How I Won the War (25 page)

The chaps were not too happy at first, but I drew up a busy schedule of airstrip defence exercises, cross-country marches and weapon-training quizzes, and after a week of the simple life their spirits seemed to recover. They all slept in the body of the hangar and I had a pleasant billet in the office rooms along one side. We didn’t see much of the colonel or Major Arkdust because they were still busy
hunting
the hock, but the padre called on us in the wilderness. It was the day after his visit that my three corporals came to see me.

“I’ve come to ask you, sir, on behalf of the men,” said Corporal Dooley, “if we could have your support in a little Christian endeavour?”

I reflected what a leveller of the lascivious is fresh air and physical exertion.

“Certainly,” I said. “What is this endeavour?”

“It said in yesterday’s battalion orders that the
fraternization
rules are now slightly relaxed and that the Corps
Com
mander
wished us to do all we can to help the German children.”

“That’s right.”

The Corps Commander seemed to lean a little towards the sympathies of Colonel Plaster. While urging all units to maintain rigid adult non-fraternization, he now requested those who were in a position to do so, to help the children by running youth clubs, camps, sports, and similar festivities.

“The padre talked to us about it, sir, and he says there’s a convent orphanage in Gretmund with loads of kids that want looking after. We can’t run no sports nor youth clubs out here in this no-man’s-land, but the men have talked it over among themselves and they would like to devote the Platoon Benevolent Fund to laying on a tea party one day for a load of kids from the orphanage.”

“Most commendable, Corporal Dooley. The Fund is very affluent at the moment due, as you know, to certain
unfortunate
incidents at our Gretmund billet. The application of such monies to so worthy a cause would be most
appropriate
.”

“That’s just what the boys felt, sir.” He hung his head and beat a penitent fist over his heart. “The wages of sin should be devoted to making poor little children happy.”

“Filling their poor little stomachs,” said Corporal Hink.

“Bringing a smile to their poor little faces,” said Corporal Globe.

“The padre’s off on leave tomorrow,” went on Corporal Dooley, “but before he goes he’s going to arrange it with the Mother Superior for a party of the kids to come here for a big blowout next Tuesday afternoon. And knowing how
kind-hearted
you are, sir, Sergeant Transom has already fixed it with the M. T. Sergeant for us to have a three-tonner to bring them out.”

The Platoon flung themselves with great gusto into the arrangements for the party. Trestle tables appeared, clothed with flags of all nations, red and white flannelette festoons garlanded the girders, teapots, cutlery, and crockery were magically scrounged, N. A. A. F. I. chocolate and sweet rations were pooled, paper hats were pasted up and under the direction of Corporal Globe, piemaker by profession, cakes,
jellies, and corned-beef sandwiches were produced in
profusion
. A small stage was erected, auditions were held, games tried out, and entertainments rehearsed. I had written my speech of welcome and was running through that hilarious version of “Widecombe Fair” which invariably brought the house down at the Philatelic Society Socials—I put
real
names of people present in place of Daniel Whiddon, Harry Hawk and the others—when I suddenly remembered that the colonel had ordered an officers’ meeting for that Tuesday afternoon to deliver his latest Campaign Summary. I would have to be in Gretmund till late evening and would not be able to attend the party. I took off my funny nose and broke the sad news to Sergeant Transom.

“That will take the gilt off the gingerbread for everybody, sir,” he said in disappointment, “but it can’t be helped. All the arrangements are too far gone now to alter the day, I’m afraid.”

I arrived in Gretmund on Tuesday just in time to see the three-tonner pulling out. Corporal Dooley was driving with a black-habited nun beside him. Two more escorting nuns sat on guard at either side of the tailboard and a row of happy little faces peered over it like festive, female Chads, waving streamers and trailing balloons. Shrill, excited cheering came out from the rest of them underneath the canopy, and I waved my cap merrily until they were out of sight. Half an hour later we were all gathered at Battalion Headquarters when the adjutant brought a message from the colonel cancelling the meeting. He was out on a special
reconnaissance
and could not now get
back that afternoon. Privately, it was rumoured, he had come upon a really hot lead to that cache of transcendental hock. Much as I enjoyed the
colonel’s
Campaign Summaries, I was pleased at the cancellation. I would be able to do “Widecombe Fair” for the kids, after all. I was making hotfoot for my jeep when Captain Crocker nobbled me about alleged inaccuracies in my last long and short pants return. It took me most of an hour to explain my infallible triple-entry system to his satisfaction and it
was after four when I finally pulled into the airstrip. The party was in full swing as I opened the side door from my office into the hangar …

I staggered back, concussed with horror…. The
gramophone
was booming, Corporal Dooley was singing “I’m in the Mood for Love,” and two nuns were up on the stage doing a striptease act!

