The truck lifted on its springs and settled again as Duggan’s weight dropped over the back. The sergeant major extinguished his torch and slammed the tailgate shut. Alistair felt the truck rock again as the sergeant major climbed into the cab, then the door slammed and the truck lurched as the driver set it in motion over the tussocks of grass. In the back, all of them sat in silence as the truck picked up a lurching, jolting speed over the trackless plain.
No one joked now, or swore, or passed whisky. Now each man alone in his sodden clothes weighed the warmth of the things he had gained against the cost of them, and since the price had been paid by all of them acting together, it was best if they all sat alone. Rain roared against the canvas and entered in chill streams wherever it found ingress. The wind blew knives.
“Damn it,” said Alistair.
He took up his rifle and pack, gripped the steel hoops of the canvas top to keep his balance, and stumbled over the legs and packs of the men to reach the back of the truck bed. He braced, then launched himself over the tailgate.
The fall winded him. He lost his equipment. He rolled over in the sodden grass, coming to rest jackknifed and gasping. Twenty minutes of warmth had been enough to make him forget the nature of cold completely. Straight away, he doubted whether he could survive. He picked himself up and stumbled in a half crouch with his back to the gale as he retrieved first his pack and then his gun. The rain beat on his bare head—his helmet was gone. His rifle was slick with rain. He shouldered the awful thing.
The truck did not slow or change its note, and he did not expect it to. In the back they would all be feeling the lifting of a burden. The remaining men would be talking again promising to stand pints for the man who had gone over. They would not all be certain of his name.
Alistair watched the slit beams of the taillights disappear, and set his back to the direction. He retraced the track they had driven, estimating the distance and the time. As he went, leaning into the gale, he shouted for Duggan. The stars were nowhere. The night was furiously dark.
Three miles to the west, the unexploded shell trembled at the approach of the truck. Through the soil, beneath the roar of the wind, the vibrations came through softly at first. As the sound drew closer it resolved into the groaning of leaf springs and the grinding of the overwrought transmission. Closer still, the bass rumble of the truck was louder than the moaning of the gale. The impact fuse almost triggered. In the back of the truck, the soldiers were singing an Al Bowlly number.
Life is just a bowl of cherries,
Don’t be so serious, life’s so mysterious
The soldiers’ voices lurched as the truck swayed. There was the thin metal sound of a harmonica, setting up an answering oscillation in the cold brass jacket of the artillery shell. Men were beating time with their boots on the floor of the truck. The reverberations filled the soil as the rumble approached, almost over the top of the shell now.
You work, you save, you worry so,
But you can’t take your dough when you go, go, go
The truck was ten yards away from the shell. Down in the wet earth the points of the impact fuse buzzed and rattled and came in contact with each other and exerted a pressure that was almost enough. The truck came closer. Nearly underneath it now, the shell vibrated with every nuance: the secondary rhythm that the sergeant major tapped out on the dashboard, slightly out of time, his cheerful swaying now that the men could not see him, the pop of the small chained cork as he shared his hip flask with the driver, the asymmetry of the load where the men huddled in the back on the less drafty side, the squeal as the wet fan belt slipped, the flatulence of the soldiers as it was transmitted through the long hard benches and broadcast through the treaded rubber tires and into the saturated earth.
The men sang and the truck drove directly over the top of the shell, the wheels passing to each side and missing it completely. It settled a little deeper in the cold mud as the vibrations diminished again. The men drove on to barracks, unaware that everything was new. It was not as if the Army issued them each with a stopwatch that started again from zero every time they were spared. Even if they had then it would not have operated reliably, and the men would have earmarked an arsehole to stow it in.
Three miles to the east the ground surprised Alistair by falling away, so that he had to accelerate to keep his footing. In the dark he ran blindly down the slope and found Duggan by tripping over him, bringing a yell of shock. He stopped and leaned on his rifle, panting. “Duggan?”
“Huh . . . who is it?”
“It’s me. Heath.”
“Alistair?”
He crouched, using his hands to establish the orientation of Duggan’s body. He was on his back, just off perpendicular to the slope, with his head uphill. Alistair’s best guess at the terrain was that they were close to the base of a shallow draw. Water ran noisily in what must be its base.
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. I fuh . . . fell.”
Alistair felt down Duggan’s sides. “Your legs are in the water.”
“Are they? I can’t fuh . . . feel them.”
“Come on, let’s get you out of there.”
He unstrapped his pack, settled it on the slope, then took Duggan under the arms and heaved him clear of the water.
“There,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“As an actor? I’m truh . . . tremendous.”
“Where’s your pack?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s your gun?”
“It’s called a ruh . . . rifle, Heath. You should know better.”
“Where the hell is it?”
The gale moaned above the lip of the draw.
“I duh . . . I don’t know. I’m suh . . . suh . . . sorry, Alistair.”
“Don’t be, you fool.” He put himself between Duggan and the wind.
“The suh . . . sergeant major kicked you out too, I suppose?”
“Something like that.”
“He really is an abysmal buh . . . bastard. I could have him buh . . . barred from every club in Soho.”
Alistair helped Duggan to a sitting position. “Can you stand?”
