The Machine Gunners (20 page)

"Yer puny pace is no a yard," said Clogger firmly.

" 'Tis so." And Chas set the sight firmly at three hundred and fifty. He never realised Germans used meters. He lay down and put his eye carefully to the sight, wriggling his shoulders to get comfortable. He watched the first man come up to the fence.

"Hey, Fatty Hardy's with them. Pointing things out to them."

"He's a Quisling!" shouted Clogger.

"Perhaps he's their prisoner."

"We can't help that. Fire before they're bloody on top of us!"

The gun roared and slammed in Chas's hands. When the smoke cleared away, there wasn't a man to be seen. I can't have killed them all, he thought.

And then, all along the ground where the Germans had been came little winking flashes of fire.

Fatty Hardy felt bemused. One minute he had been walking along feeling very important; the next, he was lying face down in a muddy little stream, where someone had pushed him.

"Ey, what's the game?" he spluttered, starting up. A brawny Polish arm knocked him down again.

"Keepings down. Germans." Another flight of bullets sang overhead. Then the Poles were firing back, a tremendous booming din. Sand and rock splinters spouted from the area in front of the Nichol house. Under cover of the fire, groups of Poles were crawling forward at amazing speed, cradling their rifles between their flailing elbows.

"Ey, stop that shooting," said Fatty Hardy. "You'll kill somebody!"

"That is our work, killing Nazis," said Major Koslowski placidly.

"But there ain't no Germans!"

"What are these shooting at us then—boy scouts? Is paratroopers landed." The Major shouted further orders. Another flight of bullets passed overhead. "The Nazi fools are shooting too high. Soon we have them. One hand grenade and... pouf!"

Then, abruptly, the firing stopped. Hardy looked up. A scarecrow figure, waving a dirty white flag on a twig, was walking out from between the trees right in front of where the enemy machine gun lay.

"Ah, see, typical Nazis—cowards and improperly dressed too. I have a mind to shoot him as a spy."

"You can't shoot a man who's carrying a white flag," spluttered Fatty Hardy. "It's not fair."

"Ah, the English gentleman—always so bloody fair. Perhaps if your homes had been burned to the ground you would not be so concerned to be bloody fair!"

The scarecrow figure reached the first Poles. They searched him for weapons and frogmarched him back to the major, arms twisted cruelly behind his back. From a doubled-up position he gasped.

"Rudi Gerlath, Sergeant, Luftwaffe, 764532."

"Spy," shouted Major. "You will be shot, and all the others with you."

"There no others are. Back there is children."

"Children?"

"Ja—
six schoolkids."

Light dawned on Fatty Hardy. "Is one called McGill?"

"
Ja
-Chassy McGill."

Fatty Hardy wiped the dribbles of water off his face; he adjusted his helmet and his most fearsome expression. Suddenly, he knew where he was.

"McGill. I might have bloody known it!"

Chas sat helpless. There wasn't a German in sight, except Rudi. Rudi was talking to Fatty Hardy. Then it all got very muddling.

A police car turned up, disgorging the sergeant with the limp, and two more constables. Then a van turned up, and disgorged Mr. Liddell and ten Home Guard.

"Are they all Quislings?" wailed Cem in wonder. Then all the German soldiers got up in a very relaxed sort of way, and began trailing away, smoking cigarettes. He couldn't fire at them for fear of hitting the English people. Somehow he couldn't shoot Stan Liddell, even if he was a Quisling. Then more cars arrived. His mother and father got out; and Mr. and Mrs. Parton...

"Cor, there's me dad," said Carrot-juice.

"And mine," said Cem Jones. "Hey, do you think the Germans are using them as hostages?"

"Dunno," said Chas abruptly, as if he was brushing off a fly. For the Germans were retreating all the way to the skyline, and getting into trucks. The mist was clearing from the landscape now; but Chas felt it was settling into his mind instead. The Germans drove away.

Then all the police and parents began advancing on the Fortress. They didn't look scared, as hostages should. They just looked very angry. Chas saw his father's fists were clenched.

"Oh, God, what have we
done?"
wailed Cem.

The world had two faces. Which was the true one? The world of the long night of waiting, of Stukas and Panzers, storm troopers and death? Or the world of day, of punishments, hidings and the magistrate's court? They couldn't decide. And the advancing horde gave them no time to decide.

Something broke inside the children. The Luger cracked once, and the bullet whined wildly into the sky. As one, police, parents and Home Guard flung themselves onto their faces. They looked pathetic, ridiculous and hateful lying there.

"Go back, sod off. Leave us alone," screamed Chas. "Sod off or we'll
shoot."
Suddenly, he hated them all. He went on and on shouting. "Go away! Go away! Sod off, you bastards. Leave us
alone!"
The parents did not move.

Then Rudi, alone, got to his feet and began walking toward them.

"Get back, Rudi, get back."

Rudi went on advancing, blocking off the field of fire of the gun. The children could no longer see what was happening behind him, and they
had
to know.

"Oh, God!" said Clogger, and fired the Luger. Rudi smiled stupidly, raised one hand toward them and fell to the ground.

"Oh,
Rudi!"
cried Audrey, and ran out to him. In a second, all the children were gathered round him. He was lying on his back, pale and trying to speak, with a red stain spreading and spreading across his grey flying jacket.

The ambulance had gone. The children stood in one huddled group, the adults in another. Shock still froze every face, but on the faces of the adults it was beginning to melt into righteous anger. The police sergeant fingered his notebook impatiently; Mr. McGill fingered the buckle of his belt; Mr. Parton's voice was raised in a querulous demand to know what things were coming to. All the adults were already busy, tidying up things in their minds, making them into more comfortable shapes.

