Everyone Brave Is Forgiven(85)
Astutely,
Alistair
Today the battery was to rotate to Fort Bingemma, away from the city, on an escarpment high on the Victoria Lines in the northwest of the island. It was time. Alistair’s men were broken and somnambulant. Three of his thirty-five were dead, and seven in Simonson’s troop. The enemy’s bombing had not let up for eighty-six nights. Up in the hills the regiment could regroup and re-equip. Perhaps, in the countryside, there would be a little more to eat.
Alistair looked out to sea one last time. The northwesterly screamed through the signaling masts of the ships in Grand Harbour. The waves came in and in, as they always had. To the horizon clung a haze from the smokestacks of the encircling warships, corraling the island in time.
To: Cpt Alistair Heath, RA
From: Mairie & Northe, Solicitors at Law
Re: Slander
Sir,
We are commanded by our client, Miss Mary Anne Elizabeth North of London, SW1, to convey her intention to pursue you in law in the eventuality that you do not immediately and in full retract in writing your vile calumny, viz, that our client is delusional. Your comments apposite to her handwriting our client will allow to stand, but wishes us to communicate to you a fact of which your own various letters constitute proof abundant, viz, that our client’s written submissions are qualitatively superior not only in calligraphy, but also in composition, to your own.
Legally,
Mairie & Northe
When Alistair looked up, he was surprised to find the war. She had done it again, her trick of making it all disappear. He laced up his duffel bag, shouldered it, and put on his uniform cap as he stepped into the bleaching light of the fort’s central quadrangle.
“Heath! There you are, you tardy bastard!”
“Simonson,” said Alistair, saluting with as much precision as it merited.
“Get in the truck, won’t you? Anyone would think you didn’t want to go on holiday.”
Alistair climbed up into the passenger seat of the Bedford. Simonson started the big petrol engine and put it into gear straight away, so as not to waste an iota of fuel. The men had gone ahead in a fleet of requisitioned charabancs and wagons, most of them horse-drawn, dispatched along the road at irregular intervals to avoid drawing the enemy fighter aircraft which were now almost unopposed. Alistair and Simonson drove out over the main drawbridge. The quartermaster had issued them with a full load of artillery shells to take to the fort, and enough petrol—measured with a metal pipette to the nearest fluid ounce—to get them exactly to their destination providing that they coasted down hills.
Simonson piloted them through the ruins of Valletta. Alistair dropped the side window and enjoyed the warmth of the early morning. It was the right time of day to be making the trip out of the city. The sun wasn’t too hot yet. The aces of the Luftwaffe were still on the ground in Sicily, signing photographs of themselves or doing whatever they did between bombing trips to a defenseless island.
The two captains rolled through the winding canyons that had been made in the vast acres of rubble. Every building seemed to have been reduced to the infinite repetition of the same yellow stone block, two feet long by one across by one deep. It was the atom of civilization, the largest component that two men could lift between them.
Simonson scowled through the dusty windshield.
“Looks like my alphabet blocks after Randy found the castles I made.”
“Heard from your dear brother lately?”
“Oh, he won’t write. I’d be astonished if the bastard can even read.”
“Hasn’t he had his call-up yet?”
Simonson fixed Alistair with a look of delighted condescension. “Dear boy. They have to keep a few good men back. Otherwise we chaps might all get home from this jollity and demand the keys to the kingdom.”
“Would that be so frightful?”
“You are a sluggish learner. Perhaps you are slightly retarded.”
“I’m sure you used to be funny.”
“Too many casualties of late, Alistair, that’s all.”
Alistair looked at him, and Simonson looked ahead at the road. It was the first time Simonson had used his first name.
Alistair said, “I never thought you minded much, about the men.”
Simonson cut the engine and coasted to a halt. He pulled the handbrake on and searched for his cigarettes in the pockets of his tunic.
“I didn’t mind at first. When Dryden was killed, I thought, Well, that’s his lookout. And then Norris got it—such a terrible bloody aimer—and I was just glad it wasn’t someone useful, like Carter.”
Alistair nodded. “I’m sure Norris is a better shot now he’s dead.”
“Well, exactly. And in any case I have never been fond of the men the way you are. I hardly understand them and I always supposed I had no more feeling for them than I do for cats. But then the next week Carter was killed after all, and I remember looking down at his body. We knew it was him by his wristwatch. His face wasn’t where he left it, you see, and it made me furious. I don’t know why that should be. It’s not as if he was a handsome man in life. And yet I remember thinking: I would bury you myself. You know how hard it is to dig a grave on this island. Three inches of soil and then solid rock. But I would have done it, if the men had let me. And then Vickers was killed, and Cullen, and Casey, and Urquhart—all in that one dreadful week, do you remember?—and I have been desperately angry ever since. I actually loathe being an officer.”