The Complete McAuslan. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ under 30), telling me my job. I got formal.

      “A curfew would be impractical,” I said. “But I shall be patrolling the train from time to time, as will my sergeant.”

      You could see he was wondering about that, too. He looked at me doubtfully and muttered something about spiritual duty and promiscuity. Plainly he was a nut. After shifting from one foot to the other for a moment, he bade me good night unhappily, and lurched off down the corridor, colliding with a fresh-faced young flight-lieutenant who was coming the other way. The R.A.F. type was full of bonhomie, duty-free in the Service.

      “Hiya, Padre,” said he. “Playing at home this weather, eh?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Well, this is your territory, isn’t it?” said the youth. “Y’know, bound for the Holy Land. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Jezebel,” he waved expansively, “Goliath of Gath, Sodom and Gomorrah and Gomorrah and Gomorrah creeps in this petty pace from day to day …”

      I went inside quickly and closed the door. Something told me the padre was going to have a worrying trip.

      He wasn’t the only one, although it was past El Kantara that the next interruption came. I had taken a trip along the train, and seen that everyone was reasonably installed for the night, conferred with Sergeant Black, and come back to my compartment. Roger Brook had pinked the villain long ago, and was now rifling the Marquis’s closet for the secret plans, when the knock came.

      It was a small A.T.S., blonde and snub-nosed, wearing two stripes. She saluted smartly and squeaked at me.

      “Please, sir, could something be done about our carriage window? It’s broken and boarded up, and Helen is in a draught. Actually, we all are, sir; it’s very cold. But Helen feels it most.”

      A young officer appealed to by A.T.S. is a sorry sight. He becomes tremendously paternal and dignified, as only a 21-year-old can. Elderly staff officers look like babbling lads beside him. He frowns thoughtfully, and his voice drops at least two octaves. I was no exception.

      “Very good, corporal,” I said, sounding like Valentine Dyall with a heavy cold. “Show me the way, please.”

      She bounced off, with me following. Her billet was two coaches behind, and as we entered the second one I glanced into a compartment and found the padre staring at me with a mistrustful eye. Quis custodiet, by gum, he was thinking, so to assure him that all was well I gave him a big smile and the O.K. sign, thumb and forefinger together, other fingers raised. A second after I did it, I realised that it was open to misunderstanding, but it was too late then.

      There were seven other A.T.S. in the compartment, shivering, with the wind whistling through the boarded window. They emitted cries, and while the corporal told them it was O.K. now, because the O.C. train would fix it in person, I ploughed through their piles of kitbags, shoes, parcels, and general clutter to the window. There was a big crack in the boarding, but it looked as though it could be forced to quite easily.

      “Can you manage, sir?” they cried. “Will it shut?” “I’m freezing.” “Help him, Muriel.”

      I heaved at the board and the whole damned thing came loose and vanished into the Palestine night. A tremendous blast of cold night air came in through the empty window. They shrieked.

      “Oh, he’s broken it!”

      “Oh, it’s perishing!”

      “These Highlanders,” said a soulful-looking A.T.S. with an insubordinate sniff, “don’t know their own strength.”

      “Take it easy,” I said, nonplussed, to coin a phrase. “Er, corporal, I think they’d better all move into the corridor …”

      “Into the corridor!” “We can’t stay there all night.” “We’re entitled to a compartment”—even in the A.T.S. they had barrack-room lawyers, yet.

      “… into the corridor until I get you fixed in other compartments,” I said. “You can’t stay here.”

      “Too right we can’t.” “Huh, join the A.T.S. and freeze to death.” “Some people.” Mutters of mutiny and discontent while they gathered up their belongings.

      I trampled out, told the corporal to keep them together, and, if possible to keep them quiet, and headed up the train. There was a compartment, I remembered, with only two officers in it. I knocked on its door, and a pouchy eye looked out at me.

      “Well, what is it?” He was a half-colonel, balding and with a liverish look. I explained the situation.

      “I thought you might not object if, say, four of the girls came in here, sir. It’s one of the few compartments that isn’t full.” Looking past him, I could see the other man, a major, stretched out on a seat.

      “What? Bring A.T.S. in here?”

      “Yes, sir, four of them. I can get the other four placed elsewhere.”

      “This is a first-class compartment,” he snapped. “A.T.S. other ranks travel third.”

      “Yes, I know, but their compartment hasn’t got a window …”

      “Then I suggest you find them one that has.”

      “I’m afraid there isn’t one; they’re all full.”

      “That is your business. And I would point out that you have no right to suggest that they move in here.”

      “Why not, for Pete’s sake? Look,” I said, trying to sound reasonable, “they have to go somewhere …”

      “Don’t address me in that way,” he barked. “What’s your name?”

      “MacNeill.”

      “MacNeill what?”

      He had me there. “MacNeill, sir.”

      He gave me a nasty look. “Well, MacNeill, I suggest that you study the regulations governing the movement of troop trains. Also the limitations of authority of damned young whippersnappers who are put in charge of them, but are not, strange as it may seem, empowered to address their superiors in an insolent manner, or request them to vacate their compartments in favour of A.T.S.”

      “I didn’t ask you to vacate your compartment, sir,” I said, my voice shaking just a little, as it always does when I’m in that curious state halfway between backing down shamefaced and belting somebody. “I merely asked, since they are women …”

      “Don’t dam’ well argue,” said the man lying on the seat, speaking for the first time.

      “No,” said the pouchy half-colonel. “Don’t argue, if you know what’s good for you.” And he shut the door.

      I stood there, hesitating. The choice was clear. I could fling open the door and give him a piece of my mind, taking the consequences, or I could creep off towards my own compartment. Eventually I compromised, creeping away and giving him a piece of my mind as I did so, in a reckless whisper. Not that it helped: the A.T.S. were still homeless and had to be fitted in somewhere.

      I needn’t have worried. СКАЧАТЬ