Small Island (21 page)

And again a female voice said, ‘Tell ’em, love.’

Two GIs from the front began to shift along their row, forcing others to stand to let them out. I was ready for them.

A woman called to the GIs, ‘Hey, leave him alone. Big bullies, the lot of you.’

There was chuckling from the back. ‘Man, the woman gonna whop ya.’

Another white GI stood up to tell me, ‘Just move, boy, and we can all get back to watching the movie.’

‘Stay, man, stay,’ came a chant from the rear.

‘Where’s the blinking manager? I’ve not paid to watch this.’ Many people were on their feet now – I could no longer see the screen. Until, without warning, the film went off and the lights came up.

As if painted by a master, this technicolour tableau of a room simply froze. Why? Because everyone saw. Rows of black GIs at the back. Rows of white GIs at the front. And a rump of civilians in their dowdy clothes sitting guileless in the middle. Now there were a few women sitting with the white GIs and some uniforms in with the civilians but, as sure as Napoleon and Wellington before Waterloo, that usherette had drawn us up a battlefield. And every GI was now on his feet.

Black shouting: ‘Who you calling nigger? We ain’t taking that from you no more.’

White screaming: ‘Fucking uppity niggers. Shut your mouths.’

‘You gonna make us, whitey?’

‘Fucking right we’ll make ya.’

While the locals, with the trepidation of picnickers before a stampede of bulls, looked one way then the other. The manager came running on to the stage arms waving like a drowning man. Trying to be heard above the din he yelled, ‘Everyone is to leave the theatre. Please leave this theatre in an orderly fashion now.’ Adding when no one seemed to be listening, ‘We’ll have no trouble here – the authorities have been notified.’

A white GI galloped over seats towards the back. He tripped and fell into a row pushing two women who, domino effect, stumbled. Two black GIs jumped the rows to reach where the man lay. Women crying, ‘Get off,’ mixed with the savage hollering of male battle cries. As the fool manager enquired if everyone might just ‘Please calm down and leave by the exits at the back.’

Queenie put her hand in mine, nails clasping tight as talons. She held Arthur the same way – him baffled, looked to be wondering if he was still watching a film.

‘Come on, come on, you want it, nigger?’ A black man was running from four whites while several more black men chased them. The ground tremored under their big boots. I found myself envious – man, I was ready to bash someone today! Only when I tried to release Queenie’s aching grasp a little did I recognise that this woman was not seeking my protection. No, Queenie Bligh believed herself to be safeguarding me. Over on the far side a white GI had a black man by the scruff, yanking this bent-double man round, beating upwards into his face; the two men growled, zealous as warriors. A woman set about this brawl, her handbag flailing. Soon both these burly army men were ducking her blows. Until she found herself tripping and falling as three more GIs – one black, two white – waded in. Man, how her friend screamed! People came running, ‘Get off her! Get off!’ till all were caught up in this thrashing.

For the rest of us panic was pulling us along – an irresistible tide dragging everyone to the doors. Even black and white GIs struggled through the opening together in a brief moment of wholly unwanted integration. I lost Queenie in this crush, my hand torn from her grasp.

Ejected into the not-quite-dark light of a cold evening, everyone in the street looked to be wondering how in the devil they find themselves outside. I was pushed. Struggling to keep my balance, fist ready to whack the culprit, I turned and found a little woman – reaching only to my waist, I swear. ‘This is your fault,’ she said. ‘You’re nothing but trouble.’ She pushed me again.

‘Madam!’ I blew with as much authority as my size could muster – if she pushed me again how was I to stop a very small, feisty woman humiliating me?

‘It’s you that started this.’

‘Madam,’ I began, but she was gone, rattling through the crowd like a laxative. Man, it was hatred raged in these men’s eyes not anger! Tell me, if you build a bonfire from the driest tinder, is it the stray spark you blame when the flames start to lick?

