Noose (15 page)

No one answered. Ian whispered to the next trench a command for absolute silence from White and maximum readiness and observation. ‘Pass the message.' Green were not the only ones who could do subtlety and patience, the bastards. He felt quite good now. He and his boys would show that famous British – Blitish – resolve.

The loudspeaker crackled, then talked to White again: ‘Letter here for OC Harry Nelmes from Angela, very sentimental, velly, velly intimate, velly, velly rude and lewd. One for OC Bernard Colley from Delphine, even ruder and lewder and with drawings.'

The umpire yelled: ‘Damn it, you've stolen some of White's post from Mess pigeon holes, Green. Outrageous, contemptible, un-officer-like,
so
dishonourable. Such tactics cannot be valid. This would never happen in a true Korean setting. Not even such an enemy would stoop to that – akin to poisoning the wells.'

‘Final notice from hire-purchase company for OC Wilson,' the loudspeaker replied. ‘Several letters here, yes. Velly bad mistake. Somehow, yes, somehow handful of White letters go to Green for last few days. Often very poor postal service in Korea, I will admit. Many mix-ups and wrong letter boxes – or pigeon holes. Your great author, Anthony Trollope, worked for Blitish post office and made things run so velly sweetly. And it is still so. No Anthony Trollope in Korea so far. And so bad system. Here is unkind “Dear John” farewell letter for OC Ian Charteris from Lucy. Really sad. I call it “Dear John” letter because that what goodbye letter from girl to Tommy at Front always called, I believe. But, of course, it is “Dear Ian”. Begins like this: “Dear Ian, I have something serious to say.” Oh, yes, velly serious. Velly final. And so sad.

‘But not everything for him too bad. Here another note for OC Ian Charteris. Velly high-quality paper. Some pricey scent on? No stamp or flanking on envelope. It says, “Grand to see you. I'm sure I'll be able to help in some way. I must.” Signed, E. Just E. I wonder who is E? Help him how?'

Nelmes was out of the trench running towards the tower, a good, swift, stylish run for this kind of ground, but also, somehow, desperate and panicky. Through the pelting snow, Ian made out Colley as he caught up with him and overtook, despite Nelmes' elegant pace. Colley kept yelling, ‘Surrender! Unconditional. Give me my fucking letter, Green.' Ian couldn't free himself from the mud at once. It sucked lovingly at his boots, tugged at them as with a special form of gravity far outside Newton's scope. Disgracefully, he stuck the muzzle of his rifle down into the single hardish part of the trench floor so the gun took most of his weight like a crutch, pulled one foot free and then the other and joined the rush, the barrel of his weapon useless, stuffed with muck, probably a court-martial offence in real battle conditions.

A
nd Lucy
did
have something serious to say. Once the formalities of victory by Green had been completed and the ‘prisoners' listed, Bain released the letters in a touching little procedure, like dishing out rations to the starving. Ian saw from the postmark that Bain must have liberated his from the pigeon holes a week ago. Just for forward planning this lad might deserve the Sword. Ian felt too tired and fed up to read her letter tonight. He knew the bleak gist of it already. Thanks, Ray.

Next day, after morning parade, there was an Equipment Indenting lecture: how to order new blanco, new light bulbs, new bedding, new ammo, new French knickers for Women's Royal Air Force girls. The specialist Equipment Flight Lieutenant giving the lecture said the buttons-under-the-crutch knickers had saved more man hours than any other innovative piece of gear in the Service. After this, the session faded into dullness. Half of White Course slept, but Ian spread Lucy's letter out on his thighs under the lecture room desk and, before sleeping himself, absorbed most of the message. She said that in her view things between them had become too difficult – he far away in the OCTU, she preoccupied at the start of a newspaper career. It was Lucy's feature-writing job that had made Ian think about journalism for himself when he left the RAF. She believed they should both recognize these problems and end their ‘understanding'. The relationship had become complicated and uncertain. He might be sent abroad soon. He didn't know what job he'd try for when demobilized. It would be better if they finished. He dozed but in half-waking moments thought she might be right. Perhaps things
were
too complicated and uncertain. Some aspects of a relationship could be simplified and improved at the same time, as with the knickers buttons. But only
some
aspects of a relationship.

