Russian Front (4) After dinner in the officers’ mess, Swayne went up on deck to see the lights of Lisbon. Practically all the walking-wounded on the hospital ship were on deck staring in wonder at a European city with all its lights twinkling. After three years of grim blackout it was a fairytale sight. The evening was cool and overcast but not cold and Swayne smoked a cigarette, looking through his binoculars at cars, people and restaurants around the harbor front, trying to make sense of the last few days. It had all been very pleasurable, of course: A series of pleasant surprises. The day after they had returned from the desert he had risen late, shaved his week-old beard off, dressed in a crisp uniform and wandered back to HQ with the intention of getting to know the attractive ATS sergeant better. But he had been ushered quickly into an office where the commanding officer, a huge Anglo-Irish career officer with a broken nose called Morrison, had given him orders telling him to return to England immediately for ‘retraining and special assignment’. There were no details and he was to sail on a hospital ship that would be leaving on the afternoon tide. Swayne was surprised but not put out or alarmed. Things like that happened in the Army. The ATS sergeant had gone on leave, apparently, although his feelings on hearing this news were at least slightly ambivalent. He hated the business of approaching women and, like most British soldiers, secretly envied the relaxed, smiling charm of the Americans, with their smarter uniforms and fat wallets. Moping around after packing his kit-bag, with hours to kill before his ship sailed, he ran into Montague who was busy planning a trip to some ruins in the desert, an informed interest in archaeology being one of his passions. Together, they wandered down to the quayside for a spot of lunch. The port had emptied out of the larger troop and tank transports as the battle rapidly shifted Westward and now Benghazi was crammed with ships disgorging the hardware of war. Tobruk had suffered fearful bombing, but the first businesses to recover were the waterfront cafes. From their table outside the restaurant they could see, across the choppy blue water of the harbor, the white bulk of the hospital ship with its huge Red Cross signs that would take him back to England. After the first glass of Rosé, he realized that he was desperately looking forward to going home and he speculated out loud as to how much leave he might have coming to him. This started Montague off, making calculations on the tablecloth and producing a book of log tables that he just happened to be carrying. After a few minutes he pronounced that there was a 56.4 per cent probability that Swayne would be given one week’s leave, with a margin of error of plus or minus three per cent. ‘I could so do with some leave,’ announced Hugh. ‘In fact I need a Blighty posting. I’ve killed my seven.’ ‘I’m not with you,’ said Montague. ‘It refers to a joke a Yank told me in a bar one night. Apparently, General Custer is addressing his Seventh Cavalry just before the battle of the Little Big Horn. He says “Men. We’re surrounded and outnumbered seven to one. Just remember that.” So, the battle starts and after a while Custer sees this one soldier sitting on the ground reading a book. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouts Custer. “Didn’t you hear me say that we’re surrounded seven to one?” “But General,” protests the soldier, “I’ve killed my seven.”’ Montague didn’t get it. He rarely understood jokes unless they turned on a pun. The food came, and Hugh turned to his grilled fish, salad and unleavened bread. Montague had insisted on egg and chips. He could read the Latin on a Roman Centurion’s tombstone as easily as the headlines in The Times, but he was a complete philistine when it came to appreciating foreign food and drink. One of Montague’s contentious theories held that the decline in the British Empire started the day the Royal Navy had introduced limes and sauerkraut into the diet of sailors. Something, Hugh recalled, about natural selection working through the good offices of scurvy. Not that Montague was any lover of British Imperialism. Despite his sub-aristocratic background, he professed to be an ardent socialist and was surprisingly approving of the Russian model of communism. Neither man questioned the need to destroy the Nazis, but Swayne felt that the Allies were fighting to retain their version of Parliamentary democracy as well as freeing subject peoples in Europe. Montague was scathing about the British establishment, particularly the House of Lords, saying that its sole purpose was to provide a framework for big business, the Church of England and the aristocracy to prosper at the expense of the working classes. According to Montague, once the Germans and Japanese had been defeated, capitalist America would coerce Britain into joining a war against the Soviet Union. Swayne couldn’t see this happening, he felt that the Americans were in the main benevolent and the two of them had argued the point quite fiercely. Montague, as he usually did after a couple of drinks, reiterated his theory that Socialism, as practiced in Russia, was mathematically certain to dominate the World given enough time. Swayne, tipsy and happy at the prospect of his sea voyage home, half-listened. It occurred to him that Montague’s problem was lack of perspective. Everything was either black or white and capable of being broken down logically, like a problem in mathematics. On an intuitive level he knew that many of Montague’s views simply did not reflect the real world, but it was very difficult to argue with him, not least because of his dizzying IQ. Some American soldiers wandered past with their hands in their pockets, smoking Lucky Strikes and whistling at a couple of ATS girls. Montague seethed openly: ‘Bloody yanks. Look at them, they think they own the place.’ ‘They practically do, my friend,’ said Hugh with deliberate tactlessness. ‘Tanks. Planes. The jeep. Lend-lease. Spam. We can’t beat the Jerries without Uncle Sam and his big bucks.’ ‘Without the dreadfully exploited and abused American factory worker, I believe you mean,’ said Montague darkly. ‘And look at the rubbish they do deign to give us. Grant tanks, tall as a block of flats to make a nice target for the eighty-eights, and those gangster tommy-guns.’ Montague was very down on the Thompson sub-machine gun ever since he had seen a film that showed arch-gangster James Cagney not only shooting police officers with a Thompson sub-machine gun but also pushing a grapefruit into a lady’s face. To someone who automatically rose to his feet whenever a female entered the room – excepting servants, obviously – this had seemed shockingly caddish behavior. Hugh leaned forward to speak quietly, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief: ‘No tommy-guns for you, old chap. You’re much more of a rope and knife man, aren’t you?’ Montague finally caught on that he was being teased and sniffed, ‘Well they’re just as merciful - the way I use them - and they don’t make such a frightful racket.’ ‘The reasons you objected to those yanks wolf-whistling at our pure-as-the-driven-snow ATS English Roses are twofold,’ continued Swayne. ‘One: they blushed and grinned and generally seemed to enjoy the attention. Two: you haven’t got the dash or nerve to do such a thing yourself.’ ‘I hope I would never stoop …’ Montague began but Swayne had ceased to listen. From a side street the charming ATS sergeant who was supposed to be on leave had appeared carrying an army-issue suitcase and was walking towards the gangplank of the hospital ship. He noticed that she was wearing civilian clothes: a pretty floral dress which made her hips seem somehow fluid as the material swayed. Swayne watched in curiosity as she strolled onto the ship. She smiled warmly at the Military Policeman on the deck. Swayne ordered coffee, lit a cigarette – only his second of the day, he didn’t believe more than five a day was healthy if you wanted to stay fit – and wondered about the girl. That auburn hair and a nice figure with a curvy bottom that she probably thought was a bit too big but looked divine to him. But why was she going aboard ship with a suitcase? Had she got home leave? Perhaps she was visiting someone in one of the wards on the ship. Boyfriend? Husband? He hadn’t noticed any rings. He might be a bashful Englishman, but the absence of a ring was the first thing he looked for. Boyfriend, most likely. Yes, that was it. The suitcase was probably for him. In a few moments she would re-appear, wiping away a decorous tear, perhaps waving at one of the portholes, a prearranged gesture. Swayne was surprised at how jealous this image made him feel. Suddenly bored with Montague, with his hatred of Americans and his dubious espousal of Stalin’s workers’ paradise, Swayne signaled for the bill. Needless to say that Montague, with his usual cerebral detachment, had not noticed Swayne’s interest in the latest passenger on the hospital ship. He had been blathering on about Stalin’s purges and the show-trials of a few years ago. According to Montague, full employment seemed to justify all the excesses. But, this afternoon, Montague didn’t seem to have his heart in it. There were frown lines on his forehead – something was bothering him. ‘So. You’re off back to Blighty. “Special training and re-assignment.” I wonder what that will entail,’ he mused. ‘You’ve seen the order?’ said Swayne, surprised. ‘I rather insisted on seeing it. You’re one of the best men I’ve got in my squadron. It will mean I’m short of a crack shot. When I pressed him, the Commander said something about going to America and helping to train their scouts.’ ‘Bloody hell!’ said Swayne, delighted. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it. I wonder what America’s like?’ ‘It’s a big place, and it’s not all Hollywood. Of course it may have been a smokescreen to shut me up,’ admitted Montague. Then he was silent for a while, before looking at Swayne. ‘Hugh … America must not be allowed to dominate this war. We need their help, I won’t deny that, but I’m terribly concerned about what they might get up to when our friend in the Reichstag has been dealt with.’ Montague’s conceits had ceased to amuse Swayne. ‘I can hardly believe my ears. Here you are, a lowly Captain in the British Army, and you sit there, so … solemnly sure that you know best when it comes to the future world order.’ Uncharacteristically, Montague immediately backed down. ‘I dare say you’re right. Have a good trip and make sure to write, won’t you?’ Half an hour later Swayne was tramping about the endless below-deck corridors of the hospital ship, trying to find whatever cubby-hole had been set aside for him. On the way out he had shared a tiny cabin with four other junior officers slung from hammocks. He stopped a Chinese steward, who in turn handed him on to a merchant seaman, who passed him to a bearded Royal Navy Chief Petty Officer. This character looked at Swayne oddly, and said, ‘Lieutenant Swayne. Yes, we’ve been expecting you, sir. This way.’ To Swayne’s astonishment the CPO led him to a beautifully wood-paneled suite comprising bedroom, bathroom and spacious sitting room on what would have been the first-class passengers’ deck in the days when the ship was a cruise liner before the war. This is good enough for a General, thought Swayne, looking around in amazement. While showing Swayne how to open the portholes, the CPO said: ‘You’ll be eating in the officers’ mess on ‘B’ deck but please don’t tell the other officers that you have this cabin. In fact, the Captain says his orders are to keep your presence on the ship as low-key as possible. If you need anything, press that brass bell by the door. We’ve assigned you your own steward, Chang, who will attend to your every need. In fact, the more meals you take in your room the better it is for security.’ Then he turned on his heel and walked out. Swayne unpacked his clothes, which suddenly seemed ragged and shabby in these surroundings. He hadn’t had any replacements and most of his uniform showed signs of mending and patches. He took a long bath. If putting him in this cabin was a mistake, surely they would have come to haul him out by now? And the CPO seemed to be expecting him. “The more meals you take in your room the better it is for security,” the CPO had said. What was going on? He wrapped one of the thick white towels around his hard brown waist and pressed the bell by the door, listening to the water drain in the bath. In a few seconds there was a discreet knock and he opened the door. A Chinese steward stood there, looking at him. His manner was hardly servile. Right, thought Swayne, let’s see just how far this cloak-and-dagger special treatment goes. ‘I would like a bottle of gin, some tonic water, plenty of ice and a fresh lemon,’ he stated. Chang made no sign of acknowledgement, or even having heard him. He simply walked off down the corridor. Now I’ve done it, thought Swayne, closing the door. That CPO will come back and make me scrub the decks for being so cheeky. He turned away grinning and continued unpacking. Within two minutes there was that same discreet but clearly audible tap at the door. Swayne opened it, still wearing the towel, and Chang entered the room without a word and placed a silver tray carrying a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, tonic water, and a whole sliced lemon on the oak dining table. Swayne moved to his wallet for a tip, a gesture whose obvious intent Chang ignored as he left the room, closing the door silently. Swayne mixed himself a stiff one, then took the first delicious sip. The tonic fizzed and prickled in his throat as the warmth went down. The only alcohol available in the desert was Scotch. Most of the Chianti taken from the Italians last year had been drunk within hours or minutes. He wasn’t really a Scotch drinker but at least you could take it without ice. He lit his third cigarette of the day. Did Chang know something he didn’t? Very likely. Something about his demeanor suggested that he was more of a bodyguard than a servant. The effect of the gin made him think of the ATS girl. He lay back on the velvety sofa next to the drinks table and wondered about her. What was her name? He tried to guess. Something very English and Home Counties, but not posh, he decided. Diana or Jane or Rosemary. Sally, possibly, although he didn’t like that name, it was too frilly. As a second drink took effect he pictured himself encircling her waist while kissing her neck and running his hand down the material of her dress. He looked down and watched as the towel began to rise at his crotch. Might she be at dinner? Did Chang’s talents stretch, as it were, to supplying French letters? Kate? …Susie? … A week in the desert had taken its toll on him. He fell asleep. * * * * * * She wasn’t at breakfast, which was the first meal he was awake for. He had only had one nightmare during the night – mainly composed of faces of the men he had killed in the most recent operation. Hours after he was awake he could still see their accusing faces. One of them was holding a baby who, within the surreal logic of the dream, could speak and was telling him that he was going to kill him when he was older and could hold a rifle. It wasn’t as bad as some nightmares he had experienced, it didn’t cause him to wake up in a sweat, but he had no idea whether he had been shouting in his sleep, as he sometimes did. Fortunately, this had never happened on operations. So far. The ship ploughed on in the warm autumn sunshine. The days quickly settled into a pattern, with Swayne mooching around the decks after breakfast, usually spending the afternoons reading detective stories from the ship’s library either in his sumptuous suite or lounging in a deck chair. In the evenings there were pink gins in the large lounge bar which had been set aside as the officers’ mess and then an uninspiring dinner of Army rations, somewhat pretentiously served in the ornate dining room. A couple more pink gins, his fifth cigarette, then a turn around the promenade deck before bed. It was a restful and healing hiatus for a young man who had seen and done the things he had. He didn’t press the brass bell for Chang’s services after getting the Bombay Sapphire on