The Fourth Estate (19 page)

For the first
half hour of that choppy crossing-Eisenhower had selected an unsettled night
despite the advice of his top meteorologist-they sang, joked and told unlikely
tales of even more unlikely conquests. When Private Player regaled them all
with the story of how he had lost his virginity to a gypsy girl after she had
removed a German bullet from his shoulder, they laughed even louder, and the
sergeant said it was the most unlikely tale they had heard so far.

Lieutenant
Wakeham, who was kneeling at the front of the vessel, suddenly placed the palm
of his right hand high in the air, and everyone fell silent. It was only
moments before they would be landing on an inhospitable beach. Private Player
checked his equipment. He carried a gas mask, a rifle, two bandoliers of
ammunition, some basic rations and a water bottle. It was almost as bad as
being handcuffed. When the destroyer weighed anchor, he followed Lieutenant Wakeham
off the ship into the first amphibious craft.

Within moments
they were heading toward the Normandy beach. As he looked around he could see
that many of his companions were still groggy with seasickness. A hail of
machine-gun bullets and mortars came down on them, and Private Player saw men
in other craft being killed or wounded even before they reached the beach.

When the craft
landed, Player leapt over the side after Lieutenant Wakeham. To his right and
left he could see his mates running up the beach under fire. The first shell
fell to his left before they had covered twenty yards. Seconds later he saw a
corporal stagger on for several paces after a flurry of bullets went right
through his chest. His natural instinct was to take cover, but there was none,
so he forced his legs to keep going. He continued to fire, although he had no
idea where the enemy were.

On and on up the
beach he went, unable now to see how many of his comrades were falling behind
him, but the sand was already littered with bodies that June morning. Player
couldn’t be sure how many hours he was pinned on that beach, but for every few
yards he was able to scramble forward, he spent twice as long lying still as
the enemy fire passed over his head. Every time he rose to advance, fewer of
his comrades joined him. Lieutenant Wakeham finally came to a halt when he
reached the protection of the cliffs, with Private Player only a yard behind
him.

The young
officer was trembling so much it was some moments before he could give any
orders.

When they
finally cleared the beach, Lieutenant Wakeham counted eleven of the original
twenty-eight men who had been on the landing craft. The wireless operator told
him they were not to stop, as their orders were to continue advancing. Player
was the only man who looked pleased. For the next two hours they moved slowly
inland toward the enemy fire. On and on they went, often with only hedgerows;
and ditches for protection, men falling with every stride. It was not until the
sun had almost disappeared that they were finally allowed to rest. A camp was
hastily set up, but few could sleep while the enemy guns continued to pound
away.

While some
played cards, others rested, and the dead lay still.

But Private
Player wanted to be the first to come face to face with the Gen-nans. When he
was certain no one was watching, he stole out of his tent and advanced in the
direction of the enemy, using only the tracers from their fire as his guide.
After forty minutes of running, walking, and crawling, he heard the sound of German
voices. He skirted round the outside of what looked like their forward camp
until he spotted a German soldier relieving himself in the bushes. He crept up
behind him, and just as the man was bending down to pull Lip his pants Player
leapt on him.

With one arm
around his neck, he twisted and snapped his vertebrae, and left him to slump
into the bushes. He removed the German’s identity tag and helmet and set off
back to his camp.

He must have
been about a hundred yards away when a voice demanded, “Who goes there?”

“Little Red
Riding Hood,” said Player, remembering the password just in time.

“Advance and be
recognized.”

Player took a
few more paces forward, and suddenly felt the tip of a bayonet in his back and
a second at his throat. Without another word he was marched off to Lieutenant
Wakeham’s tent. The young officer listened intently to what Player had to say,
only stopping him occasionally to double check some piece of information.

“Right, Player,”
said the lieutenant, once the unofficial scout had completed his report. I want
you to draw a map of exactly where you think the enemy are camped. I need
details of the terrain, distance, numbers, anything you can remember that will
help us once we begin our advance.

When you’ve
completed that, try and get some sleep. You’re going to have to act as our
guide when we begin the advance at first light.”

“Shall I put him
on a charge for leaving the camp without requesting permission from an
officer?” asked the duty sergeant.

“No,” said
Wakeham. I shall be issuing company orders, effective immediately, that Player
has been made up to corporal.” Corporal Player smiled, saluted and returned to
his tent. But before he went to sleep, he sewed two stripes on each sleeve of
his uniform.

As the regiment
advanced slow mile after slow mile deeper into France, Player continued to lead
sorties behind the lines, always returning with vital information. His biggest
prize was when he came back accompanied by a German officer whom he had caught
with his trousers down.

Lieutenant Wakeham
was impressed by the fact that Player had captured the man, and even more when
he began the interrogation, and found that the corporal was able to assume the
role of interpreter.

The next morning
they stormed the village of Orbec, which they overran by nightfall. The
lieutenant sent a dispatch to his headquarters to let them know that Corporal
Player’s information had shortened the battle.

Three months
after Private John Player had landed on the beach at Normandy, the North Staffordshire
Regiment marched down the Champs ~Iys6es, and the newly promoted Sergeant
Player had only one thing on his mind: how to find a woman who would be happy
to spend his three nights’ leave with him or-if he got really luckythree women
who would spend one night each.

