Now Malcy really knew what heart sick meant. He was sick to his very heart at what he’d seen in Buchenwald and Belsen. It was completely beyond him to understand how human beings could do to fellow human beings what the Germans had done to the inmates of these camps. Were the Germans human, he began to wonder? It was difficult to believe after the terrible scenes he had witnessed. It was equally difficult to comprehend that the crowds of ghostly, skeletal figures he had seen wandering around the camps were the lucky ones. At least they’d survived. Unlike so many others, who had died horrible deaths at the hands of Nazi doctors who had performed hideous experiments on them. Malcy could only guess at how many people had been tortured or starved to death, or met their terrible end in the gas chambers. Perhaps no one would ever really know.
For the rest of his life, he would never forget these sad remnants of humanity. Never, never, would he forget what the Germans were capable of. Or indeed any nationality. The Americans had dropped an atom bomb on Hiroshima and the pilot, looking down from a height of thirty three thousand feet, said afterwards that in two minutes, the surface was nothing but blackness, boiling like a barrel of tar. Where before there had been a city with distinctive houses, buildings, now you couldn’t see anything.
And what was the target? Ordinary men, women and children. Young typists in offices, old people sitting at home, nurses in hospitals, mothers out shopping, babies in prams—everybody going about their ordinary, everyday business. All in the boiling tar barrel. And the Americans are on our side for God sake, Malcy thought.
Then three days later, they dropped another bomb on Nagasaki. Why? Nobody could yet figure it out. Malcy was unable to figure it out. How could human beings be like this to one another? War brought out so much cruelty and evil in so many people, of all sides and all nationalities. He had killed, hadn’t he? And he’d seen a decent young man—Andy, his name was—who normally would never have hurt a fly, machine gun a dozen German soldiers in one go. And these Germans had been giving themselves up, walking towards Andy with their hands above their heads. But Andy had seen some of his best mates blown sky high in a boat bombed by a German Stuka.
And so it went on. The whole sickening business. What could be normal any more? Even knowing the war was over didn’t help much. He’d known it was the beginning of the end when Berlin had fallen to the Red Army. Then in May the war in Europe finally came to an end. Now, the war with Japan was over. It was all over, so they said. But it wasn’t all over in his head. Or, he suspected, in the minds of many other servicemen. He’d learned Joe and Pete had been prisoners of war. The Red Cross had passed on postcards from them. They’d been captured by the Japanese and used as slave labour, building a railway where men had died like flies—one for every sleeper that was laid. He didn’t think he could bear it if Joe and Pete had died after all they’d come through together. But he knew he’d have to bear it, just as he’d had to bear everything else.
Then he’d been shipped back to England and he heard that Joe and Pete were back in Britain as well. He found out that they were in hospital in the south of England. His relief was enormous and the hospital was the first place he made for when he landed. He’d spend all his leave with them, if need be.
And there they were—nearly as emaciated as the people he’d seen in the German concentration camps. But at least they were alive. That was the main thing. They were even up and about, although still wearing pyjamas and dressing gowns. There they were, grinning all over their gaunt faces.
‘Well,’ Joe cried out, ‘you’re a fuckin’ sight for sore eyes!’ They shook hands and then Malcy thought, To hell, and hugged the pair of them. He didn’t say anything about them losing their wives. The Red Cross had already been in touch with them and let them know what had happened. They’d realise that he felt for them, and one day perhaps they would talk about it. At the moment, they were just grateful for being reunited.
They told Malcy they weren’t allowed out yet, and were only allowed out of bed for a few hours every day. ‘They’re trying to build our strength up, so they say,’ Pete explained.
‘I’ll find a place to stay locally,’ Malcy told them, ‘and come in and keep you company every day.’
‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ Joe said. ‘Away you go home and enjoy your leave. We’ll have a right get together when we get back.’
‘I don’t mind waiting here for you,’ Malcy said.