But, oh, boy, what a strange battle this was. The pavement held women putting on headscarves, pulling at small boys to stay close, looking around for friends calling out, ‘Vera, over here, come on, love, let’s go.’ Others moaning in huddled groups, ‘It’s a bloody disgrace . . . You don’t see our boys behaving like that . . . Should save their energy for the Germans . . . War’s not won yet and never will be with this lot.’ While straggling down the centre of the road groups of GIs – strictly segregated black and white – stood shrieking taunts at one another. ‘Come on, nigger you want it, come on . . . Kill the goddam son-of-a-bitch . . . This ain’t Mississippi, you gonna have to come shut my mouth . . .’ The black GIs, outnumbered a little by whites, sounded to be short of insulting names. How could the harmless ‘whitey’ heat the blood and jangle the nerves as the established ‘nigger’, ‘jigaboo’, ‘sambo’, and ‘jungle boy’ did? ‘You wan’ it, nigger? You gonna get it . . . Fucking son-of-a-bitch you’re a dead man . . .’ These US comrades buttoned into the same green uniform for a fight against foreign aggression were about to start their own uncivil war.

Perhaps it was the sobering cold in the night air or maybe the locals observing this Yankee feud. Who knows what ferment had been raging inside the picture house but out here it was clear the passion for this fight was gone. These hothead men were now throwing punches that reached no one. Lashing out only into the no man’s land between them. Sticks and stones flew, parting the group where they fell, but only vicious words hit their mark. A white man was grabbed. Struggling fierce as if caught in a crocodile’s jaw he freed himself to run back behind his lines. Receiving a kick on the backside and taunts of ‘We kick your ass. We kick your ass, white man.’ The black men laughed. This clash was becoming no more than a venomous ballet. On both sides men had begun to walk away. A small boy even ran between the groups. ‘Any gum, chum?’ he said, thinking only, GIs and chewing-gum. I, looking around for Queenie and Arthur, thought to offer to escort them home.

But then the whistles started. Sharp as needles, an orchestra of whistle, whistle, whistle ripped at the air. Galloping horses, I thought it to be galloping horses so many boots ran on the stony ground as the American Military Police, their white caps bubbling like foam, gushed on to the street. Surprise caught many men open-mouthed – stunned motionless. Batons raised, these fearsome MPs assailed the group of black GIs. Defenceless skulls cracked like nutshells as panicked black men had nowhere to go but stagger towards the furious boots, fists and elbows of the white GIs. Oxygen to a dying flame, these MPs soon had this fight blazing again like an inferno.

Someone jumped on my back. The wet stone ground rose to smack my head as this sack-of-coal weight toppled me. The blow to my ear rang like church bells. A powerful hand gripped rigid at the back of my neck ground my face on to the stone floor. My cheek scraping raw against wet grit, I struggled as I had never struggled before. This was no Elwood playing rough on me – no one would soon jump up, laugh and declare it my turn. Rage lent me the force to free myself. Lurching over, I took a belt full in the mouth but still I toppled this man from me. Losing his balance, the ugly white GI fell backward – spite buckling up his face. My whack to his head landed so hard his eyes crossed comical with the blow before we two, rolling now, embraced as intimate as lovers. Tearing away I aimed a punch for the soft of his belly – hitting the solid of his ribs instead. Striking once more his belly sank like a cushion as air expelled from him with the force of a fart. Him, still not beaten, lunged to bite my ear. That piercing pain lifted me straight to my feet. Shoving him back down I kicked where he clutched his stomach and stamped on his foot.

As spores to the wind everyone was scattered before the MPs. GIs, black and white, pitched missiles with the force of athletes. And still the MPs came. A white man drooling bloody spittle was slumped against a ladies’ outfitter’s window. A woman stooping before him was shooed away as three MPs yanked, tugged and poked at this leaden man to stand. Two small girls, clinging to each other as tight as the two halves of a peanut, stood shivering and crying. As an older boy yelling, ‘Mum, Mum!’ pushed wild at anyone who came too close to them. A white GI whacked a black man’s head against a wall. This black man leaked blood – it spilling as dense as crimson cloth down before his eyes. Him ran blind – bumping the wall to avoid an MP’s baton blow. A white GI pushed to the ground felt four pairs of boots running over his back before two black men kicked him. Like rags on the ground this fallen man bounced with every blow.

A flying bottle shattered at my feet – me, hopping graceless, felt its splintered shards patter my cheek. My uniform filthy and ripped at both shoulders, my shirt collar sticky, my tie missing – an MP overlooking my RAF blue, concerned only with the colour of my skin, raised his baton ready to charge me. It was a shot that stopped him. One shot from a gun. Did I hear it with my ears or just sense it as every uniformed man ducked low – the trained reflex crouching us all? Another shot. Civilians this time caught still. Like the call of an approaching mother that destroyed the frenzy of my boyhood games, all players in this nasty pastime examined each other in a moment of complete, resounding hush that summoned the question: What is coming next?