Their robes flowed off like blackout curtains on Victory Night while, in the body of the kirk, girls in school blazers, girls in gym slips, girls in baby-doll frocks, girls in pigtails and ankle socks danced cheek-to-cheek and thigh-to-thigh with my soldiery…. They were tall girls for their age … they filled their childish clothing overwell … they wore lipstick, eye-shadow and mascara beneath the ribbons in their hair…. One of the nuns was down to the buff above the waist, and I recognized Big Magda … and there was
Lorelei
, dressed for kindergarten and rolling her hips like rubber under the happy hands of Private Spool … Little Jo-Jo, in baby’s bonnet and indecent rompers, was glued to Corporal Hink like a female flypaper … Red Marlene, bulging
tight-laced
in Tyrolean shorts, and Sergeant Transom, swayed as one body and drank together from the same teacup … Lotte and Lisa were sitting this one out, enjoying Swedish massage from either hand of Private Drogue … Tilda was saving her sandals by dancing with legs twined about the waist of Corporal Globe … Gretchen, dressed as a fairy, lay stretched across the quivering knees of Private Clapper … Fat Elsa, a bodice-bursting Red Riding Hood, squealed in the
pinching
grasp of Private Gripweed, and the remaining nun, coif off to reveal Black Bertha, leaned back in her chair and drank red wine from the spout of a teapot.

Bottles were stacked along the table … cigarettes spilled among the balloons … and at the nearest end to the stage, six little children perhaps nine or ten years old, the bright faces I had seen above the tailboard, waved their streamers in time to the music and cheered shrilly as the second nun got down to skin level and Corporal Dooley, looping an arm about each, swung them with him in a whooping can-can!

“Stop!” I cried, leaping forward like the avenging angel. “Stop this orgy! Cease that bacchanal!”

They froze like statues in mid-debauch, a guilty tableau by Hogarth…. The main doors opened and Colonel Plaster came in….

“Ah, there you are, Goodbody,” he said. “Just come to see you. Hear you’ve got a children’s party … God bless my soul! What’s this?”

“Just the children’s party, sir,” said Sergeant Transom, unpeeling himself from Red Marlene. “And … er … and one or two of the young mothers to help things along.”

The nuns hastily resumed the veil, Lotte and Lisa pulled down their gym slips, Tilda unwound from Corporal Globe, Gripweed let his last handful of Fat Elsa slap back into place. An uneasy silence came over all.

Colonel Plaster looked slowly around the hangar, brushing up his moustache querulously.

“By George!” he cried at last, smiting me on the shoulder. “By George! Goodbody, but I never thought you had it in you. All that teetotal, straitlaced stuff you put on. And look at this … this … blasted saturnalia!”

“I’m extremely sorry, sir, I thought it was going to be a proper children’s party …”

“That’s what it is, man. Don’t let’s have any
misunderstanding
about it.” He waved an authoritative hand about the company. “As fine a lot of children as I’ve seen ever. And don’t let me hear anyone say different. First-class idea and a first-class party. Sergeant Transom …”

“Sir.”

“Have you got anywhere here that might be … er … well … a bit private, you know! I’d like to have a few words with one or two of the children. By myself, of course … put them at their ease that way, you know. Important that we get to know how they feel, what?”

“Yes, sir! Right away, sir. Mr. Goodbody’s office, sir. Just in there. Only one door and I’ll be on it myself.”

“Good show, Sergeant. Now, let’s see …” He squared his shoulders and flexed his legs in a policeman’s bend. “I’ll have a word with that little girl there …” He pointed to the ravenhaired Lorelei. “… and that one there.” Sukie bowed her golden head and smiled dutifully.

He waved to the company as he went into my office, followed by the two girls.

“Righto, the rest of you. Carry on with the party. Enjoy yourselves. Get on with the games.”

“Would you like me to come and take notes, sir?” I asked, anxious to be of assistance.

I don’t think he heard my offer because he slammed the door quickly and shot home the bolt. I turned to Sergeant Transom.

“However liberally the colonel may choose to view this disgraceful affair, Sergeant,” I said with the utmost severity, “there is one thing for which I will never be able to forgive you…. It is bad enough to abuse my absence by arranging this frightful orgy with these dreadful women. But to bring along those little children as camouflage and to force them to witness your debauchery is quite unspeakable. I shudder to think what appalling, moral damage you have done to their young minds.”

“They won’t come to no harm, sir. They’re the oldest of the lot. They ain’t kids. They’re midgets.”

“Midgets?”

