Part 10 (1/2)

We are to report to the Camp Office for doc.u.mentation. ”It says here you're a bombardier,” says a clerk.

”Yes, I'm a bombardier.”

”You've got sergeant's stripes on.”

”Yes.”

”Why?”

”It's a tertiary appointment awaiting ratification through G5 Doc.u.mentation.” That floored him. He stamped my Travel Warrant and we were free from the tyranny of twits.

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The Hotel de Ville - Where British Tea and Buns held sway that Golden October day Well, you see the postcard. Well, it's much bigger in fact. A walk through the streets of Calais wasn't exactly enervating, grey; rather like Catford on a good day. The Hotel de Ville is now Le NAAFI. We have le tea and le beans on le toast. I keep an eye open for any lads from le 19 Battery, it would be nice to see Driver Kidgell or Gunner Edgington; but no, 19 Battery are all in Holland and at this moment possibly all knee trembling in doorways. We finish le meal and partons pour le Camp. Army or not, bed is lovely, even though it's made of wood with springs missing. A goodnight gesture as Len stokes up the fire. As I doze off, I hear rain falling. It will do le garden good.

LAST LEG OF THE JOURNEY...

REVEILLE.

0600 0600.

BREAKFAST.

0700 0700.

PARADE.

0830 0830.

EMBARK.

0900-1000 0900-1000.

It all sounds reasonable, no need to see a solicitor after all. The channel steamer SS Appalling Appalling (the name of the s.h.i.+p has been changed to protect the innocent) is waiting. A tiny almost unnoticeable sign says LIAP (the name of the s.h.i.+p has been changed to protect the innocent) is waiting. A tiny almost unnoticeable sign says LIAP PARTY NO. 26 a.s.sEMBLE HERE PARTY NO. 26 a.s.sEMBLE HERE. We'll never do it, it's much too small to stand on. We move slowly up the gangplank like shuffling penguins. I'm humping a kitbag, big pack and trumpet case. The kitbag is vital, it contains all the h.o.a.rded underwear that my mother has promised will put me on the road to success in civvy street. And I will never be taken short. The officers in first cla.s.s look down at our huddled ma.s.s from the top deck. ”There's one thing we've got over them, Len, we can see right up their noses.” A clatter of donkey engines and French steam; hawsers plummet into the waters. Cries of yo, ho, ho, and the s.h.i.+p slips from the quay into the muddy waters of Calais harbour, but soon we are free from the muddy French waters and out into the pure English Channel and its muddy waters. It's very choppy; ere long the first victims are starting to retch. Whereas other ranks are seasick, officers only have Mal-de-Mer, as befits the King's commission. Sleek white gulls glide alongside. In their total freedom, we must look like a bunch of caged monkeys. It's getting rougher; three green men are throwing up at the rail. Thank G.o.d for gravity.

Landlords Ahoy!

Frightening Folkestone on the Kardboard Kow! The golden seaport hove into view; I would rather have viewed into Hove. It's raining, and doing the gardens good. We are close to the quay.

”It looks so b.l.o.o.d.y foreboding,” Len says. ”I think I'll go back.”

I remind him that his dear little wife is at this moment panting on her bed with the heating turned up and drinking boiling Horlicks.

The customs are pretty hot. ”Read that, please.” I am handed a foolscap sheet of writing.

”Very good,” I say.

”Have you anything to declare?”

I declare that the war is over. He's not satisfied. What have I got in the case. It's a trumpet. Can he see it. He opens the case. Where did I buy this? In London. Have I got a receipt? Yes. Where is it? It's in an envelope in a drawer in my mother's dressing-table in Reigate.

He hums and haws, he's as stupid as a p.i.s.sed parrot. ”Empty your kitbag.” I pour out a sea of my second-hand underwear. He turns it over and over. ”Where is it?”

”Where's what?”

