The Machine Gunners (9 page)

"I might," said Cem, flattered.

Then Boddser, over-eager, made his mistake.

"McGill's got that German machine gun, hasn't he?"

A look of disgust crossed Cem's face.

"Yeah. And two Matilda tanks behind his rabbit hutch and a smelly pair of Hitler's underpants in his handkerchief drawer."

Boddser retired in a deeply hurt silence to his French exercise; his back had the look of a hard-done-by man.

They'd all been hoping it would happen, but when it did, they were surprised. Chas and Cem were walking to school in the gloom of a December morning. As Gar-mouth High came into view, Cem gave his great guffaw.

"Cor, look at the new chimney!"

Chas, who had been carefully kicking a Bovril jar along the gutter, glanced up. A long thin aircraft tail was sticking up out of the school roof.

"Dornier Do 17," said Chas automatically.

"Cem, it's a Junkers 88."

" 'Tisn't."

" 'Tis. Just look at those tailfins." Cem pulled his aircraft recognition book out of his pocket. But the picture of the Junkers 88 had been worn away by long contact with conkers and toffees.

"Hey, there's Stan Liddell. Let's ask him."

"Hello, McGill. After another machine gun?" Chas let his mouth fall open in innocent amazement.

"What you mean, sir?"

"Skip it!"

"What is it, sir?" Chas pointed at the long thin tail.

"I'll tell you what it is. It's an early start to the Christmas Holiday as far as you're concerned."

"No school, sir? It hasn't made a
very
big hole."

"No, but its petrol tank's burst. The school's full of fumes. One accidental spark and up it goes."

"Aren't we going to another school, sir?"

"No room. Chirton Junior copped it last night, and Priory Infants was flattened."

They hung around. The others joined them, and there was the usual bomb gossip.

"A baby got born in our shelter last night," said Audrey big-eyed.

"Congratulations, dear. What you going to call it? I didn't know you was expecting." Audrey blushed to everyone's satisfaction.

"Me dad's busy," said Cem. "Some of the pensioners are dying in the shelters. Bronchitis, with the damp." Everyone was reluctant to go home. It wasn't that they liked school, but it left a gap in their lives.

"Let's go and work on the Fortress," suggested Chas hopefully. But everybody just groaned.

Two mornings later, they were in Nicky's garden; with school gone, what else was there to do?

"Where's Chas?"

"He said he wouldn't be long," said Cem. "He's got a new idea for making the Fortress."

"Bet it's like the old idea—shifting rocks."

"Here we are then!" said Chas triumphantly, from behind them.

They turned, and drew back in a shocked huddle. There was an adult with Chas, a very large adult indeed, a man of about forty, strong and potbellied. They all knew him. He looked like a photograph of somebody's grandad taken forty years ago—blond hair clipped in the Prussian style and a big bushy Kitchener moustache. He wore an old-fashioned suit with waistcoat watch-and-chain, polished boots and a stiff collar. The perfect Victorian alderman, prosperous and proud.

"Bloody fool, Chas," said Clogger. "Now ye've blown it!"

"No I've not. You know John's simple. He doesn't understand a word you say. He's just like an elephant, only not so bright. But feel his muscles!"

Clogger stepped forward and felt the bulging muscles. John smiled cherubically and said, "Where you going now?"

"That's all he ever says—where you going now? Otherwise he just grunts."

"How'd you get him to follow you?"

"He always helps the milkman give out his bottles. So I got an old milk bottle and waved it at him, and he came."

"Won't he be missed?"

"He lives with his mother, and she works all day."

"What use will he be, if he can't understand what you say?"

"He'll imitate what you do—just try him."

Clogger turned to the biggest rock in the rockery—a rock that had already broken two spades, and defied them for a week. He tugged at it, futilely. John bent down and grunted and the rock tore from its earthly bed.

"Here, John, here," cried Chas, pointing at the place in the parapet where the rock was meant to go. John put it down exactly.

"Gosh," said Cem, his face lighting up. "He
is
as strong as an elephant. I just hope he never runs amuck."

Mr. McGill was tireder than any man should ever be. The Warden's Post had vanished under a direct hit and the fulltime sector leader and his three phones with it. Mr. McGill was now sector leader, with one phone in the front of a boarded-up windowless house. In between, he kept the gasworks together "with tin cans and bent wire."

