She suddenly said, ‘I’m not being deliberately cruel to you, Charlie; and whatever you think, I’m not getting my own back.’ When someone says that, they bloody well are, aren’t they? You can be sure of it.
‘No?’
‘No.’ Then she sighed, and handed me the card. ‘You’d better read this. It was waiting for me at home when I got back.’
Her family address was on one side, and the other was headed up with those friendly old words The War Office. Maybe she was being called up as well. No. It was a simple pre-printed postcard which told her that the International Red Cross had informed the Minister of the identity of a certain corporal from the Gloucesters presently in a prison camp in North Korea. He was slowly recovering from wounds, and his repatriation was being negotiated.
It took a few seconds for the penny to drop, ‘This was the man you told me about?’
‘Yes. Anthony; he’s a good person.’ Being a good person trumped being a Charlie, I suppose. What do you say? I was too gutted to react with anything except the truth.
‘Good. I’m pleased for you.’ Then I offered, ‘. . . but a little sad for me.’
She smiled a sad brief smile which matched my words, I guess.
‘That was a nice thing to say. What about your car now?’
‘The offer still stands. I’ve nothing else to do with it, if that’s all right?’
‘OK. Until you get back.’
‘Why don’t we go down to the station now? We can talk in the car.’ I just wanted to get away.
I think we had made peace, but now I was left standing on a railway platform in my old flying jacket, propping up a kitbag containing nearly all I owned, while she drove away in my lovely old car. I felt like a sucker. Why was everyone else better at this sort of thing than me? The train to Abingdon was freezing, and zigzagged all over Oxfordshire before it found it. I turned up at the RAF station guardhouse at nightfall, tired and dispirited. Even a posting to the Arctic Circle would have been a better idea than this.
The guard commander was an elderly flight lieutenant. We called them ‘French Letters’ when I had been a sergeant, but I was too weary to be disrespectful – that’s how they get the discipline to you eventually. I put my heels together, pulled in my stomach and reported, thinking but not saying, Sieg Heil!
He looked vaguely amused, and said, ‘Wait a mo’. I think you’ll find you’re booked into the guest quarter.’ He went back inside, and came out with a thin, grey, card-covered file with my name, rank and number on it. If we were waging our wars with files and paperclips these days it was OK by me.
‘I haven’t had a fresh uniform issue yet. I’m a bit short of kit,’ I explained. Understatement of the bloody week.
‘I think you’ll find there are several large boxes up in your room already. I remember them arriving yesterday: someone will have organized them for you. Anything else you need you can get from the Stores Officer in the morning, OK? And welcome back, by the way.’ When I didn’t respond immediately he asked, ‘Do you want me to organize a lift up to the Mess, chum? You look just about all in.’
He was so far from what I’d expected that I nearly cried.
Chapter Six
Jack o’ Diamonds
The guest block wasn’t big. From the outside it looked like a larger version of the brick air-raid shelters they built in some school playgrounds in 1939, but with windows. A long, low, narrow affair, but there were double doors at each end, like an airlock – so the first thing you noticed was that it was warm, and it smelled of fresh paint. One corridor, six rooms on either side, followed by a large washroom and toilet area on either side, followed by another twelve bedrooms. You didn’t need to be a mathematical genius to work out that they could accommodate twenty-four officers. Each residential room door had a paper-card nameplate on it. I wandered along until I found my name neatly typed: Bassett C DFM, 22602108, Pilot Officer. Leaving the door open I dumped my kitbag alongside the narrow bed, and stretched out for a moment. I could hear music playing from a radio at the other end of the corridor. Fuck it, I was back!
When I opened my eyes it was dark. Someone knocked on the open door again, and then switched on the light. I rolled away from it, and then sat up, shielding my eyes. A small dark-haired WRAF stood at my door with a tray. She had a plate of sandwiches, and a steaming mug of something.
‘Aircraftwoman Lorenzo, sir. I let you sleep, but you missed the evening meal. I took the liberty of having these made up for you. Aircraftwoman Francis and I look after these quarters. If you want anything there’s a bell above your desk.’ There was, too – a small electric bell push on the wall, above a desk just about big enough to write a letter on. She put the tray on it.
I ran my hands through my hair and said, ‘Thank you,’ then asked awkwardly, ‘What am I supposed to call you? I’ve been away a long time.’
‘Lorenzo will be fine, sir, or Aircraftwoman . . . but sometimes that’s a bit of a mouthful.’
‘I’m Charlie.’ I helped myself to a sandwich, suddenly starving hungry. The mug smelled like strong tea.
‘You’re Pilot Officer, or Mr, Bassett, sir.’
I smiled and
