Luckily for Dinger, a 40mm bomb needs to travel about 60 feet before the inertia device kicks in and it self-arms. The bomb hit the ceiling and bounced down again. Allah was smiling on him that day: if the bomb had popped it would have taken everybody in the room.
“There was a mega flap at that stage, and obviously I got filled in for it,” he said.
We were rolling up about the 203 but trying hard not to giggle. It was such a relief to listen to Dinger’s voice again. All my problems seemed to fade away.
“The sergeant major picked up a compass, and the knobber didn’t have a clue what he was doing with it,” Dinger went on. “He knew it was a compass, but he really didn’t know how to use it. He daren’t lose face in front of the jundies, so he acted as if he knew. It really kept me happy. He had the fucking thing upside down trying to open it, and there was me, keeping my head down, a bit of a smile on my face, trying not to laugh. They were dragging little bits and pieces like batteries out of the kit, and everything to them was an explosive. They obviously thought everything was going to blow up in their faces.”
We lapsed into a phase of seriousness and wondered if Stan and Vince were still alive. As far as I was concerned, Stan was likely to be dead. He’d been on the way out on the first night of the E amp;E, and I couldn’t imagine him suddenly improving.
“Bastard!” I said. “I gave him my bobble-hat.”
It genuinely annoyed me that he still had my hat and was dead and didn’t need it any more.
“That bastard’s always got all the kit,” Dinger said. “I bet he’s already nicked God’s anorak.”
We weren’t sure about Vince and Chris. On the assumption that if anybody was alive they’d be with us now, they, like Bob, were either still on the run or dead.
The only question we didn’t have an answer for was why they had put us together. What did it mean? That they believed our story? That they hoped we were going to start waffling and they would listen in? The only conclusion we came to was that we wouldn’t waste time and energy thinking about it, we’d just take advantage of being together.
The crash of the bolt being undone on the door at the far end of the corridor concentrated our minds wonderfully. Footsteps echoed again on the tiled floor, and the glow of Tiny lamps invaded the cell. Boots thumped against the door to force it open. Oh shit, oh no, I thought, they’re going to split us up now.
Two guards appeared. The first presented us with a pitcher of water.
The second guard was carrying bowls that were steaming.
The blanket, the water, the soup-it was like staying at the Ritz. This was all rather pleasant, room service coming in and pampering us like this. I wondered if I could trouble them for a copy of the FT.
We looked up at them with our blanket around our shoulders, grinning like a couple of grateful refugees.
“American?” they asked.
“No, British.”
“No Tel Aviv?”
“No. British. England. London.”
“Ah, London. Football. Manchester United. Football. Good.”
“Yeah, Liverpool.”
“Ah, Liverpool. Bobby Moore! Good.”
We didn’t say a word to each other until the door had slammed firmly shut. Then I turned to Dinger, and in unison we muttered “Wankers!” and had a giggle.
The bowls held a hot liquid that tasted vaguely of onions. In the pitcher there must have been four pints of water, and it tasted better than vintage champagne. In theory, you’ve really got to take your time and sip it slowly. In practice, because you can’t trust the bastards not to come in and whisk it away again from under your nose, you are forced to rush it. The big danger then is that all you achieve is the feeling of wetness on your throat and a swollen belly.
We tried to settle down. The handcuffs dictated that we had to lie on our backs. We got the blanket over us, and I stared at the ceiling. Very soon my nose started twitching. Dinger stank, he absolutely stank.
“Your poor wife,” I said. “Imagine sleeping with a stinking mess like you every night-it must be like kip ping next to a grizzly bear.”
Just a minute or two later, I was gripped by a fearsome urge. It must have been the onions.
“Dinger, mate-I wanna go a pooh-pooh.”
Dinger grudgingly hauled himself into a half-lying position with his hand in the air so I could get as far away from him as possible.
I struggled to get my trousers down, trying hard not to tighten the ratchet on the cuffs.
“For fuck’s sake get on with it,” he moaned. “Let’s get our heads down.”
At last I was in position, and I emptied my arse. Wet, gooey shit sprayed all over the place.
“Oh, fucking cheers,” said Dinger indignantly. “This is my house, this-would you do this in your own place?”
I couldn’t help myself. It kept on coming.
“No consideration. I had to work hard for all this. You invite people over, you offer them dinner, and how do they repay you? They drop their arse all over your nice carpet.”
I was laughing so much I fell back into it, and there wasn’t much I could do except pull my trousers back up and lie down. It wasn’t the best of situations, but at least there were three compensations. I’d done it in his cell, not mine, it was warm on my legs, and it would be his turn next.
We put half of the blanket under us for insulation and got snuggled down, sharing body heat.
During the night we heard the guards coming and going and doors banging. Each time I’d dread they were coming for us, but they always passed by and kept on going.
At one point we heard a door in the distance being kicked open and the muffled screams and shouts and moans and groans of somebody getting filled in. You strain to hear, but you only get bits and pieces. To hear somebody else in pain like that is a horrible thing. You’re not particularly worried about who it is. You don’t know, so you don’t care. But it’s so demoralizing, because you’re so defenseless and you know it could be you next.
We heard, “Naughty boy. Stand! Bad boy. Bad boy’ Then the sound of something like a plate being thrown across a room and banging on to the concrete.
Could it be “Stan” they were saying? We tried our hardest to hear more, but the noise subsided. At least we knew there was somebody else in the equation, even if we didn’t know whether it was one of us. But whoever he was, he could pose a threat. Dinger and I were reasonably content that our stories squared up; another person on the scene, however, a person we couldn’t get to speak to, could mean that the rug was about to be pulled from under us. I felt my happiness evaporate. The only thought I could console myself with was that Dinger and I were still together.
Suddenly, as if it was sent deliberately to calm me, I heard the welcome noise of bombers going through the sky about a mile away. I felt an instant surge of hope. If we took hits, then we had means of escape.
We spent the rest of the night together. Every time we heard doors banging we thought they were coming to separate us, and we said our goodbyes. Finally, some time in the morning, our cell door was kicked open. I was handcuffed and blindfolded and taken away.
I knew I was being taken for another interrogation; I knew the route so well. Out of the door, turn right, up the corridor, turn left, over the cobblestones, up the step, along the pathway, past the bushes, into a room. I assumed it was the same room.
They pushed me onto a chair and held me there.
“Good morning, Andy,” The Voice said. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine, thank you very much,” I said. “Thank you for the blanket. It’s very cold at night.”
“Yes, it is very cold. As you can see, Andy, we do take care of you. We take care of people who help us. And you will help us, Andy, will you not?”
“Yes, I’ve told you, I’ll help as much as I can.”
“There are just a few matters that we need to clear up this morning, Andy. You see, we are not totally convinced that you’re not Jewish. We need proof. Tell us if you are, because this will stop a lot of pain and discomfort for you. What is your religion?”