Suddenly all conversation stopped.
Three American GI’s had walked in.
One of them was black, the other two white. One of them approached the bar and stood there swaying slightly. It was obvious from the start that they’d been drinking.
“A pint of your strongest beer,” the American at the bar ordered. He was a huge man, well over six feet tall with muscles that bulged every time he moved. He downed the pint Jack had placed in front of him in one gulp, its nutty taste having no effect.
“That was your strongest?” he questioned “It’s weak,” he said wiping his sleeve across his mouth “Weak like your men. Another!” he ordered.
Jack refilled the glass and wiped the bar before placing the second pint of ale in front of the American. The American saw him smirking.
“Did I say something funny?”
Jack had thought he had understood the joke but now his smile vanished.
“No sir just your remark amused me.”
Jack had clearly misinterpreted the remark. The war was well documented in the cinema each week. The British soldiers were in the thick of the action every single day of their lives. The Americans so far had done little by comparison.
The conversation in the pub began to increase again now. The big GI downed his second pint. He ordered another and one each for his friends.
Jack was concerned. The strong beer would probably kick in soon and the American was already the worse for wear.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
The American smirked and looked around the saloon. He saw Johnny and his friends laughing as they shared a joke at their table.
“I’ll tell you what I have had enough of,” the GI said “And that’s having to leave my country to come here to save your nancy boys from trouble while all they do is sit in their pretty uniforms with bits of grass stuck between their teeth.
“All right,” Jack said taking the beer back “That’s enough. You don’t come in here in your flashy uniforms upsetting my regulars. Get out!”
“Make us.”
Sixty eight year old George Tompkins had heard enough. He got up from his chair by the window and approached the American from behind. The other two Americans made room for him. They shared a sneer with each other.
George reached forward and tapped the Colossus in front of him. George had seen war. In World war one he had been a blacksmith and had spent the years shoeing horses at the front line. He had survived history’s bloodiest war.
“Uhh!” The American turned round at the fingers tapping his shoulder. He looked George up and down with a smirk. He laughed when he saw the holes in George’s jacket and the mud on his boots.
“Well what do we have here?”
“Hey loud mouth yank. While you’re over here with your cowboy hats and your spurs our boys are over in Africa fighting a mans war. More man than you’ll ever be.”
The American picked up the beer Jack had moved and poured it over George’s head. Many of the locals rushed forward to defend the old mans honour but Jack shouted at them to stop.
“I’ve called the police,” he said, the telephone receiver still clutched in his hand. The truth was the local policeman lived six miles away and only had a bicycle for transport. Even if he left straight away it would still take him an hour to get there.
“All right,” the American said thinking through the scenario of being arrested and facing the American military police.
“OK. We’re leaving. Jeez you guys just can’t take a joke.”
“Not when our boys are dying for the likes of you,” George responded.
The three Americans disappeared through the door. Some of the locals got up to pat George on the back. The big American came back through the door. Instantly there was a ring of locals surrounding him. There was no way he was coming back in. He threw a handful of blades of grass at George’s face.
“Here don’t forget to put these between your teeth.”
No one saw who threw the first punch but the fight was vicious. The big American went down with six men on top of him. He soon threw them off though and getting to his feet he was throwing punches in all directions. The other two Americans were now in the fight and Johnny and his friends took them on.
Sometime during the fight Johnny Larder had a beer bottle smashed over his head. He slumped unconscious to the floor. Jack was trying to get order. Now his furniture was getting broken. He’d seen enough. He went out to the back and returned moments later with his shotgun and jammed both barrels under the big American’s ribs. This brought the fighting to an abrupt stop. The American looked down under his armpit.
“Hey! Hey! Take it easy. We were just having some fun.”
“Now the fun is over. There has not been a murder in this village for a very long time but I’ll happily start with you.”
He drew the shotgun back and levelled it into the GI’s face.
The American tried a brave laugh.
“You don’t have the balls.”
Jack drew the triggers back. It was a wonder the gun didn’t fire. No one doubted he would do it.
“You wouldn’t want to try me boy, now get out all of you.”
The three Americans begrudgingly left.
The locals watched them from the windows and door. Rosemary Clayton began straightening the furniture. Then she saw the inert form on the floor.
“Johnny!” she cried.
His two friends rushed over to him and lifted him up. He was still out cold. There was a nasty gash on his head and it was bleeding badly.
“Johnny! Johnny!” his friend Tim called.
Betty Clayton got some clean water and a towel.
“This is bad,” she said dabbing the wound “Jack call for an Ambulance.”
“It’ll take too long to arrive,” he threw his keys to Tim.
“Take my car.”
“But Jack we’ve been drinking.”
“Rosemary you can drive.”
Rosemary had had a few driving lessons but she was far from an accomplished driver.
“No dad I don’t think I could.”
“He needs to get to a doctor and quick,“ Tim pleaded with her.
“All right,” she nodded. She grabbed her coat, took the keys from Tim and fled through the door and around the back of the pub to the garage. She found the padlock on the double doors and struggled to get the key into the lock in the dark. Finally it clicked open. She pushed the doors open wide and got into the drivers seat, started the car and drove it around to the front.
Tim and Charlie loaded Johnny into the back seat of the Morris and Charlie jumped into the front passenger seat.
“Is he still unconscious?” Rosemary asked.
“Yes, quick let’s get a move on,” Tim shouted.
“Don’t forget the lights,” from Charlie.
Rosemary flicked on the lights but they were quite ineffective due to the blackout fittings on them. The light generated by them was about twenty five per cent of their full use. She took a few deep breaths to psyche herself up and pulled away roughly and stopped again almost as suddenly. Tim and Charlie felt themselves being thrown forward.
“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked.
“Sorry but I can’t drive in these shoes,” she unbuckled them and gave them to Tim to hold. Now her feet clad only in stockings she stomped on the accelerator and the car kangarooed away. Rosemary was convinced this was the worst evening of her life. She battled to keep control of the car on the narrow country roads and pulled up outside Salisbury General Infirmary forty five minutes later.
By morning Johnny was in a hospital bed, his head stitched and heavily bandaged. His friends had waited with him until the Doctor had sent them home telling them to telephone in the morning to see if there was any change in his condition. They had begged to be allowed to stay. The Doctor had been firm but kind, reminding them that there was a war on and that at any time he may need the extra space available for patients. Reluctantly they had gone home. The Doctor promising that he would telephone the pub if there was any news.