"I don't know what's got into him!"

"Wait till I get
her
home!"

"Hooliganism!"

Stan Liddell made his mind up. If being Home Guard Commander had its responsibilities, it also had its privileges.

"Clear the area," he said to his men. Then he said it sharper. "Clear the
area.
This is a military matter." The Home Guard began to push the parents away apologetically, with their rifles. Sandy finished off the job with a
look.

"That means you, Constable, and you too, Sergeant. You put this matter in my hands and I'm keeping it there for the moment. Your time will come." The lame police sergeant flinched. Stan felt a pang of regret, but the children would never tell the truth with that peevish face around. Both policemen walked away, backs stiff with rage.

"Now how about showing us... all this, McGill, will you?"

The children led him and Sandy inside. They answered every question with monosyllables, and shut faces. Only when Sandy boomed, "This is a good 'ole. A very good 'ole indeed! Well made to last. I could 'ave done with this 'ole in the Somme in 1917," did their faces break into peaked grins that vanished as soon as they appeared. Stan left it to Sandy. The kids were obviously warming to him.

"I'd like to take this whole thing over, sar, for the 'Ome Guard. We 'aven't got nothing as good as this."

What was the sarnt-major talking about? The dugout was well made enough, but totally in the wrong place. It defended nothing. Then he looked at the children's faces and understood. That brief smile was back again.

"And will you hand over your weapons please, lady and gentlemen? We 'aven't got nothing as good as that machine gun."

Chas nodded. He picked up the Luger and put it into Sandy's giant fist.

"I dare say they can come up to the Mill sometimes, sar, and see the guns?" Stan nodded.

"Cem and I will come," said Chas, "if we're not sent away to a school. These two can't." He indicated Clogger and Nicky. "They'll have to go into a Home."

Stan wanted to say he'd see it didn't happen. But he couldn't see it didn't happen. He couldn't even promise that Chas and Cem wouldn't be sent to an approved school. He looked at Chas.

"Will you tell me how it all started?"

Chas looked at him.

"No, sir. You'd never understand. Grownups never do."

"Is there any way I
can
help?"

"Can you get Clogger and Nicky into the same Home? Nicky needs Clogger."

"I'll try."

"And can you get permission for us to write to Rudi if... if... And let us know how he gets on?"

Every child's face softened. Lucky Rudi, thought Stan. Lucky enemy. If he lived.

"I can certainly do that."

"Thank you."

"Can we have a minute together, sir? Alone?"

As Stan emerged from the dugout, Mr. Parton came storming up to him.

"This is an outrage, Mr. Liddell. Why can't we see our children? I shall complain to the Education Committee about this."

"I am not acting under the orders of the Education Committee. I am acting under the authority of Northern Command, York. Kindly address your complaints to the Brigadier there." Stan's voice was cutting and very precise. "And Mr. Parton?"

"Yes?"

"Where were you going in your car when my men turned you back on the Coast Road Bridge last night?"

"On a visit to my sister in the Lake District—we go every spring."

"In the middle of the night?"

"Yes."

"Leaving your daughter behind?"

"That's none of your bloody business."

"But where did you get the petrol?" Stan turned to the police sergeant viciously.
"There's
a case for you, Sergeant. Black Market. I look forward to seeing it reported in the local newspaper. In
full
detail."

"What you looking at me like that for, Mr. McGill?" said Mr. Parton petulantly.

"I'll not say
much
for my lad," said Mr. McGill slowly, "except he thought he was
fighting
the Germans."

"Oh, hush," said Mrs. McGill. "Chassy could have killed somebody."

"I'm not talking about his sense, missus. I'm talking about his guts."

"Aye," said Cem Senior, looking hard at Mr. Parton.

"That's one thing the kids didn't lack. Guts." And he spat on the ground.

"Cheeroh," said Chas to Clogger, suddenly.

"Cheeroh, boy," said Clogger. "Nil carborundum. Don't let the bastards grind ye down."

"Write to me. I'll let you know about Rudi."

"Aye, mevve. If they'll let me." Then he grinned, because he remembered Chas, wreathed in smoke from the gun, standing swearing blue murder and quite unafraid, while Polish bullets hammered into the sandbags all around him.

"Ye're a hard man, Chassy McGill. It was a bonny fight. Mevve we'll be in the real one, before it's over."

"I hope so," said Chas, and went round the gang for the last time, shaking hands, looking at faces.

"G'by, Nicky."

"Nil carborundum," said Nicky faintly, trying hard not to cry and managing it.

"G'by, Cem. See you in court." Cem laughed, his old ridiculous laugh.

"G'by, Audrey. You were as good as any boy."

"Thanks," said Audrey.

"G'by, Carrot-juice."

"Thanks for letting me in on it. It was great."

So they parted, never to be all together again. They walked across to their parents. Their arms were grabbed roughly, and they were led away.

"You're not to play with that McGill again," said Mrs. Jones in a savage whisper.

"That Cemetery Jones always got you into trouble," said Mrs. McGill. "You've nigh broken your dad's heart."

"You're not to play with those big rough boys. You know you're easy led astray," said Carrot-juice's dad.

"I don't know
what
got into you," said Mr. Parton. "You'll stay home at nights in future. I'll make a lady of you if it kills you."

"You're too much for me," said Clogger's aunt. "I'm having you put away."

"C'mon, son," said the police sergeant to Nicky. "You're going to tell me all about this. You're a cut above the rest of this riffraff, you know.
Your
father was a ship's captain. God knows what he'd have said."

Nicky took a deep breath.

"Get stuffed," he said.