”The contents.” He thinks it's the wrapping for something. Why have I got so many underpants? I tell him of my mother's forecast of the coming world shortage that will* hit England soon. He is now pretty p.i.s.sed off. OK. He makes a yellow chalk mark on everything. Next to me he finds a poor squaddie with a bottle of whisky. ”You'll have to pay One Pound Ten s.h.i.+llings on that,” he says with malice aforethought.

”Oh no I won't,” says the squaddie.

”Than I'll have to confiscate it.”

The squaddie opens the bottle and hands it round to us. With devilish glee we help lower the level to halfway, then the squaddie puts the bottle to his lips and drains it. The customs officer is in a frenzy, says to an MP, ”Arrest that man.”

The M P wants to know why.

”Drunkenness,” he says.

”He's not drunk,” says the M P.

”Wait,” says the customs officer.

From the quay to the station, we are now free of military enc.u.mbrances. Just for the h.e.l.l of it we go into a little teashop in the high road. It's very quiet. Three middle-aged ladies are serving.

”Tea, love?” says one in black with a little white ap.r.o.n.

”Yes, tea love.” That, and a slice of fruit cake that tastes like sawdust. The sugar is rationed to two lumps. The war isn't quite over yet. We pay tenpence. Folkestone station and the 11.40 train to Charing Cross. London is as I left it -black, grimy, rainy but holes in the terraces where bombs have fallen. Len and I split.

”See you in four weeks' time, two stone lighter and skint,” he says.

I buy my first English newspapers for two years. The Daily Herald Daily Herald, the Daily Mail Daily Mail, the Express Express, the Mirror Mirror, the News Chronicle News Chronicle. I go straight for my beloved Beachcomber and find that Justice c.o.c.klecarrot and the Red Bearded Dwarfs are still in court. He is sentencing a Mrs Grotts for repeatedly pus.h.i.+ng the Dwarfs into people's halls.

From Charing Cross I take the tube to Archway. Soon I am knocking on the door of 31 St John's Way. A surprise for Mrs Edgington, she doesn't know I'm coming.

”Oh Spike,” she's drying her hands. ”What are you doing here?”

I tell her I'm doing leave here.

”When are you going back?”

Can I come in first? Tea, would I like some tea. Ah! at last an English English cup of tea and a dog biscuit. (JOKE) I explain my accommodation difficulty. What is the difficulty? Accommodation. Yes, I can stay here. ”You can sleep in the bas.e.m.e.nt.” Mr Edgington's not in, he's gone out to get a paper. Yes, he's well. Son Doug? He's been called up. The Army. Did I know Harry was getting married on leave? He's been caught at the customs with some material he'd bought for Peg's wedding dress and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have given him detention. Mr Edgington is back. Ah Spike. ”When are you going back?” He's tall, thin, at one-time handsome. An ex-Guards Sergeant from World War One, he was badly ga.s.sed in France. He is in receipt of a small war pension. Alas he smokes, it will do for him one day, as it would his youngest son Doug...I dump my gear in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Would I like some lunch? Toad-in-the-hole? Lovely grub. I set myself up in the bas.e.m.e.nt. There's a coal fire, but remember it's rationed! Best not light it until the evening. cup of tea and a dog biscuit. (JOKE) I explain my accommodation difficulty. What is the difficulty? Accommodation. Yes, I can stay here. ”You can sleep in the bas.e.m.e.nt.” Mr Edgington's not in, he's gone out to get a paper. Yes, he's well. Son Doug? He's been called up. The Army. Did I know Harry was getting married on leave? He's been caught at the customs with some material he'd bought for Peg's wedding dress and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have given him detention. Mr Edgington is back. Ah Spike. ”When are you going back?” He's tall, thin, at one-time handsome. An ex-Guards Sergeant from World War One, he was badly ga.s.sed in France. He is in receipt of a small war pension. Alas he smokes, it will do for him one day, as it would his youngest son Doug...I dump my gear in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Would I like some lunch? Toad-in-the-hole? Lovely grub. I set myself up in the bas.e.m.e.nt. There's a coal fire, but remember it's rationed! Best not light it until the evening.