Come, let us face it, it was curiosity that saw me walking fast down that street to where a crowd was gathering. No thought of valour, no thought of gallantry and, let me tell you, no thought of Queenie pulled me to where the shot had sounded. Hear this. Only when I heard Queenie’s voice yelling, ‘Arthur,’ did I once again recall that I had had companions that day.

An MP was howling, terrified for everyone to ‘Stay back! Stay back!’ This runt of a man, eyes mesmerised to the ground, gun still smoking and careless in his hand, flicked it to hold people away from the sight. A man lay shot at his feet. And I knew it was Arthur Bligh even before Queenie began beating at this MP’s back – slapping round his head, tearing off his cap. Screaming, ‘Arthur! Let me get through . . . it’s Arthur! What d’you do that for? It’s only Arthur!’

He had been shot in the jaw, his head burst an obscene inside-out by the bullet. I tried to move closer to Queenie – scared this fool MP she was berating could again prove careless with his gun. But the white caps and the galloping boots of the Military Police once more flowed in from every side. This time their batons raised in a line across their chests, they rammed us with this makeshift barrier. ‘Back, stay back – everyone stay back. Move on. Come on, get back there!’

Our inquisitive group was impelled, slipping and tripping, backwards. I could no longer see her but I called out to Queenie as an MP, his baton thrusting hard into my chest, his face pressing close to mine, hot breath breaching my cheek delivered the words, ‘Get away from her, nigger.’ Only now did I experience the searing pain of this fight – and not from the grazing on my face or the wrench in my shoulder. Arthur Bligh had become another casualty of war – but come, tell me, someone . . . which war?

Eighteen

Gilbert

A group of boys jumped lively from the dock into the sea. Gangly arms and legs black against the fine blue sky they soared for a moment like an explosion of starfish. They dived to catch the coins thrown for them from the side of the ship by the first-class passengers. A uniformed band from the First Jamaican Battalion played we returning West Indian RAF volunteers down the gangplank and on to the dock. Who knows what tune they were performing for a thief of a breeze carried this welcome off into less deserving ears. Some of the men wept to feel home under their feet at last. The Blue Mountains folding on the horizon, Kingston dappling in sun and shade. Heads turned, drinking in the curiosity of this well-known vista now unfamiliar to them. Standing to attention for the last time the governor, dressed in his colourful finery, wished us all well. He promised us two months’ pay and our discharge papers, then thanked us for our valuable military service. We were demobilised.

I carried home with me the tatty yellowing cuttings from the newspaper. ‘London Man Killed in US Army Incident’, the headline proclaimed. Letters in the paper asked how many of these ructions the British people were meant to suffer before the US military authorities took their boys in hand. It was a big story – thought a terrible accident. Picture of a distressed Queenie – mistakenly considered the victim’s daughter. Another of Arthur: composed, pipe in hand, this old photograph showed a young English gentleman. At fifty-four I had thought him an old man. Arthur Bligh, it was reported, had been unfortunate to receive a bullet fired with the intention of quelling a vicious brawl. According to several newspapers, GIs about to be posted overseas were angry when the film show they were watching broke down. On evacuating the picture house a fight had ensued. The MP, carrying out his duty, fired a warning shot into the air. The second shot aimed likewise at no one was accidentally diverted when the MP stumbled. It hit Arthur in the head – to be precise in the left jaw – killing him instantly. The funeral was attended by immediate family and a representative from the US Army. An obituary stated that a son, Bernard, was in the forces overseas under the SEAC command. There was no more word about what happened to the MP; there was no reporting of a trial. A letter appearing in a newspaper hinted at the segregation and bad treatment black GIs received from their fellow countrymen. It went on to congratulate we British for being more civilised.

I was posted the day after the incident – moved to Cornwall that verynext morning. Then Scotland. Then Filey. Then Cornwall again. I had written to Queenie – several letters, each one taking me care to compose. How was she recovering? Was she well? Might I not be allowed to visit with her? No replies came. If, in my wildest imaginings, I believed that the military authorities ever puzzled over this West Indian RAF volunteer, then I would conclude that my postings were intended to keep me as far from Queenie Bligh as was possible.