Part 9 (2/2)

”Sitting up, didn't you notice?”

He hasn't slept well, because he hasn't slept at all. What did he do?

”I read the Corriere delta Sera Corriere delta Sera.” He doesn't speak Iti, but when you're awake all b.l.o.o.d.y night, it's amazing what you can manage. ”All Liap Pwarty number twenty-six bwack on twain.”

He's still around! With my ablution kit I spruce up in the toilet. What the h.e.l.l, why not? I strip off for a stand-up bath. The train is on a dodgy bit of track. Trying to wash one leg while standing on the other, the train lurches and one leg goes down the toilet up to the groin. It's the nutcracker suite. I exit to a queue of strained faces: ”Been 'avin' a b.l.o.o.d.y barf?” says one micturated voice. Why should I tell these rough soldiers that, quite apart from crus.h.i.+ng my nuts, I have partaken of Italian train waters and my body is now snow white and ready for leave.

What's this? A buffet car has been added? Len and I wobble along the steamed-up corridors past the odd dozy soldier. It's very nice, bright and clean with white tablecloths and friendly waiters. Our waiter is fat and looks suspiciously like Mussolini. He smiles. We order egg and chips. He stops smiling.

The scenery is now ravis.h.i.+ng. Cobalt-tinted lakes, blue mountains with snow caps, pine forests, cascading gorges, all displayed in bright suns.h.i.+ne. However, in the Sergeants' carriage, it is overcast, raining, with heavy fog. An RTO Sergeant holding a clipboard is checking our doc.u.ments and counting heads. G.o.d, this is exciting, this is what got Agatha Christie going on continental train murders. ”She should have travelled Southern Railways in the rush hour,” says Len. ”That's murder all all the b.l.o.o.d.y time.” We've come to a sudden halt. I get off the floor. A look out of the window shows gangers on the line, some shouting 'twixt engine driver and gangers. Finally shouts and a whistle blowing, we chuff chuff forward. We proceed in fits and starts, starts and fits, then farts and st.i.ts. the b.l.o.o.d.y time.” We've come to a sudden halt. I get off the floor. A look out of the window shows gangers on the line, some shouting 'twixt engine driver and gangers. Finally shouts and a whistle blowing, we chuff chuff forward. We proceed in fits and starts, starts and fits, then farts and st.i.ts.

And lo! there was darkness on the land. It was called the Simplon Tunnel. Icy cold air squirts through the crevices in the trousers and fibrillates the Brinjalls. Soon we are out of war-torn Italy into peaceful money-mad Switzerland. Customs officers have boarded at Domodossola and are checking Pa.s.sports. ”p.i.s.s Pots...all p.i.s.s Pots pleasea,” they are calling. Two enter our cabin. No, we are travelling on the King's Warrant and don't need p.i.s.s Pots, but wish them well in their search. The lighthearted banter and laughter between Len and myself brings facial sneers, constant nudges and silent stares of hatred from our fellow pa.s.sengers. People are like that. If you don't understand them, hate them. What better species to drop the Bomb on! Alas they outnumber us.

CHEERFUL CHAPS.

2 2.

MISERABLE b.a.s.t.a.r.dS.

10 10.

MISERABLE b.a.s.t.a.r.dS WIN BY.

8 8.

The suburbs of Basle. What's this? Union Jacks hanging from the buildings and signs: 'Vive Tommy'. When the train slows, they foist apples and almond cakes on us, girls run alongside and hand us flowers. A quick look into my scratched steel mirror tells me why. I am still beautiful. I lean forward from the window to show my medal ribbons, and just in case I point to them.

Basle station is like Waterloo without the c.r.a.p. We are greeted by another RTO Officer: ”LIAP party twenty-six? The train will be here for an hour. Refreshments have been laid on at the station buffet, no charge, just show your rail pa.s.s.” Despite 'no charge', they all charge to the buffet. What a lovely surprise to hear the pretty waitresses saying, ”We 'ave for you, ze Collation of Coldness.” Lovely - can they whistle the Warsaw Concerto to complete our happiness? But what a difference. Cold Collation here is different from Cold Collation in Catford. Here it's great slices of turkey, a whole lettuce, great dollops of thick egg-bound mayonnaise, chunky brown bread. And here was a moment of delight: one of the grim miserable sergeants bites the thick chunky bread, his teeth come out in it, and he goes on eating.

”So, the we'll-be-in-Calais-some-time-tomorrow isn't going to materialize,” says Len, not fancying another night of upright somnabulism.

”Can you hear horses galloping, Len?”

Len listens. ”No, I can't.”

”Oh, that's the second time today.”

He looks at me and shakes his head. ”It's time you had leave. Look, this is Switzerland, you could seek asylum here.”

Back in the compartment of miserable b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Len consults his map. ”We are about 450 miles to Calais.”

”Any advance on 450? Do I hear 460? Sold then to Sgt Prosser for 450.”

