Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ali Baba and Shifty
Ali Baba and Shifty had done some good work. I was awakened about one-thirty a.m. by the juddering of rail cars moving forward, taking up the slack. Then came the barely perceptible movement, gradually increasing in speed, noise and tempo.
Someone knocked at the door. It sounded like we were leaving early.
“I’ll be right with you.” I called, reflecting how cold and damp a person feels when they fall asleep in their clothes.
I brushed my teeth, had a piss, then went into the office section.
“I have a question.” I motioned to Howard-Smythe to quit his typing.
“What’s that?” He returned, with a grin.
“A short, interrogative vocalization, but that’s not important right now.” I mused. “These stories, which were all over the place in the early days, stories of the Germans tossing Belgian babies around on their bayonets. Do you think that really happened?”
‘The Adj’ pursed his lips after a deep long breath.
“You’ve been thinking. That’s not always a good thing. But I have to admit, I just don’t know.”
The room was relatively silent as the train sped along the open countryside at thirty knots or so. In the darkness, stuff outside the window was just a series of whizzing blurs. Probably trees, I decided.
“Why do you ask?” He said after the pause.
I moved around restlessly, closing the blast-curtains, metal mesh screening, on the windows where they were open.
“I don’t know, but…once there was this time, and we grabbed a Hun prisoner, see? We grabbed him right off the latrine, newspaper and all.” I paused to collect my thoughts.
“They had the same kind of stories about us, in their papers.” I told Howard-Smythe.
“How could he have been reading a newspaper at night?” He asked.
“Er, I think he was planning to wipe his ass with it.” I explained.
“Of course.” He nodded, aware that we rarely attempted such raids in daylight. “War changes people. Not always for the better.”
He was an intelligent man, but he didn’t know everything either. Maybe it was unfair to put him on the spot. He sipped, and I wasn’t even sure he would answer.
“It’s possible.” He conceded. “And stories grow in the telling.”
He was right about that. It’s possible that German soldiers tossed Belgian babies around on bayonets. In my personal opinion, not too likely. Every army attracts its own share of brutes and barbarians. People who would kill, murder and rape even in the best of times, for no good reason. The truth, in my opinion, is that war brings out the best and the worst in ourselves.
Ali Baba and Shifty had stolen everything we asked for, and more. They had some French Rail Authority uniforms, and three, not two additional boxcars. They got all the items requested, including portable stoves, extra cots, blankets, more fuel, hand pumps to fit the barrels, and one or two more surprises. Machine guns, ammunition, aircraft linen, you name it, the boys had swiped it for us. If they did nothing else for the rest of the war, that was good enough for me. Those two guys alone were more than repayment of the time invested speaking to Foreman. And by now I was glad I hadn’t run into Melissa when up there in Birmingham.
“Excellent report.” I said, but I didn’t think he wrote it.
Too many typos. Always working, always working.
“Who wrote this?” I queried.
“Chandragupta, the new fellow.” He explained.
“Ah.” I responded. “Buy him a dictionary.”
He nodded in the affirmative.
“Outrage is irrational, not factual.” He said.
“Huh?”
He repeated the remark.
“I suppose you’re right.”
The acknowledgement was easy enough.
I wasn’t a hundred percent certain I understood him, but a nudge is as good as wink to a blind man. Like the girlie nudes we used to look at out behind the pool hall, ‘it looks good on paper.’
The clock on the wall indicated four-thirty a.m.
“We’d better put up a clock with London time.” I was thinking aloud. “And the first thing we want to do is tie into the telegraph and telephone wires, and start telling lies about our location and itinerary.”
Silence is golden. Howard-Smythe just nodded.
He was a good bloke, that man. I miss him something terrible, on occasion.
“I want to paint, ‘Rocinante,’ on the locomotive.” It came out suddenly, as if he was feeling guilty about something. “How do you feel about that?”
“Passionately ambivalent?” I quipped, and he guffawed.
