these crowds of noisy, gum-chewing, cigarette-smoking Americans in the leaking, badly-repaired airfield building –forlorn and abandoned even after the altogether surprising American Air Force major beside him had plucked him out of the scrum like a long-lost buddy.
‘See there – over there!’ The American addressed him cheerfully over the butt of his cigar. There’s your man –and there’s your transport. And . . . now that is some transport, by Gahd!‘
It was also the uniform, of course, thought Fred: the crowds of Yanks de-bussing from their huge lorries were no different from all those he had seen in Italy – more than half a year ago now, but it seemed more like a lifetime; except (and it was a bloody big difference, on second thoughts) these Yanks were happily loaded down with what looked like loot, and presumably destined for home . . . whereas the Yanks he remembered had been unhappy, and loaded with weaponry and combat gear, and destined for the meat-grinder of generals quite notoriously unconcerned with casualty lists, unlike their British opposite numbers –
But . . . it was the uniform, of course: one little British soldier, albeit in surprisingly well-pressed and well-fitting battle-dress, stood out from among them like a rough-haired terrier among a pack of sleek fox-hounds with their tails up after feeding time.
‘Yes?’ It was the uniform, of course. He felt the forlornness dilute slightly, if not the bewilderment; if anything, the bewilderment increased from the high point it had reached when the major had hailed him by name out of the line of disembarked Dakota passengers while they were still appreciating the feel of solid dummy4
ground underfoot after that hair-raising landing, and more simply glad to be alive than to be where they wanted to be. ‘Yes – I see him, major.’
For a moment he lost sight of his man and his transport, as a phalanx of huge Americans, more or less in disciplined ranks, cut them off from their objective, en route to flight departure and God’s Own Country and Betty Grable. And Fred wasn’t outraged by their bulldozing interruption, even though he could hear the Air Force major swearing at them beside him. Because . . . one day that’ll be me – me en route to Mother, Julia, and Uncle Luke, and tea in the Savoy, and a World fit for Heroes inside Armstrong, Fattorini Brothers – by God!
The thought warmed him even as the soldiers slowed and concertinaed from a more-or-less ordered column into a jostling crowd, and the major continued to blaspheme impotently – one day, in God’s good time, this will be me . . . but, in the meantime, even if this was dark, ruined Germany, and not his own dear sunny Greece, at least it wasn’t an embarkation depot en route to a crowded troopship and the dreaded Far Eastern posting of everyone’s nightmares. At least he was safe from that now!
‘It’s all right, major.’ He felt that he had to say something, if only by way of common civility, to his rescuer. ‘I’m in no hurry.’
‘No?’ The major looked at his watch. ‘Well, I sure as hell am! Goddamn army!’
‘Well, if you have other duties, I beg you not to wait for me.’ What Fred would dearly have loved to have asked was how the major had come to be waiting for one God-damn Limey officer – and a dummy4
junior one at that – off one particular transport plane, the very arrival of which must have been problematical, what with the bad weather and the re-routing. But, against the possibility that Colonel Colbourne (whoever the hell Colonel Colbourne might be) wielded such huge influence (enough to transmute base junior officer metal into VIP gold), there still lurked the suspicion that he might be the beneficiary of some case of Anglo-American mistaken identity. ‘I saw where my transport was. It’s not going to leave without me.’
The major looked at him, and then studied the press of GIs, as though estimating their chances of ever getting through it unscathed and without a fight. ‘You reckon – ? But . . . hell! I promised Gus I’d see you safely on your way–’
‘It’s quite all right, major.’ Who ‘Gus’ might be was beside the point, but ’on your way‘ wasn’t, Fred decided. All that mattered was that there was a staff car and a driver out there, beyond this near-mutinous half of the United States Army. And whether or not it was intended for Captain Fattorini, Captain Fattorini intended to have that car. But he stood a better chance of keeping it if the major wasn’t in attendance when he commandeered it. ’I’ll tell Gus you put me on my way – I’ll make a point of it.‘
‘You will? Great!’ The major beamed at him. ‘Okay, then . . . And, say . . . while you’re about it, tell him “thanks” – for the pig . . .
Okay?’
‘“Thanks” – ’ Fred steadied his voice ‘ – for ... the Pig?’
‘ Dee-licious!’ The major made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Tell Gus any time – okay?’ A faint thunder of aircraft dummy4
engines penetrated the hubbub. ‘Tell him, if he’s got the pigs, then I’ve got the planes – tell him that, huh?’
Fred returned the nod, and watched the major stride away towards whatever pressing matter had recalled him to his duties. Then, a loud cheer distracted him, turning him back to the United States Army: the concertina was expanding at last, as whatever obstacle ahead that compressed it gave way, and all the incurious eyes which had been taking him in (as though they’d never seen a British uniform, but if he’d been stark naked it wouldn’t have mattered, because he wasn’t in their way) – all the eyes dismissed him as the cheering crowd surged forward again.
It must be mistaken identity, but if it wasn’t then he had been traded in return for a pig, it seemed.
The column expanded, and accelerated, affording him an adequate glimpse of what lay beyond it, as he thought of pigs.
Pigs –
The car was still there. And so was the driver –
Pork, rather – pork had been conspicuous by its absence in both Italy and Greece. There had been some ration bacon, of a sort . . .
and there had latterly been endless Spam, which had allegedly been pig-related. But he hadn’t seen a good piece of smoked ham, let alone a real slice of pork with the crackling still attached to it, since 1942.
The American Army vanished as suddenly as it had arrived, just as he was vividly recalling Uncle Luke carving a vast leg of pork on the last day of his embarkation leave: ‘ Give thanks to God for this, dummy4
young Fred, first. And then to a certain farmer of my acquaintance, who supplied it. And last, but not least to your great-greatgrandfather, whose apostasy from the Jewish faith enables us to indulge ourselves as devout Anglicans – ’
‘Major!’
Across the suddenly opened space, the driver was saluting him. He was a little ratty RASC man of indeterminate age – a very typical RASC driver, except for the smartness of his battle-dress. And that was really why he looked so familiar, of course. But, much more to the point, he was also compounding the American’s mistake, that was certain. But with his inferior rank safe under his trench-coat, Fred held to his objective, returning the salute and dumping his valise at the little man’s feet.
‘Right! Let’s go, then.’
The driver ignored the valise, opening the rear door of the car instead.
Fred had intended to get in the front, but the important thing was to get going. So he accepted the offer without demur, and sank back into the luxury within – real leather, softly padded and sprung –