The Good Pilot Peter Woodhouse by Smith Alexander McCall

Author:Smith, Alexander McCall [Smith, Alexander McCall]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical, War, Romance, Adult
ISBN: 9780857909862
Amazon: B074GG2JFN
Goodreads: 36326042
Publisher: Polygon Books / Birlinn Limited (Edinburgh)
Published: 2017-11-02T07:00:00+00:00

TWO

HE HATED THE WAR

❖ 18 ❖

A small square of roughly cut brown bread, stale and heavy, with a mug of lumpy soup scraped out of an urn. No meat in the soup, but a rancid smell that could have come from meat, an unfortunate horse, perhaps, or ancient pig; a thin layer of grease, too, across the surface that suggested the same origins.

Ubi took it gratefully, warming his hands on the mug, which was made of tin and conducted heat well. It was early May, and the air was far from warm, even if the hedges were green once more and there were wildflowers everywhere, and early blossom on the fruit trees. The man next to him spilled some of his soup down his chin and onto the jacket of his uniform; his hands were shaking and it was hard for him to bring the mug to his lips. He looked sheepishly at Ubi, who smiled at him encouragingly. There were many who seemed to be fumbling or faltering in unexpected ways – tripping, or stumbling, as if some internal gyroscope had been taken from them. One man, a Feldwebel like Ubi, seemed to have lost control of his bladder and sat dejectedly and self-consciously separate from the other men, staring up at the sky as if he were somewhere else, as if this were not him, this reeking, shameful person, a disgrace to the uniform he had so thoroughly ruined. Ubi took him an extra piece of bread that he found near the table where the rations had been handed out, and gave it to him in a gesture of support. The man took it, and looked up at him, briefly, but then looked away again without thanking him.

It was the midday meal. There would be something more at six o’clock, they had been told, although it might not be warm. One of their Canadian captors, a sergeant with a loud voice, had explained – through an interpreter – that they could not expect much more because their own people had robbed the Netherlands of most of its food. “So you see what this brings you,” he announced. “What goes round, comes round. Understand?” He looked again at the puzzled faces and repeated his question. “Understand?”

Because of the intervention of Mees and the captain who had taken their surrender, Ubi had been put into a different prisoner-of-war holding centre from the rest of his unit. The captain had decided that if this were done there would be little risk of retaliation from his former superiors or his colleagues – the chances of their encountering him among the thousands of prisoners of war caught up behind the rapidly advancing Allied lines would be next to non-existent. A note was left with the senior Canadian officer at the makeshift detention camp to the effect that Feldwebel Dietrich was alleged to have been helpful to the Resistance and to a group of American airmen. This could be entered on his records, although nobody was sure what records there would be and who would hold them.

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