Only when i larf, p.11
Only When I Larf, page 11
Silas walked up very close to me. His nose was very close to mine, ‘What the bloody blue blazes have you been doing Cartwright?’
‘I passed a ten bob note sir, said it was a quid. I’m sorry sir. Could have been a mistake.’
‘You artful little horror,’ said Silas. ‘You crafty little soldier. You horrible, horrible man. What are you?’
‘I’m a horrible man sir,’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ said Silas slowly. ‘A slimy, horrible, good for nothing wretch.’
‘Working with someone else sir,’ said the MP, ‘one of those civvies probably.’
‘What have I told you about drinking and consorting with civvies,’ said Silas. ‘I hate civvies. Got me. I hate civvies, and if I ever see you near a civvie again I’ll castrate you. Got me?’
‘You mean apart from birds sir?’ I said. I didn’t have to act terrified, those MPs were just about to ask for my papers and if Silas didn’t stop overdoing it, they would ask for his any minute. I thought he was going to strike me with his little cane. He was waving it around as though he was taking the London Philharmonic through the 1812 overture.
‘If I didn’t need you over the next ten days, I’d let them take you away and burn you. Do you know that?’
‘Yes sir.’ I said. I could see that the older of the two military coppers was determined to take me in. He turned to Silas, ‘I’m afraid sir, it’s a serious charge. It’s a civvie offence too sir.’
‘Don’t talk to me about civvies,’ Silas said, showing more annoyance than he had with me. I almost thought he was going to tell the copper that he was not acting his part properly, but he didn’t. The copper flinched. ‘I hate civvies,’ said Silas. ‘And no civvie court is going to have one of my boys … is that the India General Service medal?’
‘Yes sir,’ said the elder cop. ‘And the North West Frontier Bar.’
‘Good show,’ said Silas. ‘What would that be, nineteen thirty-eight?’
‘That’s it sir, thirty-eight. I was a boy soldier.’
‘You must have gone through the depot at about the same time as I did. Do you remember the name of the adjutant there?’
‘No sir,’ said the copper. ‘It’s a long time ago now.’ Silas smiled. ‘Lowther was his name,’ said Silas. ‘He was my father.’
‘Really sir?’ said the military cop trying to be as pleased about it as Silas obviously was. What a chancer Silas was, his old man had never even been in the army. Silas’s father was a doctor.
‘This calls for a drink,’ said Silas. ‘And you can leave this little turd to me. Cartwright?’
‘Yes sir,’ I said.
‘Get out to that vehicle. Get cold water and the leather. I want it spotless. I want it shining. I’m going to look inside and if there’s a speck of dust anywhere, Cartwright, you are for the high jump. I want it clean on the top and clean under the mudguards. I want it so clean that it disappears. And if it isn’t, you’ll disappear; into the glass house for three months. Got me?’
I didn’t answer for a minute. It was freezing cold outside, and I knew that he’d have to back-down, if I said I’d sooner be taken away by the two MPs. On the other hand, Silas gets out of touch with reality, on these operations. I mean, I could quite believe that he’d get so lost in his part, that he’d let them take me away.
‘Yes sir,’ I finally said.
‘And give this corporal the barman’s ten shillings.’ I gave it to him, ‘It was a mistake,’ I said.
‘It certainly was,’ said Silas sarcastically, and as all three of them turned away to go into the bar, I heard Silas say, ‘It would have been hard to make it stick, I realised that, when he started to plead that it was a mistake. Hard to disprove things like that.’
I went outside and the barman gave me a bucket of water. Iced water it probably was, by the temperature of it. My knuckles were blue with the cold as I began to wash the scout car. If old Kaplan could have seen me he would have giggled; cleaning that damned car, cleaner than it had ever been, before returning it to his dirty old dump yard.
The marks arrived at 1.30 p.m. They were in a Lincoln Continental. A uniformed chauffeur was driving and in the back seat there were two spades in bank manager suits and a white-faced fancy dan with watch chain and flower; Geegee Grey.
‘Brigadier Lowther?’ says the ofay.
