I change shirts, check buttons, brush the fronts of my new combat boots on the back of my pants. This is just dumb habit. The boots are clean, and the shiny leather is inside, the outside is rough like suede, ‘All the better to absorb water with, my dear.’ Blotter boots.
I hustle up the street of this small English town called Biddulph in the middle of the Midlands of nowhere. The S2 has his headquarters in the city hall. It’s one of the few buildings in town that still has the ornamental iron fence in front of it. All other gates, fences, grilles have been ripped out and contributed to the war effort, melted down and turned into shrapnel, I suppose. I dash past the sentry at the ornamental gate. His name is Thompson, he plays trumpet in the regimental band. As I dash by, he tries to hide a cigarette.
Inside, Taylor, Love’s assistant, is sitting at a desk. I salute; go through the whole military routine.
‘PFC Wharton we think we have an assignment for you.’
‘Yes Sir.’
We’re playing the whole thing out. He reaches down into a drawer and pulls out a portfolio filled with papers and plastic overlays.
‘I understand you had top marks in map reading and map making back at Jackson.’
He smiles at me and lights a cigarette. Damn, I’m still at attention, he hasn’t even put me at ease. I wonder if I should just go into ‘at ease’ by myself. This jerk probably wouldn’t even notice. Then again, maybe he’s got a message from that bone doctor at the hospital and he’s about to pull some kind of wild bamboozle on me. I keep my mouth shut. I stay at attention. He must have read my mind.
‘At ease, Soldier.’
I slump appropriately.
’Major Love feels we ought to have a map of this town and the surrounding territory. It’s good military procedure to be prepared. One never knows. Those Nazis are capable of anything, look at that guy Hess who practically jumped down the queen’s chimney. He had to give himself up; these Limeys could never have caught him.’
I don’t say anything. To be honest, I don’t even know about Hess. I’m not very political. This war to me is something like whooping cough or measles you try to get through, or maybe more like chicken pox where you aren’t supposed to scratch or you’ll have big craters all over your face and body. I’m trying my damnedest not to scratch.
He reaches across the desk and hands me the portfolio. This is about to be one of the weirdest things to happen to me so far. Little did I know how weird things can get in the army. I can feel it in my bones, especially in that calcaneus spur. Does he expect me to go out and make little drawings of all the houses in town? I tuck the folder under my arm and come to attention again, half way.
‘What we need is a complete map showing locations of all buildings, and what they’re being used for. Indicate the mills we’re living in as barracks, show where the motor pool is located. Get in all the important roads and even the little paths. Show the distance from one place to another in yards. Try to do the whole thing to scale. If there are some details, make detailed maps of those parts. If possible, indicate the topography with elevations. You can work out the scale, too, but be sure to have a legend so the Major can quickly have an idea of the terrain. I’ve taken you off all other duties and here’s a pass to get you around town without any trouble. Try to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. If you need a map table, you can get one from supply, also anything else you might need.
‘You got all that?’
I hardly know what he’s talking about. However, having a pass to go anywhere I want to in town without being locked inside that mill is just fine with me. I nod vigorously.
’Yes Sir. I’ll do my best.’
He salutes and I whip him back a good one and spin on my heels with the portfolio under my arm. I’m going to need some pencils and drawing pens but I don’t want to screw anything up.
I stop outside at the orderly’s desk and he has the pass. He also lets me have two 2B drawing pencils and, after some convincing, a black fountain pen. I figure I’ll stroll around town and look for any kind of a stationery store with a real drawing pen and some India ink. I’ll also need a ruler and maybe a T square. I’m deep into the map making business.
More than that, I’m now practically a tourist. I stroll up the hill to look at the town church, it’s something I’ve wanted to see. On the way, two MPs jump out of doorways and start hassling me. I show them my magic pass and do everything but salute. I could be a Nazi spy who just counterfeited that pass and I’ll bet those idiots’d let me by anyway.
Maybe Williams is right, nobody’s doing much of a great job running this war. Hey, maybe I can do all these drawings and sell them to the Germans. They might give me a German discharge in exchange. I could work on my German, disappear in the Alps somewhere and nobody would know the difference. No, they’d get me. With my luck, some hot-shot American skier would discover me in my little hut on the side of the hill and turn me in.
The church door is locked, but just down the hill on the other side is a little combination newspaper stand and stationery shop. There’s an old lady and a very pretty girl running it. As I move toward the pretty one, the old one blocks my way. She’s surprised to see a soldier walking around in broad daylight. All these people must know we’re here but there’s some kind of agreement that we’ll all pretend we don’t see or know anything.
I try to explain what I want. The old lady is confused, but the young one steps forward. She has very dark hair and beautiful violet eyes. She pulls down some dusty boxes and there are crow quill pens, and engineering pens, great for map drawing, but I’d have bought split goose feathers from her. She also has some quality pink pearl erasers. This master spy does make mistakes once in a while.
She also brings out some rulers, wooden and thick, twelve inch jobs and, miracle of miracles, a transparent T square.
All the time, I’m trying to work up a conversation. I can’t tell them what I’m really doing, although they’ve probably figured it out faster than I did. So, I tell them I’m an artist and will be doing drawings around town to pass the time.
I think of an old film with Ronald Coleman where he wanders through the English countryside with a portable easel on his back singing, ‘When a body meets a body coming through the rye’; I romanticised over that one for six months. It could be one of the influences that made me want to be an artist. Of course, he meets the most beautiful girl in his wanderings and she thinks he’s ‘God’s gift to earth’ because he can draw and paint.
I wonder if I can talk Taylor into letting me buy a portable easel instead of hauling a map table around. He said I should make myself inconspicuous. Maybe I could even wear civilian clothes, some old tweeds and a Sherlock Holmes cap with a bill. The English would never shoot me as a spy, or maybe they would. I’ve lost a lot of confidence in the people who make those kinds of decisions.
There’s a great wooden combination paint box and easel in the window. I ask the price. It’s just under ten pounds. Taylor could never get a requisition through even if he’d try. But I act as if I’m seriously considering it, all in the interest of security. I ask the young girl her name and she tells me its Miss Henderson. I look at her, pretending I’m Ronald Coleman.
‘Might I call you Violet?’
She blushes and turns around. I figure I’ve blown it. What would Ronald Coleman have done?
Luckily I have a bit over ten pounds in my pocket, more than enough. I ask for a receipt. I’ll need it to get my money back, if that’s remotely possible. Then I remember, I forgot India ink. I ask. Without a word she turns and takes a bottle from one of the shelves. She twists the top open to check if it’s dried up. It is. She opens three before she finds one that’s okay. India ink is like that. It goes to seed or something and you have bits of black grit in ink plasma and there’s no way you can make it flow through a pen, especially a crow quill pen or an engineering pen. It’s very nice of her