A New Kind of War

swim at Vouliagmeni, three days and most of Europe away from where he was now, in the rain alongside a line of huge American lorries.

The car checked slightly, and the rain blurred the window, and he felt the loss of Allan and his friends, and of the poet’s wine-dark sea and the ineffably blue sky, which was even greater than the mild hunger-and-thirst he had felt for several hours –

(‘Since Scobiemas I have become an effete peacetime soldier,’

Allan had said, that last time. ‘ Steward! Bring me a beer – two beers!’ And then to Fred: ‘ He’ll slop them . . . And there was a time when I could put two beers on my Sherman, and drive it down here without wasting a drop! We’ve all become demoralized by peace, Fred –“Peace in Europe – and God help those poor devils in the Far East” – there’s a toast for you! “God help them . . . but, dear God, don’t ask us to help them!” Steward! Where are those beers – ?’)

But no beers now. And he mustn’t doze off, either –

‘Sorry I didn’t come for you, major . . . sir.’ The driver half-twisted towards him. ‘But . . . the American gentleman said not to. ’E said I was to stay where I was, an‘ ’e’d bring you, ‘e said, ’e did.‘

Fred perked up. If the little man was talkative, then he might let slip their present destination; and then, when they had gone far enough, he could be browbeaten elsewhere. ‘He did?’

‘Ah – ’ They passed the last of the trucks, and then swerved too late to avoid a crudely-filled crater across half the road ‘ – but I wouldn’t ’ave gorn, even if ‘e’d arsked me ... not with all these dummy4

Yanks around, see?’

All Fred saw was that most of the American drivers were negroes.

‘Yes?’

‘They’d ’ave ‘ad the car, one of ’em would – sure as God made little apples.‘ The little man spoke without rancour.

‘Of course.’ It had been foolish of him to forget for a second that anything left unguarded for more than five seconds was at risk.

Soldiers or civilians, it was all the same, they were all thieves; and what they couldn’t steal they stripped – like that Bailey Bridge transporter in Italy, which had been found the day after minus every removable part, engine, wheels, nuts and bolts, and Bailey Bridge. And there was no reason why Germany should be different. But he wanted the little man to go on talking. ‘They’ll steal anything, will they?’

‘Lord no, sir!’ The little man chuckled throatily. ‘The Yanks is choosey now. The Jerries, you’ve got to watch . . . speshly the little kids – they’re not scared, see. An’ the DPs is worst – they’ll ‘ave the shirt orf yer back if they takes a fancy to it ... But the Yanks – ’

He tapped the steering wheel. ‘ – this is a good vee-hicle, this is.

Wot they call a “collector’s piece”, this is.’

Fred lifted himself slightly, the better to see ahead through the two arcs cleared by the windscreen wipers. The road was empty, and flanked by seemingly endless ruins on both sides. But that was more or less what he had expected: the industrial outskirts of the city, which were also adjacent to what would certainly have been a major Luftwaffe airfield, would have been heavily bombed many times. ‘A collector’s piece?’ Cars didn’t interest him, but as he dummy4

observed the length of the bonnet and the array of dials on the dashboard, adding them to the luxuriousness of the rear seats and the relatively smooth ride over the much-repaired road surface, he also remembered the Air Force major’s admiration.

‘Ah, that it is.’ The little man massaged the wheel approvingly, even though he drove perilously close to a huge pile of ruins – a pack of slanted concrete floors – which narrowed the road.

‘French, this is ... wot was owned by a famous film star before the war – before Jerry pinched it. Built like a tank, it is – weighs nearer three ton than two . . . more like a tank than your proper Froggie tanks, wot they made out uv cardboard an’ ticky-tack, wot I remember of ‘em – huh!’

‘Yes?’ That the little man could remember French tanks, however libellously, for purposes of comparison, confirmed Fred’s estimation of him. There was nothing unusual about his evident contempt for the French, which was common among all those who knew nothing of the incomparable performance of Juin’s Corps Expeditionnaire Francais in the Italian mountains, and almost universal among British soldiers, outside the 8th Army. But this wasn’t the moment to put him right. ‘Is that so?’

‘Ah.’ The little man let the big car demonstrate its excellence over a series of former bomb craters, while Fred began to marvel at the extent of the city’s ruins. ‘Only trouble is ... it’s got a terrible lot of electrics –gearbox an’ all. So it needs a proper REME mechanic to keep it on the road.‘ Another throaty chuckle. ’But Major M’Crocodile’s got hisself a proper REME mechanic, to look after it, see – Corporal Briggs, that is – this is the major’s speshul car, dummy4

this is – Corporal Briggs!‘ The repeated chuckle was like a death-rattle in the little man’s throat.

‘Corporal Briggs – ?’ Obviously there was a story to Corporal Briggs which the little man was bursting to tell. And the more talkative he became, the better.

‘Got ’im out of a court-martial, to get ‘im for the major, the Colonel did – got ’im orf an‘ then got ’im posted to us, see?‘ The little man turned towards him, ignoring the endless rain-blurred vista of bombed-out ruins through which they were driving.

’Proper artful, ‘e is – ’

‘Watch the road, man!’ Fred commanded quickly as a pile of rubble came dangerously close. But then, as the driver snapped back to his duty, he moved quickly to rebuild the bridge between them. ‘Corporal Briggs is artful – ?’