When I opened my eyes again I was flat on my back on a thin pallet mattress on the raised concrete ledge that was the cell’s bed. A black man in a white coat was bending over me. He said, ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor.’
The wheels upstairs began moving. I tried the cynical grin (it probably looked like a rictus), and said, ‘McKechnie says that there aren’t any black doctors in the US.’
‘He tells lies. All coloureds do. You speak very good English.’
‘Of course I do, I am English. RAF.’
‘Lordy! In that ragtag mixture of a uniform you’re in I thought you were a Kraut stay-behind, trying to evade. What did you do to annoy Uncle Sam?’
‘I haven’t worked that out yet. I came in here to ask some questions about a missing Englishwoman, and your Lieutenant arrested me for things I hadn’t done.’ I looked instinctively at my watch, and saw the wrist where it usually lived. ‘What’s the time?’ I asked him.
‘ ’bout 1430.’
I was also missing my flying jacket, which contained my pay-book; and my ID tags. I was nobody.
‘I had a flying jacket on when they threw me in here.’
‘You won’t see that again.’
‘My watch . . .’
‘Nor that.’
‘Can I see the Lieutenant who arrested me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I gave you a shot to knock you out, which you already can’t remember. It will keep those bastards off your back for a few hours, and give me the opportunity to examine those shoulders of yours. What did you do to them?’
‘Burned in an air crash. Your shot wasn’t much good,’ I told him.
‘How come, Mister?’
‘I don’t think it’s wor . . .’
There was a small piece of graffiti scratched into the plaster at my eye level. The initials read AGM, and a date which had been scratched out, but might have been January 1945. Maybe that was why I dreamed about a girl I had met in a post office in England. Don’t worry; you’ll work out the connection. She was still in my head when I opened my eyes.
They call it déjà vu, don’t they? I woke up in a bed in a hospital room. Now I was in pyjamas, and from shoulder level a faint smell of something aromatic was emanating. My shoulders tingled, but weren’t painful. I could move them about. Maybe the black man’s medicine worked after all. This differed from the hospital ward at Bedford in two ways: there were bars on the window, and I was handcuffed to the bed frame by my left wrist. Kilduff sat on a chair near the foot of the iron bed, reading a paperback novel. It was the same Zane Grey I had started out with. He put it down when he sensed me stir.
‘That doctor had me over. I brought him down to see that you weren’t dead, and he slips you something to buy you a few hours.’
‘Arrest him then.’ Whatever was in the shot had dried me out. My mouth was parched and stiff, like the first time.
‘I can’t. He’s a Captain. We’re very rank-conscious in the US Army. You gonna talk to me now?’
‘I always was. This wasn’t necessary. If I get out of here there’ll be an official complaint that will tie you up in paperwork until the day you draw your pension. I’ll have your arse. Bassett’s too.’
‘I’m very scared. Terrified. I guess Bassett will shit himself. Now; what was your mission again?’ He added, ‘What’s so funny?’ after I laughed. So I did it again, and then:
‘I was in an air smash last year; November, I think. I woke up in hospital, days later. One day I woke up and there was an RAF officer sitting in a chair where you’re sitting. He was a creep like you. He arranged all this, and now, before the ink’s dried on the orders he gave me, here I am back in hospital again and the job is all fucked up before it’s started.’
‘He gave you written orders then? This officer?’
‘No. It was just a figure of speech. Forget it. This is a cock-up: situation normal.’
‘Snafu.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We turn it into a noun in my army: a snafu. It says Situation Normal All Fucked Up. Who was this officer?’
I saw no reason not to tell him; after all the bastards had dropped me in it.
‘Clifford. David Clifford. He even looks like you, except he has a fiddly Douglas Fairbanks moustache.’
‘Never heard of him, but there’s no reason why I should. You told McKechnie that you were over here looking for some English girl who may have taken a Cook’s tour of the war zone. Is she important?’
‘To me, yes. I made her some promises once. To her folks, yes. They have influence. That’s why we’re trying to get her back.’
‘Who is she?’
‘I probably shouldn’t tell you any more. Not until I’ve spoken to the woman you were supposed to let me meet.’
‘Emily?’
‘Yes. I met her in Bedford. She knows the woman too.’
‘Emily’s further forward. I won’t bullshit you: I don’t know exactly where she is, or when she’s due back. She makes the arrangements for the visiting artists who entertain the grunts. Oils the wheels for them. Meets the generals, and kisses arse. We are all very fond of her.’
‘Does that mean you believe me?’
‘Nope. Jest keeping the conversation ticking over.’
I didn’t know what to say. Eventually I turned away from him, and said something like, ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ and stared out of the window. The bars spoiled the view. I asked him, ‘Are we still at the ARC?’
‘No. I talked to someone who told me the same story about you that I already knew, so I moved you. We’re in a military hospital in the suburbs. This is the security wing
