Our Yanks (7 page)

‘Meantime, we're living in shit.'

‘Go take a look at the village down the road, though. Boy, is it beautiful! And real old. You know what, they've got seven of those bars they call pubs. I stopped by one. It was like something out of a story book.'

‘Yeah, but the beer's lousy and there's no Scotch. That's what I heard.'

‘There could be some at this Welcome Party.'

‘Forget it, Ed. It's gonna be a real yawner.'

‘If you could make some more sandwiches, Agnes dear, that would be so kind. We seem to have a long queue at the door already. Oh dear, it's going to be rather a crowd.' Miss Cutteridge was standing on tiptoe, peering out of the window.

There was hardly room to move in the small kitchen at the back of the village hall. The Welcome Party committee and several willing helpers had been hard at work for the past hour slicing bread and smearing it thinly with margarine and Shippam's Wholesome Bloater Paste. The tea urn was simmering away in its corner, cups and saucers set out ready, sugar put in the small bowls, bottles of lemonade and ginger pop lined up for the children, the finished sandwich triangles arranged neatly on china plates and covered with clean tea towels. A special plate of sandwiches with extra margarine and paste had been set aside for the Americans, with a different-coloured cloth. After some discussion, it had been decided that the guests of honour should have their tea and sandwiches taken to them, while the rest would have to queue up at the hatch. It had also been agreed that nothing should be served until the Americans had arrived.

Agnes scraped out the last of the paste from one of the jars and opened another. She had spread ten more rounds when Mrs Vernon-Miller, who had somehow taken command, stuck her head and shoulders through the hatchway. ‘We're going to open the doors now. Everyone ready? Jolly good.' Her face was crimson beneath her WVS beret.

They filed into the hall – practically the whole village, so far as Agnes could tell from her view through the hatch. They stood about in clumps, talking and looking round. The blacksmith's voice boomed out above the rest. ‘Where's the bloody Yanks, then?' Somebody else shouted back, ‘Late again.' Miss Cutteridge peered out of the kitchen window once more. ‘Oh dear, I hope they come soon.' Twenty more minutes passed before a loud squeal of brakes outside announced their arrival. The waiting villagers turned, as one, towards the door and suddenly fell silent.

Agnes watched as they entered the hall – twelve or so of them in a group, dressed in well-tailored uniforms with olive jackets, light-coloured trousers, and high-crowned caps with gilt badges at the front. They removed the caps and paused uncertainly, confronted by a wall of eyes. There was a moment of silence when nobody moved or spoke and then Miss Hooper at the piano launched into ‘The Star-Spangled Banner'. The Americans came to attention and saluted – an odd-looking salute with the palm downwards. When the anthem had finished the American commander in the centre of the group took a step forward towards her father, right hand extended, but with a warning rattle of the keys, Miss Hooper went straight into ‘God Save the King' and the Americans all came back quickly to attention and saluted again. At Miss Hooper's final, crashing chord her father advanced firmly to shake the commander's hand.

‘Good afternoon, Colonel. We welcome you and your men to King's Thorpe.'

‘
Colonel
?' Mrs Salter whispered in Agnes's ear. ‘But I thought they were Air Force. What funny salutes they have.'

‘Thank you, Reverend. Very good of you to invite us to this gathering. We appreciate your hospitality.' The American group commander showed very white teeth as he smiled. He was tall, fair-haired, broad-shouldered and suntanned and his voice with its strong American accent, clearly audible to the very back of the hall, made a startling contrast to her father's soft, English tones. Agnes studied the Americans. They looked like beings from another world, totally untouched by war. Well-dressed, well-groomed, well-fed, fit and healthy . . . and well pleased with themselves. The colonel was introducing his men, in turn, to her father, who then began village introductions. Mrs Vernon-Miller's face reappeared with a hiss. ‘You can start serving now.' At the clink of the teacups there was a rush for the hatchway.

‘Would you take the American sandwiches out, Agnes, dear,' Miss Cutteridge asked. ‘Mrs Salter and I are taking their teas.'

‘Which plate is it?'

‘The one with the blue cloth over it.'

