Alan Judd - A Breed of Heroes

‘What? Who?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Thoroughgood. One would never have thought you were a serving officer.’ Chatsworth sat back on his heels and looked nervously at the sacking over the doorway. Charles had never seen him so excited. ‘I’ve got half of it out and if they see it now we’ll never see any of it again.’ He stood up. ‘Sod it, I’ll find them both myself. Hope they’re not too pissed. Everyone else is, and you’re no better.’

He went and Charles remained on the bunk. It seemed easier to stay where he was and there seemed little point in going anywhere else. He slept again. When he awoke, shivering, he could hear that the party was still going. He crawled out of bed, stood, straightened his clothes, checked that his pistol was still in his pocket, pushed his hair into some sort of shape with his fingers and went back towards the ops room. The noise and the smoke and the smell of drink surged down the corridor like a continuous wave. He was prevented from getting in by a group of figures carrying something out. They had their backs to him and moved with difficulty, all giving each other instructions. He stood back and watched as Henry Sandy and others emerged with an insensible and trouserless Nigel Beale.

‘Give us a hand, Charles,’ said Henry. ‘We’re going to bury him.’

No one noticed that Charles did nothing and they made their way towards the stairs. The ops room was now unrecognisable as such. People sat amidst the rubble of bottles and cans on the floor. A group in the corner was endlessly singing ‘Bread of Heaven’. In the middle of the room Sergeant Wheeler was trying to do a handstand on a chair, surrounded by advisers and supported by Moira Conn, who held one of his legs by the thigh whilst the other leg waved dangerously about. Van Horne and Beazely were not to be seen. As Charles left the room Sergeant Wheeler and his chair collapsed on to the floor, taking Moira Conn with them. She sprawled, legs apart and with her blouse undone, laughing helplessly. There was a great cheer and then she disappeared beneath a surge of willing helpers.

Charles walked down the corridor to the stairs down which Nigel Beale had just been carried, or possibly dropped. The air there was clear and refreshing. He paused at the top, hearing someone running up. Presently a small plump soldier came into view, strenuously taking three steps at a time, the hand holding his rifle pumping in time to his steps. There was relief on his serious pale face when he saw Charles. ‘Sir — couldn’t get through on the ops room phone, sir — Castle Street OP reports one of our lorries being stoned outside the monastery by a lot of kids. Monastery OP rang through with the same report. Don’t seem to be no one doing anything about it.’ As he recovered his breath he became aware of the party noise and his eyes strayed in that direction.

‘Are you sure it’s one of our lorries?’

‘Yes, sir. One of our four-tonners.’

Charles thought uneasily of Chatsworth’s remarks. He could hear people in the corridor and feared that revellers might break out. He told the soldier to go back to the OP and said that he would sort something out. The soldier left and Charles went back into the corridor where he met Anthony and Edward. Edward, very red and very drunk, was holding on to Anthony and seemed to be trying to make some sort of incoherent confession. Anthony, none too steady himself, was holding Edward with one hand and had Moira Conn’s shoulder-bag slung over one shoulder. Charles explained to him what had happened.

Anthony’s face looked troubled. He leaned forward, propping Edward against the wall. ‘What’s that, old boy? Lorry-load of stones?’ Charles explained again. ‘One of ours? Didn’t know we had any out.’

‘Neither did I.’

‘Better investigate.’

‘Yes.’

Edward almost fell. They both caught him. ‘Company sergeant major says bombs in bog,’ he said.

‘Just between you and me,’ said Anthony, confidentially, ‘don’t think he’s much use, poor fellow. Better leave him here.’

They propped Edward against the wall but he slid slowly to the floor. ‘Can’t even pee now,’ he murmured.

‘All right where he is,’ said Anthony slowly. ‘Not much use but no harm.’ He hitched Moira Conn’s bag further on to his shoulder and swayed unsteadily for a moment, looking very thoughtful. He put his hand on Charles’s arm. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

It looked as though Anthony might be more of a hindrance than a help in dealing with whatever had to be dealt with. ‘Why don’t you stay here, Anthony? I’ll come back and tell you all about it.’

‘Duty.’

‘But are you sure you’re going to be all right when we get outside?’

Anthony gave a little smile. ‘Who can tell? Which of us ever knows that? I rely on you if it all goes wrong, Charles. Lead on.’

They had nearly reached the bottom of the stairs when Anthony stopped. ‘Berets,’ he said. ‘Can’t go out without berets. Bad for the regiment.’ He ignored Charles’s protestations about the need for hurry. ‘Very few things urgent in this life but dress very important all times. Beret most important of all.’ He turned and mounted the stairs with careful deliberation, one at a time. ‘Get one for you too. Don’t worry. Stay where you are till I get back.’ He returned with two berets which, when they were put on, turned out to be so large that they rested on the tops of their ears. Anthony’s almost reached the bridge of his nose. ‘Wrong ones. Some chaps very large heads. Not like you and me. No matter. Principle that counts.’ He again hitched Moira Conn’s bag on to his shoulder. ‘Lead on.’

They took two men from the guard and went out through the main gate. Anthony had been reluctant to take any at all and would certainly not consider taking more. ‘Four must-get-beers like ourselves are a match for any number of villains,’ he announced without lowering his voice as they stepped into the street. The night was cool and, not surprisingly, it was raining again. Charles still did not feel properly awake. It was as though he were taking part in a dream sequence in which anything was possible and nothing was questioned.

The lorry was where the soldier had said it was, within sight of the OP outside the main entrance to the monastery. It was slewed across the road, blocking it completely. Its front wheels were up on the pavement and its bumper was flush against the wall of a house. It looked as though it had hit the house and loosened some of the brickwork. The upstairs windows of the house were crowded with shouting people. Behind the lorry the monastery gates hung open at a peculiar angle. The top hinge of one of them had come away and the other was splintered. Further down the street there was the usual crowd of children throwing the usual stones, and one of the lorry’s windows was broken because the metal guard had not been pulled up.

‘What d’you make of this?’ asked Anthony.

‘Nothing.’

‘Me neither.’ They all four stood staring at it for some seconds. ‘Could be a bomb, of course.’

‘Could be.’

‘Better find out.’ When the children saw the soldiers they were stimulated to put more effort into their stone-throwing, but they fell back and gave up when one of the soldiers raised a rubber-bullet gun to his shoulder. They then stood in a huddle on a corner and watched, more curious than aggressive. Anthony marched up to the cab and opened the door. A body subsided on top of him, slowly enough for him to try at first to prop it up in the cab and then gradually to bend beneath its weight until he had crumpled in slow-motion to the ground and was sitting in a small puddle with the top half of the body in his lap. Its legs were still propped up against the lorry and Anthony was still wearing his oversize beret. He looked up at Charles. ‘I say.’