Small Wars (13 page)

Chapter Five

Lawrence Davis was glad he had pursued Clara Treherne to the stables; talking to her had helped him, and that afternoon he went to her husband’s office, just as she had suggested. He sat down, and Hal observed him across the desk, noting that he looked untidy and hoping he wouldn’t take up too much of his time: he had spent the whole of that day, and most of the one before, sitting opposite errant privates and corporals and had run out of disapproval.

Hal hadn’t slept since the explosion on the beach. Every time he closed his eyes, it was projected onto his eyelids with magnified brightness, and the sight of those things, revisited, made him too disturbed for sleep. It was easy to feel reassured, with Clara lying beside him, and to relax, but then the dense live curtain of his memory would tear and things would escape from it. It might be the feel of his own knees bedded into the sand as he tied off the pulsing stump of Taylor’s leg, or something else – anything – and he would have to jerk to consciousness to put it away again, and himself back in the room. He wasn’t surprised at being haunted like that; he blocked out the distress as well as he could, but he thought it would be better if he could learn to control his night-time hours as well as he did the daytime ones.

Hal shifted more upright in his chair, to sharpen himself up, and looked at Davis expectantly.

‘There was something I wanted to talk to you about, sir,’ said Davis.

‘Yes. Obviously. Go on, Davis.’

‘I’m not sure of the procedure.’

‘Well, first you speak, and then I respond,’ Hal said drily. ‘We go on like that, until we reach a conclusion.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course. It’s just it’s rather a difficult matter.’

‘Lieutenant Davis.’

‘Sir?’

‘Get on with it.’

‘Sir.’

Davis had the dry mouth of confession. He felt the power of Hal’s authority, and his impatience, and was sharply aware that he was placing his trust in him. He began: ‘In Limassol – on Monday – I saw, I was witness to a crime,’ he felt childlike, ‘committed by British soldiers. A murder. And rape. Some women –’ He stopped.

Nothing about the way Hal was sitting or looking at him had changed perceptibly, but Davis felt a seismic shift in the atmosphere in the room.

He could hear orders echoing from the drill square, and the snipping sound of shears near the window.

‘“Some” women?’

‘Two women.’

‘Where was this?’

‘In a house.’

‘Can you identify the soldiers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you identify the women? If you met them again.’

‘…I don’t know.’

‘You know where the house was? Exactly.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hal leaned back in his chair, picked up his pencil and studied it. ‘Who were the soldiers?’ he asked, quite casually.

Davis thought briefly of Clara Treherne saying,
Try him
. He found that his voice was shaking. He felt inexplicably ashamed of himself as he named them. ‘Lieutenant Grieves. Private Miller, Private Francke, sir. It wasn’t Lieutenant Grieves. I mean, he watched. He ordered it.’

‘He ordered it?’ Hal was looking at him intently.

‘He watched.’

‘He watched or he ordered it?’

‘He…encouraged it.’

‘Who shot the man?’

‘Private Francke, sir. In the head. Do you know about this already?’

‘What was your role in this?’

‘My role? I was the interpreter.’

Hal held the tip of the pencil with one finger, balancing, its sharp point digging into the blotter and his finger pressing it down from the top. The very end of the pencil crumbled slightly. ‘What exactly do you mean?’ he asked.

‘I need to tell you everything,’ said Davis.

Hal had kept Davis in his office for two and a half hours. He had made notes. At some point in the afternoon Mark Innes had put his head around the door and said he was going off for the day, and then they were alone. Hal asked Davis question after question after question, not aggressively but with no let-up, no glimmer of a decision over what would be done, least of all what he thought or felt, about Davis or anything that had happened. Then he’d dismissed him with ‘Thank you very much.’

Davis had gone straight to the toilets at the mess and cried, with his hand jammed over his mouth, because it had been so disgusting to play the scene over and over in his head, the way Hal had made him. All the other things he had seen in the past weeks flooded his mind too, and his own weak presence, watching. Then, when he could stop crying, he went to the bar and had a drink, a big one. He thought about home, his mother in the kitchen, his father working in the garden. Then he thought of his study at Cambridge. Then he thought of Clara.

When Davis had gone and left Hal alone, the room itself seemed grateful for the silence, after the things that had been described. Hal’s coolness had been a sham; his impartiality an effort of will, for Davis’s benefit, so that he might have the comfort of professionalism in which to unburden himself.

After a few moments, Hal began to go over the notes he had written. He made sure he cleared up details because he might not be able to trust his memory. Davis’s words painted a vicious picture: the torture of women, the easy killing of the man, who was not a threat, the degraded collusion of the soldiers, excited by their violence. The details. He wanted to hide from it, un-hear it, and he wished he did not know, but he had crossed a boundary and could not go back. He had not known he was such an innocent.