‘I’ll get him,’ I said. I dashed into the bar. Silas and the two military cops were well away, chatting about the war.
‘The African delegation is here,’ I said saluting carefully.
‘These are the chaps,’ said Silas. ‘I’d better pretend you two are with me officially, otherwise there might be questions asked about us drinking together. These Foreign Office blighters can be as tricky as anything.’ The two red-caps came out with Silas. Silas saluted all of them, even Geegee, and then said to the MPs, ‘Thank you for all the work you’ve put in. I don’t think we will need an escort back to London. It’s just an informal trip.’
The MPs both threw Silas a great salute and then kicked up their bikes and roared away. ‘I thought we’d better keep it unofficial,’ said Silas.
‘It’s the wish of my government, that this whole matter is kept as discreet as possible,’ said the War Minister.
‘Right,’ said Silas. ‘I’ll lead the way in my vehicle. Tell your driver to follow. Our best view is from the road, unless you want to go over to the other delegation.’
‘No,’ said the War Minister.
We got into the scout car. I drove down the road slowly, ‘We’ll have to discard that number pound note trick,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Silas. He was angry.
‘Lucky your recognising that medal.’
‘No luck about it,’ said Silas. ‘Research. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. This profession isn’t for slackers or idiots, or people who want money for nothing. You’ve got to work, study, concentrate. I have spent the last three days working; Army Regulations, memoirs, medal recognition, tank recognition. I know more about the army than most of the officers on this camp. Give me ten minutes with any of them and I’ll convince them that they are imposters.’
‘Silas you are a stupid old sod,’ I said.
Silas smiled. We drove in silence for a bit, then Silas said, ‘You want to get down to some serious study of your profession, and forget this frivolous archaeology rubbish. That will never get you anywhere,’ and of course he was right, in a way.
I slowed down as we neared the place we had selected. Silas said, ‘If this fellow is planning a putsch, he’ll need anti-infantry, anti-personnel stuff as well as anti-tank. Make sure you tell him this Vigilant is great against infantry. I’ve invented an infra red device for it. You know your dialogue?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
We stopped at the same place as before. The Lincoln stopped too. Silas went back and tapped his peak with his cane. He gave his smoothest smile.
‘We are over there on the hillock,’ Silas said. ‘The weapon is called Vigilant. It’s the first, one-man, anti-tank guided missile that is completely portable.’ Instead of getting enthusiastic, Silas reeled off the data as though he had become bored with repeating it so often. ‘From cover, one man can control batteries of six missiles. After half a day’s training we expect any infantry man to achieve nine out of ten hits …’
‘Training like this?’ said Ibo Awawa. ‘With a real tank? That would be expensive.’ He poured Silas a glass of wine and handed it to him. For himself he poured water.
‘No, in simulators,’ said Silas. ‘We’ll probably get you one of those too. At 1,500 yards we expect solely turret hits. Built in to the missile there is a stabilising device which gives immediate response to the operator’s aim, rather than a curving in toward the desired direction. This makes obtaining hits considerably more simple than with other similar wire-guided missiles. It is, without doubt, the most remarkable anti-tank weapon ever invented. Here is a simple diagram and some data. I’m afraid that it’s only typewritten and roneoed, but that’s our standard instruction sheet. The infantry man walking is carrying a box containing the missile. The box is also a launcher. It takes two seconds to set-up and – including the launcher – the missile weighs only 51 pounds. They are suitable for mounting on vehicles – such as the Ferret I’m using – and on helicopters.’ As he was saying this, there was a roar of motor cycles and the two MP bikes came roaring down the road from the direction of the main camp. They slowed up as they got to us, but only in order to wave to Silas who held his wine glass aloft to them as they went past, all smiles and exhaust smoke. Silas hardly paused in his explanation.
‘The operator guides it by means of that sight he’s holding.’
‘That changes the ailerons or something?’ asked Geegee, anxious to sound intelligent.
‘Solid fuel propulsion,’ rattled off Silas. ‘Trailing edge wing flaps and the gyro-stabilised autopilot are both actuated by gas bled from the rocket motor. Exact dimensions are printed on the sheet you have there, but roughly speaking the missile measures three and a half feet long and less than one foot across. I can tell you gentlemen, it’s a killer; of tanks, soft vehicles, infantry, or anything it comes across.’
