I said to Les, ‘When I’m an old man, and telling stories to my grandchildren, do you think I can say I fought my way across Europe with you and the Major?’
Les flicked his fag-end into the field. I could smell the brandy in the tea.
‘Not much fighting so far, but yeah, why not? You could say that. Why?’
‘Because the only people I’ve helped kill so far are three Yanks. People may not want to hear about that.’
‘Yeah. I can see that, but the bastards deserved it.’
‘Yes, they did. But you do see what I mean?’
‘I do, mate . . . but what’s worrying you then?’
‘All these bloody coppers, I expect. Wherever I’ve gone since I left the squadron I’ve had coppers of some sort at my heels. It started when I saw Pete shoot a copper while I was still on the squadron, and helped him to get rid of the body. There was also another body he’d brought back to the squadron with him from London. There was another one: a bastard of a catering officer on our station, who was knocking about the kids who worked for him.’
‘So that’s another three, as well. Do things in threes do they, your lot? You killed ’im too, did you?’
‘No. I didn’t kill any of them. Pete shot the copper because he was going to shoot me: I’d caught him rummaging through Pete’s gear. It was to do with the death of some Polish general in an air crash.’
‘Sikorsky, that would be.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I think you’ll find it was in the papers. You didn’t kill this . . . catering officer, then?’
‘No. By then Pete was in the black market, and so was he. I don’t think Pete did it. I think he probably asked someone else on the squadron to do it. They drowned him in an old field latrine.’
Les fished a cigarette out of his beret and lit up.
‘You really don’t let up once you start telling it, do you, Charlie?’
‘I was just worried about the coppers. I’m worried that they are still trying to rope me into this.’
‘Anyone else know about this?’
‘Mr Clifford. And anyone he’s chosen to tell.’
‘Do you think that you’ve killed any Krauts in the course of your private little wars?’
‘Bloody hundreds I expect. I dropped bombs all over them, remember?’
‘You got nothing to worry about then, ’ave you? You scored more goals than own goals.’
‘It’s not a bloody game.’
Pete was beaten to the draw by a jeep and an ambulance, which came from the Bremen road. That surprised me; they must have been better organized up there than I thought. The jeep slithered into the courtyard, and disgorged its driver – a stylishly dressed Major. He saluted by waving a leather-covered swagger stick at his cap, which had a leather peak. Les took no chances, and gave him something like a salute. So did I. He said, ‘Major Hendriks. Ira. South African Military Police, but don’t get in a lather . . .’ He had that nasal SA drawl I’ve always liked, ‘. . . I’m not a proper policeman. I do the science.’ He said African as if it was spelled Efrican.
‘Like Sir Sydney Smith in England, sir?’ Les.
‘Yes, Private. Well done. You’ve got some bodies, and burned-out lorries for me, I understand.’
I was tongue-tied, so it was Les again.
‘Our Major’s inside, sir,’ he nodded to the dairy office. ‘And the tea he’s drinking’s not too old.’
‘Thenk you, Private. What’s the matter with your Captain? Don’t he speak?’ I think that he was just trying to break the ice.
‘He’s just a Chaplain, sir. Only talks to God these days.’
‘Oh, I see. One of those. Carry on.’
After he sloped off I told Les, ‘Supercilious bastard.’
‘I would agree with you, sir, if I knew what it meant.’
There was a driver and three SBAs in the ambulance; a neat little Austin job. The SBAs climbed out of the back with spades at the ready. Les showed them where the graves were, and watched them get to work while he smoked fags with the driver. That is to say he listened. He never passed up the opportunity to find out what was what in the other people’s war.
Soon after that a small Yank communications aircraft, still covered in black and white Normandy stripes, landed on the road outside. Pete was keeping his word; it had taken him less than fifty. His uniform had silver tabs added to its shoulder boards, red flashes to the collars, and he wore a flash black-peaked cap with some silver braid around it. Like the SS. Both James and the South African who went out to meet him paused, and saluted. After a few words with them that I failed to catch he walked slowly over to me. I asked him, ‘What the fuck have they done to you, Pete?’
‘Colonel Pete. They made me a Colonel.’
‘Who?’
‘The Polish government. They want their soldiers to have some clout at the conference tables of the victorious.’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘I told you: the Reds are going to be in charge for a long time. I go home in this uniform they sling me in a camp. I go home dressed as a miner, or a welder in the shipyard – maybe I’ll stay safe, an’ make trouble for them.’
‘Why go home at all? Why not stay in England?’
‘Not a focking chance, Charlie. Can’t you see the way the wind is blowing? The English won’t let Polish soldiers stay, the Reds will say Please send our gallant heroes home, so we can lock them up in the empty concentration camps, and the Brits will only be too glad to get shot of us.’
‘Why do you think we’ll betray you?’
‘You betrayed everyone else for hundreds of years. Am I so different?’
‘Somebody told me you were a policeman back in Poland. Was that true?’
I suppose he took a few seconds to think about it. Then he said, ‘Yes.
