Walcot. Brian Aldiss

       11

       Carnage on the Road

      The vehicle Major Montagu referred to as a ghari was a five-ton lorry. Among the few supplies loaded into the back of it sat Private Furbank, manning the Bren gun. Private Pete Palfrey was driving the ghari. You swung yourself up into the front seat beside him.

      You were entering the hilly country to the south of Bernay, where no refugees filled the roads – where indeed it seemed there were no inhabitants. Signs of human occupation were few – a barn here, an old tractor there, a dilapidated house with a picket fence. Apple trees lined the road, in full blossom, turning hedges white and pink. But not a man with a spade, not a woman hanging out washing, not a child leading a dog along. It was as if the tribes of mankind, having finally got things going, had themselves gone.

      Here the spring had come, in contrast to the carnage you had witnessed in Yvetot, the season announced in the trumpets of daffodils by roadsides, and not only there. Cuckoos called from nearby hills. Other birds sang, warbling from tree to tree. The spring enfolded them with its calming presence.

      And it rained. It was but a shower. You kept on driving.

      Dusk was falling by the time you reached a tiny village on a crossroads, by name Monnai.

      ‘Stop here,’ you told Palfrey. He drew up at the side of the little street, where the houses crouched against the pavement, looking as if they had closed for the duration of the war.

      Furbank came round to the window and asked where you all were.

      You responded with an order. ‘You two go and find if there’s somewhere we can eat. Keep your rifles ready for trouble.’

      Palfrey said, ‘We don’t speak the local lingo, Sir.’

      ‘Use gestures,’ you replied. ‘Go!’

      You were feeling shocked beyond words. You could not rid your mind of the images of carnage on the road, of bodies stripped of clothing and skin, blood-red and glistening, like something in a butcher’s window. The horror of it would not leave you. Yet you feared it would one day leave you. It was your new knowledge – knowledge that in fact you had known all along – that scared you; that there were madmen loose in the world, that people were meat. You were disgusted with … well, with everything, including yourself. You vowed you would be a vegetarian from now on. Nevertheless, you were feeling hungry.

      Furbank and Palfrey came back with a big, red-faced man, his face fringed by a line of beard. He wore a striped sweater and a pair of old corduroy trousers.

      You opened the ghari door to him. He put out a beefy hand in welcome. You shook it. He said he understood you were English. You agreed, in your graduate French. He declared that he knew only two words of English, ‘coffee’ and ‘wine’. He laughed at his own shortcomings. You followed suit. He said that if you and your men would do him the honour, he and his wife would like to give you some supper.

      You were grateful and accepted.

      He asked you what your vehicle was called. You answered ‘Ghari’, for you had taken to Major Montagu’s Urdu for ‘lorry’. The Frenchman said he now knew three words of English. ‘Ghari!’ he said. You had to drive the ghari off the road to his orchard.

      The man’s wife was a kindly woman who, directly she saw your pallor, brought you and your companions glasses of calvados. You felt slightly better. She provided you with a good solid meal and a rich red local wine to go with it. You were given cushions on which to lay your heads in the ghari; you already had blankets. You were parked in the man’s orchard, surrounded by blossom. After that generous meal, you all slept well. Your sleep was mercifully dreamless.

      The French couple were up even earlier than you in the morning. They gave you croissants and cups of strong coffee for breakfast. You thanked them for their kindness. You would come and see them and repay their hospitality when the war was over.

      They stood and waved in the road until you were a good quarter kilometre away. You feared for them when les Boches arrived.

      You made good time. Sometimes the roads seemed almost deserted, apart from the odd farm cart; at other times they were busy and you had to pull over to the right-hand side of the road. At one point, on a road lined thickly with trees, you encountered a considerable body of French motorized troops, heading towards the north-east. The commander of the troop was suspicious. He halted the column and came to inspect you.

      You climbed slowly from the ghari and saluted him. He was a tall man with a withered face and a black military moustache. He returned your salute and asked who the devil you were. You replied in French that you were a British detachment on a mission to Rennes. He told you you were going the wrong way to meet the Boche.

      You explained your mission. He said that the Germans would never get as far as Rennes. But there was a whisper of doubt in his voice. You exchanged a few remarks about the enemy, and you stressed the fact that the British were fighting alongside their allies. He became more cordial. His name was Capitaine Philippe de la Tour, commander of a Breton battalion advancing to engage the enemy. He offered you a Gaulois. You stood together in the road, smoking. He remarked on how young you were. He was thirty-two.

      The trees branching overhead were still. Everyone waited for you. Except the Boche.

      The capitaine was friendly and curious. He inspected the interior of the five-tonner. Finally, he asked if there was anything he could do to assist you. You mentioned petrol. He had two men bring up two full jerry