“Yes, sir. Tom Thumb-size tarts. Refugees from a very fancy house in Cologne catering for circuses, wealthy dwarfs and fullgrown gentlemen with curious fads.”

In view of the colonel’s last order I had no alternative but to carry on the party. I insisted that if it were a children’s party they should play children’s games. I made them play oranges and lemons, nuts-and-may, and other running-
up-and
-down diversions which I devised to drain off the sexual urge. I avoided any pastimes of an inflammatory nature, such as postman’s knock or sardines, and took the precaution of dividing them into a boys’ team and a girls’ team. And when they sank, at last, exhausted on their seats, I went up on to the stage and gave them my hilarious version of “Widecombe Fair.”

As I was finishing the last chorus, Colonel Plaster came out of the office. I stepped down and escorted him to the door.

“Never been so surprised by a chap in all my life,
Goodbody
,” he said. “You’re a blasted dark horse and no mistake. Midgets, too, they tell me, you’ve got here … midgets, mind you … they must be quite an experience…. By George! What a damned sly dog you turned out to be.”

He patted me confidentially on the shoulder just where that third pip would lie.

“I’m seeing you in a new light, my boy, from this day on. Never know but there might be something for you shortly … providing of course that you don’t fall down on security or anything like that. Got to know when to keep your mouth shut, you know, if you’re going to get on. Not a word about my visit here today. Not a word, you know, to anybody.”

He laid a silent finger to the side of his nose.

“You may rely on me, sir.”

I could see from the corner of my imagination that
captaincy
glinting on my epaulette.

“And I’ll be back to see you in the morning, Goodbody. Got a lead that damned hock may be somewhere on the airstrip. That’s why I came to see you…. Good-bye … and get those children back before dark.”

He let in the clutch and pulled away. Sukie and Lorelei ran alongside his jeep as far as they could blowing kisses and waving him farewell.

E
VER TRUE TO TRADITION
, Twelve Platoon waited till the engineers had built their bridge, and on All-Fools Day, 1945, walked dry-shod across the Rhine. We pressed on behind the armour for the Elbe and would have got there a fortnight before we did if, once again, the towns
en
route
had not been so over-bombed as to be almost impassable. We made the river line by the end of April, the German resistance
dwindling
steadily as we advanced. When Hitler killed himself on the last day of the month the collapse was complete and we drove unhindered for the Baltic coast to seal off the Danish peninsula. Unhindered, that is, by enemy aggression, but impeded at every turn by vast field-grey herds of
surrendering
Wehrmacht, horse and cart convoys of released and joyful prisoners of war, and packs of drunken, displaced
persons, wild with liberty, howling in unknown languages, and tirelessly seeking fresh bellyfuls of booze.

As we threaded our way towards Wissmar we learnt that the Russians were advancing from Rostock, thirty miles
farther
along the coast. Anxious to avoid starting another war with the Russians so soon after we had finished one with the Germans, the Army Group Commander issued special orders about the drill to be adopted on meeting our gallant Allies. Because of the language difficulty, radio was no use and indiscriminate patrolling would obviously court trouble. It was laid down, therefore, that when contact with the
Russians
was imminent, both sides should halt, the commanders meet and arrange as best they could clear-cut boundaries and junction lines. With so historic a rendezvous ahead of us, I felt the occasion warranted a special address to my troops.

“We are coming, chaps,” I said, “to the end of the road. Across the world together we have trod the stony path from first defeat to final victory. Through Africa, Italy, Greece, France, and Germany we have hit the Boche for six, sent him back on his heels, dealt him knock-out blows and driven him into the sea. We have had our ups and our downs, our good times, and our bad times, but always we have fought through together to ultimate victory. And now that the Great Umpire Up Above will soon be calling Close of Play in this Second World War, I want you to know how grateful I am to have had the good fortune to command such a fine body of men. There has been no happier band of brothers in arms than good old Twelve Platoon. Without your courage, your true British grit, your steadfast devotion to duty, I could have done nothing. We commanders can only plan and scheme, order and inspire, and use our brains, training, and
God-given
ability to launch you chaps into battle on the best possible wicket. The victories we have gained have been due just as much to your noble efforts as to my tactical
leadership
. It has been a great privilege to have led you all in the fight to free the Soul of Europe from the Heel of the Aggressor. On behalf of His Majesty the King and the people of Britain I give you thanks of a simple soldier-man. Thank you, men … thank you … one and all …”

I allowed my voice to choke a little on the second thank you.

“Stop,” said Private Drogue, blowing his nose like a
fog-horn
. “You’re breaking my bleeding heart.”

