Avalanche of Daisies (24 page)

Waves of nausea rose into Steve's throat and he turned his head away and was sick into the dust. It was always the same when one of his mates was hit but he knew how to deal with it now. There was no point in trying to control it. The best thing was to get it over with, quickly and without making a fuss, and then he could return to the job in hand.

But once the commander was lying on the ground, it was all too horribly obvious that there was nothing they could do. He was dying, his legs twitching and his breath making a dreadful quacking noise in his throat,
on and on and on. Poor bugger! Steve thought, as he crouched beside him. What a God-awful way to go, with half your head missing and making a noise like that. He ached with anguish at his inability to help. But what could he do? What could anyone do? They could hardly put a field dressing on a wound like that and it was pointless to call for the stretcher bearers.

He glanced up at the major for orders but he was simply a shadow in the dust-cloud. And at that moment, a tank four hundred yards ahead of them was hit by a mortar and brewed up.

It was the first time Steve and Dusty had been close to a tank that had taken a direct hit and they were so horrified by what they saw and heard that neither of them could move, even though they were in grave danger. Everything was exploding at once, the petrol tanks ablaze and sending tongues of flame high into the air, ammunition erupting from the sides of the tank in long glowing beads of fire, black smoke billowing in every direction. But much, much worse was the mind-numbing noise they could hear, as the crew screamed in their last terrible agonies inside the inferno.

Steve knew he was screaming too. ‘Somebody get them out! Somebody do something! Christ Almighty! Somebody do something!' But it was useless because there was nothing any of them
could
do. The heat was searing them at four hundred yards.

And then all the tanks were on the move, the entire company was out of the TCV's and they were in the middle of a battle. There were commands to be obeyed and mortars to be fired, instantly and as accurately as their shaking fingers would allow. They were robots again, doing what had to be done, with no time for pity and no space for compassion, their only reality action and terror. And the dying man had to be left.

The exchange went on for a very long time but eventually the German fire diminished and a few seconds later they seemed to be retreating. The British
tanks moved on, hosing the woods with precautionary fire as they left. Steve could see tracer glowing among the dust-clouds, then it faded and cut out and the tanks were gone, their motors just a distant hum. The dust finally began to settle and the brigade was left with the carnage. And the tank commander was dead.

No matter how many times he saw the aftermath of a battle and no matter how glad he was to have emerged unscathed, Steve was always shocked by the dreadful waste of it. And this time, as well as dead and wounded infantrymen to be attended to, there was also the burnt-out hulk of the tank and the horror it contained, which he couldn't avoid because it was directly in his way.

It was so badly burnt that all the paint had flaked from its sides in long ash-grey strips and the impact hole of the mortar was clearly visible. It looked like a jagged porthole and gave a dark view into the interior, a dark view he had to take whether he really wanted to or not.

Lying on the floor of the turret was what was left of the crew, five gruesomely blackened, grotesquely twisted corpses. The heat had been so intense that their flesh had melted to a black oozing tar that had fused them to the floor. Their heads were burnt to the skull, white bones pathetically visible, their teeth bared in a horrifying grin. These were men he'd known since the King's Lynn days, men he'd joked with and trained with and got drunk with – and he couldn't recognise them. The pity he felt for them was beyond sickness, beyond compassion, too far into anger to be expressed in any way at all. For a second he thought he was going to faint, but then Dusty crunched up alongside him to say that the stretcher bearers had arrived and they were detailed to assist. And having a job to do kept him going.

The stretcher bearers were professional and cheerful.

‘Here we are, mate!' they called to the wounded.
‘The Sheriffs bleedin' posse always gets through! Let's be 'avin' yer!'

Drips were set up, wounds given temporary dressings, fags lit and relit, and the casualties were borne away, drips and all. ‘Room for one more on top! Fares please! Have the exact fare ready if you please! Regimental Aid Post and all stops to Blighty.'

Steve had never admired them so much. They were so stolid and dependable. So normal. Fancy being able to joke after such a battle!

