‘You forgot those two Jerries on the BMW, didn’t you?’ Kate was labouring up a long twisted hill. The Major had assured us that we would be able to see Bremen from the other side. I’d already worked out that what I had originally thought were thick cumulus storm clouds was in fact a broad column of smoke.
James asked, ‘What?’ and sniffed the air like a gun dog. He must have been dozing.
A jeep pissed past us as if Kate had been standing still. Mud splashed back from it. Les cursed, because since we’d changed Kate’s windscreen the wipers didn’t work.
Les again: ‘He was worried about not having killed enough Jerries before the great reckoning up began. He doesn’t want to face the Great Architect in the sky with all his pluses in the wrong column. He’d forgotten those bastards on the motorbike, and is still worried about the Yanks we had put down.’
James asked, ‘What Yanks? Can’t seem to remember any.’
‘Nor can I, sir.’
We ran without speaking for thirty minutes or so. Kate sounded sweet. We crested the hill, and saw the southern suburb of Bremen for the first time. It was about fifteen miles away. Les said, ‘Journey’s end, Charlie.’
A few miles on, in a small hamlet the size of Korne, we were pulled up at a roadblock manned by bored-looking squaddies. There were half a dozen vehicles parked up off the thoroughfare, waiting to be passed through. James got out for a look-see. A squaddy saluted. One other started to, and then bent over and vomited. James raised an eyebrow and waited. It was the first time I’d seen him do either. The saluter apologized.
‘Sorry, sir. He’s got some sort of stomach problem.’
‘I can smell it from here, Bombardier’ – he was good at unit flashes – ‘I’d say his stomach problem came in tall brown glass bottles labelled Wein.’
The saluter straightened. His face wore a game’s up expression.
‘Sir.’
But James ignored the vomiter.
‘So what’s the hold-up?’
‘I think that things are a bit chaotic down there, sir, so they want everyone held back until the MPs have got control again. There are three armies loose in there at the moment.’
‘Brits and Canadians, and . . .?’
‘I understand that an American tank unit got in there somehow, sir.’
‘Are there any exceptions to your instructions? We really do have pressing business . . .’
‘They left me a list, sir.’
‘Could you check it for a Major England, Mr Finnigan – my driver – and er . . . Pilot Officer Bassett? He’s my passenger.’
‘I could, sir, but . . .’
His eyes flicked sideways to his drunken companion, who was sitting on the ground by now, hunched over a .303, cradled in his lap. James leaned over and lifted the rifle away. He said, ‘We’ll hold the fort for you.’
The gunner nodded. He stepped sideways through the hole they’d knocked in a cottage wall. It was their makeshift guard house. I got out to stretch my legs. I’d already filled my pipe with sweet nutty tobacco. Now I lit it. I asked James, ‘What’s afoot, sir?’
‘I don’t think they want us to see what our brave soldiery are doing to the citizens of Bremen. Matey is off to check his list of bodies who may be passed through. I said that I’d man his post.’
‘We could just sod off.’
‘That would be unsoldierly.’
‘I think that you make those words up, sir.’
‘Sometimes. But I always write them down afterwards.’
Kate had once been identical to the staff car which drew up. Unlike Kate it still had all the right windows, was unbattered, and it had obviously had a wash that morning. Its driver, when he hopped out, was immaculate. He went to attention in front of James, who put him at ease. James appeared to be enjoying himself. The new driver must have at-eased in a particularly soggy spot. I could see that he was slowly sinking into it. The new Humber suddenly swayed as somebody heavy shifted inside. A rear passenger door opened, and a portly Colonel stepped out. He had a nicotine-stained moustache the size of a small broom. He said, ‘Sod it man, he’s only a Major, just shove him out of the road!’
The Corporal turned white, but he didn’t move: James had the gun. James looked at the fat man, who said, ‘Hello James.’
James said, ‘Hello Freddy.’
‘Still causing trouble?’
‘Still bumming your fags?’
‘No. Grew out of it. Got married. Three children, one grandchild. You?’
‘No. Didn’t get round to it. Do I have to call you sir?’
‘If you like. In front of the oiks. Didn’t you have an exceptionally pretty sister?’
‘I still have. She’s worn quite well, sir.’
‘Your man’s got his mouth open. Gaping.’
‘I’ve told him about that before. He’s a parson and a grammar school boy.’
‘Explains it.’
‘That’s what I think, too.’ James turned to me and offered, ‘This is Colonel Sir Frederick Hastings. He was a consultant surgeon at St Bartholomew’s Hospital before the war. Before that he accompanied the Royal Veterinary Corps into Afghanistan in the Twenties and Thirties. He is probably the world’s most knowledgeable living expert on battlefield injuries. Sir Frederick is on the Surgeon General’s staff.’
I saluted, and stepped forward – careful to stay clear of the soft stuff.
‘We were at school together. Freddy was in the Upper School when I was still a nymph.’
The Colonel took out a huge pocket handkerchief, and emptied the contents of his nostrils into it. The bogies seemed to flow on for minutes. After a flamboyant wipe he asked James, ‘What is the hold-up?’
‘Bremen hasn’t been pacified yet.’
‘Balls. Any fighting Germans are miles away. It’s all over bar the weeping.’
‘I don’t think that the Germans are the problem, sir. It’s the Canadian Army fighting the British, and both of them are fighting off some Americans.’
‘Can my man move yet? His boots have disappeared.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I feel like Horatius at the bridge.’
‘Would it make any difference if I gave you an order?’
‘No, sir: I know my duty.’
‘Thought so. You always were a silly beggar . . . Harrington?’
The driver said, ‘Yessir?’ He tried to come to attention in the mud, but it didn’t work. His feet wouldn’t obey his head, and he swayed alarmingly. I thought that he was going to fall.
‘You’ll just have to stay there until this is sorted out. Don’t upset the Major. He was a crack shot in the ATC.’
The guard slipped back out through the wall. He saluted the Colonel and James. Both responded. He told James, ‘None of you were on the list to be passed through, begging your pardon, sir, but I’ve spoken to a Major Hendriks, who vouched for you, sir. You’re free to proceed.’
‘What about Hastings and Harrington?’ The Colonel asked reasonably. ‘We on your bally list?’
‘ ’fraid not, sir.’
‘There’s a Bernard Montgomery and a Brian Horrocks on it, sir. It doesn’t say their rank.’
‘No. Of course not. Silly bally names. Wonder who they are.’ He seemed to notice the squaddy sprawled on the ground for the first time, and asked, ‘Well: seeing as I’m staying, apparently, I suppose that you’ll want me to look at that fellah. He’ll die if we don’t do something for him.’
The soldier was breathing in slow rattly draughts, each further apart than the last. The Bombardier responded with, ‘That would be very kind, sir. I’ll get someone to move him inside.’
‘Don’t bother. My Corporal will do it. What’s he standing in, by the way?’
‘Road drain, sir. Caught a couple of the lads out before we realized that it was full of mud and shit. Sir.’
The Colonel touched his sinking driver on the shoulder.
‘All right, Harrington. Carry on.’
After we moved off downhill Les told James, ‘If he was an old school chum you could have used your influence with Mr Hendriks to get him cleared through as well.’
James didn’t reply for a six-beat: he was sprawled across Kate’s rear seat with his hat tipped over his eyes. Then he said, ‘I told you. He’s on the Surgeon General’s staff. He’ll be heading for the same hospital as McKechnie and Charlie, and taking over. I thought that Charlie could use a few hours’ grace. Pardon the pun.’