As Agnes set forth with the superior sandwiches, Miss Hooper started up again at the piano on the stage, beginning with ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning'. The Americans were still standing in a group with her father, the two Lady Beauchamps, Brigadier and Mrs Mapperton, Mr Reynolds, Miss Skinner, Dr and Mrs Graham and other village notables. She waited for Miss Cutteridge and Mrs Salter to finish handing out their cups of tea before she went round with her plate, starting with the colonel, whose tunic seemed covered with bits of shining brass as well as a pair of silver wings; he flashed her a smile as he took a sandwich. The next hesitated. ‘What's in these?'

‘It's bloater paste.'

‘What the heck's that?'

‘It's fish.' He pulled a face and shook his head. She moved on to the next uniform and offered the plate.

‘You're Miss Dawe. The rector's daughter.' This one smiled too and had silver wings pinned on his chest as well, but not so much brass and, unlike his commanding officer, he was dark and foreign-looking. ‘Saw you in the church the other day. I was talking with Miss Cutteridge when you came in.'

‘I'm afraid I didn't notice you.'

‘Yeah, well I was behind a pillar and you were in a big hurry. Some guy was ill and you were looking for your father. Did you find him all right?'

‘Yes I did, thank you.'

‘Is the guy OK? The one who was ill?'

‘Yes, he's better now. Would you like a sandwich?'

‘Sure.' He didn't seem interested in the filling but went on looking at her. The one standing next to him was staring too, making her feel uncomfortable. ‘The name's Ed Mochetti. This guy here is Ben Feinstein. I'm from New York City. He's from Los Angeles.' It all sounded unbelievable to her. She held out the plate to the one from Los Angeles. ‘Will you have a sandwich?'

He eyed them. ‘I'll pass, thanks all the same.'

Miss Hooper, her bird's nest of hair disintegrating at the back, was working her way steadily through a selection from
The Maid of the Mountains
. ‘Excuse me.' Agnes moved on towards the next American who turned out to be from somewhere in Texas and she had difficulty in understanding what he was saying. Another spoke behind her. ‘Say, can I have one of those, or have I been a bad boy?'

‘Sorry.' She offered the plate hurriedly. He smiled and told her that he was from Brentwood, Tennessee, wherever that was.

‘Hands off, Ben. I saw her first.'

‘Tough. There's only about three chicks here worth looking at and she's one of them. It's every guy for himself. What the hell's in that thing you're eating?'

‘Who knows?'

‘It's probably poisoned. I wouldn't put it past these Limeys. You see the way they keep looking at us like we're aliens or something?'

‘I guess we
are
aliens to them.'

‘Well,
they
sure look strange to me. I reckon some of the old ones have been around for about two hundred years. They don't smell too good either. You noticed that, Ed? I guess that's not surprising with their lousy plumbing. God almighty, that woman's playing tunes my great-grandmother knew. Can you believe it? I tell you, this country's stuck in time. And take a look at that Confederate flag they've hung up – what the hell do they think they're doing?'

‘You've got to hand it to them for trying.' Mochetti swallowed the rest of his sandwich and drank some of the tea which tasted as though it had been made from old boots. A huddle of village girls aged about fourteen or fifteen were staring at him and when he winked at them they started to giggle. The rector's daughter was still going round the other guys with her plate. Not much chance that she'd be coming by again. He'd make a move soon.

Ben nudged him. ‘Get a load of those kids. Kind of cute.'

‘But kind of young.'

‘Yeah, I guess we'd be breaking the law.'

The plate was empty and the girl heading towards the back of the hall. ‘See you in a while, Ben.'

‘She's got a ring on her finger, Ed, didn't you notice?'

‘No, I didn't.' He shrugged. ‘So what?'

He wove his way rapidly through the crowded room and caught her up just as she was about to disappear through a doorway. ‘Hey, could I have another of those sandwiches?'

By the way she looked at him he had the feeling it was the wrong thing to have asked. ‘I'll go and see if there are any.' He waited until she came out again empty-handed. ‘I'm sorry but they've all gone.'

‘That's OK.'

‘There's some tea left, if you like.'