He stood up. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket he wiped his palms dry, and refolded it carefully. Clara had put his initials in red chain stitch on all his handkerchiefs, years before: H.T. (‘We don’t want anybody sneaking off with them,’ she’d said.) He sat down once more, straightened his chair, then the stack of notes before him. He picked up his pencil again.

If British soldiers did these things, their essential damning sin was not only against God – although it was against Him – but England, too. The sin infected Hal, the company, battalion, regiment, army and country, and the only victory could be their trial and punishment. Still, the prospect of turning on men under his command seemed to tear his loyalty inside him, and the disgust he felt was not just with them but with himself, at what he was preparing to do, and he resented it.

Hal’s eyes closely read and reread the densely written lines. Every quarter page, he sharpened the pencil again, just to have the moment of its correction to a point, and to see the neat curls drop lightly into the wastepaper basket by his chair. He added the pages to the stack of reports he’d made since the mess on Monday night in Limassol: crimes ranging from the destruction of property, to drunkenness – and now this. When he had finished, it was six o’clock.

The soldiers had long since left the drill square, and now there were only the evening songs of birds.

He had to be very careful. He had to be sure.

Hal walked over to the hook by the door and, taking his cap from it, lifted it to eye level, facing him.

He looked at the cap badge, looked carefully at the castle, oak leaf and banner against their blue heaven. The image was as familiar as the British flag, and even closer to him than that. He didn’t remember the first time he had seen it – on his father, perhaps, as a child, or with his grandfather’s old uniforms, revered and visited in their preservation against moths. The castle – embroidered suggestion of a castle that it was – had been King Arthur’s to him, Prince Hal’s; the oak leaf was gold against a pale blue sky, stitching with thin shining thread, England and the air above, making God and country one. The badge was the very picture of his country made small, and worn proudly.

Those were not the words that came to Hal, looking at it and making his decision; he could not have said it out loud. His word was ‘everything’.

He looked at the badge for a long moment: castle, oak leaf, banner. The deep quiet land that had bred him was as close as he might ever feel to God, and he served it. He felt the comfort and reassurance of responsibility. He crossed to the desk, and picked up the telephone. ‘Colonel Burroughs,’ he said and, after a moment, ‘Colonel, sir, Hal Treherne…May I come up to the house? There’s something I need to discuss with you…Thanks.’

Hal replaced the receiver, bowed his head an inch, put on his cap and left the room.

Chapter Six

The colonel’s house was distinguished by its size, being set slightly apart and having lawn all around it. In other ways it was similar to the other officers’ houses: it was recently and cheaply built, painted white, with blue window frames. It wasn’t the colonel who had to bring in the heavy metal gas bottles when they ran out, but they still had to be brought in, and if he had an extra member of staff or two, he still lived as near to the officers under his command as made little difference. At home he would have had a long driveway and not been amongst them.

Hal sat silently in the Land Rover, going over what he would say to Burroughs and trying to banish the pictures Davis had put in his mind: the vision of a faceless girl with her legs jammed wide, her mother restrained. He told Kirby to wait at the corner, and walked up to the house alone. He found he was breathless, as if he had walked all the way up the hill from the office.

He had been to the colonel’s house once or twice before, but always at Evelyn’s invitation, and with Clara. The door was opened by an African servant. He was barefoot and nodded politely as he allowed Hal inside. Hal removed his cap and held it. He could smell women’s scent and shampoo from upstairs; Evelyn must have been dressing for the evening. He followed the servant through the house and down two steps into the living room. Hal’s footsteps were loud on the marble chip tiles but the servant’s were silent.

‘Here is Major Treherne, sir.’

Burroughs was sitting on a planter’s chair by the door to the terrace, he got up as Hal came in.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.’

They shook hands.

‘Quite all right, Hal. Drink?’

‘Not for me.’

‘Get me a brandy and soda,’ said Burroughs, to the servant, who withdrew, and they went out onto the terrace.

It was half past six, and dark, but there weren’t any stars yet and the sound of crickets was just starting up; it hadn’t reached the rhythmic throb of night-time.

‘I should think you’ve had quite a day of it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Especially after Monday.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘You’ve leave coming up.’

‘Should do, sir. Couple of months.’

‘Spent the day sorting out the rotten apples, have you?’

‘Yes. Monday night was –’

‘I’m always surprised how many of them cry when they get hauled in. If they don’t, they bloody ought to. Makes you feel like a schoolmaster – or, heaven forbid, their father.’

Hal, who normally found Burroughs easy company, had nothing to say. He recognised an extraordinary tension in himself, which separated him.

The servant brought a tray with the colonel’s brandy on it, and looked enquiringly at Hal.

‘Have a beer at least, Hal. It can’t be that serious.’

‘Thanks. All right.’

The servant went away and Hal said, ‘Davis came to see me this afternoon.’

‘Lieutenant Davis? The interpreter?’