It always makes me happy when someone laughs at one of my jokes. (Oddly enough, some people do get offended.)
“Unequivocally uncommitted?”
Silence, then.
“It’s from…” But I interrupted.
“I know where it’s from. I ain’t illiterate.”
Then I remembered the cake.
“By any chance do we have any cake around here? I’m fucking hungry.” I told my henchman in no uncertain terms.
These sudden and rapid mood-swings were starting to trouble me deeply at times. You just have to live with it.
“It’s not a cake.” He responded with another of his quick, reflexive grins.
“Oh, goodie. It must be a bomb,” but no, it turned out to be a box filled with Russian Imperial decorations, and a bunch of blank forms to be filled out.
In triplicate, and presumably in Russian.
 |
| "It's not a cake." |
Who was I supposed to send those to? The nerve of some people’s kids.
“Spacebo.” I told him in a businesslike tone.
“What the hell does that mean?” Howard-Smythe was impressed.
“Very good, Howard-Smythe,” I explained.
“You’re shitting me.” He avowed firmly.
“Nope. Absolute pravda…truth.” I replied.
He shut up then, as I was reading from the note.
“Please give these out to your men, for their part in the common struggle against our evil foes, etc, etc, etc.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Is she mad?” I practically bellowed in sheer astonishment.
“And the big one is for you.” The note stated boldly.
Holy, schmoley.
“So. You want to put a logo on the train,” I prodded conversationally.
“Well, we need to cover up the old…the old marks.” He spoke in a quiet and neutral and solemn kind of voice, and was he trying to slip something past me?
“What marks.” I asked. “What marks?”
Did our bleeding train get damaged? While I was sleeping?
“Howard-Smythe. Did you put a bloody great dent in my locomotive?”
“Um, it’s just some marks.” He said, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Please tell me what’s going on. It is my train,” I reminded him.
“We have a new locomotive.” He said. “It’s really big, powerful, shiny, new, and, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but I think it belongs, or belonged to your little lady friend.”
“How did this happen?” I positively bellowed.
“Some of our…your men showed initiative.” He muttered sadly.
He spoke in a kind of, ‘It’s been nice knowing you,’ sort of tone.
“Did we leave her the old one?” I asked incredulously.
“No, we’re dragging it along behind us for a spare.” He reported.
“Really?” I said, surprised, and pretty pleased about that, let me tell you.
This could save my ass. Maybe hers, too.
“Doesn’t it have like a, a, cow-catcher or something on the front?” I asked.
“We’re dragging it backwards, in neutral.” He explained.
“Okay.” I told him.
“Really?” He asked in amazement.
“Yup.”
I would deal with it. Somehow or other, I’ll deal with it.
“Send a telegram to St. Omer, and don’t let her out of France.” I ordered. “Write it now, mister, and send it the minute, I mean the fucking minute we get a line hooked up, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” And he actually saluted. “But honestly, it would take some time for her to find a replacement.”
He seemed grateful. As long as I’m giving the orders in a convincing tone, he’s not responsible, I guess. That’s exactly the right attitude, in circumstances like this. We might be saving the silly girl’s life. I’ll try to explain it someday, over a few beers.
Not now. Definitely not now.
“How about this?” I suggested seriously enough. “Die Now and Save Later.”
He was silent for a moment.
“They do say it pays to advertise.” He admitted.
We both smiled and went back to work. My coffee was cool enough to drink in one gulp. Time for another, and another. I got mail like that all the time. Pre-paid funeral plans were all the rage among a certain set. Like a big fancy Italian wedding, where the object is to brag about all the money you spent. People think you’re rich, and that’s worth ten years of poverty and payments to a certain type of mind.
“Howard-Smythe. If you’re so smart, how come you’re not rich?” I asked facetiously.
“But I am rich, old boy. Didn’t you know?” He replied.
