Les broke the spell.
‘Crossroads. Scotch soldiers over there. Which way do we go?’
Then there were the other places. Where the walls of the buildings still stood: more or less. But instead of containing functioning houses, flats, offices and businesses, they were filled by rubble and burnt or smashed beams, and open to the sky. Buildings with a wall cleanly removed so that you could see the contents of the interior: like looking into doll’s houses. One three-floor house had a top-floor bedroom, now open to the weather, with bright yellow patterned wallpaper, and a bed with a green and red eiderdown. It was like a garden in the sky. There was a red cross daubed crudely on its front door. I asked, ‘What’s that mean? Plague?’
James: ‘No, that will come next month. Probably cholera and TB . . . and syphilis, of course, once the Frogs get here.’ He’d been snotty about the French ever since spending a night in one of their cells. He went back to his thoughts, and they were probably too lofty for the likes of me and Les.
Les said, ‘The red cross means unexploded bomb. A Jerry we had a couple of months ago told us that. It explains why there’s anything still left in that house.’
There were more folk moving around in these recognizable ruins. The roads were more heavily cratered, and the craters hadn’t been filled in with rubble, as they had been in the areas of total devastation. A lot of infantry soldiers as well, thankfully all belonging to Scottish regiments, and not dressed in field grey.
One road we attempted was so badly cratered that we couldn’t move forward. Les started to back Kate up. A young brown job Sergeant with a Gateshead accent came sprinting from the cover and threw a sloppy one at James, although it was to Les that he spoke.
‘Would you mind backing up as quick as you like, chum, and getting off the street? Then I’ll explain what’s going on.’
The Good Soldier Finnigan. The Sergeant seemed a cluedup type, even if he was in a Scottish regiment. Les backed Kate between two shagged-out houses without roofs. The infantryman said, ‘Thanks. You were in harm’s way, and all that.’
James: I haven’t seen any fighting Germans yet.’
‘Neither you will, sir. It’s those fucking Canadians. It’s like the gunfight at the OK Corral down there.’ He waved vaguely in the direction we were travelling. ‘Where were you hoping to get to, anyway?’
James asked, ‘Charlie?’
‘The main telephone exchange, and the hospital in the Hanseatic Hotel. Doesn’t matter in which order. Befehl ist Befehl.’
‘Meaning?’ Then he spotted my collar crosses and added, ‘Sir.’
‘An order is an order. It’s a German saying. They use it to explain something about themselves.’
‘You speak German? Good. It will come in handy.’
That was a bloody laugh, wasn’t it? Les thought so: he smiled.
The Sergeant then said, ‘You’ll never get the car through. The Canadians are using anti-aircraft guns and mortars against anything that moves; particularly if it’s khaki. Someone has told them they’ve been infiltrated by Werewolf units dressed as British soldiers. My boss has said that Horrocks has threatened to call up air support if the fighting doesn’t stop soon. You wouldn’t want your transport to be caught in the open with a Tiffie up your arse. Begging your pardon, Padre.’
Then he examined James’s old prewar street map and showed us where we were, and where the telephone exchange had been, and hospital was. The telephone exchange had fallen down after one of the American daylight raids a few days previously. Les put Kate in somebody’s front room and stayed with her. We followed the Sergeant for a couple of minutes to find his platoon HQ set up in another. A spiky Highland Lieutenant confirmed our position, and showed us on his charts where the Canadians and the Americans were. As we left the little platoon he observed, ‘You’ve got a bit of a problem with the car. I don’t suppose you’d care to wait until the rough stuff’s died down?’
‘How long is that likely to take?’ I asked.
‘About this time tomorrow would be about par for the course once the Allies start shooting at each other. I don’t suppose you can wait that long?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’ll have to leave your wagon. You’ll never get any closer in that. The roads are fucked up. Full of big holes, burst water mains, and swimming in sewage in some places: don’t forget to take your tablets. You can leave your car inside the house next door, and then proceed on foot, although you’ll have to leave someone with it. Otherwise all you’ll have left when you get back is a bag of bolts. They’ll steal everything. The telephone place is about two miles away, and the hospital another mile or so beyond that.’
That was that, then. Except.
Except that when we moved back into the space between the houses there was a jeep parked in front of Kate, and Cliff was sitting on its bonnet talking to Les. The bastards actually looked pleased to see each other.
Addressing a superior officer as if he’s a bit of dog dirt you’ve found on your shoe is called insubordination. It’s what I did then. The only surprise was the grudging look of approval Les shot my way. I snarled at Cliff, ‘And where the fuck did you spring from; Fairyland?’
He ignored my tone, and lack of respect. I don’t suppose he wanted to charge me.
‘Your Pole’s aeroplane. He gave me a lift. We landed on a big dual-carriageway road around the town. Did you know that foreign bugger outranks me now?’
‘Only in the Polish Army: I’m not sure that it actually exists.’
‘Hello, Cliff,’ James said, and (meaning me), ‘Hasn’t he turned into a rude little
