Drop!
His hands seemed to come unstuck from the icy guttering very, very slowly, and his body drop through the air much too unaffected by gravity — he was floating, it wouldn't work — and his body could see the gun, the white upturned face backing away — then his boots hit the soldier a glancing blow, his fall was broken, he struck the concrete heavily, winded, rolled over, tried to get up and knew he was moving as awkwardly as if his legs were under water, then saw the German down on one knee, trying even more slowly to bring the machine-pistol to bear. He'd been caught by McBride's lack of delay, but he was recovering. McBride's arm and shoulder hurt from impact with the ground as he thrust up into a crouch, and hurled himself against the German, felt the rough serge of the field-grey against his cheek, the cold metal of collar-tabs, the edge of the helmet against his head — heaved rather than cannoned against the soldier, knocking him backwards. He heard the explosion of breath, the sharp clatter of the machine-pistol, as he rolled over the German, raised his upper torso and looked down into the young, scared face, its mouth opening much too slowly to yell. McBride pulled at the helmet strap, and jerked the head back. The mouth contorted, remained silent except for a gurgle, then McBride struck the German with his fist, below the ear. The head lolled when he let it free.
Immediately, he climbed to his feet, aware of the shadows alongside the shed, sensing the rain-blown night, aware of the silence beyond the muffled noises from inside. Then he dragged the unconscious — possibly dead — soldier up against the corrugated wall and left him, moving away immediately towards the pier-end of the shed. When he reached it, he paused. There was another hour and a half before the shifts changed, and he could not wait. The German would be unaccounted for within five minutes.
He was surprised at the manner in which his mind sought the amusing, the unexpected, solution, even as he looked at his watch and some more urgent part of the organism collected swiftly the few sensory impressions along the pier. A radio, muffled hammering, the spit of welding equipment, the patter of the sleet against the wall of the shed. He turned round with deliberate calm, and walked back to the unconscious German.
He bent over him. There was breathing, tired and quiet. He lifted the head like an easily bruised fruit, and removed the helmet. Then he tugged the German out of his greatcoat, the back of which was sodden, and removed his boots. He removed his own donkey-jacket and boots, became in seconds a German soldier. He buttoned the greatcoat right to the throat, picked up the machine-pistol, and returned to the pier. He paused only for a moment, as if patting mental pockets for required and necessary equipment, then began walking with a tired, bored shuffle towards the warehouse and the barrier.
And with each step the nerves increased, as he knew they would however much he attempted to disguise them in confidence, in indifference. He was aware of his heart-rate increasing, of his body-temperature rising; employed deep-breathing to calm himself, gripped more tightly the stubby barrel of the machine-pistol.
He was past the warehouse, and the barrier at the end of the pier was the only thing in his vision, when someone spoke in German, and he knew the voice was addressing him. The man he appeared to be. But he caught the note of uncertainty, too, just as clearly as he heard the footsteps coming from the side of the warehouse, closing on him.
"Friedrich, where the devil have you been? Friedrich—?"
The puzzled tone hung on the air like frost. McBride was a hundred yards or so from the barrier, and a man he could not turn to see was coming from behind him. Each footstep separated in time, almost to the rhythm of the dance-music he could hear from a radio. He half-turned, and slipped, sliding onto his back, his greatcoat billowing like a skirt. The soldier behind him burst into laughter.
"Friedrich, you're pissed, you bastard! Where is it, where's the drink, you selfish little—?"
McBride rolled onto his side, propped on one elbow, the machine-pistol pointing up into the German's face.
"If I kill you, I'll attract their attention, I know that. It just won't do you much good, old friend," he observed in German. Drink, drink—
It was coming to him. The German's mouth kept slowly popping open and closed, then he began sucking his cheeks to wet his dry throat.
"What's your name?" Puzzlement almost approaching the catatonic. "Just tell me your name — it might save your life."
"Willi — Willi Frick."
"Well done, Willi." McBride stood up, leaned against the German with a smile, and pressed against the nerve below his ear, just behind the chinstrap. Willi slid against him, gently declining. McBride pulled the rum flask from his pocket, and spilled liquor into Willi's mouth, down his chin and onto his coat. He let Willi lean unconsciously against him as he checked his own papers again — Friedrich Bruckner, and his rank, unit and number.
"Come on, Willi, you're going on a charge, and me with you."
He slipped Willi's right arm round his neck, hefted him upright, his own arm round Willi's waist, and walked him towards the barrier, making an exaggeratedly slow approach in the shadow of the warehouse, stepping out into the light only at the last minute — but by that time a Kriegsmarine Leutnant was already calling him.
"Soldier, what the devil are you doing? You, there!"
McBride snapped to attention, and Willi began to slide to the ground — McBride grabbed him, straightened the body. Someone laughed behind the officer, who seemed suddenly to consider it all as simply another scheme to make him appear foolish. His face contracted as if he had sucked a lemon and he marched across to McBride, who tried to adopt peasant stupidity as his habitual expression.
"What's going on—" Nose wrinkling, suspicion gleaming in his eye. "This man's drunk!"
"Sir—"
"No excuses — breathe on me, you dummy!"
McBride exhaled. The Leutnant shook his head in obvious disappointment. The guards behind him had formed a knot of eager spectators — one or two of them trying to make McBride smile or laugh by mimed antics and expressions. They were fifteen yards away — too far to hear his replies, his claims to identity. He kept a rigid face as the officer continued.
"Where did you find him?"
"Heard someone singing behind one of the warehouses, sir!" he snapped out.
"Him?" The Leutnant was disgusted. McBride nodded. "And now he's passed out — you weren't going to report this, were you?" Again the gleam of realization and superior understanding. McBride looked guilty. "Trying to sneak him back to his billet, weren't you?" McBride swallowed, nodded. "What's your name?"
McBride barked out his assumed identity.
"Him?"
"Frick, sir."
The Leutnant made a note (with a gold-encased pencil) in a little notebook contained in what might have been a slim cigarette-case. He put them away with a quiet triumph.
"Both of you — report to me in the morning. Now, get that disgusting clown out of my sight!"
"Sir."
McBride grabbed Willi's body more securely, kept his head down as he half-pulled him past the barrier, to the raucous laughter — soon quietened by the Leutnant — of the rest of the guards. He could hear them discussing the likely charges with the Kriegsmarine officer as he moved beyond the cold splash of the light above the barrier and the guard-hut. He heaved and pulled at the unconsciously-resisting Willi, a chill bath of perspiration covering his body from the effort and the bluff. He couldn't control his body's relief, and it irritated him. Eventually, he was in the shadows of a seaman's church opposite the Albert Pier, and he thankfully dropped Willi into the shadows by the wrought-iron gate. He looked up. A chill, unwelcoming little church, the rain like a shiny skin on something gone cold. He shivered, and moved swiftly away, the machine-pistol over his shoulder, the sweat drying on his forehead at the line of the helmet and under his arms. He wasn't quite ready to smile. He hurried up the Quay to the North Esplanade, out of the centre of the town.