“But now that we have won the war,” I continued. “We must be sure to win the peace. And peace in Europe in the years to come will rest upon amity and good feeling between the British and the Russians. Sometime today or tomorrow we shall be joining hands with our gallant Soviet Allies. First impressions are always significant. This time they will be of vital importance to world peace. I look to Twelve Platoon to take the Russians to their hearts and show them that
goodwill
and bonhomie for which Tommy Atkins is famed the world over.”

“Ruddy Russians,” said Corporal Globe. “They was behind them perishing ELAS in Greece.”

“Bleeding Bolshies,” said Corporal Hink. “I seen ’em on the pictures. Rasputin and all that lot.”

“I recommend to you the sentiments of our most Noble Ally, the lately mourned and sadly lost President Roosevelt who knew the Russians so well. He found that as individuals they are easy to deal with, that they undoubtedly like the people of the United States with whom, above all, they want friendly relations, and that they are a tenacious, determined people who think and act just like any ordinary American. So, you see, we have it from the President himself that the Russians are no different to the Americans. We have always got on well with the Americans. Therefore we shall get on well with the Russians …”

“I never liked no bloody Yanks, neither,” said Private Spool. “Hope to Gawd the Russians don’t come chewing bubble gum.”

“And in further recommendation,” I emphasized, “let me tell you the views of our Supreme Commander, General Eisenhower himself, who knows just as many Russians as President Roosevelt. He finds from his experience that, in his generous instincts, in his love of laughter, in his devotion to his comrades, in his healthy direct outlook on the affairs of workaday life, the ordinary Russian seems to bear a marked similarity to what we call an average American …”

“Roll on my healthy direct outlook on the affairs of workaday life,” said Corporal Dooley. “And I’ll see you down the drugstore, Voroshilov.”

“French, Germans, Yanks, Russians,” said Private Drogue darkly. “Sod ’em all.”

“It is clear,” I went on, “that our American friends are confident of winning friends and influencing people in Russia. They will clearly extend their triumph of war into a victory of peace. We must do the same. During the next few days, each and every one of us in good old Twelve Platoon must regard himself as a Spearhead Ambassador for Anglo-Soviet Harmony. Each must extend the hand of greeting to every Russian soldier he meets. Warrior saluting warrior with battle nobly done, East meeting West in triumphant
camaraderie
, each smile, each word, each rough, soldierly backslap forging another link in the new chain of friendship between the British Commonwealth and All the Russias. In our hands lies the key to Peace in Europe in Our Time …”

“I wish I’d known,” said Corporal Dooley, “I’d have brought me umbrella.”

On May 2nd we were in sight of the Baltic when the order came to stop. The river Lenlo was fixed as the eastern boundary of the Musketeers and Twelve Platoon was settled in a farmhouse overlooking the bridge on the road from Klaghaus to Rostock. Obedient to the Army Commander’s behest I had prepared myself for the situation. I had obtained a large Union Jack, fashioned a Red Flag from a captured Father Christmas overcoat and made two large sign boards showing a white arrow on a black ground.

Leaving Sergeant Transom in charge of the billet I went down alone to the bridge with my boundary equipment. I wanted to get the border line clearly established before the Russians arrived so that there would be no trouble about demarcation. I was anxious also to handle the first exchanges myself, thus ensuring mutual goodwill at the outset and avoiding the danger of any undiplomatic subordinates getting things off on the wrong foot.

I painted a broad white line across the middle of the bridge, mounting the Union Jack and one western-pointing arrow on our side, and placing the Red Flag with the other
arrow at the eastern end. I was just in time. The historic moment was at hand. Around the bend in the road, two hundred yards away, came a Russian infantry patrol. There were about thirty of them, squat slit-eyed men with
Mongolian
features, each carrying a sack over his shoulder and an automatic weapon in his hands. Three were wobbling
forward
on bicycles, yellow teeth biting lower lips in
concentration
, battling hazardously and grimly as children on their first two-wheelers. Their forearms glittered in the sunshine and I thought they were wearing some form of limb armour. When they came closer I saw that every man was wearing ranks of wristwatches up to each elbow. One had a grandmother clock on his back held by a thong around his temples. The cyclists fell off here and there, but clambered solemnly back into the saddle each time like determined, inscrutable
chimpanzees
.

“Welcome,
tovarich
,” I cried, raising my clenched fist in the Communist salute. “Long Live Stalin! Long Live
Churchill
! Three cheers for All the Russias. On behalf of the Allied Forces in Western Europe, I salute you!”

They said not a word of acknowledgment or
congratulation
, but marched silently on. I advanced to meet them holding out my hands in affectionate hospitality.