‘Go home now, Malcy. The Gourlays, especially Wincey, will be desperate to see you.’
‘They’ll want to see you as well, don’t forget. They want you both to stay with them, at least until you get fixed up.’
‘We know that. But you get up there as quick as you can, mate, and best of luck to you.’
‘All right, I’ll go, but not right this minute.’ He settled down on a bedside chair and they slumped onto the beds. Malcy offered them a cigarette and after lighting up, he said, ‘How did you hear the war had ended?’
Joe said, ‘We’d been working as usual. Then the guard told us to rest before we began the march back to the camp. On the march, we passed another crowd of men and this big, bearded guy with a shovel over his shoulder shouted out to us, “They’ve had it”.’
‘Then,’ Pete said, ‘when we got back to the camp, the commandant told us that the war was over. We heard later that he’d been hanged.’
Joe took up the story again. ‘But the next thing that happened was a great bulky guy in a fancy American uniform arrived. He must have thought he was a bit of a comic. Everyone crowded around him and asked him to tell us all the news. He said Charlie Chaplin was the father of Joan Barry’s kid. It wasn’t until much later that we found out about the atomic bombs.’
They talked until a nurse came and told Malcy that his time was up.
‘See you in the Boundary Bar,’ Malcy said as he left.
Joe and Pete gave him a thumbs up sign and another big grin and Joe shouted out, ‘You get stuck in there with Wincey.’
Malcy had sometimes thought of Wincey but not often now. He had to cope with so many other more vivid and more immediate images filling his mind. He supposed that what he still wanted was to get home to Glasgow to try to pick up some of the threads of normal, ordinary life. Although he wasn’t sure what that was any more.
He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to make his home with the Gourlays. They had insisted, via Wincey’s letters, that that was what he must do. He didn’t know what to do about anything any more, except perhaps to be on his own to try to sort himself out.
Maybe he could rent or buy a place of his own. However, he wrote to Wincey and told her when he would be arriving in Glasgow. He almost dreaded the reunion in his home city—and to think he’d once longed to be back among all the people he knew there.
Now, they seemed as if they were from a different world. Only fellow servicemen like Pete and Joe belonged to his world. Only they knew what it was like. He had moments of near panic when he decided not to go back at all. He’d stay in London. There were plenty of clubs and places for servicemen there. He tried to pull himself together. To chicken out of this last ordeal would do no one any good, especially himself. He’d faced the war. Now he’d have to face the peace.
He bought his ticket to Glasgow and boarded the train. That wasn’t easy for different reasons, but mainly because he was so loaded down by his kit bag that he could hardly manoeuvre himself through the door. Finally, he had to sling it onto the train before clambering on himself.
He sat in a corner by the window, smoking and trying to prepare himself for what was to come. They’d probably meet him at the Central Station. Teresa and Erchie and Wincey. Or maybe Wincey would decide she couldn’t take time away from her factory.
Thinking of the factory made him remember Charlotte. Yet even she had become not only a ghost from the past, but someone from another world. Had he ever belonged to that world?
He felt as if he was on his way to meet a crowd of strangers. He kept trying to brace himself. He wished he could have stayed in the hospital, been allocated a bed next to Joe and Pete. Maybe he didn’t look as ill as they did and in need of rest and treatment, but he felt as if he did. That’s what he secretly longed for. He was so tired. Perhaps it was his exhaustion that was distancing him from everything. He just sat there, hunched in the corner smoking one cigarette after another and listening to the rhythm of the train and allowing it to rock him into a mindless trance.
For a while at least, it gave him a blessed respite from waking dreams of men being blown to bits; drowning men clutching at his legs; men screaming for help; men, women and children crawling towards him from the concentration camps; men, women and children burning.
He became conscious eventually of the train’s rhythm slowing down. Opening his eyes he saw the first sign of Glasgow—the shining silver of the River Clyde. Frantically he struggled not to weep.