“I can tuh . . . try.”
Alistair held him until the feeling came back into the man’s legs and he could stay up on his own.
“Sh . . . shall we go?”
“If you think you can walk?”
“It muh . . . might not exactly be what you would call muh . . . marching.”
“You must just do your best. Here, hold my arm.”
They struggled to the lip of the draw. The wind rediscovered them and sent them staggering until they found their balance and leaned in to it.
“Don’t get separated!” shouted Alistair. “I’ll never find you again!”
“Have you your cuh . . . compass? I’ve luh . . . lost everything.”
Alistair felt for it on the lanyard around his neck, and brought it before his face. “I can’t see it.”
“Then how do we nuh . . . know the way?” shouted Duggan. “It’s dark as muh . . . miners’ lungs.”
Alistair yelled into his ear. “This wind is southwest. Barracks are more or less west, I think. If we keep the wind on our left, between our nose and our shoulder, I think we can get ourselves there.”
They struggled forward, with the gale contesting every step. Their saturated clothes clung to their skin, making another resistance to be fought against. The sodden ground sucked each footfall down and hated to let it rise. They persevered for an hour, then two, with Duggan’s hand growing heavier all the time on Alistair’s shoulder. Alistair took the windward side and sheltered the man all he could, but Duggan began to fall silent.
Alistair was weakening too. From the darkness before them came strange colored flashes, which might have been real or might not. Fragments o
f songs and advertising slogans played in his ears, so clear that it was hard to believe he was not hearing them. Brylcreem your hair—she likes it that way. He shook his head to clear it. Lovely day for a Guinness. He forced himself back into the reality of it: wind on his left cheek, guiding Duggan over the worst of the uneven ground. For a while it worked. He raised one boot, then the other, then one boot, then the other, then They’re jolly well taking daily Bovril.
A gust caught him in the face and snapped him awake. He found himself motionless, with Duggan leaning against him. He didn’t know how long the two of them had been standing like that, asleep on their feet. He shook Duggan alert and called a rest, and the two of them ducked into the poor shelter of a hillock that they sensed rather than saw. They put their backs to the slight slope and drew up their knees. Now that they had stopped, the cold was frightening.
“Duggan?”
There was no answer.
Alistair shook him. “Duggan! We can’t sleep. We’ll fall unconscious.”
A short pause. “Well, that would nuh . . . never do. What would the suh . . . sergeant major do without us?”
“He’d probably be court-martialed for leaving us out here.”
“Then I’m temped to die just to spuh . . . spite him.”
“That’s the spirit that will win us the war.”
“How fuh . . . far now, do you think?”
Alistair thought about it. His best guess was that the company had been six or seven miles east of barracks when the truck had come. He was reasonably sure that the two of them had walked in the right direction, but it was impossible to know at what rate. At times they had hardly made progress at all. He supposed they had traveled two or three miles in as many hours, and they had between three and five more miles still to go.
“Not long at all now,” he said. “Another hour should do it.”
“Juh . . . jolly good,” said Duggan. “I have more of those buh . . . biscuits back at buh . . . barracks, you know.”
“Fine,” said Alistair. “That will be just the ticket.”
“Stuh . . . steady on, old boy. I never suh . . . said I would share them.”
Alistair grinned, feeling the stretch in his numb cheeks for the first time in hours. He stood with difficulty, shouldered his pack and rifle, then felt for Duggan’s hand to pull him up to his feet.
“Come on, you old dog, let’s get you back to your kennel.”
They set out into the gale again, struggling forward with heavy boots.
Now, at last, came the longed-for hint of dawn. It came slowly, this restitution of shape to the world. With the cloud so thick and the sun still below the horizon it did not seem that the light came from any one origin but rather that the near tussocks and the distant berms and their own outstretched hands all glowed, each with their own pale effusion. It seemed like something holy. Even the wind relented and began to drop with the dawn. The rain slowed to a drizzle and the venom went out of it.
In the feeble light they came across parallel tracks with freshly cut tire marks in the wet sedge. Now they had only to follow the truck home. Both men understood then that they were saved. They looked at each other and smiled shyly, knowing that they would make it now, and that their friendship formed in the darkness would carry on into the light.
Duggan found his strength again. He no longer needed to hang on to Alistair’s shoulder, and they walked side by side and made quicker progress into the west. The rain stopped entirely and the wind dropped. The base of the cloud began to rise. From beneath the earth the sun came up, red and ancient, contracting and brightening as it rose at their backs. Their long shadows preceded them across the plain.
“My buh . . . boots are killing me,” said Duggan with a grin. “I miss cuh . . . comfy shoes. Are you for Chelseas or pumps?”
“I’m a loafer who favors a brogue.”
“I like a guh . . . good heel on a shoe and I don’t care for those fuh . . . fussy leathers like pigskin or cuh . . .calfskin. Just give me something that can tuh . . . take a decent shine. I don’t mind as far as the cuh . . . color goes. Black is all right, I suppose, but tan is fine tuh . . . too and even a beige or—” He stepped on the unexploded artillery shell, and it tore him apart.
