Quartered Safe Out Here (25 page)

To be fair, he did have tranquil moments, in which he sat brooding, sighing frequently and talking to himself. But he was in full cry when we drew up outside his basha.

“Come on, come on, come on!” he shouted, rubbing his hands and beaming. “Let's get weaving! Is this the old
iskermoffit?
^*
Let's have a dekko!” Before I could get out he was ferreting in the back for the Piat. “Stone me! Who's been robbing the Titanic's engine room? Got bags of ammo for it, have you, corporal? Bang on, good show! All right, stand at ease, stand easy, come in, have a pew, let's get to it! Tea, Sarn't Jones! Tea and your most welcoming smile for our friend here, Lance-corporal Whatsit—you don't mind if I call you Whatsit? It was my mother's name.” He threw himself into a canvas chair, put his dreadful boots on the rickety table, and beamed at me. “So that thing's a tank-buster, is it? Right, put me in the picture! Take a refreshing sip, and shoot!”

I did, and he hung on every word, interrupting only occasionally with exclamations like “Spot on!” and “Just the old boot!” Then I lay on the floor and cocked
it, showed him how the trigger worked, and demonstrated the sight, and he promptly tried for himself, recocking it with one swift jerk and whipping into a firing position in almost the same movement. I impressed on him that the bombs were sensitive, and he cried: “Piece o' cake!”, untwirled the cap, and regarded the gleaming copper nose as though it were a rare gem.

“Bloody marvellous! Look at this, Jones—breathe on it and reach for your harp! Right, corporal, let's recap—this little
isker
pierces the target and all the good news rushes through, causing alarm and despondency to those on the other side? Great—woomf!” He flourished the bomb spear-fashion, while I made mewing noises and Jones, a stout little Welshman, watched resignedly. “Not to panic, people! Everything's under control! We replace the dinky little cap, so—gad, the skill in these two hands! Take it and press it between the leaves of your diary.” He handed me the bomb. “What's the effective range?”

“I'm not sure, sir. A hundred yards, thereabouts.”

“’Tis not so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve!” said Grief happily. “Now, corporal, eyes down, look in—we can't use it against tanks, ’cos Jap hasn't any—and I wouldn't fancy it against low-flying aircraft, but since he hasn't got any of those left either, we're quids in! How about boats?”

“Boats, sir?”

“The very word I was looking for! Note it down, Jones. Yes, good ancient—boats! Floating vehicles, and I don't mean the Queen Mary. Wooden jobs,
sampans, lifeboats, rafts, once-round-the-lighthouse-in-the-ruddy-Skylark things.” He cupped a hand to his ear, expectantly. “Take your time, writing on one side of the paper only.”

The line between affected eccentricity and jungle-happiness is a fine one, but I was sure by now that this was your normal wild man, and not permanently tap. Apart from his three pips he wore no insignia, and I wondered if he was a Sapper, which would account for a lot. The reckless confidence with which he handled H.E. was right in character—I once knew a Sapper who corrected a wobbly table by shoving a land-mine under one leg, and it was weeks before we discovered the thing was armed and ready to blow.

I said it should sink any small craft, but that if it burst in the open rather than a confined space its explosive force would be dissipated. He nodded gravely and said, in a heavy Deep South drawl: “Naow, ain't that a goddam sha-ame…In other words, not much of an anti-personnel job. Be honest, hold nothing back!”

I said it ought to do as much damage as a 36 grenade, perhaps more, and he brightened.

“You wouldn't want to be within fifteen yards, wearing your best battle-dress?”

“Not even wearing denims, sir,” I said, entering into the spirit of the thing, and he regarded me with alarm.

“I doubt if there's a suit of denim this side of Cox's Bazaar,” he said in a hushed voice. “Oh, well, it can't be helped.” He gave a sudden explosive laugh, slapped his hands on the table, and was off again. “Right—Sarn't
Jones, this is the form! We'll have a practice shoot, with good old Whatsit here pressing the doodah and shouting ‘Fore!’ Everyone on parade, no exceptions, summon ’em from the four corners—every man in the unit must be thoroughly clued up on this supreme example of the ballistic engineer's art, so that if our young friend should cop his lot, which—” he flashed me a cheerful smile and assumed another American accent “—which we shall do all in our power to ensure is a calamity that does not eventuate—” he became British again “—some other poor bugger will be able to fire the thing.” He gave me a sad stare. “But we shall miss you, corporal. Yes…yes, we shall.”

