Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [51]
Basle station is like Waterloo without the crap. We are greeted by another RTO Officer: “LIAP party twenty-six? The train will be here for an hour. Refreshments have been laid on at the station buffet, no charge, just show your rail pass.” Despite ‘no charge’, they all charge to the buffet. What a lovely surprise to hear the pretty waitresses saying, “We ‘ave for you, ze Collation of Coldness.” Lovely — can they whistle the Warsaw Concerto to complete our happiness? But what a difference. Cold Collation here is different from Cold Collation in Catford. Here it’s great slices of turkey, a whole lettuce, great dollops of thick egg-bound mayonnaise, chunky brown bread. And here was a moment of delight: one of the grim miserable sergeants bites the thick chunky bread, his teeth come out in it, and he goes on eating.
“So, the we’ll-be-in-Calais-some-time-tomorrow isn’t going to materialize,” says Len, not fancying another night of upright somnabulism.
“Can you hear horses galloping, Len?”
Len listens. “No, I can’t.”
“Oh, that’s the second time today.”
He looks at me and shakes his head. “It’s time you had leave. Look, this is Switzerland, you could seek asylum here.”
Back in the compartment of miserable bastards, Len consults his map. “We are about 450 miles to Calais.”
“Any advance on 450? Do I hear 460? Sold then to Sgt Prosser for 450.”
The Sergeants all steam with hate. I gain satisfaction from knowing that bloody ugly wives with faces like dogs’ bums with hats on are waiting for them. Ha ha ha ha! It’s getting still colder, but not as cold as Collation. Dinner? The white tablecloths are victims of sloppy eating and shunting. Would we like egg and chips? says Mussolini — if so you can scrape it off the table. Nay, we’ll have some pasta. He has a heart attack. He runs screaming to the chef telling him of the breakthrough. I hear the kitchen staff singing hymns. Mussolini returns with steaming plates of ravioli. Tears come to his eyes as we eat it.
Night has encapsulated us, semaphores of light flash past the windows like speeding fireflies. We pause a while over our coffee and brandy and think of my parents possibly drinking watery Horlicks, eating the cat, and listening to the nine o’clock noise in rented accommodation. Was I really going back to that? Yes I was. I should have got off in Switzerland.
We return to our compartment. All the repulsive Sergeants are laughing and joking, but stop the moment we return. They smirk as we sit down and I wonder what’s fretting at the smooth surface of their delinquent minds. I crawl under the seat to last night’s sleeping niche and turn off to the sound of iron crochets of train wheels. While we slumber, the land of Jeanne D’Arc is slipping by in the D’ark.
Awake, My Pretty Ones
The sun is streaming through the carriage windows. Poplar trees are flashing past, the French countryside is a swirl of autumnal hues.
“Bonjour,” says Len, as I arise from le floor. “It’s temps pour le breakfast.”
The buffet car is crammed with bleary-eyed, travel-weary soldiers. The smell of fried breakfasts wafts along the corridors; they’ve started queuing, we must be getting near England. Appetite improves with waiting. Our turn. What would the messieurs like? Hot bread rolls? Oui, oui. We must be in France or luck. There’s real unsalted Normandy butter on the table. We watch it melt on the hot rolls, heap on marmalade. “Le Life is Très Bon,” says Len. He confers with his le map. “Ah, we passed Chaumont in the night,” he says. Help, Doctor, Doctor, I’ve been passing Chaumonts in the night.
We are coursing the side of the historic Marne river. To our left the verdant plain of Champagne. Blue overalled vignerons are harvesting the grapes. The train slows down into Epernay. My God! Champagne vendors on the platform! It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, we’ll be pissed by twelve.
“It’s a giveaway,” Len said.