November, 1939
AT THE BARRACKS ALISTAIR kept returning to awareness to find himself engaged in some activity: showering, or shaving, or eating green soup and white rolls in the NAAFI. Men of all ranks came and talked at him soundlessly, and from their demeanor he tried to gauge which were offering consolation and which were giving orders. Officers seemed to be waiting for him to say something. He tried “sir,” but it didn’t make them leave him alone.
The explosion had deafened him. At dinner a single drop of blood splashed to the table beside his bowl and he stared until he understood that it had come from him. With his finger he traced its point of origin to his ear. Embarrassed, he left the table with his food untouched.
Alone in the dormitory, with his hearing beginning to return, he opened his locker. There was to be a kit inspection at dawn—there always was—and his equipment was a state. He balled up newspaper, stuffed it into his boots and stood them on the paraffin heater. It was against regulations, and Alistair knew that if the sergeant major saw it, then he would say: “THE REGULATIONS ARE THERE FOR A REASON. WHAT IF EVERYONE PUT THEIR BOOTS TO DRY ON TOP OF THIS PARAFFIN HEATER?” And Alistair, along with the other men present, would be required to suppress the answering voice that said: “Everyone would have dry boots.”
Alistair folded his two dress shirts into regulation rectangles and squared them away in the top left position in the locker, with the collar side at the back and the forward edge parallel to the edge of the metal shelf and one exact quarter-inch back from it. Some fellow sufferer in history had scored a line into the metal shelf of the locker, to facilitate the alignment. This was the only humanizing decoration that Alistair had found in the barracks. In the caves of Lascaux he had seen aurochs and megaloceros daubed in mineral paint. In the restoration rooms of the Tate he had held his breath over Turner’s brushwork.
He took off his trousers to fold them, and found an envelope in a pocket. The post had come during the day, clearly, and he must have lined up with the other men to receive it. There had been so many lines that day. Armory, brigadier’s office, laundry, infirmary. He had handed in his rifle, his report, his clothes, his body, until there was nothing left to surrender and he had been dismissed to light duties.
He opened the letter.
Dear Alistair,
I, Caesar, have been keeping an eye on Tom for you—or rather, I have been keeping a rather fetching mother-of-pearl coat button on him, since that was what you saw fit to equip me with. I have much to report, so pin back your ears. (After all, you did pin back mine.)
Since you left for pastures more exciting, your flatmate has seen his own existence considerably enlivened. You know that I disapprove of humans and their laughable choices of mate, but in this case even I must admit that your friend Tom has picked a corker. Mary North is the loveliest thing I have ever seen, despite her damnable lack of tail and whiskers, and her strange habit of walking on her hind legs.
Alistair put down the letter and went over to the paraffin stove. His boots steamed. He turned them to let the heel sides dry, and pulled out the tongues. He eyed the boots critically. It would be important to take them off the stove before they were absolutely crisp, or else the leather would ossify. Then he would get blisters on the next march—and the company didn’t slow for blisters. You marched until they burst, and then until the flesh rubbed raw. Blisters were the true reason the men hated the enemy. The invasion of Poland was terrible, of course, but at least it was an event that had taken place on the outside of everyone’s boots.
He returned to his cot and tried to make sense of the letter. He hadn’t slept since reaching the barracks at seven that m
orning and collapsing at the gate. The high whining sound was still in his ears. He read the first paragraph again. Dimly he understood that his friend, Tom, was writing to him from the point of view of their stuffed cat. Caesar he could call to mind easily, fluid and feline as he stalked the old garret. He found it harder to recall Tom’s face, and when he did so, it was confounded with elements of Duggan’s. The man had been so pale, prone on the red grass in the red bloom of the sunrise. His lips had seemed dark as cocoa, although of course they must have been blue. The red light had been blind to the color. The dark lips had moved for a while—Duggan had said something—but Alistair’s ears were blown. The lips, excused from their color, had formed words relieved of their sound.
He noticed his hands holding the thin blue paper of the letter. Despite the shower he had taken, there was a black residue under his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles. He had tried to hold Duggan’s head up—he remembered it now. As if we hadn’t all to drown.
Last night Tom took Mary to see a show at the Hammersmith. I wasn’t invited, I must disgustedly observe, but from what ensued upon their return I must conclude that the evening went well. Ah, Alistair, I always said that you were astute, for a human! You noticed straight away, of course, that I wrote “upon their return,” and yes, it is quite true. Abandoning propriety, Tom invited Mary to inspect the old garret, and inspect it she did! You should have seen the scorn with which she surveyed the living arrangements—I am quite sure that she was one of your regimental sergeant majors in a past life. And then, before Tom walked her home, the two of them danced to the gramophone and—oh, I tell you what, I can’t be bothered to be the cat anymore. Mary’s a knockout, Alistair, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, and I’m grateful to you for making me go through with that first dinner.
The residue on his fingers troubled him now. He put the letter down and ran hot water into a washbasin in the row at the end of the dormitory. He dipped his hands and let them soak. The blood dissolved from his fingers. It leached in tiny red clouds, escaping from each fold of skin and diffusing until the water in the white basin turned a pale orange. He dried his hands on his vest.