His eyes, well, I don’t think I’ll ever play poker with him. How do you top that?
Humor is like war. It is the art of the unexpected. And sometimes you’re defeated on the battlefield. Funny thing is, I didn’t laugh. I was trying to remember if I had said anything recently that might be particularly offensive to rich people…don’t think so. Oh, well. I’ll soon think of something.
God, I hope we get to our field soon. Are we there yet?
“You know, if I had to join an oppressed minority group, I think I’d like to be rich.” I told him.
He laughed. No one can beat me. Not when I’m making all the rules.
“Our next chore is assembling an aerodrome.”
I was so tired that I was muttering to myself.
“You seem very tired.” Howard-Smythe was concerned.
“Well, we have to find our little place.” I began. “Hopefully the boys are there and we won’t have to waste time cruising up and down the rails. Then we have to unload, pitch tents, set up the kitchen, unpack tools, and begin assembly.”
He nodded in the knowledge that we had our work cut out for us.
“I’d like to fly within twenty-four hours.”
“Wow. The show must go on, eh?”
Twenty minutes later the train chuffed to a standstill. Gill and the gunner, Malarkey, had three small fires built in a row alongside the tracks.
“We’ve marked the path with ribbons.” They reported, as clusters of people were being organized by the NCO’s.
They were rounding everyone up and outlining different work assignments.
“Do you guys want to sleep?” I asked, but they just shook their heads.
Gill and Malarkey didn’t disappoint.
They had a tarp and sleeping bags, and spent the night under the wing of the plane, complete with a tiny campfire. The fire ring and ashes were so small, I had no concern about a fire near the plane, twenty feet away, really. These guys had showed some sense and responsibility. It must have been Malarkey, Gill wasn’t too swift to take the initiative. Malarkey was observant, and I had high hopes for him.
“I’ll make you guys a deal.” I offered. “Get some breakfast, as soon as the cooks get going. We’ll fuel up your plane, and then I have an errand for you.”
Off they went to help the cooks unload the gear for that peculiar profession.
“The command tent is ready. The wires are hooked up. I sent your telegram.” Howard-Smythe recited, as we walked back toward the train. “I said we commandeered her engine because ours was broken.”
We dropped off the ‘broken’ locomotive, our original one, on a long straight stretch where it could be seen, this was to keep other trains from ramming into us from behind. We entered our command post as it was taking shape all around us.
“I didn’t say anything about her being a spy. I said she was mentally deranged.”
As soon as we turned out onto the siding, we dropped off our other locomotive.
We chocked the wheels. Locked the brakes, put the transmission in gear. It was plainly visible from a mile and a half back.
“Thank you, what else?”
Boys moved a desk in. Someone proffered a chair. A lamp appeared, and we could hear a generator firing up. The lamp came on.
“Your plane will be ready in four hours.”
“Awesome,” I said simply. “Get Gill’s plane fueled up. Find out where McGill and Dawley are. Wire St. Omer aerodrome, find out if the 504-C is there yet.”
“All righty, then.”
“You’ve done well.” I acknowledged.
Putting my feet up on the desk, I listened to the sounds all around, plainly audible through the thin canvas walls of our command tent. Voices, shouts and calls.
Clatters, and banging, and pounding.
Hammers nailing, saws going, men grunting with exertion, as barrels of fuel were rolled gently down planks from the train, then lugged and rolled on their bottom rims along plank-work tracks. The train, as the brakes let out air pressure once in awhile.
“Who’s available?” I asked the Adj.
“No one.” He grimaced. “What do you need?”
“Good.” I said. “I don’t need anything, but it seems everything is being taken care of.”
Two men brought in the first big map board, and set it up on one side of the room.
They went out, and came back with another, as I sat thinking. Two more men came in with a dolly and placed the first filing cabinet where Howard-Smythe directed. The Army types and some RAF types were setting up tents. These were dispersed in twos and threes under the trees. The Army was in charge of setting up machine gun posts to defend from air attack. The mechanics were setting up their benches, polishing tools, and beginning to assemble planes in the big hangar tents.