When the wounded were gone, the mood changed abruptly. Now there were graves to dig and comrades to bury, and although they did it all as quickly and neatly as they could, it was still a sombre business. The battery carpenter made the necessary wooden crosses, the regimental padre said what he could, a few shots were fired in a last salute. And then they obeyed the next order, climbed into their TCV's and moved on.

Usually, when they were in transit, there was a buzz of talk, as they played cards, ate their ‘compo' rations, told foul jokes and kidded one another. But this time they were all subdued. The air sentry sat on the roof, his feet dangling from the circular lid for the Bren gun and the rest of them crouched on their tip-up seats facing one another, smoked incessantly and miserably, and didn't talk.

By the time they leaguered for the night, the light was going. There was gunfire booming in the distance but it was too far away to bother them. Away from the dust, it was a beautiful summer's evening, the sky the colour of opal, the air gently warm, and somewhere across the fields the birds were singing.

They sprawled on a grassy bank above a ditch that would give them cover if they came under sniper fire and with their rifles close at hand, ate an unappetising evening meal. In the confusion of dust and misdirections, the supply column hadn't caught up with them, so they ate what they could find. In Steve and Dusty's
case, it was cold rice pudding from a tin. They were tired and covered in filth of all kinds and their hands were still gory with dried blood and brains but there was no water to wash with and hunger reasserted itself despite the horrors of the day.

We're growing callous, Steve thought. But how could it be otherwise? When you're stuck in a situation like this it's inevitable. You fight, you bury the dead, you eat, you sleep, you fight again. Always in the present. It's not that we forget the dead – none of us will ever do that – it's because we're too weary to remember.

‘If I get through this bloody awful war,' he vowed, ‘I shall want to see some pretty drastic changes. We can't go on in the old way, not after this.' He looked at his hands again. ‘They can't expect
us
to stand in a dole queue and rot without work. Not now. Not after all we've seen and done. I tell you Dusty, there'll be no ex-servicemen standing in the gutter selling matches, the way they did last time, poor sods. We've won the right to something better.'

Dusty was busily writing between mouthfuls. ‘I can see you on the hustings,' he teased and began to sing, ‘
Vote, vote, vote for Private Wilkins
…'

His oppo's mocking tone made Steve aware of how dangerously fragile his feelings were. He changed the subject quickly. ‘Writing home?' he asked.

‘Nope,' Dusty said, and he held up a little card for Steve to see. ‘Doin' me sums.'

It was a snapshot of a sweater-girl, dark hair piled above her forehead, smiling sideways at the camera. ‘Who is she?'

Dusty barely gave her a glance. ‘Some bint,' he said. ‘I took her out for a coupla weeks when I was called-up.'

‘Looks nice.'

‘She was all right. Give me that when we said goodbye. Never wrote though.'

The mass of dark hair made Steve think of Barbara – for the first time that day. ‘She's pretty,' he said.

‘She's just a bint,' Dusty said casually. ‘There's plenty more where she came from. Look on the other side.
That's
me sums.'

Steve turned the photograph over. The reverse side was covered in pencil marks – six vertical strokes and one across, like six-barred gates.

‘Marking off the days,' Dusty explained. ‘One more I've got through in one piece. One more to the end of this bleedin' war. It's my good luck charm sort a' thing.'

That was something Steve could understand. Another day still alive. Wasn't that what he told himself every evening? Another day nearer going home. And he suddenly remembered Barbara in the most vivid and erotic detail – lying beside him with straw in her dark hair and love in those green eyes, running down the slope towards their little house, waving goodbye on that hateful station, glimmeringly naked in the gaslight, her head thrown back and her beautiful mouth lifted for kisses. He missed her so painfully that his face was anguished. And missing her brought anxiety into focus. The papers were guarded about the new flying bombs but reading between the lines it was obvious that they were very, very dangerous. There was no way he could protect her – or anyone else he loved come to that – but that didn't stop him aching to be able to do it. If there'd been some sort of bargaining counter where he could offer to take their risk into his own life and leave them free of it, he would willingly have done it. My darling girl, he thought, remembering the courage of her letters. Don't get hurt. I couldn't bear you to be hurt. I love you so much.

