On arrival at the camp, they drew up close to washing-up area, where another element of the newly formed labour force would be responsible for assisting with the food preparation, serving, then washing the cooking and eating utensils after the two main meals of the day. Another Land Rover was already there, parked in an area allocated for transport assigned to move supplies to and from the feeding centre. A soldier was sitting dozing in the front of the vehicle, his SA80 clutched in his arms, lying across his chest.
Alan and Scott, the sergeant major promising to speak to the soldier on their return, made their way down the line of workstations that made up a section of the feeding station. Alan was amazed how incredibly big and complex it was, particularly considering the devastation that had recently struck the country, and the disorganisation that followed. He took his hat off to the RGC administration that, once they’d been given the go-ahead by the regional governor, had got the facility up and running so quickly. On their far right, two large ovens were spewing out a steady stream of smoke, the cooks baking as many loaves of bread as they could. Bread would be a key part of the survivors’ fare for the foreseeable future, so long as the ingredients kept coming, that is. The smell of freshly baked bread was somewhat comforting, reminding Alan of what had existed before. But he knew that circumstances were far from being on a par with what once was. On their immediate right, the two soldiers walked past a line of tables. These were being used to prepare the food. Initially Alan thought that the half-dozen labourers were busy peeling potatoes and vegetables but then he realised they were actually scrubbing them, not wanting to waste a precious commodity by throwing part of it in the bin. There were no pigs to feed, not yet anyway, he thought. The workforce appeared to be happy, chatting to each other across the tables as they got on with the task in hand, pleased to be away from the squalor of the encampment, the activity taking their mind temporarily off the predicament the survivors in the UK found themselves in. Experiencing a sense of organisation also gave them hope for the future. Planning and coordination constituted an element of the old Establishment that would protect them and take care of their needs for the foreseeable future. A few CPS officers wandered along the length of the preparation area, ensuring that food wasn’t being stolen by the workforce preparing it. On Alan’s left, a line of serveries were in the process of being cleaned, ready to serve the population under their controclass="underline" a half pint of stew per person for their evening meal. The wind shifted slightly, and the smell of cooking wafted over from the boilers, set up not far from the bread ovens.
“Doesn’t smell too bad, does it?”
“They’ll be hungry enough by the time they’re finished, they’ll probably eat anything,” replied Alan.
“I have to give them their due, having this set up in such a short space of time. Where have these supplies come from?”
“Some of it was stored in the main warehouse. The rest is from the government stores.”
“Won’t we need to start guarding that soon?”
“Not until we start to use it in earnest. Very few know of its existence, apart from half a dozen at the RGC. And me and you, of course. That’s why we use our lads to collect what we need from there.”
“How much is there?” asked Scott as he adjusted his scarf to keep the chill off the back of his neck.
“Not sure. But I believe there is at least a thousand six-pound tins of corned beef and the same again with 140-pound sacks of flour. Oh, and sugar and cooking oil.”
“Bully beef, lovely.”
“We’ll be glad of it in times to come,” responded Alan with a smile, acknowledging one of the CPS officers as she passed the two soldiers.
“Leave that until the civilian warehouse is emptied first?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Makes sense.”
As they arrived at the far end of the complex, two police constables, standing alongside a water tanker, guarding it and the food store, saluted Alan and greeted Scott.
Discipline is holding up well, thought Alan. Alan returned the salute. “All quiet, Constable?” he asked, casting his eye over the officer’s uniform. What little light there was reflected off the silver chain of his whistle attached to the barely recognisable tunic beneath the warmer layers on top. His peaked cap was battered, and the black and white check was now more of a shade of grey. The only thing denoting that he was in fact an officer of the law was the grimy yellow fluorescent jacket with ‘POLICE’ in large letters across the back.
“Yes, sir, they’re as good as gold.”
“How many of you are here?”
“Just the two of us along with four CPSs.”
“Will you be reinforced later?”
“So we’re told,” answered the second police officer. “A washing area has been set up over there.” He pointed to a small stand of trees 200 metres from the feeding station. “Once the workers have had a chance to clean up a bit, the force from the village and the rest of the CPSs will join us here.”
“Anticipate any trouble?”
“Not this time, sir. They’ll just be pleased to have their first decent hot meal since the bombs. In weeks to come, when the working day is increased and the rations prove barely sufficient, there may be some bother.”
“It’s the non-labour force workers we have to worry about, sir,” added Constable Bryant.
“Why’s that?”
“Their rations are a lot lower, Sergeant. When they see that the workforce are getting more than them, they’ll kick up a fuss.”
“Good point,” agreed Alan. He didn’t bother to inform them of Scott’s new rank. It wasn’t important for the moment. “Something we’ll need to keep our eye on.”
Just then, Alison appeared from inside the food store. “Ah, Captain Redfern,” she said with a beaming smile that could be identified even behind her face mask.
Alan excused himself from the two police constables and turned towards the sound of her voice.
“Hey, you’re OK there, sir,” whispered Scott.
“I can soon have you busted down to the rank of private, Sergeant Major,” responded Alan. But without malice.
“Hello, Alison, you’re away from your usual territory.”
She pulled the surgical mask down, her smile still showing strong, a hint of pink lipstick adding to the attraction Alan felt in his stomach. “Afraid you’ll miss your tea and biscuits, Captain? No fear, I’m only helping out for a couple of hours.”
“What job have you got?” Scott asked.
“Just giving them some tips on how best to organise getting the food from the preparation area to the cookers, then to the serving tables.”
“Perhaps we should join the queue and test out the food,” suggested Scott.
“It’ll be a long wait, Sergeant. We’ll have nearly 4,000 people queuing up here.”
“It’s Sergeant Major now, Alison, although I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve made a mistake promoting him.”
“Likewise, sir. Should you really be made up to major?”
“My, my,” interrupted Alison. “Does this mean I’m now chief cook and bottle washer?” She laughed.
Alan gulped, feeling a constriction across his chest as her laugh played with his senses. “How about head chef?” he offered, barely able to get the words out of his now dry mouth.