An odd clank and scrape started up at the far end of the hut. ‘Yes . . . You . . . You're not . . . ?' The guards settled themselves down to crouch either side of the door – each of them looked like a stack of normal people. The din continued and Alfred had to ask, ‘You are, aren't you?'

The man clapped his knees and laughed, teeth showing white. ‘Yes, yes we are. Couldn't help ourselves.' He scratched at the back of his head, producing a small shower of sand. ‘Come away in and see.' Alfred followed as the man barefooted it over the floorboards. ‘Apologies, by the way – Gad, they call me – should have done the introductions first. The two bruisers are Binns and Duncan. And you?' There was a happiness about him that seemed too fierce.