The Sergeants all steam with hate. I gain satisfaction from knowing that b.l.o.o.d.y ugly wives with faces like dogs' b.u.ms with hats on are waiting for them. Ha ha ha ha! It's getting still colder, but not as cold as Collation. Dinner? The white tablecloths are victims of sloppy eating and shunting. Would we like egg and chips? says Mussolini - if so you can sc.r.a.pe it off the table. Nay, we'll have some pasta. He has a heart attack. He runs screaming to the chef telling him of the breakthrough. I hear the kitchen staff singing hymns. Mussolini returns with steaming plates of ravioli. Tears come to his eyes as we eat it.

Night has encapsulated us, semaph.o.r.es of light flash past the windows like speeding fireflies. We pause a while over our coffee and brandy and think of my parents possibly drinking watery Horlicks, eating the cat, and listening to the nine o'clock noise in rented accommodation. Was I really going back to that? Yes I was. I should have got off in Switzerland.

We return to our compartment. All the repulsive Sergeants are laughing and joking, but stop the moment we return. They smirk as we sit down and I wonder what's fretting at the smooth surface of their delinquent minds. I crawl under the seat to last night's sleeping niche and turn off to the sound of iron crochets of train wheels. While we slumber, the land of Jeanne D'Arc is slipping by in the D'ark.

Awake, My Pretty Ones The sun is streaming through the carriage windows. Poplar trees are flas.h.i.+ng past, the French countryside is a swirl of autumnal hues.

”Bonjour,” says Len, as I arise from le floor. ”It's temps pour le breakfast.”

The buffet car is crammed with bleary-eyed, travel-weary soldiers. The smell of fried breakfasts wafts along the corridors; they've started queuing, we must be getting near England. Appet.i.te improves with waiting. Our turn. What would the messieurs like? Hot bread rolls? Oui, oui. We must be in France or luck. There's real real unsalted Normandy b.u.t.ter on the table. We watch it melt on the hot rolls, heap on marmalade. ”Le Life is Tres Bon,” says Len. He confers with his le map. ”Ah, we pa.s.sed Chaumont in the night,” he says. Help, Doctor, Doctor, I've been pa.s.sing Chaumonts in the night. unsalted Normandy b.u.t.ter on the table. We watch it melt on the hot rolls, heap on marmalade. ”Le Life is Tres Bon,” says Len. He confers with his le map. ”Ah, we pa.s.sed Chaumont in the night,” he says. Help, Doctor, Doctor, I've been pa.s.sing Chaumonts in the night.

We are coursing the side of the historic Marne river. To our left the verdant plain of Champagne. Blue overalled vignerons are harvesting the grapes. The train slows down into Epernay. My G.o.d! Champagne vendors on the platform! It's only ten o'clock in the morning, we'll be p.i.s.sed by twelve.

”It's a giveaway,” Len said.

I waited, they didn't give it away. It was fresh and sparkling and delicious. I remember my parents telling me of their Salad Days in India during the Afternoon of the Raj. They used to drink Heidsicke Dry Monopole, and here was I twenty years on drinking it for the first time.

I was wrong, we were p.i.s.sed by eleven. We buy a second bottle for the journey.

”All Liap No. 26 back on the twain.”

A late purchase of some Brie and we glide from the station. In the distance we see the exquisite Chateau Sarat. How can people live in such luxury, while my parents are eating the furniture. Never mind, I'll be rich one day, and if possible the day after that as well. We are at sea level, but none is getting in. What? We are not not going to stop in Paris. This is a breach of the Geneva Convention. going to stop in Paris. This is a breach of the Geneva Convention.

”The rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,” says Len, who was looking forward to Paris, and is now looking back at it. Never mind, there'll be another war. Before that we must open the champagne! We retire to the corridor. Like barbarians we shake the living daylights out of the bottle. This was the way Clark Gable opened it in San Francisco. We swig from the bottle and soon we aren't missing Paris at all. We are jolted awake as the train suddenly screeches to a halt. Amiens. My G.o.d, we are reinforcements for World War One. ”Oh,” says Len, ”that stuff.” I didn't know he'd had a stuff, he must have done it while I was asleep.

The RTO Sergeant is wobbling down the corridors: ”Calais in two hours.” he calls. I must wash and brush up. Calais, one of the Sunk Ports.

”Have you ever seen the statue of the Burghers in Calais?” says Len.

”No, I'm waiting till they make the film.”

A last coffee in the Buffet car. The waiters are breathing a sigh that the culinary barbarians are leaving. But what bad cooks the English are - they even burnt Joan of Arc.

Still miles from Calais, yet the idiot Sergeants are getting their luggage down. Some are even standing at the door. In their tiny minds they think they'll get there quicker. Why don't they stand near a graveyard?

Our train is slowing. The canvas is grey, a spaghetti of railway lines, black industrial complexes, many of them bombed skeletons. A mess of railway sidings, rolling stock, here and there a burnt-out tanker; slower and slower and then in the middle of a sea of points, we are told, ”All out!” Waiting in the grey gloom are three RTO Sergeants, all bra.s.s, bianco and bulls.h.i.+t. We split into two groups. ”NCOs this way please.” (PLEASE???) We two-step over a hundred yards of tracks. NO. 4 TRANSIT CAMP says the sign, and who are we to argue. ”In here, gentlemen,” (GENTLEMEN?) The Sergeant shows us into a Nissen hut. Beds and an iron stove.

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”Make yourselves comfortable,” he says.

”How?” I say.

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