But before they
were let loose on the city, all noncommissioned officers were told that they
must first report to the welcoming committee for Allied personnel, where they
would be given advice on how to find their way around Paris. Sergeant Player
couldn’t imagine a bigger waste of his time. He knew exactly how to take care
of himself in any European capital. All he wanted was to be let loose before
the American troops got their hands on everything under forty.

When Sergeant
Player arrived at the committee headquarters, a requisitioned building in the
Place de ]a Madeleine, he took his place in line waiting to receive a folder of
information about what was expected of him while he was on Allied territory-how
to locate the Eiffel Tower, which clubs and restaurants were within his price
range, how to avoid catching VD. It looked as if this advice was being
dispensed by a group of middle-aged ladies who couldn’t possibly have seen the
inside of a nightclub for the past twenty years.

When he finally
reached the front of the queue, he just stood there mesmerized, quite unable to
utter a word in any language. A slim young girl with deep brown eyes and dark
curly hair stood behind the trestle table, and smiled up at the tall, shy
sergeant. She handed him his folder, but he didn’t move on.

“Do you have any
questions?” she asked in English, with a strong French accent.

“Yes,” he
replied. “What is your name?”

“Charlotte,” she
told him, blushing, although she had already been asked the same question a
dozen times that day.

“And are you
French?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Get on with it,
Sarge,” demanded the corporal standing behind him.

“Are you doing
anything for the next three days?” he asked, switching to her own language.

“Not a lot. But
I am on duty for another two hours.”

‘Then I’ll wait
for you,” he said. He turned and took a seat on a wooden bench that had been
placed against the wall.

During the next
120 minutes John Player’s gaze rarely left the girl with curly, dark hair,
except to check the slow progress of the minute hand on the large clock which
hung on the wall behind her. He was glad that he had waited and not suggested
he would return later, because during those two hours he saw several other
soldiers lean over to ask her exactly the same question he had. On each
occasion she looked across in the direction of the sergeant, smiled and shook
her head. When she finally handed over her responsibilities to a middle-aged
matron, she walked across to join him. Now it was her turn to ask a question.

“What would you
like to do first?”

He didn’t tell
her, but happily agreed to being shown around Paris.

For the next
three days he rarely left Charlotte’s side, except when she returned to her
little apartment in the early hours. He did climb the Eiffel Tower, walk along
the banks of the Seine, visit the Louvre and stick to most of the advice given
in the folder, which meant that they were almost always accompanied by at least
three regiments of single soldiers who, whenever they passed him, were unable
to hide the look of envy on their faces.

They ate in
overbooked restaurants, danced in nightclubs so crowded they could only shuffle
around on the spot, and talked of everything except a war that might cause them
to have only three precious days together. Over coffee in the H6tel Cancelier
he told her of the family in Douski he hadn’t seen for four years.

He went on to
describe to her everything that had happened to him since he had escaped from
Czechoslovakia, leaving out only his experience with Mari.

She told him of
her life in Lyon, where her parents owned a small vegetable shop, and of how
happy she had been when the Allies had reoccupied her beloved France. But now
she longed only for the war to be over.

“But not before
I have won the Victoria Cross,” he told her.

She shuddered,
because she had read that many people who were awarded that medal received it
posthumously. “But when the war is over,” she asked him, “what will you do
then?” This time he hesitated, because she had at last found a question to which
he did not have an immediate answer.

“Go back to
England,” he said finally, “where I shall make my fortune.”

“Doing what?”
she asked.

“Not selling
newspapers,” he replied, “that’s for sure.”

During those
three days and three nights the two of them spent only a few hours in bed-the
only time they were apart.

When he finally
left Charlotte at the front door of her tiny apartment, he promised her, “As
soon as we have taken Berlin, I will return.”

Charlotte’s face
crumpled as the man she had fallen in love with strode away, because so many
friends had warned her that once they had left, you never saw them again. And
they were to be proved right, because Charlotte Reville never saw John Player
again.

Sergeant Player signed
in at the guardhouse only minutes before he was due on parade. He shaved
quickly and changed his shirt before checking company orders, to find that the
commanding officer wanted him to report to his office at 0900 hours.

Sergeant Player
marched into the office, came to attention and saluted as the clock in the
square struck nine. He could think of a hundred reasons why the C.O. might want
to see him. But none of them turned out to be right.

The colonel
looked up from his desk. “I’m sorry, Player,” he said softly, “but you’re going
to have to leave the regiment.”

“Why, sir?”
Player asked in disbelief. “What have I done wrong?”

“Nothing,” he
said with a laugh, “nothing at all. On the contrary. My recornmendation that
you should receive the King’s Commission has just been ratified by High
Command. It will therefore be necessary for you to join another regiment so
that you are not put in charge of men who have recently served with you in the
ranks.”

Sergeant Player
stood to attention with his mouth open.

“I am simply
complying with army regulations,” the C.O. explained.

“Naturally the
regiment will miss your particular skills and expertise. But I have no doubt
that we will be hearing of you again at some time in the future. All I can do
now, Player, is wish you the best of luck when you join your new regiment.”

‘Thank You,
sir,” he said, assuming the interview was over. ‘Thank you very much.”

He was about to
salute when the colonel added, “May I be permitted to offer you one piece of
advice before you join your new regiment?”

“Please do,
sir,” replied the newly promoted lieutenant.

11 John Player’
is a slightly ridiculous name. Change it to something less likely to cause the
men you are about to command to snigger behind your back.”