He had invited Lucy to the passing-out parade next week, when he'd collect his commission, maybe even the Sword of Honour, though he doubted that after the capitulation of White Course in the snow. Bain had shown he knew life was going to be no picnic and had toughened up and developed his no-rules warfare techniques to suit. Lucy's letter added that, in view of her changed feelings, and because of the distance and the time off work required, she would
obviously
not be coming. That
obviously
really hit him. As North Korea's Ray Bain had said in his airfield statement, the letter made things ‘very final'. The
obviously
meant there'd be no point in arguing, pleading, replying. The letter was already a week old, anyway, so the time for an urgent answer had most likely gone.

In the Mess bar a couple of evenings later, Ray Bain approached Ian and asked if they could have a private chin wag for a few minutes. They took their beers to a corner table. Bain said: ‘I've been thinking, Ian. Maybe the umpire was right and I went too far.' He was red-haired, plump faced and generally mischievous looking, chirpy, strongly put together, as a prop forward had to be. Now, though, he did seem regretful, a heavy frown in place, his eyes not meeting Ian's much.

‘“All's fair in love and war”, you said, Ray.'

‘Yes. Oh, I think snaffling some of the letters was OK, only a sort of jape really, though the brass here might not think so. But, whether they do or not, broadcasting that brush-off from your girlfriend – poor, very. Harsh. Beyond the decent and playful. And then there's E. Is E of the distinguished notepaper who I think she is? How did you manage it? Blimey, Ian, that's some conquest, and so quick. Will the Group Captain come gunning for you? Anyway, that tactic of ours the other night, it was not “in the proper spirit”, as the umpire said.'

‘Well, what Lucy wrote would have been a kick in the guts whether it got pumped out over the airfield or read in private. Don't scourge yourself, Ray. You were only the messenger – amplified.'

‘It was serious with her, was it?'

‘I thought so.'

‘I'm sorry,' Bain replied. ‘Really, I am. Very wrong to have treated it flippantly.' He brightened, grew positive, constructive, more like Bain. ‘Look, Ian, I know an address down in the town where there are some really sweet, cheery girls. OK, they're not Lucy, and not E, but they
are
nice. Why don't we get along there together tomorrow evening? I'll pay. I want to make some recompense. I should, after all that. You're not tied up with E tomorrow, are you?'

‘What sort of address?'

‘Really pleasant girls. They take an extremely favourable view of the camp, think of themselves as unofficial staff. Obviously, it's an all-ranks place, but some of the girls prefer officer cadet material.'

‘Well, yes, I expect so.'

‘They're familiar with cadets' troubles – love troubles and others. One of those girls, or perhaps more than one, will help you forget Lucy for a while. No strings. They understand they mustn't ever try to get in touch. They know we'll soon be officers, and that some matters must stay confidential.'

‘Not broadcast.'

‘Are you on?'

‘I'm a free man.'

‘Yes, I'll look after the money side.'

‘I meant I'm free to look around.'

‘Of course you are. Great. I'll see to everything. Everything. I feel a lot easier in my mind now.'

‘Whiter than white?'

‘That kind of thing. You know your way around the unit's Free From Infection facility, do you? The Service thinks of everything, doesn't it?'

In the middle of the following week, Ian had another letter from Lucy. This time he collected it for himself. She said in her bold, big handwriting that she admired
unstintingly
the dignified way he had reacted to her previous, possibly unkind letter. ‘No, not just
possibly
unkind, Ian,
undoubtedly
unkind.' His silence and refusal to whine or protest or wheedle in reply had touched and impressed her, as they would have impressed any discerning woman. She thought of him now as ‘really quite noble'. It would be absurd, even unpatriotic and cheap – despicable – to cast him off merely because he had to serve the country. After all, he hadn't volunteered. He'd been conscripted. It would be unjust to punish him for that. She'd like to go back on what she said previously. It had been thoughtless and negative. ‘Please forget it, Ian.
Please.
I send all my love. And I'll be there to see you strut at the pass-out parade. Yours ever, and I mean it, Lucy xxx.'

He thought this letter pretty good. She put her excuses in a clear, convincing fashion. She'd probably make a very good feature writer for the women's page in one of the main newspapers.