Jones asked when he wanted the parade, and Grief resumed his seat. “In one hour, neither more nor less! All mustered, Mr Colman, everybody out, bags o' bull, bags o' panic, tallest on the right, shortest on the left, and heigh-ho for the governor's gouty foot!” He waved in dismissal. “Find the good corporal a modest lodging, give him his fill of meat and drink, and put a sentry on his beastly bombs, twenty-four hours a day or longer if need be. Away, avaunt!”

You may have noticed that for all his idiotic persiflage, Captain Grief had mastered the basics of the Piat, handled it like an expert, asked sensible questions, and was wasting no time in having it demonstrated to his men, all of which was reassuring. True, as I gathered up the Piat and Jones collected the bomb-cases, he was lying back in his canvas seat, doing physical jerks with his arms and crooning, to the tune of “Mairsie doats”:

but then, as I saluted before withdrawing, he suddenly sat upright and took me flat aback by saying, in a normal, quiet voice, and with a smile that was both sane and friendly:

“Hold on a minute—don't know what I've been thinking of. Corporal, I haven't even asked your name.”

Relieved, I told him, and handed over the chit from my company commander, explaining that I had to be back at my unit within the week. He nodded and promised to see to it, shook hands, and said he was glad to have me on the strength. Then he glanced at the note, frowned, turned it over, and said:

“That's strange…no, your company commander doesn't seem to have mentioned it…I wonder why? Still, you can tell me.” He looked at me, clear-eyed and rational: “Are you a lurkin' firkin or a peepin' gremlin?”

Just when I'd started believing he was all there. I glanced at Jones, but he was gazing stolidly at the wall.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” I said, and Grief repeated the question, with just a hint of suspicion.

“I'm afraid I don't know, sir.”

“You—don't—know?” He seemed stunned. “Well,” he said severely, “you'll have to find out by tomorrow, you know! Oh, yes! Dammit all, d'you think you can
just walk in here off the street, without proper classification or even a note from Miss Tempest the games mistress? We have to know who we're dealing with, for heaven's sake! You find out,
jildi
,
^*
or there'll be fire and sword along Banana Ridge, I can tell you! Understand? Right, fall out!”

He sat down abruptly, seized a map, gave me a dirty look, peered at the map intently, and gave a violent start:

“‘Here be dragons’, by God! But stay—can it be a minute shred of mosquito dung? Let us read on…”

When we were safely outside I turned helplessly to Jones: “Which are you—a lurkin' firkin or a peepin' gremlin?” He gave me a look.

“Me? I'm a tricksy pixie. An' that's not all, boyo. Soon's he found out I was Welsh he wanted me to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. I told ’im I can't sing a note, an' ’e says: ‘You're no more Welsh than I am. You're prob'ly a bloody spy. Spell Llandudno, or it'll be the worse for you!’ Straight up, it's what ’e said. Oh, aye, some mothers do ’ave ’em.”

“But…it's just an act—isn't it? I mean, for a minute he sounded perfectly normal. Or is he really cocoa?”

“Don't look at me, boy,” said Jones wearily. “Oh, ’e's all right, like…well, ’e's daft as a badger, but ’e knows what ’e's doin'—most o' the time. Between you an' me, I reckon ’e's due for leave, know what I mean? Aye, about two years' leave. Come on, an' we'll get you settled.”

He had a little hut of his own, and I dumped my gear while he brewed up and got out the bully and biscuits and put me in the picture. The unit, which was only of platoon strength, was composed entirely of Shan scouts, friendly hillmen from beyond the Salween; it was one of those little temporary groups which spring up on the fringes of most armies in the field and fade away when no longer needed. This one, Jones believed, was Grief's personal creation.

“’E's an I-man, see—an Intelligence wallah—well, you can tell from ’is patter, can't you?—but ’e was with the Bombay Sappers an' Miners, accordin' to what ’e told me—”

“I'm not surprised. You're not an Engineer or an I-man, are you?”

“No bloody fears, I'm Signals, me. But I speak Burmese, see, an' Grief doesn't. Boy, you should try translatin' ’is sort o' chat to a bunch o' Shans! Yeah, I been out yere since ’37. Puttin' up telegraph lines for the bleedin' elephants to pull down. Aye, well, roll on demob!”

“But what d'you do—the unit, I mean?”

“Watchin' the river, layin' ambushes, at night, mostly, ’cos that's when Jap tries to slip past. ’E ’ad two armies up yonder, you know, 15th an' 33rd—”

“I'm aware.”

“Oh, at Meiktila, was you? An' Pyawbwe? Well, you seen ’em for yourself, then. They been swarmin' down this way lately, keepin' as far east as they can, see, but plenty of ’em uses the river, too, an' we've ’ad three or
four duffies, an' shot up their boats an' rafts. A lot of ’em got by, mind you—”

“So that's why he was on about boats! God, he
must
be harpic—what does he think a Piat can do against open boats that grenade launchers and two-inch mortars can't?”

