“What do I call you?” asked the sergeant when they were outside the office block.
“Horst,” he had said with his best attempt at a smile.
“Right, Horst, you can call me Charlie. The young soldiers have to call me Sarge, but you’re exempt from that, being a civilian and especially since you’re an ex-sergeant major. You outrank me, old chap,” he said, clapping him on the back and laughing.
Manteufel’s heart sank. He had hoped that his past would not be common knowledge, but it appeared that Kelly had briefed Hemmings, and Hemmings had briefed the rest of the company. They entered the squad room where a number of drivers, service and civilian, were getting themselves prepared and stuffing bits and pieces into their lockers.
“Listen up, you rabble!” called Charlie. “This is Horst Manteufel, our new driver. I’ll introduce you individually in a second, Horst.”
Instead of hisses, curses or, worse still, silence, as Horst had expected, there was a chorus of “Wotcher! Aye up! Hi Yer! Cheers! and Tag!” the latter from the German civilians. Charlie had then introduced him individually to each driver in the restroom at that time. Every one of them had shaken his hand and greeted him with a friendly word.
“You were in the Army, weren’t you Horst?” asked a young soldier. It was the question he was dreading.
“No,” he said, deciding the best way was to be open and honest. “I was Luftwaffe. Fallschirmjäger.”
There was a mixed reaction to this admission. His German comrades and one or two of the British drivers were nodding approvingly, while Charlie whistled softly between his teeth. Most of the British drivers were looking decidedly puzzled, and several commented.
“Fallsquirm?” and “What the ’ell’s that, Sarge?”
“Paratrooper, you Welsh moron”—this to the young man, ‘Taff’ Wyatt, who had asked the last question. This was received with a murmur of approval from the British lads.
“A Red Devil, eh Horst?” from Taff.
“Hey, wait a minute, you’ve got a point there, Taffy boy!” said Charlie. “Horst’s surname is Manteufel, which can mean ‘Man Devil’—perhaps it should be ‘Rotteufel’ to mean ‘Red Devil’?” A ripple of laughter.
“Your grammar is crap, Charlie,” laughed Ziggy, one of the German drivers.
“Hang on a bit, me old mucker,” said Charlie, “I can’t help it if you choose to speak a language that is unintelligible to the rest of the entire world.”
“You’re forgetting, Charlie,” returned Ziggy, “it was your language once, before you mixed it up with all that French and Latin garbage!”
“Okay! Okay!” said Charlie, sounding slightly mollified. “Point taken.”
“Can I raise a point of historical accuracy?” queried Hansy, another of the German drivers.
“If you absolutely must,” said Charlie, raising his eyes to the ceiling.
“Well, the Fallschirmjäger were formed well before the British Red Devils, and they already had a nickname. They were known as the ‘Green Devils’, so perhaps Horst’s nickname should be ‘Grünteufel’?” This brought a ripple of applause from the German drivers with calls of “Ja, Ja!”
“Right, enough already, I think we’ll stick to Manteufel, it’s easier. Now, Horst, I want you to come with me to the vehicle park and I’ll introduce you to some of our beautiful ladies. I’ll tell you which ones are always sweet and which can be a bit temperamental, and what we do about that.
“The rest of you buggers, get out onto that park and do some driving. It is, after all, what the British Army pays you far too much money to do!”
That had been over a month ago. It seemed like a lifetime now. He had walked over to the vehicle park with Charlie feeling so much better, and with so much more confidence. He had a feeling that this was exactly what Charlie had intended with the banter in the squad room. Horst had no doubt he could work with this man.
There had only been one unpleasant incident, and that had occurred in Horst’s third week into the job. He had been sitting in the restroom with several other drivers when a young national serviceman had walked in.
He looked around and muttered to one of the other drivers, “I don’t think we should have to share the restroom with bloody Nazis, do you?”
As Horst was the only German in the room, it was clear who he was indicating. The other drivers had immediately railed against him and Charlie had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“You piece of shit!” he roared. “Show some respect! That man has seen more action than you’ve had hot dinners.”
He was in the process of dragging the hapless squaddie in front of Horst to apologise when Horst stood up, raising a hand.
“Please stop, Sergeant, he has every right to feel angry,” said Horst. “Please don’t do this on my account. I’m okay, it’s not a problem.” He stood up and walked out of the squad room.
“I’ll see to it,” Charlie said as several of the drivers rose to follow Horst out, motioning them to sit down. “You!” he said pointedly to the young soldier, “I will speak to later.”
Charlie found Horst sat on one of the benches that had been put outside to allow the drivers to take the fresh air during their breaks when the weather was more clement. This morning it was freezing.
Charlie sat down beside his German friend. “That bloody idiot!” said the sergeant, clearly angry. “Been in five minutes and he knows it all.”
“It really is okay, Charlie. Who knows what the lad has been through? He may have lost his brother or even his father, we just don’t know.”
“As long as you know that the rest of the lads don’t think that way,” said Charlie, still clearly angry.
“I know that, Charlie, I’ve only been here a few weeks and I’ve made some good mates already, and thanks, Charlie, I really do appreciate it.”
The following day had a hint of spring about it, so Horst took
