‘Pilot to crew, take . . .’
Then there was a huge concussion, and my world became yellow and red – I saw the woman Joe, her head on fire. Finally it was black. All over.
For the time being.
Two
If I had dreams, I didn’t remember them. There was a tune running through my mind, somewhere just below the pain threshold. That first time it was ‘Tiger Rag’ played by Bunny Berigan. Mind that tiger . . . it told me, over and over again. It reminded me of a Hindu proverb: Do not curse your god for creating the tiger; bless him for not giving it wings. The music is there every morning now, and although the tunes are different, they linger all day.
My new world was full of shining dazzling hospital whites, which made my eyes water. That was my excuse, anyway. A man’s voice, slow and with that Bedfordshire twang, asked, ‘Can you hear me, son?’
When I didn’t reply he said, ‘You’ve had a bit of an accident. You were in an air crash.’
I shut my eyes. My brain issued orders to move my tongue and my lips, trying to make, ‘How long . . .?’ but my voice dried up. My lips felt dry and brittle, and parts of my mouth seemed stuck together, and not to work too well. I had a raging thirst.
‘Days. You’ve been ill; but they tell me you’re through the worst. You breathed in flames.’
‘Must give up smoking.’
‘That’s the ticket. Hang on half a mo, I’m going to get the nurse.’
I tried to tell him, ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ but my voice croaked out to nothing halfway through.
I must have drifted off again. When I reopened my eyes they still weren’t too useful. There was a nurse in whites fussing about me. She smelled of soap, so at least one of my senses was functioning, but I couldn’t focus on her. I didn’t know if she was plain or a looker. I was pleased to realize that I could still wonder about that when my face, mouth and shoulders hurt so bloody much. I could see the Bedfordshire accent alongside her in outline, and I could see his khaki clothes. Bloody brown job.
He told me later that he was a veteran of the last bash – more than thirty when he was demobbed in 1919. He had presented himself at the hospital in his old Yeomanry uniform during the Battle of Britain, and installed himself as a part-time nursing attendant, despite various medical objections. He just adopted individual fallen heroes, and nursed them through to their discharge – one way or another, if you get my drift. When my eyes started to come back a few days later I saw his stripes: a Sergeant like me. So that was all right then. Once, when the pain of my face overcame me, and I couldn’t touch it for fear of damaging the scorched skin, I cried. I couldn’t help it. He sat and held my hands. After a couple of days one of my periods of sensibility coincided with the bedside inspection of Herr Doktor: I didn’t know her name at that stage, but learned later that her name was Hildegard. She spoke with a husky, strained European accent, like Marlene Dietrich. She smiled a tired smile, sat on a chair beside the bed, and said that my face was all right and that only my shoulders were bad. She said that even they should heal quickly, but that they would always be ugly and scarred and twisted. She didn’t hold back. In later life, she told me, they might give me a spot of trouble.
‘Face?’
‘Not so bad. People might think that you were an inefficient schoolboy boxer, but the skin still looks like skin. You only had a light grilling. I was more worried about your eyes, that was once you had started breathing properly again. You might have to watch your chest for a few years.’
I tried to smile without cracking the crust the skin around my mouth had grown into.
‘I’d rather watch yours.’
The light in her eyes went out: I knew immediately that I’d said the wrong thing. She said flatly, ‘I’m fifty.’ As if that meant anything.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Germany. A big town: you won’t have heard of it.’
‘What is it called?’
‘Krefeld. Why? Do you know it?’
‘No.’
At least I was feeling well enough to start lying again. I had been to Krefeld three or four times and left it burning. Left some pals there too.
The Sergeant’s name was Bernard. He told me afterwards, ‘Some of the men won’t let her near them because she’s German.’
‘Idiots. If the bus-driver has a heart attack, you don’t ask the man who grabs the wheel if he has a driving licence.’
‘That’s quite clever, son.’
‘Someone told me. I can’t remember who. Am I going to get out for Christmas?’
He shook his head.
‘Definitely not, but there’ll be some sort of a party for the walking wounded, and some of the nurses are goers. You want a beer?’
‘Yes. How?’
‘You got a crate of it under your bed. Some Yank rolled in with it for you a couple of days after you arrived. That, and a big box of flat bog paper: the hospital staff nicked that, I’m afraid. We’ve been short for months.’
‘Are you on the squares of newsprint like the rest of us?’
‘Aye.’
‘Does someone always nick the Jane cartoons off them?’
‘Aye. How did you know?’
‘It must be some sort of crime epidemic.’
‘You’re talking crap again, Charlie, instead of shitting it. You must be ready for your snooze.’
My father got time off and came south, and was in the room with me during the worst times, a
