I looked at Charlie. Another proper Charlie; another radio man, like me. He was propped up against a wall. His uniform was cut about and torn at its right shoulder. Bloodstained. A lot of blood. A field dressing had been competently applied to his shoulder, and he was holding it compressed in place with his other hand. He smiled and nodded, but didn’t speak. His face was as pale as a swan’s back.
The hit the radio had taken wasn’t all that serious. These big, heavy army portables were built like tanks anyway, but the mic, which the operator held up to his mouth – the new one looked like a small, curved inverted speaking trumpet – was the weak point. They smashed far too easily. The damaged radio was leaning against the wall alongside damaged Charlie, and the mic had taken the second bullet – which had blown it apart. I picked up the earphones.
‘I can hear their signals,’ Chatto said, pointing to the earphones, ‘but I can’t respond.’
‘Give me a minute,’ I said, and crawled over to it. I smashed the mic off completely, and freed up the wires. The sergeant frowned. Who was this bastard destroying army property? I could see it in his face. Then I put on the headphones and began crossing the wires, sending a sparky kind of Morse. How long I could keep it up would depend on what was left in the batteries. It only took the army operator on the other end about thirty seconds to realize he was getting Morse, and another fifteen to begin to read it.
‘What do you want to know, Sarge?’ I asked the big man. ‘And what do you want me to send?’
He grinned a slow grin and said, ‘Ask them where t’hell they’ve been, an’ how long we have to wait ’ere?’
I translated that into Service-ese, and when the guy came back told him, ‘Twenty minutes, Sergeant. They can hear the gunfire, but they’re on foot now coming over the hill behind the enemy. They hope to sandwich the insurgents between them and you, and take a few prisoners.’
‘Insurgents?’
‘That’s what he called them. He asks you to fire a few rounds every five minutes, so they can orientate on you.’
‘Orientate?’
‘That’s what he said. What’s the matter?’ The sergeant had suddenly looked pained.
‘Those long words. It must be the Mad Major. It’s all right for you lot, but I’ll have to ride back with him, and listen to him all the way back to camp.’ But I could see he was chuffed really. He asked, ‘You got a first name, Bassett?’
‘Charlie, Sergeant, same as his.’ I nodded at his wounded man, who smiled again, but still didn’t attempt to speak.
‘Well, Charlie Bassett . . .’ Chatto suddenly reached for a Sten he had under one hand, pointed it over his shoulder and out of the window, and fired off three rounds. Half a dozen came back by return. Plaster dust exploded around us. ‘Well, Charlie Bassett, which regiment did you have the honour to serve before you put on the funny clothes?’
‘None, Sergeant. I’m a RAF operator, or was. Lancasters.’
‘I’ll be damned . . .’
‘What?’ I asked him.
‘You seem too clever for that.’
Warboys’s voice called from below, ‘Mr Chatto, what’s your situation?’
‘Under control, sir. Major Cussiter will be here in fifteen minutes. Then we can hammer the bastards.’ I didn’t like the little bit of American history that sprang to mind, but it was Cussiter, not Custer, so that was all right.
‘You OK, son?’ Chatto asked his proper Charlie.
‘Yes, Sar’nt.’
‘Just stay put. We’ll soon have you out of here. Right as ninepence.’ I’d often wondered what was particularly right about ninepence. This time all the boy did was nod. He looked about eighteen years old. Chatto turned his attention on me.
‘Well, Charlie. What shall we talk about while we wait then? You fond of music?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘I like a touch of Edmundo Ros. You like Edmundo Ros?’
Another bullet bounced off the tiles above our head. I winced. I could hear gunfire, but most of it was no longer coming in our direction.
Then it stopped.
It stopped because the EOKA men outside must have been as surprised as us when a naked man on a racing bicycle freewheeled through the farmyard, carrying the United Nations flag raised on a stick in one hand.
Less than a minute later another four or five naked people on cycles followed him through, and out of sight. In the middle of the bunch was a tandem, and the man on the back of the tandem gave me an idea I couldn’t get rid of. Most of the cyclists were as pale skinned as proper Charlie’s blood-drained face. The guy on the tandem wasn’t. He had a suntanned face, forearms and calves. He had spent a lot of time in short sleeves and shorts out in the sun. It didn’t take me long to work it out, and it won’t you either.
The firing didn’t resume. We waited another quarter of an hour before a dusty file of soldiers came in from the south. Trailing them was a small ambulance, and a Champ mounting a heavy-cal machine gun. They must have left their heavy transport down the hill. That didn’t surprise me. I’ve always been impressed by the way the Brown Jobs are willing to shoulder loads that would crush the average market porter, and then walk ten miles with them.
I was stiff when I stood up, and went downstairs. Getting older, Charlie. Thirdlow was standing by a window. Warboys was with the GC family, jabbering away in their lingo, and helping them set the place to rights, as much as a farmhouse that’s just been shot up can be set to rights. The table was back on its feet, and I heard the farmer laugh at one of Warboys’s jokes. The small girl hugged the rag doll, as
