‘No. Surrey. South of London – why?’
‘In that case, dearie, you are going to see things out here for which your experience has not prepared you. The Gyppoes have taken the art of the knife and the cut-throat razor to entirely a new level. If Jack the Ripper had fallen asleep, and awoken in the Canal Zone in 1953 he would have been as happy as a pig in shit.’
‘I was in Lancasters in the war. People got cut up in those as well.’
Nansen blinked. It was the first thing I’d said to give him pause. ‘Ah . . . sorry. Sometimes my tongue carries me away.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Somebody has to tell me these things if I’m to achieve my ambition.’
‘Which is?’
‘To get through these next months, and then get off home again with all my important body parts still attached.’
Nansen sat up, and held out his hand for a shake. He had a rather charming smile when he chose to use it, and a hard handshake.
‘At last: a realist! Welcome to my humble abode – and you are welcome to share it.’ Then he destroyed the words by adding, ‘You’ve already stayed ten minutes longer than any of your predecessors, anyway.’
‘Thank you. We can start by you showing me what to keep, and what to take to Pat Tobin. After that you can take me to a bar . . . I take it there is one around here somewhere?’
‘Several actually. The RAF is trying to recreate the Raj on the banks of the Great Bitter Lake, and no one has told them yet that it is about a hundred years too late for that.’
‘What do I call you? And it will be neither Nancy nor Olive, I can tell you for a start.’
‘Oliver, then. Pilot Officer Oliver Nansen; lost but not forgotten.’
‘Oliver then . . . and Oliver, can we agree that if you don’t call me dearie again, I won’t try to make your life a misery in return?’
‘Yes, master.’ He suddenly reminded me of Bozey’s three-legged dog, and I realized that my life was about to become a little more interesting. The other thing you need to know, and I know that this has taken longer to write than I intended, is that that occasion was my introduction to one of the best men I ever met. Life deals you funny cards, and then it’s up to you to play them as well as you can.
Chapter Ten
Blue skies
A few days later I was out in the blue, riding the passenger seat of an old Austin K5 radio wagon. The driver was a short, tough Ordnance lance-jack who looked as if he’d been in the desert since puberty. Like Nansen’s, his flesh, where it was exposed to the sun, was a deep coppery red. He also appeared to know what he was doing. What surprised me was that most of the bull disappeared once these types drove off into the sand. I called him Roy, but he never called me Charlie. Everyone else called him Trigger, but that was because his last name was Rogers: you work it out. We deferred to the sergeant in charge of the patrol – only we all called him Sergeant; even me, although I technically outranked him. Like my driver, he knew what he was doing; I didn’t.
The K5 had a steel cab, but what Roy referred to as ‘hollow legs’ – he meant that she had a lightweight three-ply body on top of her chassis – which meant that all of her weight was in the right place, even if the radio shack on the back wouldn’t stop a bullet. I had a Sten on the floor between my feet, and above my head was an open observation hatch: I could stand on my seat, and fire my gun from it if I had to. I practised a few times scrambling from sitting to standing, looking out with my gun in my hands.
That amused Roy. He said, ‘Full marks for trying anyway, but don’t do it until I say so, and try not to shoot the Sergeant: he’s the only one who can find his way around out here.’
Sergeant Clare: just like the countryman poet John Clare, who I mentioned earlier. The sort of man you respect before he even opens his mouth. I had been standing beside the K5 in the Deversoir compound when Clare and his little convoy drove up. He was a passenger in the old jeep that led it. I had my pack and bedroll at my feet, a pipe in my mouth, and had been looking the other way. First impressions count, so I hope I didn’t look too much of a tosser. I was protecting my bonce with my oldest service peaked cap – it had faded to an indecent light grey by then – but I couldn’t hide the fact that I’d spent too long out in the Gyppo sun already. My elbows, knees and forearms were peeling.
I returned Clare’s salute sloppily – I’ve never been any good at them. He slid smoothly out of the jeep with, ‘Sergeant Clare, sir. Would you mind if we got cracking? You’ve had your station briefing; I can give a field briefing the first time we stop.’
‘Fine, Sergeant. Do I drive this thing, or just ride in it?’ I put my hand on the K5’s flank, and speedily took it off again. You could have boiled a kettle on it.
Clare smiled. ‘Ride in it for the time being, if you don’t mind. Have you driven a four-by-four before?’ I liked the alliteration, but shook my head. He continued, ‘I’ll show you how it works later on, but for now Driver Rogers will take her.’ A small man not much bigger than me had jumped down from