Mr Ibo Awawa nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s a cold wind,’ he said. ‘Get into the car.’ Silas got into the Lincoln, he went on talking, but I couldn’t hear what was said after that. I saw the chauffeur produce another large box. He took more wine, cold chicken, pâté and salad, and arranged it on a neat folding table that had been built into the coachwork of the Lincoln. I decided to build one into my red Rolls. I could see Silas rabbiting away and stuffing canapes and drink into his face. Eventually, they remembered me, sitting in the freezing cold armoured scout car. They sent me a leg of chicken and a glass of coca-cola. Geegee brought it. He said, ‘The Brigadier tells me that you are not allowed alcohol while on duty.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. Geegee climbed up onto the turret. He was a tall bloke, wearing an Austin Reed ready-made suit and a drip-dry shirt, through which his string vest was visible. He watched me eat the chicken. When I’d finished it he offered me a cigar. ‘I don’t mind,’ I said taking one. He took it back from me and trimmed it with his gold cutter. Then he gave it to me again and lit it. ‘Known your Brigadier long?’
‘Don’t know him,’ I said.
‘Don’t know him?’ said Geegee.
‘How would I get to know a Brigadier?’
‘I’ve put it badly,’ said Geegee. ‘How long have you been with him?’
‘Been with him, on and off, two years,’ I said. ‘But I’ve known him as an officer on the unit for four.’
‘A long time,’ pronounced Geegee.
‘It flipping well is,’ I said. ‘Too flippin’ long, but this is a cushy number.’
I puffed at the cigar, watching the gun and tanks. One of the tanks started its motor and went lumbering off over the rim of the nearest ridge. It came up into position again, hull well up. I stole a glance at the other car. Silas was leaning forward pointing and the War Minister had the field glasses to his eyes listening to Silas’s commentary. The War Minister must have said something to his aide, for he opened the car door, got out and came walking across to me and Geegee in the scout car.
‘Hello Charles,’ said Geegee.
Charles was a very dark negro dressed in an expensive tweed suit and tweed hat. His brogue shoes were polished like glass and he touched the armoured sides of the vehicle as though it might have been sprayed with deadly virus. When he spoke, it was in a frail Oxford accent with some of the pronunciations so absurd that I could hardly understand him.
‘Hello Geegee dear chap,’ said Charles.
‘Feel like a spot of air?’ asked Geegee.
‘His nibs thought it would be good for me,’ Geegee said, to me. ‘Your Brigadier seems to be getting on well with the old man.’
‘He’s a smashing bloke,’ I said. ‘He gets on well with everyone. He’s a smashing officer that Brigadier Lowther. He’s strict, but always dead fair, and so fussy about the equipment, you’d never believe. He comes down the lines inspecting the guns – course he’s the officer that condemns the artillery and anti-tank guns …’
‘Yes we did know that,’ drawled Charles.
I continued, ‘Sometimes he’ll say, “Don’t no one bother with that one no more. Stop cleaning that one right now, lads. I can see right now as how I’ll be condemning of it. If Staff says anything about it being dirty, say as how I said it’s condemned.” Another time he was deciding about equipment going for re-use. He says to the lads as how we’ve got to remember that guns that is resold to foreign armies is going to be used by soldiers just like us, but foreign. “So look after your guns,” he says. “You wouldn’t want no breech block blowing back and crippling some poor pongo, no matter what country he’s in. They are our colleagues,” he says.
‘Well I’d never thought about it like that before. It’s funny flipping way of putting it, but I can see exactly what he means. Another time there are guns for resale. He takes a quick butchers at the recoil mechanism and he says “scrap, scrap, scrap,” all the way down the whole flipping line of forty-five guns. Well there’s hardly a mark on ’em, they are practically brand new. So course we all look at him, don’t we? He says, “Resold guns is going to be used by some poor pongo somewhere. A lot of these guns look nice now, but I’ve been through the records of these guns. I looked at the history of those breech blocks and I can tell you metal fatigue has taken its toll. I won’t see no pongos endangered by dodgy gear,” he said. Well, actually he said, “I won’t see no soldiers endangered by faulty equipment,” but you get the drift of it. “They are brothers in arms,” he said. Brothers in arms. Yeah, I can tell you gents, he’s a right funny geezer, that Brigadier Lowther.’
