Walcot. Brian AldissЧитать онлайн книгу.
and summoned his paymaster, who was made to pay out five hundred francs, which he did with a bad grace.
You were most grateful. You shook hands. The capitaine embraced you, for you were comrades-in-arms. You saluted smartly before he turned away and marched briskly back to his vehicle. It seemed as if your heart rose to your throat and almost choked you.
That night, you were somewhere near Fougères. You did not know where anywhere was, or how far it was, for all signposts had been removed – an indication that someone, if not the capitaine, must believe the Germans might get this far. The countryside was broken and wooded. You pulled into a firebreak between tall beeches. You ate Army iron rations and settled down to sleep on the boards of the ghari.
The sound of distant explosions roused you from sleep. You climbed out quietly, so as not to awaken Palfrey and Furbank, to see what was to be seen. The trees cut off all distant vision. They stirred uneasily in an increasingly strong breeze. Planes were flying overhead. A town further along the road was getting strafed, presumably Fougères. You were sleepy and climbed back to your blanket.
Suddenly Palfrey was shaking you.
‘Wake up, Sir! There’s a dogfight going on. Wake up!’
You were cold and heavy. Only gradually did you become properly alert. The roar of aero engines brought you to your senses. You climbed out after Palfrey. Furbank was standing with his back against the ghari, looking up at the dull dawn sky. His face was grey and drawn, as if he had aged twenty years overnight.
One flickering searchlight was probing the air. A number of planes were manoeuvring, spurting paths of tracer. Slow French fighters were taking on the speedier Messerschmitts. From the ground, it all looked harmless.
You watched in fascination as a plane was hit. It began to spiral earthwards, with a tail of flame.
‘It’s one of ours,’ you said, almost to yourself.
The burning plane flattened out, as if the pilot were recovering control. Still it flew lower and lower.
‘Look out!’ yelled Furbank.
The plane crashed through the tops of nearby trees at great speed, flaming, flaming, as it rushed towards where you stood.
Did you run? Who could remember in that moment of extreme terror? – All you recall is that gigantic fiery thing, like vengeance itself, disintegrating as it sped through saplings, smashing into your lorry, spewing flame and metal all about.
You were hit by a fragment of metal. You went down. Terrible noise. Then the crackle and crash of everything burning.
Into the silence and blackness came strange dreams, incoherent, confused and confusing. Gradually you realized you were recovering consciousness. You could not move.
There was a roof overhead. You were lying in a hut of some kind. You thought you were at home. You could hear the sound of water. You believed you were a boy again, back at Walcot.
You passed out.
When consciousness closes down, all manner of other senses occupy the darkened stage of your mind. These are, in many cases, deeply rooted myth figures, inherited from a long phylogeny, the roots of which precede the human. If only you could examine them! But the net of consciousness is not there to effect a capture.
Slowly the dark tide receded. You sprawled on the very shores of awareness, taking in little or nothing.
You found that someone – and this was real – was lifting your head in order to give you a drink. It was not always water he presented you with. Sometimes it was milk.
You became more able to take in your surroundings. It was not unlike a baby being born. You were conscious of pain. You struggled to sit up. You were alone in something much like a cowshed, covered with an old army greatcoat. Beyond the open shed door lay woodland, where sunshine was visible in slices amid the dense foliage.
When you made an attempt to get to your feet, you groaned with the pain. In response, a figure appeared in the doorway, an unkempt figure in ragged khaki uniform.
‘Christ, I thought you’d never come fucking round,’ it said, in tones of relief.
You seemed to recognize the man but could not recall his name. He came and squatted by you.
‘I wouldn’t try to get up. You’ve got a nasty gash in your leg.’
You lay back, exhausted. You managed to gasp a question, asking how long you had been unconscious.
‘It’s been ten or more days, I reckon.’ He gave a laugh. ‘I started carving notches in a tree. If you’d have died, I’d have been stuck here alone. I’ve not a fucking clue where we are.’
When you apologized and said you had forgotten his name, he told you he was Pete Palfrey. ‘You’re Steve Fielding. We don’t have no ranks, you savvy. Not here in this bloody forest.’
You had no wish to dispute the matter with him.
Memory was returning. ‘A bomb hit our ghari! My God!’
‘Only it weren’t a bomb. It were a bloody French fighter plane, full of fuel. A Morane 445.’
You were astonished by his knowledge.
‘We done aircraft recognition at school. Moranes were never a match for the Messerschmitts.’
‘Moraine? A funny thing to call an aircraft. A moraine is a heap of debris left by a retreating glacier.’
He made nothing of that. ‘Well, it’s just a heap of debris now.’
Pete Palfrey was a little younger than you, with a lad’s slenderness. His unshaven whiskery state made him look older. He had attended a grammar school in Leeds.
‘How’s the ghari?’
‘The ghari, as you call it, were blown into little bits.’
‘And Private Furbank?’
‘Him likewise, poor sod! His name were Gary too.’ He paused meditatively. ‘I heard as he was a bit of a one for Navy Cake.’
He added that when you were able to walk, you two could go and inspect the remains of the crash. They were not far away.
You learnt to hobble about with an improvised crutch. Your surroundings narrowed your consciousness. You marvelled at the resourcefulness of Palfrey. He had reconnoitred the area and had discovered a nearby farmhouse. Careful observation confirmed that it had been deserted. The back door was unlocked, had, in fact, no lock on it. The occupants had left in a hurry, leaving utensils and clothes and various other belongings behind. Palfrey had carried a mattress out to the cattle shed for you to lie on.
Two cows had been left in a field. Palfrey had milked them.
Desperate for food, he had found some flour and had baked a kind of bun, flavoured with sultanas from a pottery jar. He had found an old wireless in a downstairs room, and listened in, but could not get an English-speaking station.
You stood in a small clearing. You asked him if there was a bicycle at the house; he could cycle into Fougères and get help. He had thought of that, he said dismissively. There was no bike. Nor did he intend to leave you.
As you were talking, a heavy bird fluttered overhead, battering its way through light twigs. You exclaimed in surprise.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘It’s a feral hen,’ Palfrey said. He dug into his pocket and produced some grains of corn which he scattered on the path. The hen landed and pecked at the grain. It was a gaunt bird, clucking to itself, darting swift, suspicious glances here and there as it ate.
When you raised your crutch to kill it, Palfrey stopped you.
‘Don’t be a daft bugger! These chickens lay eggs. We need eggs. I’m hoping to get them to settle here, to save me having to traipse up to the house where they roost all the