It didn’t look like an R & R station for tired troops to me; it looked like a sodding battlefield. The checkpoint was a staggered twin-barrier job, with a nasty great Sherman tank looking down its 75 at you from the second one. There were too many soldiers about, and they all looked edgy. We were in a queue behind another staff car and three small trucks whose bodies stood high off their wheels. The front one had a big Red Cross on a white ground painted on its hood. The soldiers scurrying around it had Red Cross arm bands.
Les told me, ‘Don’t like this much. The war had missed here and moved on the last time we were here.’
‘Is this Blijenhoek, where Grace might be?’
‘No. This is Ganda. Blijenhoek’s a few miles on. It’s just a few houses around an old castle: quite pretty, if I remember it right. This place was all right when we were here last month.’
It wasn’t all right now. Ganda had probably been a pretty hamlet, built on either side of a broad curve in the main road. All of the houses had been fought through. Snowdrops worked their way methodically down the vehicles. Les asked one, ‘What happened to this place?’
His white helmet was a size too small: he had half a cigar, and did the trick with it; moving it from one side of his mouth to the other, then speaking around it.
‘Fritz happened. This was the little brother of the Battle of the Bulge. The old man reckoned there musta been half a division of them. Kraut paratroopers. The hard guys.’
‘When was that?’
‘Say ten days ago. They ripped back through the R & R area down the road like a knife through butter.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Holed up in a friggin’ castle, laughin’ at us.’
James decided it was time to put an officerly edge on the conversation, and made a mess of it as usual. He leaned forward and asked, ‘Can we still go up there – to the rest area? We need a quick word with one of your tank commanders, if he’s still there.’
The Snowdrop took in the Major’s bits of brass, and threw him a quick and sloppy salute. James did the same. His was worse. The American said, ‘You wouldn’t be the Englishmen chasing ’cross the war zone after some English girl, sir? We were warned to watch out for a couple of Limeys – sorry, sir – and a priest.’
I suppose that there was no point in denying it; I still had the crosses on my collar. Les had been caught off guard for once. The American had a firmer grip on his tommy-gun than Les had on his beloved Sten. James gave his winning smile. The one that fooled nobody at all.
‘Yes. Hands up. I suppose that’s us. Only you could have caught us, Officer.’
The American wasn’t amused. That was the downside. On the other hand he didn’t seem particularly concerned. He told us, ‘Would you mind pulling out of the line, sir. My officer will want a word with you. That way we can clear the traffic behind you. You can park it up over there, sir.’
He indicated with his machine gun. The end of the short barrel made circular motions which hypnotized me with fear. I was distracted enough to notice that it had a flat, round magazine, like you see in gangster movies. As he manoeuvred us out of the line, and over to the small checkpoint hut, Les murmured, ‘Another fine mess you’ve got us into.’
James said, ‘Sir.’
‘Another fine mess you’ve got us into, sir.’
The American Lieutenant who came out of the small hut was thin and tired-looking. He was talking on a battered portable handset as he walked towards us. He had red mud on his boots and trousers, and a tear in his wind jacket. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. As he approached the car he didn’t so much as glance at me or Les: he shifted the radio to his left hand, came to a nice attention, and flicked James a very neat salute. There always has to be an exception. James wound down the rear window: he was lucky he still had one. The young American asked, ‘Do you mind if I get in, sir? It’ll be more comfortable.’
A wrong-footed James: I could see it in his eyes. He said, ‘I suppose so,’ rather grudgingly, I thought, and moved to make room. The American joined him in the back. I turned to watch. So did Les. Up close the Yank looked like a bit of a fighter. He said, ‘James Oliver. Provost Service, sir,’ and held out his hand.
Our James said, ‘James England.’ They did the handshake thing.
The American said, ‘I know, sir . . . and this is Private Finnigan,’ He smiled at Les. ‘. . . and . . . your priest.’ He didn’t smile at me. ‘I received a signal from Paris. They said to watch out for you, and give you any assistance you asked for: that’s within reason, I expect, sir.’ He tried a tired grin.
I asked him, ‘Who did that order come from, Lieutenant?’
‘Somewhere up high, I expect, Padre, although not as high up as the guy you’re speaking to.’ He gave me a smile then: one that was hard not to forgive. ‘A Mr Kilduff sent the signal; you know him? He said to pass you through, and report back.’
‘We met.’
‘He an’ I were at college together: law. I just spoke to him over a relay. He said that you and the US Army had got off on the wrong foot, Padre, but that it was behind us now. I guess that means that he got his arse felt, sir.’
He turned the conversation back to James, who said, lamely I thought, ‘Quite. These things happen.’
I wasn’t as ready to forgive and forget. The bastard had kept me padlocked to a bed for a day, and I still half suspected that he had a finger on that P-38 which tried to kill us.
England asked him, ‘What is the situation forward of here?’
‘Stabilizing, sir. A few days ago you wouldn’t have liked it at all. This was supposed to be a back area. Colonel Gatcombe reckoned that at least half a company of Jerry parachutists counter-attacked across a river and the canal. Raids like this are just to slow us down, make us think, and buy themselves time to dig in. They’ll fight us on the Rhine. That’s what I think, sir.’
The Major gave his wry smile. I could sense him relaxing. He asked, ‘What does this Colonel Gatcombe think?’
‘No idea, sir. The Colonel started to pray as soon as the Krauts came over the hill: they’ve shipped him Stateside in a strong jacket laced up with tapes. The fight-back at Ganda was organized by a Quartermaster Sergeant and a black cook.’
‘And they stopped a half-company of Paras?’ That was Les.
‘Well, Mr Finnigan. Maybe not a company. The Colonel might have got excited.’
‘So can we go through to what was the rest area?’ James asked. ‘The Padre here needs to speak to a Lieutenant . . .’
‘Grayling. Albert Grayling. Albie. I met him once at the American Red Cross Officers’ Club in Bedford.’
‘Yeah, Padre. Albie’s there. Acting Captain now. They’ll need to find him a few more tanks before he moves on.’
‘Is he OK?’
The Yank paused before replying. He seemed like a straight guy.
‘Yeah, Padre. He’s OK. They’ve taken a hell of a pounding moving up to the river . . .’ There was only one river on people’s minds these days. ‘He lost half the squadron, so they went into R & R to wait for reinforcement. There ain’t much for them up here, but they’ve set up a half-decent bar, and a couple of chow tents. One of our Entertainments Officers found some films. There’s a bathing unit up there as well. They were OK until the Jerry came marching down the road behind them. It spoiled their party.’
‘That’s happened to us,’ Les offered. ‘It never does seem fair, does it?’
I asked, ‘So what are you telling us?’
‘That you might find Albie and his pals are a mite nervous just now.’
‘And a big mob of Germans are still in a nearby castle overlooking their position?’
‘Not overlooking, sir; but near enough to make you feel antsy.’
The Major asked him, ‘Is there any good news?’
‘The Bath Unit, Major. They stood and fought: saved the day. When they ran out of soap, they threw facecloths and scrubbing brushes. The Jerry turned and fled.’
‘Into the castle.’ It was James again. ‘. . . and they’re still there?’
‘Yeah,’ the American said, and suddenly looked his age, which wasn’t much. ‘It’s a bit of a pisser, isn’t it, sir?’