I took a deep drag at my cigar while Geegee and Charles exchanged glances. They were now sure that Silas was one of the biggest fiddlers wearing khaki. There was a rapping sound from the window of the Lincoln. Silas was pointing across the exercise ground. The tank was moving again. On the other hillock the Vigilant fired. The little missile took off, trailing a wire and altering direction as the soldier controlled it with his aiming device. It seemed to pause as it neared the target tank then there was a big bang. The Centurion shuddered and stopped. Two more shots went in through the front armour and then there was a low roar as she started to flame.
‘She’s brewing up,’ I said.
‘That’s three shots,’ said Charles.
‘Through the front armour,’ I said. ‘That stuff is 152 mm. thick in some places. If he’d been hull-up, the first shot would have knocked him out.’ The roaring got louder, as the radio controlled tank disappeared in a sheet of flame.
Silas and the War Minister got out of the Lincoln. Silas was smiling. ‘What did you think of it, Cartwright?’ he called to me.
‘That Vigilant’s a super weapon, sir. I was just telling these gents. If she’d been hull-up, the first one would have brewed her up. And of course at night we could do the same thing with the I.R. lock on device …’
Silas held his cane to his lips.
The War Minister said, ‘What is the I.R. lock on device?’
Silas said, ‘It’s not really for publication, but it will be early next year, so it can’t hurt to tell you. Might even be able to get you a few, but they’ll be damned pricey. It’s an infra red device that locks onto any warm target and follows it. Just press the button. That tank could have been destroyed at night without the tank crew ever seeing the missile.’
‘Heat?’ said the War Minister. ‘It would be effective against infantry?’
‘The heat of the human body will do it,’ said Silas. ‘It’s an expensive way of doing it but against a column of infantry those anti-tank missiles will do more damage than shrapnel.’
‘Will they?’ said the War Minister thoughtfully. ‘That’s frightful, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Silas. ‘But it’s as an anti-tank missile that your army will be employing it, isn’t that right?’
‘Who can say?’ said the War Minister.
‘Exactly,’ said Silas.
8
Liz
I had got back to our mews flat tipsy that night, after having dinner with Mr Ibo Awawa and Geegee. Silas was attentive and businesslike. He wrote down everything in his little notebook. It looked good to all of us, but Silas was right, it wouldn’t do for Bob and me to remain in the mews flat. We moved the cars first, then packed our bags and took adjoining suites at the Chester Hotel.
They argued a bit at the desk about Santa Claus, but I knew that Silas wouldn’t remember to feed it. Neither of us felt sleepy when we got there at 3.30 a.m. We sent for cocoa and brandy and sat there talking about the new job. Bob was still in his dirty roll-neck sweater and jeans. He kept complaining about his picaresque roles and swearing that he wouldn’t be Silas’s army driver for this next operation, but we all knew that when it came to the crunch, Bob would do as Silas directed.
Silas had found Bob – adopted him one might almost say – three or four years ago, when Bob was doing small time swindles.
‘A regular gas meter bandit I was when old Silas met me. I was doing little mail order fiddles.’
‘You were selling by mail order?’
‘Advertising, “superb steel engraving of HM the Queen originally commissioned by the British Government for only 10/6” and sending them a threepenny stamp? No, I wasn’t bright enough to do that. I was sending to mail order companies for eight quid watches, and cheap binoculars and car accessories. I’d send the first payment to each of ten adverts simultaneously, then, when they sent me the stuff I’d move on and flog it from door to door. No company will pursue someone for a debt under ten pounds; it’s not worth it. They’d spend more than that chasing you.’
‘It sounds dangerous,’ I said. I could not imagine him doing it. He looked so frail that going to prison would kill him. ‘Drink your cocoa,’ I said.