‘Yes. There was an incident on Starsis Street.’ Hal prepared to continue. The second’s silence was a thick barrier to be forced through. He spoke. ‘Sir, Davis witnessed Private Francke shoot a man, at point-blank range, no provocation, with Lieutenant Grieves looking on.’

Hal saw the servant coming out of the kitchen with his beer, and said quickly, ‘And he – Francke, that is – and another man, Miller, raped two women. According to Davis.’

The servant reached them and put the tray down. Hal watched him slowly pour the beer into the glass.

Colonel Burroughs turned away. He put his drink on the low terrace wall and stood with both hands deep into his pockets.

The servant handed Hal his beer, took up the tray, flat to his chest, and quietly left them.

‘Have you had these men arrested?’ said Burroughs.

‘Not yet, sir. I just came from my office – from talking to Davis.’

‘Davis.’ The colonel tried the name carefully. ‘I haven’t had too much to do with him. He can be relied upon, can he?’

‘In this, yes, sir.’

‘No personal axe to grind?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Does anyone else know anything about it?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

The colonel turned to him. The terrace light caught the side of his face, illuminating his pale eyes and the sharp bones. ‘Not much space left in the guardroom,’ he said.

‘Just my thought, sir,’ said Hal, laughing briefly, but with bitterness.

‘What about Mark Innes in all of this?’ said Burroughs, looking for blame, and Hal thought – with sudden anger –
They were your bloody orders, and they were sloppy, too,
but he said, ‘Mark did his best. There were several hundred men down there. Being in the town made it difficult to keep tabs on everyone – the men were pretty worked up. Not to put too fine a point on it, there wasn’t much he could do.’

‘And you weren’t there,’ said Burroughs, eyeing him thoughtfully.

‘No.’

Hal revisited lost hours spent at Jenson’s side, his ugly companionship with death.

There was a silence.

‘
George!
’

The strident sound of Evelyn Burroughs’s voice came from upstairs, and the colonel looked at Hal and rolled his eyes. ‘Duty calls,’ he said, and went inside at a fast trot.

Hal smiled. The CO’s CO, he thought. He drank his beer, while it was still cold, and stood looking at the ugly rockery until the colonel reappeared. ‘Why can’t women do up their own necklaces?’ he asked, stepping onto the terrace. ‘Mind you, I couldn’t manage my own tie to save my life.’

He came over to Hal, and stood next to him, putting one foot up on the low wall, resting his arms on his knee for a moment. His closeness was familial. ‘Well,’ he said.

A lizard flashed onto the wall by his very shiny shoe; it was delicate. ‘We’d better lock all three of the bastards up, and investigate the whole bloody business. It’s a damn shame. Why do people have to be so stupid? If Davis hadn’t seen, they could’ve kept their depravity to themselves. As it is, the whole damn island will know about it, and the press too, I shouldn’t wonder. So much for bloody hearts and minds. Makes the lot of us look like murderous thugs.’

The lizard ran away down the wall and disappeared. Colonel Burroughs straightened. ‘You’ll see to it?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hal.

‘And, Hal, come to the mess tonight. It’s best not to be on your own. We’re all devastated by what happened to Jenson and Taylor. Not to mention the bloody horses. You acted very fast. You did everything you could.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘You know what my first thought was when I heard what had happened?’ He looked at Hal directly, unveiling some small pain within himself. ‘First thing I thought – was it King’s Man? Didn’t give a damn for the humans. I’d hate to lose that horse. Then, of course, you remember the truth of the matter, and think about the man who died, and poor old Taylor losing his leg. Was he a good soldier?’

‘Taylor?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s only been out here since January,’ said Hal. ‘Came out on the same boat as my wife, in fact. National Service lad. Quite capable. Jenson was just a very good groom, loved his horses. Came into the army to work with them. Couldn’t shoot straight to save his life.’

‘Didn’t have to.’

‘No.’

Hal thought of Jenson, whose face had been a mess of blood and lumped flesh. He was still unrecognisable when he died because they couldn’t clean up his wound without pulling away too much of him. Hal had never held a man’s hand before. He hadn’t known if it had been spasm, or an attempt to fight loneliness, or death, that had made Jenson grip his fingers so hard.

Evelyn’s heels were heard on the marble stairs, then she appeared, striding towards them, in an evening gown, mottled chest straining against the satin.

Hal watched her walk to him; her smile was momentarily grotesque, and he was jolted back from Jenson’s bedside to the warm terrace.

‘Hal! Shall I blame you for keeping my husband from his ablutions?’

Hal gathered his thoughts, he pulled his scattered thoughts, which had escaped like startled roaches into corners, back to himself. ‘Guilty, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘but I was just leaving.’ He made polite conversation with them both, not referring to the arrests he was about to make or the reason for them.

‘You will send our regards to your parents when you write, won’t you?’ she said, and Hal promised that he would.