“Oh, we got mortars an' launchers, but I s'pose ’e figured a Piat would be more accurate, bein' a tank-buster…Look, boyo, if ’e ’eard somebody ’ad invented a gun for firin' Rugby balls under water, ’e'd want it! An' ’e'd find a use for it, an' all. You wait an' see.”

The demonstration firing of the Piat took place on a paddy close to the camp. Grief, bursting with excitement, strode up and down before his platoon, sturdy Burmans in khaki shorts and head scarves who listened with no trace of expression on their flat, sinister faces while I named the parts and explained the mechanism with Jones translating. Then I cocked the thing, nipping my fingers in my nervousness, trying to ignore Grief's barks of encouragement. “Take the strain—heave! Bags of action, bags o' swank, Strang the Terrible pits his muscles against the machine, can he do it, can he hell, yes he can! Got it, corporal! Smashing, good show! Spinach wins the day!”

The target chosen was an old Jap bunker, a good solid construction, and I wondered if the Piat would even dent it—assuming I hit it, for never having fired the weapon it was with no confidence that I uncapped a bomb, laid it carefully in place, and took up the firing position.

“Range—eighty yards!” bawled Grief, standing over
me. “Well, eighty or eighty-two, we won't niggle!” Silly bastard. “Wind backing nor-nor-east, visibility good, scattered showers in western districts! On your marks, take your time, and may God defend the right!” He flourished his hands and placed his forefingers in his ears. I had adjusted the supporting leg to what I hoped was the correct elevation, took a firm grip, lined up the sight, and pulled. There was an ear-splitting crack, the pad hit me a smashing blow, and as Piat and I were shunted violently back there was a great crump from up ahead. I looked, and approximately halfway to the target a large cloud of smoke was hanging over a tiny crater.

“Jesus McGonigal!” roared Grief. “Ranging shot! Up fifty, direction, spot on, elevation—well, nobody's perfect! Try again, corporal, remember the spider, we're all with you, man and beast! Bags I be number two on the gun!”

He recocked the Piat himself, and by the time I had another bomb ready he was fiddling with the sight, adjusting the elevating leg, and squinting towards the target. “Gravity, muzzle velocity, density, intensity, one for his nob, and bullshit baffles brains! There—into the breach, old Whatsit, and if all else fails we'll fix a bayonet on the bloody thing and charge! Fire at Will, he's hiding in the cellar, the cowardly sod!”

I lined up the sight, held on like grim death, pulled the trigger, and being ready this time for the recoil was able to watch the bomb's flight. It arced slowly up, dipped, and descended, there was a brilliant orange flash and a
roar, a billowing black cloud, and beneath it—nothing. The bunker had vanished.

“Take that, you jerry-built abomination! Flaunt your roof at me, would you? I'll huff and I'll puff and you've had your chips!” Grief was off like an electric hare, with his platoon chattering and laughing at his heels. Well pleased, I followed more slowly, pacing out the range: it was exactly seventy-nine yards.

“He'd measured it, had he?” I said to Jones.

“Don't you believe it, boyo,” he said. “He didn't need to.”

Grief and his gang were standing round the wreckage-filled pit in which beams and thatch were tangled in the fallen earth of the roof. As we joined him he heaved a deep sigh and looked solemn.

“Alas, poor Will, everybody's target, I fear he's been fired at for the last time. He's down there somewhere with his ears ringing and his arse full of shrapnel.” He shook his head and then was off again, sixteen to the dozen. “Not a bad bomb, corporal, not bad at all—and you can tell the manufacturers I said so, you unregenerate gremlin, you! Or was it firkin? Not that I give two hoots, I couldn't care less, but I don't want you wandering about in a state of uncertainty. Right, Sarn't Jones, dismiss the parade, depart and take your ease, and if anyone rings tell ’em the redskins have cut the wires. I'm going for a kip.”

He strode off to his basha, humming “Any Old Iron”, and I didn't see him again for twenty-four hours, which was a nuisance, because I wanted to suggest that I give
two of his scouts a thorough course on the Piat and return to my unit without delay; I felt I'd had just about my ration of Captain Grief. But he had attached his own version of a “Do Not Disturb” sign to his basha door (it read “Wake Me At Your Peril”), so I turned in early and was lulled to sleep by Sergeant Jones, who had the Welsh gift of talking perfect English in a musical monotone, on and on and on. He lay on his charpoy, staring at the roof, telling me how he and his unit had once mounted guard at Caernarvon Castle, or it may have been the Naafi at Catterick, and so help me he did it down to the smallest detail.