‘I’m sorry,’ Jamie apologized. ‘I’ve heard that Polish soldiers weren’t treated particularly well after the war.’
Stan laughed again, a raking cough that sounded painful to the ear. ‘Dat lizus Churchill, he sell us down river. But you don’t feel sorry for Stan. Had good life. Lots of whisky. Lots of girls.’ The old man’s voice faded and he lay back, breathing noisily through his nose, but after a few moments he opened his eyes again. ‘How Matt die?’
Jamie told him about the accident. ‘Look, Mr Kozlowski – Stan – I’m tiring you. Maybe I should come back later, or tomorrow?’
Stan shook his head. ‘Is OK. Not a bad way to go, eh? Just one snap and you’re in heaven. Better than this. I know. Broke lots of necks during war, me and Matt.’ Jamie opened his mouth to protest, but the Pole spat words like three-second bursts of automatic fire. ‘Quick and clean.’ He raised his hands as if he held a head between them, and twisted with a single sharp movement, at the same time making a distinct tick through his teeth. ‘Old Stan he still got it, eh? I remember the first time . . .’ Without warning, his eyes dropped and he began to speak softly in a confused mix of Polish and English. Jamie could make out enough to understand that he was hearing the story of Poland’s fall. After a few minutes the voice faded again and he realized Stan had fallen into a doze. Half an hour later, the old man was still asleep, and Jamie watched his body twitch and jerk as he refought the war.
A nurse inspected the monitors before rearranging the old soldier’s blanket, tucking it around his neck and shoulders.
‘Stan’s a bit restless today, I’m afraid. I’m Carol, Mr Saintclair, we spoke on the phone.’ She offered him her hand and he shook it. She was tiny, but heavy breasted, with strawberry-blonde curls and that confident, unflappable air the best nurses cultivate. ‘I should have warned you about this, but he was very keen to see you. Morning is a much better time for him.’
‘I’m glad I came.’ Jamie hid his frustration behind a smile. ‘But I think I’ve tired him enough for one day. Maybe I can come back again another time?’
‘Of course, we always encourage visitors and Stan doesn’t have anyone nearby. His children both emigrated to Australia, I think. He’s a remarkable man. You’re seeing him at his worst. The machine takes a lot out of him, but he still insists on a walk along the stream every morning and he plans to march in the parade on Armistice Day.’
Jamie thanked her and picked up his coat. A drowsy voice interrupted his departure.
‘You come back tomorrow, then ve talk about Matt, eh? I tell you what I told other guy. About last mission with the szkopi. Goddam disaster. Brass called it Operation Equity, but Matt he had other name for it. Operation Doomsday.’
V
ON HIS WAY back to the train, Jamie debated whether to bother coming back the next day. He had plenty of other things he should be doing and the Polish veteran’s ramblings, though interesting, were sometimes ludicrous. What was that stuff about Matthew breaking necks, for God’s sake? Still, he wouldn’t decide immediately. Once he was settled in his seat he opened the journal at the page where he’d left off.
As the rampaging Wehrmacht finished off the scattered remnants of Poland’s destroyed army and the Soviet union joined in, feasting on the defeated nation’s carcass, the Royal Berkshires had embarked for France along with 150,000 soldiers of the British Expeditionary Force. The initial overseas entries, as the battalion deployed inland, leapfrogged erratically between the wide-eyed wonder of a youthful tourist and the excitement of a professional soldier desperate to get to grips with his enemy. Lieutenant Matthew Sinclair also had a touching regard for his soldiers’ welfare. His relationship with his sergeant, Anderson, a man old enough to be his father, seemed to have been particularly close. The cosy, confessional tone of the diaries ceased on 10 May 1940 when the Wehrmacht attacked France and Belgium. Matthew Sinclair was about to get his baptism of fire. His Berkshires were part of the 2nd Infantry Division and on the far right of the British line, south-east of Lille, defending the flatlands around the River Dyle and in the direct line of General Erich Hoepner’s rampaging XVI Panzer Corps.
The first entry of the shooting war was almost comically indignant.
My initial experience of battle was entirely farcical as we weren’t allowed to move to our positions in Belgium until the Germans attacked first. As a consequence we were quite ill-prepared for them. Nevertheless, I feel very excited because this is what IT has all been for. First bombs fell during afternoon stand down.