He shuddered inwardly. ‘No, thanks.' Ben hadn't been kidding. There was a ring on the third finger of her left hand: an engagement ring with a blue stone and what looked like diamonds each side. The guy must have some dough.

‘I thought you Americans would get plenty of food,' she said pointedly, and he realized that she had him marked down for a class A hog.

‘Yeah, we do OK. I guess we're lucky. You've had it pretty bad over here for a long time.'

‘We've got used to it.'

‘It's all new to us, see. So we get things wrong. Cigarette?' She shook her head and he lit one for himself, debating how to play it. He'd never met an English girl before. She was different from the girls he'd known back home. Reserved. Wary. And she didn't think a whole lot of him at the moment. She was already backing off.

‘I must go and help in the kitchen.'

‘Oh, sure. When will I see you again?'

She looked startled and her cheeks coloured. ‘I really don't know.'

‘Seems like we'll be around here for a while. What do you do – when you're not handing out sandwiches?'

‘I teach at the school.'

Ben'd better believe this. The rector's daughter
and
a schoolmarm. He was about to say something else when somebody started clapping his hands and asking for silence and his CO climbed up onto the stage to speak. Get it right, Ed prayed. The guy wasn't famous for his tact and they'd be chewing on every word. He could sense the girl's distrust beside him, and in the whole room.

‘On behalf of our Fighter Group, I'd like to thank all you good people for your welcome and your wonderful hospitality.' So far, so good, Ed thought, breathing easier. ‘We know you've had a tough time these past years. Well, now that we're over here, your troubles are ended. You British can rest easy. You can leave it all to us. We're going to fight this war for you and we're going to win it for you, and we won't stop until the job's done. Thank you.'

There was dead silence in the hall and then the sound of someone storming out and a door banging. Ed put his hand over his eyes. ‘Oh, boy.'

Tom lay on his stomach in the ditch at the roadside, with just his head poking out. That way the sentry at the gate couldn't see him but he could see part of the aerodrome and watch the Yanks coming and going. Six fighters had taken off earlier in the day – roaring right over him, making his heart pound in his chest with the thrill. Once or twice they'd flown low over the school during classes so nobody could hear a word the teacher was saying. When that had first happened he'd rushed to the window to look out and got thrashed afterwards by Mr Reynolds. Six stinging strokes of the cane across his hand that had left great red weals, but it'd been worth it to see the fighters zooming past. Sometimes the Yank bombers went over the school, too. Flying Fortresses with girls painted on them and the big white American star; they made the whole building shake. But it was the fighters he liked best. The bombers were elephants and the fighters were greyhounds. That was the way he thought of it. He'd watched the fighters climbing and diving and turning and he'd never seen anything so exciting in his life.

It was wet and cold in the ditch and his corduroy jacket and shorts were soaked, but he scarcely noticed. He went on watching and waiting patiently for the planes to come back. A lorry went in at the gate and then a jeep came out and roared off down the road. The jeeps were almost as good as the fighters. The only other cars in the village were Dr Graham's Morris, the district nurse's Austin 7, the policeman's Ford 8 and the old Daimler that did for a taxi and for weddings and funerals. None of them was fun like the jeeps. People kept grumbling about them going too fast and on the wrong side of the road, but he thought the way they raced around was wonderful. There'd been a whole lot of grumbling about the Yanks ever since the Welcome Party two months ago. Nobody'd liked the speech their colonel had made and then the Yanks had gone and fused all the electricity up at the aerodrome and all over the village as well. Old codgers like Brigadier Mapperton had kicked up a big fuss about that. It'd been off for three days before they got it mended. Not that it'd made any difference at home, as they didn't have any electricity anyway.

The Yanks came into the village all the time – mostly on bikes but sometimes they walked. They went into the shops and bought up everything and into the pubs and drank all the beer, so that meant more grumbling. Their bikes were parked everywhere, specially outside the Land Girls' hostel. Girls liked them all right, he'd noticed that. And not just the ones in King's Thorpe. Lots of others came in on the bus from miles away, just to try and meet the Yanks. He'd seen them all dolled up and waiting around near the pubs.