Chas hardly saw his father. The moment Mr. McGill sat down, he simply fell asleep, even wearing his tin helmet. Often Mrs. McGill would hurry to the kitchen to fetch his hot meal, only to return to find him face down on the tablecloth, snoring. Then she would hover piteously with the laden plate in her hands, wondering whether to wake him. Which did he need more, food or sleep?

Chas got used to a sleeping father in the room. He listened to ITMA on the radio, did extra French homework, to the sound of gentle snores.

Mr. McGill gently stank. The last three times he had tried to bathe, the siren had gone as he was undressing. Mrs. McGill was terrified he would be injured or killed wearing dirty underpants. What shame it would bring on the family.

"I don't think you'd mind me getting killed, hinny, if me pants was clean."

Mrs. McGill was busy too; Granda had taken bronchitis badly and his cough dominated the house. When she wasn't nursing, she was walking miles from shop to shop, wheedling things out from under shopkeepers' counters: the odd bit of sausage, ten cigarettes here and ten cigarettes there. Neither insults nor stony silence deterred her desperate attempts to charm. Things were not easy between her and Nana; there were low mutterings about "two women don't fit in one kitchen."

So although Mr. McGill sometimes stirred from his heavy slumbers to ask how the bairn was, or where he was, or what he was doing, nobody bothered much. Chas was in one piece, clean and cheerful, and came home promptly for meals. That was enough. It was quieter and easier for everyone when he was out of the house.

Cem's sister had a boyfriend home on leave. Andrew Morgan had a brand-new subaltern's pip, and twenty-four hours left in England before a darkened troopship carried him off God knew where, for God knew how long.

It was Saturday night, and for once a fire was lit in the Jones' front room. Cem Senior and his missus had tactfully gone to the National Savings Whist Drive. Andy had his tie unloosened, a glass of beer in one hand and the waist of the delectable Miss Jones in the other.

The only fly in the ointment was Cem Junior, who was sitting on the hearthrug, building towers of wooden blocks and knocking them down again. He hadn't played with the blocks for years; it was very irritating.

"Haven't you got any homework to do?"

"No school, so no homework."

"Why don't you go and listen to the kitchen radio?"

"There's only a stupid play on—all love and kissing— yuk!" Cem kicked a block so hard it hit his sister on her silken shin.

"Cyril! You've laddered them and they're my last pair." Miss Jones forgot her party manners enough to aim a clout at her brother's head.

"Steady!" said Andrew nervously. This could be his last chance to kiss a girl, perhaps forever.

Miss Jones remembered herself.

"Why don't you just go off somewhere else?"

" 'Cos this is the only warm room in the house. I'm not going out in the cold so you two can... anyway, Mum said I didn't have to."

Andrew reached in his pocket for a half crown.

"Fancy the pictures?"

"Nothing on but
love
films," said Cem. His sister sniffed furiously.

"Isn't there anything you
want
to do?"

"Yeah, sit here with me blocks. Course, I could go to my bedroom and use these blocks to build a machine-gun emplacement for my model army—if only
somebody
would show me
how."

Andy sighed. He knew all about the designing of emplacements, being newly commissioned in the Durham Light Infantry. But
that
pamphlet had been marked
Secret.
He hesitated. Miss Jones heaved her splendid bosom in indignation and that decided Andy. Drawing a child a gun emplacement couldn't
possibly
harm the War Effort. He reached for Cem's French exercise book, temptingly laid near at hand with a sharpened pencil on top.

"Mind you make it
absolutely
authentic," said Cem savagely.

"Yes, Constable Hardy?" said the police sergeant with the scarred face, wearily. Who wasn't weary?

"It's a strange bit of nicking on my patch, Sarge. It don't make sense."

"Well?"

"Someone's pinching sandbags, Sarge. The ones we tied to the lampposts for use against incendiary bombs. Somebody's emptying out the sand and taking them away."

"But they're the ones dogs pee on! They're so smelly people won't even use them against incendiary bombs."

"That's the point, Sarge," said Fatty Hardy, triumphantly. "No person in their right mind would pinch them. That leaves only one conclusion—it's the work of enemy agents. I wonder they don't just slash them, though."

The sergeant leaped up, ignoring his crippled foot, pulled a lock of black hair over his right eye, stuck an ink-rubber under his nose, and gave the Nazi salute.

