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.’
‘Thought not. Who is on it?’
‘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.’
Twenty-Seven
Bremen was very odd. Right from the start. Some parts of the suburbs were almost untouched by war. We had driven through a large park where people were strolling. Three drunken sailors were trailed by a tail of inquisitive children and acquisitive young women – all out in Number Ones and Sunday-best dresses, despite the chill wind that came from the north-east. That was a metaphor for Germany that year: a chill wind from the north-east full of Russians. It was one of the things for which I was unprepared: the chill wind, I mean – I’d had plenty of time to think about the Russians. Then there were bits of the city simply missing. Whole blocks a half mile by a mile. The roads were still there – cratered, but cleared by the methodical Kraut – but where blocks of flats and tenements had stood, there were pyramids of stone and brick. Some of the pyramids had narrow paths cleared through them: they would have followed narrow streets and paths before the war, I’d guess. Where leafless trees or wooden posts remained – and there weren’t many – they were covered in tiny, handwritten notices . . . Ilse is now with her parents in Baden . . . Madelaine and Freya have moved to Bassum, Uncle Otto was killed in March.
I noticed one of those cellar doors in the pavement, open alongside a mountain of rubble. People moved in and out of it, blinking as they came into the light; moving slowly. None of us in the car spoke much. I had come looking for a city, but parts were only a red desert. A rusty mist of brick dust danced in the air like a dust storm, and blanketed everything. A woman pushed an old high pram. She had waved to the car as we cruised past. She was wearing a fashionable dress with a short fur
