Declarations of War. Len Deighton

      ‘It’s the only thing you can’t buy, apart from good health,’ said Wool. ‘I mean, we think we’ve got the worst end of the stick, being up here at the sharp end being shot at, right?’ The others nodded. ‘But you think any of those old generals and that back at Div wouldn’t change places, no hesitation?’

      ‘Would they?’ said Keats. It was a thrilling concept. One to be toyed with. He hoped that it wouldn’t be exploded too soon.

      ‘Course they would,’ said Wool. ‘Here we are, fit and well and raring to go, with all our life in front of us. Course they would. Why, any of us could do anything…’

      ‘Well, not exactly anything,’ modified Stephens, who felt his position as the educated man might be jeopardized by this Corporal.

      ‘Anybloodything,’ said Wool. ‘Any of us could become generals or millionaires or bloody film bloody stars with the right gumption and a bit of luck.’

      ‘Get away,’ said Keats scornfully, but not so scornfully as to disturb the dream. Rather he said it to coax more details from the pink-faced Corporal. This fellow could do it, thought Keats. He might become a general or a millionaire or a film star. Or even a centre-forward for Celtic, which was Keats’s personal daydream.

      ‘I tell you,’ said Wool, ‘time is all you need. Twenty-odd years from now we could all be whatever we decide on.’

      ‘I’d like to be a centre-forward for Celtic,’ said Keats, believing that an early claim would have more chance of fruition.

      Teasdale said, ‘I’d like to have a little grocer’s in Nottingham, near the tobacco factory. Lots of married women work there, they have to buy the food for the old man’s supper on the way home. In the side street for preference, and stay open late on pay night. And sell fags and sweets, too.’

      Stephens said, ‘I’d have studied to be a solicitor, but I’m too old now.’

      ‘You’re not,’ said Wool, ‘honest, Stevie, you’re not too old. That’s what I’m telling you. It’s time that’s wealth. When this lot’s over you’ll have time to be a solicitor. You could end up a judge, even.’

      ‘And what about you, Corp?’ said Andrews.

      ‘Oh, me,’ said Wool. ‘I’m lucky in a way. I’ve got my future all waiting for me. My old Gran in the country has got five acres. I’ll get a cow and some pigs and chickens. I won’t make a fortune but I won’t be worrying my guts out trying to make a living either. You become a different sort of person in the country. Everyone does, it’s more natural somehow.’ It was then that Wool raised his eyes for a periodic glance at the horizon. ‘Two Ted Mark IVs turning off the track, near the road two o’clock.’

      Wool’s voice alarmed Pelling, just as it had done at the time. ‘You were a cool customer,’ said Pelling. ‘I’ll tell you frankly, I was afraid when that shell hit the loft, but you climbed up there before any of us had recovered our wits. It was some silly joke you made that brought us all back to normal again. And then there was the tank…’

      ‘I was a twit,’ said Wool, pushing the memory of the loft and its smell of warm blood back into his dark subconscious. ‘Full of crap about esprit de corps, comradeship and loyalty. I’m not like that now, I’ll tell you.’

      ‘What are you like now?’ asked Pelling flatly.

      ‘I’m a go-getter. I look after number one and make sure that my expense sheets are countersigned and submitted bloody early. There’s no esprit de corps in the chocolate-bar business.’

      ‘I shouldn’t have let you go out to the tank,’ said Pelling.

      ‘How could you have stopped me? I knew it was my last chance before your bloody sappers arrived.’

      ‘You knew I was going to demolish the tank and the cowshed?’

      ‘I didn’t know anything about a cowshed, but I knew the salvage crew for Cindy Four had been taken off the roster. It was easy to guess what that meant for Cindy.’

      ‘Why did you go out to the farm then?’

      My bloody knee, that’s the second time. It’s damned dark! This field must be full of Conner cans, and the remains of the corned beef stinks to high heaven. God, what a smell. Why was he here, that was a good question. He had no orders to be risking his neck, in fact he had no permission to be absent from the laager. If he copped it tonight – and the chances were that he would – he’d be posted as a deserter and neither his Mum nor his Gran would get the money. Stop. Still, absolutely still. Ugh! What had he touched: crap? No, it’s all right. It’s only Keats. A swarm of bloated flies buzzed around his face. Angrily he waved them away and, so dozy were they, his hand hit some of them in mid-flight. Poor Keats with half his head missing, you poor old sod. I would have let you play for Celtic, Keats. I would have given half my Gran’s fields to have you play once for Celtic, with me in front of the stand, eh? With a funny hat and rattle. Just that afternoon Keats had said, ‘You know, Corp, you’ve changed my bleeding life in a way. You’re right, I mean anybody can do bleeding anything, Corp.’

      Careful; stinging nettles, and beyond them the ditch. Lucky that there’s no moon. The night was cloudless; he could see every star for a million miles, except where a piece of night sky without stars was the Sherman tank. Another pile of cans. Just one tin-can makes a noise like a peal of bells on a night as quiet as this. Listen. He froze quite still. He could hear his blood pulsing.

      At his Gran’s the net curtains were floor length. At night the wind made them billow and arch as if a thousand phantoms were climbing through the window, one behind the other. But these were no ghosts. No ghost for Keats, no ghost for any of them.

      Bloody hell!

      There were voices whispering. Whispering sounds the same in all languages, but that won’t be any of our boys standing out here in the dark on the German side of that Sherman. He put his hand upon the tracks; it was tight and true this side. One foot went on to rubber tyre and the other on to the suspension. Silently he eased open the turret hatch and put one foot down on to the breech of the gun…

      ‘No, no, no,’ said Pelling. ‘You can’t get away with that rubbish. Talk about hiding under a tank and I might believe you, but climbing into a tank to avoid being seen is like climbing Nelson’s Column to avoid being arrested. Anyway, I timed you that night. You’d only been gone eight minutes before the tank engine started. We were scared stiff, we thought the Mark IVs were returning.’

      ‘You don’t climb into a tank,’ Wool corrected primly, ‘you mount it. She started first go. Of course, I knew she would. I bet Sergeant Anderson she would. Five bob. He knew I wouldn’t tell a lie about it. Paid up as nice as ninepence when I came back.’ Wool reached behind him for another chocolate bar. Pelling didn’t want any, but Wool bit into it greedily. ‘Can’t keep off them,’ he explained waving the bar in the air. ‘Mind you, they are damned good; butter, eggs and four ounces of full-cream milk in every one. The kids love…’

      ‘Where did you learn to drive a tank?’

      ‘Haven’t you been following me, Colonel? I was the tank driver.’

      ‘The tank driver?’

      ‘Of Cindy Four. That was mine, that tank. I came out to get her back in, didn’t I?’

      ‘Tank salvage team?’

      ‘Tank salvage team,’ Wool repeated in scathing mockery. ‘Those stupid bleeders. Those knacker’s-yard attendants. I was a real tank driver. I was Cindy Four’s driver.’

      ‘You’d come out to get your tank without permission?’ Pelling’s incredulity as a Colonel was tempered by his understanding as an engineer.

      ‘My skipper – Sergeant Anderson – knew, he was covering for me. The rest of the crew knew too. They all wanted to come at first, but me alone was best.’

      ‘But