The cooks were feeding the first line-ups of men, and fuel was being unloaded. Our little machine began to buzz, and click, as a reply came in from one of our queries.
“The 504 is there at St. Omer, and Perry will come looking for us in an hour or so.” He advised.
I nodded. Gill and Malarkey entered, and stood in front of my desk. Malarkey looked to be sucking on a hollow tooth.
“Ready to go.” Said Gill.
“Fly up to St. Omer and round up Perry.” I instructed. “Remember you’re in a combat zone now, and get back here straight away.”
They saluted and left the tent.
“After this, I don’t want anyone flying alone.” I noted to the Adj. “That’s, ‘Standing Order Number One.’”
He made a note. That’s good. I may not always be here. Sometimes pilots gave the ground staff a hard time for no good reason. He needed to learn how to stand up to them.
After all, he did outrank them. They wouldn’t give him any guff.
‘Put it in writing,’ and they can’t argue with that.
The Biff started up, and then a few moments later it took off.
“Wait.” I told Howard-Smythe.
Here it comes.
‘Brrrrowwww…’ and then the spoons rattled in the saucers.
“I knew they were going to do that.” He said, and we both smiled.
They couldn’t resist being the first ones to buzz our ‘drome in the woods of Artois.
We had a telephone, telegraph and tele-printer set up within the first half-hour, and we had all the housing up in two.
***
Everyone got breakfast, and everyone had their tea.
A droning noise in the distance alerted us. Our planes appeared to have made it back intact. Men were still unloading the train. The good weather was helpful. At least it was dry. The ground was fairly hard, but already tracks in the grass were appearing, and it was easy to see that it would quickly turn to muck on a wet day.
Standing in the door, I watched them land. They gingerly taxied over the grassy paddock. The hummocks of grass and unfamiliar terrain made both pilots cautious. It was kind of a good thing that Powell had tipped over. The other boys all saw it. They were now aware that the Army and our ground personnel would laugh, and that it might not be too pleasant. You could get hurt, and damaging the plane for no good reason gets you in shit.
People directed the planes on the ground, and both immediately began to turn in to the fueling area. For now, at least until our convoy of lorries arrived, this would have to do.
Two planes do not a squadron make.
“McGill sent a telegram.” Reported Corporal Whittington.
“And?”
“He says he should be here in a couple of hours, maybe less.” He speculated, eyes screwed up in contemplative frown. “Hopefully he can find us.”
“Dawley with him?” I asked, and got a nod.
Truck or tractor engines ground and rumbled in the distance, somewhere to the west. A good number of them. It sounded like they were about three-quarters of a mile away. A soldier with a rifle on his shoulder came in and stood in front of my desk.
He saluted and reported.
“Sir. Looks like we got us a convoy.”
I nodded thanks and dismissal.
It was our motor group. They must have gotten lost for a while. I noted the time on my watch. Where the hell was Bernie? We could hear them groaning up the road in low gear, fully loaded with fuel and other supplies. Stuck on protocol, that soldier still stood there.
“Thank you.” I finally saluted and he exited in some gratitude.
“I love it when a good plan comes together.” Noted Howard-Smythe.
Standing and striding to the door, I bellowed, “Jaeckl.”
He came running out of a big hangar tent from a hundred yards or so away.
“Sir?” He puffed to a halt in front of me.
“Break out a couple of boxes of Le Prieur rockets and get those planes armed up.” I ordered.
“Right away, sir.” And off he went.
“I want to hit them later this afternoon, about dinner time.” I explained to Howard-Smythe and the corporal. “Then drop a few bombs on them tonight. No. We’ll use rockets then too. Very spectacular, in the middle of the night.”
“Who…where do you want to hit, sir?” The corporal asked, pulling the map drawer open.