"To Hans der Ripper, an Iron Cross first class for demolishing von hundred and fifty Britischer Pig Sandbags. Heil Hitler." He collapsed into his chair laughing-hysterically. Fatty looked round nervously for a first-aid kit.

"Thank you, Hardy. That's the first good laugh I've had in weeks."

"Darling?" said Mrs. Nichol. She was standing staring out of the bedroom window in her negligee, looking wistful and smoking a cigarette.

"Yeah?" Commander Horsfall was lying on the bed, scratching his head.

"Someone's stolen our air-raid shelter."

"Go on, I threw an empty fag packet into it this morning."

"Not
that
one. That's the one for the family. There was a much bigger one in the shrubbery, for the servants. Then they all got directed to war work, so it was never used."

"What's the problem, then?"

"Well, it's the principle of the thing. I mean, it was
ours,
even if we never used it. People seem to think they can do what they like with other people's property these days. Everyone's gone so immoral, and all they do is blame it on the War."

"Come back to bed. I'm on duty in half an hour."

"But I want to know where it's gone..."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Petty Officer?" Commander Horsfall paused on the house steps. The Petty Officer was the man Audrey and Chas had seen cleaning his boots there, the first day.

"There's some thieving going on, sir."

"That from you, Petty Officer Robinson, is pretty rich. You mean someone's been thieving from you, for a change?"

"Yessir."

"What's missing?"

"Three tin hats; two fire buckets; one notice-board; one stove, paraffin, heating; and one pump, stirrup."

"Hardly the Black Market gang's line, are they, Petty Officer? Now seven-pound tins of butter..." Robinson had the grace to blush.

"Reckon it's that kid, sir... hers ... sly little devil."

Horsfall frowned. The last thing he wanted was trouble with that kid.

"We don't want bother, sir, do we, sir? Far too snug we are here, sir."

Horsfall nodded. "Make out a requisition for new ones. Say the old ones fell overboard. I'll sign it."

"I'll help you with that concreting, Dad," said Chas. It was a bright Sunday morning after a bombless night, and Mr. McGill felt like a bit in the garden. But he still looked up suspiciously.

"Help me? You feeling all right? What's the matter—all your little friends gone to church?"

"No," said Chas at his most innocent, "I just felt like helping. I want to see how you do it."

"Well," said Mr. McGill, "you won't see much. Some thieving gyet's pinched half me cement. You wouldn't know anything about that?"

"No, Dad," said Chas.

It was Christmas Eve and getting dark, with quick flurries of snow on the east wind. Chas and Clogger were in the Crow's Nest. Chas was wearing his suede jerkin and a bright red steel helmet marked
Caparetto
in fairly neat white lettering. Clogger was wearing his boy-scout uniform and another bright red helmet, also marked
Caparetto.

Chas was very uncomfortable; the wind made his eyes water, and the iron-hard chin strap of the old helmet was cutting into his chin.

The Crow's Nest was well made of Royal Navy packing cases and perched in the highest tree. It had a roof of Fish Quay Buster, that rippled like thunder in the wind.

Clogger swept the horizon again, with the great brass telescope that had belonged to Captain Nichol.

"Nothing in sight, sir. He'll no come tonight. Visibility's down to a hundred yards and ma auntie'll be mad if A'm not home for tea soon."

"O.K. Stand down, Petty Officer." They climbed stiffly down the rope ladder, manhandling the telescope between them, and wriggled into Fortress Caparetto. It was great in the Fortress. The Quartermaster-cook had the kettle nearly boiling on the paraffin heater, and the long Anderson shelter was as warm as toast. You could
make
toast on the paraffin heater, if you were patient enough. It took half an hour, and it was hard to tell if the dark patches were toasting or soot; but it tasted hot and fine, spread with plenty of butter from the seven-pound tin. Clogger said the tin of butter would keep for ages in this cold weather.

Sergeant Jones, Private Nichol and Corporal Carstairs (otherwise known as Carrot-juice) lounged on the pink-sprigged mattresses that covered the bunks, staring at the candle flames and waiting for their brew, as content as cats. There was nowhere as safe as Fortress Caparetto in the whole of Garmouth. Above the thin steel of the Anderson's arched roof were three solid feet of earth and rockery, concreted together here and there. It would have withstood anything but a direct hit from the
Bismarck.
An old patchwork quilt kept drafts from the door. Beyond lay the machine-gun emplacement, walled with pongy sandbags and floored with a framework of boards.