his first night. He put the cork back in, resolving to give the rest of the bottle to his parents when he got back to Somerset. The only excitement came when they passed Tunisia, nearing Gibraltar. In the distance one morning they could see and just hear a flight of three Messerschmitt Gigants – huge, ungainly transport aircraft originally designed as gliders – being cut down with clinical ease by Spitfires, probably operating from Malta. The lumbering giants didn’t stand a chance, although since they were on their way to re-supply Rommel, nobody felt sorry for them. The good news, the day after Gibraltar had disappeared behind them over the horizon, was that the ship would anchor in Lisbon harbor for a day or so to pick up spares for some minor engine trouble. As a Red Cross ship, convalescing soldiers and the very small number of passengers such as Swayne were to be allowed ashore for the afternoon and evening. Strictly speaking, a hospital ship under the protection of the Red Cross should not carry any military personnel apart from wounded, doctors and nurses. But for some reason to do with his proposed “special” duties Swayne had been listed on the passenger manifest as suffering from shell-shock. He only found this out by accident when chatting to a doctor who was drunk one night. He presumed this was some kind of ruse to enable him to be put on a ship as soon as possible, and thought no more about it. Standing at the deck rail, deciding how to spend his time in Lisbon – he had never been abroad apart from Egypt before, but was beginning to get a taste for travel – he felt a touch on his shoulder. He turned and there she was, filling his vision. She was wearing the same floral dress and smiling at him in an uncertain way. ‘Lieutenant Swayne?’ she asked, almost nervously. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m terribly sorry, we weren’t introduced as such. Call me Hugh. Hugh Swayne, that is.’ Not exactly a line from a Cary Grant movie, but it would do as a start. ‘Of course, no. I’m Sally Knott. Well … How do you do?’ She held out a slightly rigid hand, like an amateur actor on a first night. All of a sudden the name Sally took on a new depth of meaning. It didn’t just make him think of salad days and frilly frocks. ‘How do you do. Where have you been …’ Don’t say “All my life”, you twerp, screamed a voice in his head. He called this alter ego Music-Hall demon. ‘I mean, I didn’t see you on the ship …before,’ he finished lamely. Music-Hall Demon warned him against telling her that he had watched her boarding the ship: It would make you sound like some sub-species of peeping Tom. ‘Oh, I was terribly seasick. I’ve practically been confined to quarters,’ she replied. The voyage so far had been as calm as a mill-pond. Well, thought Swayne, some people just aren’t very good sailors. ‘Look,’ she said in a rush. ‘There’s a bit of a party in the Matron’s office. Why don’t we go and join them. I might get tiddly and need escorting back to my cabin.’ She laughed. ‘Sounds lovely. Let’s do that,’ said Swayne, with an odd feeling of being rushed off his feet. The party was good fun, comprised of the hard-pressed medical staff together with Royal Navy officers who had brought plenty of gin and cigarettes. As soon as they entered the bright, crowded, smoky room Sally took his arm and almost hung on to him as if she was frightened of losing him. There was certainly plenty of competition, rather more females than males, but Swayne couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something going on that he wasn’t aware of. Perhaps it was just being near to women again. This feeling dissipated as he had a few more drinks and then, at the stroke of midnight, as if one cue, Sally said: ‘Whoosh – I’m feeling a bit light-headed, will you walk me home, Hugh?’ Her cabin was only a corridor away but she didn’t object when he steered her up on to the deserted deck and gently pushed her into the shadows. She raised her head, eyes closed, and let herself be kissed. After a while he lowered his hand from caressing her face and hair, and let his fingers brush softly against her breast. She pushed him away but kept her hands on his shoulder. ‘Will you take me to see the sights in Lisbon tomorrow?’ She said conversationally, leaning her body against his. ‘Of course. I’d love to,’ he whispered in her ear. Then he kissed her again, running his hand against the soft material of her dress, feeling the underwear underneath, and cupped her breast, kissing her harder. The nipple stiffened with the movement of his thumb. He knew he was going too fast and wasn’t surprised when she pushed him away again, this time more firmly, saying ‘I think I better be getting to bed before somebody notices.’ He started to murmur something about his luxurious cabin having a large double bed but somehow he knew that he had got all she was prepared to give at that moment. Oh, don’t be so wet, sneered Music-Hall Demon. Lecher! said his conscience. Then, to his surprise, she took his head in her right hand and brought it down to kiss his neck. ‘Tomorrow,’ she whispered, brushing her fingers against his crotch, an electric sensation that almost made him shudder. He walked her back to her cabin – she seemed to have one to herself - where she permitted a brief goodnight kiss. Then he went to his own large bed where he fell soundly asleep at once, despite his aching testicles.
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