It was a big set of drawers like in an architect’s or an artist’s studio, both wide and shallow. That meant the maps didn’t get all crinkled, with fold lines in them. It protected them from leaky roofs, coffee stains and cigarette burns. We tried to think of everything.
“I’ll let you know.” I murmured.
After a moment of silence, the corporal came back.
“If that doesn’t piss them off something fierce, I don’t know what will.”
Never at a loss for an answer, that was Bill Whittington.
Howard-Smythe reported that a party had returned from locking out the switch at the far end of the long section of siding where our train sat. If we could keep doing that sort of thing we would be all right, bearing in mind that the rail net didn’t always cooperate.
In this area, with spurs, sidings and branches all over the place, we weren’t too much of a problem to higher-priority traffic, including munitions, or, ‘bullet’ trains.
We had trees falling down, with men chopping them up and loading brush on a flat car. The locomotive took the load up the line about a mile and a half, and they began to build a decoy airfield. One that might pass muster, at least at night. We could afford to use a dozen men on that little job.
“Have we jettisoned any stuff yet?” I asked the sergeant.
He was just about to grab a cup of coffee. He needed a smoke, and the corporal gave him one.
“Some crap on the train. It’s obviously too silly. Some crates. A few barrels, maybe.”
“Use it to set up fake airplane-like shapes on the ground. It needs to be kind of lightly-colored. Brush won’t do,” I ordered.
The brush was for big bonfires, three of them at least.
“Strip some pine, cedar and other conifers. The resin flares well, and attracts lots of attention.”
“Right.” He said. “We could sacrifice a few old blankets.”
“Put a can of petrol by each ‘target,’ and have some men standing by there for tonight. Make sure they keep their matches dry. A couple of machine gun positions, a small crew stationed there might bring results.”
We talked it out. We hadn’t formalized any sort of tactical doctrine. In some weird way we were kind of ‘winging it.’ We were totally experimental.
“I understand.” He said.
We would be expecting company.
“I hear a plane.” Jaeckl called.
He had good ears, that’s for sure. In a moment, I got it too.
“That’s McGill and Dawley.” I thought.
Sure enough, it was them. What with the lorries, and the men, and the planes, we had a busy little day. Bernie even showed up with three fuel trucks, right at noon on the dot. I figure he arrived early, waited a mile or two down the road and then timed it to the minute, but I didn’t say anything.
Who was he trying to impress? Was it good gas? Or was it chock full of water and dirt?
We’ll see. We’ll see, ‘Hair-cue.’
Then maybe I’ll be impressed.
END
 |
| Okay, so I screwed up. #Louis |
END
Author's Note. For the last two or three posts, I have found myself increasingly confused by the chapter numbers, which did not seem to correspond when I went to do the next chapter. As it turns out, scrolling through right from the beginning, the chapters went from four to six. In other words, chapter five is entitled six and so on--all the way through the fucking book. On Smashwords, I must have grabbed a very early version of the book, instead of the latest. This was my first novel, and it took more than one try to make it through the meatgrinder, which converts text into ebooks. So, the simplest way to fix that is to have two chapter 28s and then start up with number 29. One of the points of this whole exercise was to rewrite the book and then put it all back together again and re-publish a revised edition.
That being said, yes, this manuscript needs to be completely re-numbered by chapter, and also bear in mind one of the goals is to put in internal navigation--links from a table of contents to each chapter, front and end matter, and all of that sort of thing. No real harm done, and it just goes to show, that ten years later, there is still something to be learned.
And no honest effort is truly wasted. Other than that, the meatgrinder normally catches mistakes like that, and readers would only have access to the most recent file--which one hopes would be correct.
< utters deep sigh >
Images. Louis finds stuff on the internet.
Louis has books and stories from Scribd. See his works on ArtPal.
See the #superdough blog.
Thank you for reading.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please feel free to comment on the blog posts, art or editing.