The buzzbombs had been falling on London for over six weeks and although most Londoners made light of it, being on perpetual alert was beginning to wear them down. The papers called it ‘war weariness' and prescribed Sanatogen and Horlicks to counteract it. Betty and Barbara preferred a weekly trip to the cinema.

Over the last few difficult weeks their friendship had progressed so quickly that they were now two best friends. It hadn't taken them any time at all to discover that, as well as their affection for Steve, their occasional annoyance at their siblings, a capacity for hard work and a stoical acceptance of their present danger, they also shared the same taste in many of the lesser things in their lives, films and food – or the lack of it – make-up and hairstyles, radio shows, popular songs, even newspapers. Betty was brandishing a copy of the
Evening News
at that very moment as she rushed into Barbara's bedroom, brown eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘You seen this about Hitler?' she said. ‘Someone's tried to do him in.'

Barbara had been combing her hair, standing on tiptoe so that she could see her face in Steve's high mirror. Now she paused and turned to face her cousin. ‘Is he dead?' she hoped. Oh let him be dead and then the war'll be over and Steve can come home.

Betty pulled a face. ‘No,' she admitted. ‘Says here
“an unsuccessful attempt was made on Hitler's life.”
They threw a bomb at him, apparently, but it killed someone else.'

‘Pity!'

‘Shows they're gettin' sick of him though,' Betty
said. ‘I mean, we don't go takin' pot shots at old Winnie.'

‘So they should be getting sick of him an' all,' Barbara said, returning to the mirror. ‘The dreadful things he's done, thass onny right an' proper. Read it out while I finish my hair.'

She listened attentively while Betty read the paper aloud. ‘Better luck next time,' she said, when Betty stopped reading. ‘Thass all I got to say. Are the kids coming with us?'

‘They're on their way,' Betty told her. ‘You know how they dawdle. Had any more letters?'

‘Not since Monday's,' Barbara said. ‘I showed you that, didn't I?' Steve's letters were always so careful they were actually quite disappointing – apart from that one lovely PS. She kept them in a shoebox, tied with a bit of red ribbon that Betty had nicked from Woolworths for her, and she read them every night before she settled to sleep – or to a night in the shelter – but she couldn't help wishing they'd been love letters. Still at least as they were she could show them round to the family.

Betty returned to the paper. ‘I been tryin' to work out where he is,' she said. ‘It's full a' stuff about that Caen place. I'll bet he's there.'

Barbara didn't want to think about the fighting. It was too painful. So she changed the subject. ‘What we goin' to see?' she asked.

Betty turned the page to find out and as she ran her finger down the column, the doorbell rang. ‘There's the little'uns,' she said and went clattering off downstairs to answer it.

She was back almost at once to say that there was a young man on the doorstep asking for Barbara.

Barbara picked up her lipstick – coolly. ‘What sort of young man?' she said. ‘I don't know any young men.'

‘He's a looker,' Betty told her. ‘Dark hair. Talks like you.'

The only looker Barbara knew was Victor Castlemain and it couldn't be him because he didn't know where she was. But if it wasn't him, who could it be? Mildly curious, she finished off her make-up and went downstairs to find out. And it
was
Victor, wearing a smart grey suit and a brown Homburg hat and looking distinctly prosperous.

For a few seconds she stood where she was and looked at him. And he looked at her, his expression guarded. She realised that she was feeling acutely embarrassed. How could she explain who he was? Why had he come? Did he know she was married? And what on earth could she say to him?

In the end she simply sauced him, falling into the old habit of defence by bravado because she couldn't think of any other way. ‘Oh!' she said. ‘It's you.'

Her mocking tone reassured him. ‘So they tell me,' he joked. ‘Thass onny a rumour, mind.'