Later that day he was called in to see the Adjutant, Training. He sported a Distinguished Flying Cross and two bars ribbon, white with diagonal purple stripes plus two silver circles for the second and third awards. ‘Sit down, Charteris,' he said. ‘The news is good. Congratulations! In the normal run of things you'd have taken second place on the passing-out list to OC Bain of Green. Strictly, as to workaday points tally, he leads. If this were the army he'd undoubtedly get the Sword. We do things differently, though. We try to look beyond mere totted-up achievement marks. We think of the spirit of the Service, the character of the Service, its … well, yes … its aura. Part of Bain's score comes from Green's extremely dubious victory in the war exercise. When I say “extremely dubious” I don't mean that the victory itself was not won. But it is the method that's in question. While, mathematically, Bain is out ahead, we don't feel he has abided by the standard gentlemanly, fair-play requirements of an officer, and – here is the chief matter – definitely not of an officer who gains the Sword, and who will return to instruct new courses of cadets in the ethos of leadership, its deeper nature, as well as its practicalities, which we certainly do not undervalue.

‘But we have a certain discretion in making the award, and a certain wider responsibility. The Group Captain has thought it over and considers, on reflection, that it would be quite wrong to allow Bain to succeed, in the circumstances. Quite wrong. In the circumstances. We would be rewarding sharpness and mere trickery – rewarding, in fact, disorder masquerading as supreme competence. That would not – cannot – do, Charteris. You, therefore, are our Sword of Honour man. Congratulations!' He came from behind his desk. Ian stood. They shook hands.

‘Thank you, sir,' Ian said.

‘There's a wisdom and remarkable far-sightedness to the Group Captain. A splendid ability at taking the overview.'

‘I hope I deserve them.'

‘I'm sure you do, absolutely sure you do. The Group Captain has a brilliant eye for future leadership talent – embodiments of that ethos I spoke of. You're National Service, I know, but do you ever think of signing on for a full RAF career?'

‘Probably not, sir.'

‘Pity. Some people do very well, you know. A good Service spell can put you in touch with all sorts. I was on a night fighter station with a chap called Townsend, Peter Townsend. Before you could say “Six-Oh-Five Squadron” he was equerry to the King, deputy Master of the Household. All right, you'll identify a touch of flunkydom about all that, but these are not posts on offer at the Labour Exchange. Think about it, do.'

The Adjutant went back to his desk. He spoke confidingly now, like a worldly uncle. ‘To other, more personal matters. I was sorry to hear about the finale letter from your girlfriend. My wife, too, felt a great deal of sympathy when some of her chums mentioned it. The unpleasant news has spread, as you'd expect.'

‘Broadcast, sir.'

‘Yes. The umpire heard it all, of course. But my wife asked me to tell you not to be too upset. “There are other fish in the sea.” Those were her exact words: “There are other fish in the sea.” And that's true, in my experience.'

‘I think so, sir.'

‘The town here is not without interest. But, clearly, one should be aware of risks – be aware of them, but not squashed by them.' Ian thought of the DFC and the bars. They'd have come from managing risk, though not the kind of catch-a-packet or crabs risk he meant now. ‘This is
me
speaking for the moment, not my wife,' the adjutant said. ‘One must be careful and … well … basically alert, in a corporeal sense. But these are things that can be seen to, given a little forethought.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. You understand. You won't have told her about the … well, the publication of her letter in that rather improper fashion? Perhaps you are no longer in touch, which would seem to be the result of such a letter.'

‘No, I haven't told her.'

‘Good. Nothing to be gained by it.'

‘There's been a further letter, sir.'

‘Ah. From Lucy? I have her name right, have I? Did someone mention an E, also?'

‘My girlfriend is Lucy, yes,' Ian replied.

‘Ah! Making everything fine again, I suppose?'

‘Yes.'

‘I did wonder, of course. The time-span. Weeks. They can be like that, especially if confronted by silence. They find silence very unnerving. They like to hear a cry of pain. This confirms to them they have behaved properly. If it doesn't come, they start worrying, reacting. They wonder whether the man they've cut off really
wanted
to be cut off, and hasn't replied to the cutting-off letter in case she takes pity on him and reinstates things. So, they think they'd better reinstate things, anyway, because they only wanted to cut him off if it smashed him up for a while being cut off.'