“Welcome,
tovarishch!
Greetings to one and all in the
gallant
Red Army! In the name of the common people of Britain, I salute you!”

They swarmed about me, chrome-laced forearms flashing, eyes button-black and expressionless, brown dirt crusted on flat, Asiatic jowls. Suddenly a myriad hands shot out and held me everywhere, gripping my arms, ankles, and shoulders, plucking at every slack in my battle dress.

“Welcome,
tovarishch!”
I said encouragingly. “Long Live Marshal Stalin! Long Live Timoshenko! U.S.S.R. hurrah!”

The Tartar shaking my left hand took off my wristwatch and added it to his collection.

“Ug,” he said. “Ug.”

The Afghan greeting my right hand whipped out my
fountain
pen and bit it. Ink flowed like blue blood down his chin.

“Ug-Ug,” he said.

“Now, look here,” I protested. “I am a British officer. I am your gallant ally…. Side by side we have fought against the Nazi hordes …”

Fingers ran into my pockets, my beret vanished from my head, boots came unlaced and jerked off my feet.

“Ug,” said the holder of the left.

“Ug-Ug,” said the winner of the right.

“Really!” I cried. “We are
tovarishchs
… friends … allies. Where is your officer?”

I tried to get up but a hundred fingers held me back. The cold road prickled my feet as my socks were whipped away.

“Help!” I yelled. “Help! Twelve Platoon! Rally on me!”

My commands were muffled as, baffled by the mystery of buttons, four hands tore my jacket straight up over my head and yanked it inside-out along my arms.

“Ug … Ug … Ug!” grunted the sleeve-strainers. Fingers probed the elastic novelty of my braces, stretching them out fit for Tammany Hall, sliding the loops over my shoulders … my trousers began slithering down my legs … I pumped out my stomach as bulbous as a Japanese wrestler, fighting the waistband every inch of the way.

“Help! Help!” I shouted. “Twelve Platoon! Rally! rally, rally!”

Answering yells echoed down the road and the clatter of British hobnails came as music to my ears.

“Ug!” snapped someone commandingly. “Ug-ug-ug!” All the hands lifted in unison, and I was swung up in the air to be held horizontally above their flat, black heads. The
levitation
caught my stomach off guard and my trousers flowed away. The cortège turned and trotted back the way they had come, bearing me aloft, stark and stiff in my underwear like a corpse looking for a coffin. They had almost made it to the bend when good old Twelve Platoon caught up with them.

“Put him down, you perishing Bolshies!” shouted Sergeant Transom yanking back my left elbow-carrier by the scruff of his grandmother clock.

“Let’s have you,” bellowed Corporal Dooley, laying about him with his belt. “Pinch a platoon commander from the Musketeers, would you? Thieving ruddy Communists!”

And the rest of the platoon pitched into the little Mongol men with boot and buckle and belt…. My bearers dropped me in self-defence and I rolled over the tarmac and into a dry ditch … thistles prickled uncomfortably through my pants, cellular and holly branches taloned my vest…. From the way they were whooping and the bottles some were wielding, my command had found the vino once again … wrestling with the Russians, fighting each other as partners ran out, they made a Saturday night at Blaydon Races right there on the high road to Rostock.

I untangled my vest from the holly bush and regained my feet.

“Stop!” I yelled, flailing my arms commandingly. “In the name of Anglo-Soviet cooperation and the postwar peace of Europe, stop this unseemly brawl!”

Both sides looked up in surprise … took off their
strangleholds
for a second … stopped pummelling momentarily. Then the Russians broke away and scurried like black mice off down the road. Sergeant Transom pursued the last of them for twenty yards, kicking him up the rump. Private Drogue hurled rocks till they were out of range. Corporal Hink hit one on the back of the head with a long-range bottle. The glass shattered but the recipient never even
slackened
his stride.

“Saucy bastards! Looting off Twelve Platoon!” said
Sergeant
Transom in horrified tones. “Did you ever? What a dead flaming liberty! Pinching the clobber off a live Musketeer…. Here you are, sir … there’s your blouse and trousers back.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling much better with my legs covered. “It was good of you to come to my rescue when you did. But I must deprecate your use of violence against our Russian allies. You should have followed the example of the Metropolitan Police and used no more force than was necessary to
detain them. Had you done so and given me an opportunity to address them quietly I feel sure I could have turned the incident to the benefit of Anglo-Russian relations. As it is, I fear that your infliction of unjustified personal violence on these comrades in arms smaller in stature than yourselves may well have poisoned their minds against the
British for ever. By punching and kicking them after they had released me you may well have jeopardized peace in Europe in years to come. Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but …”