大象传媒

Chapter 10

Snaps from a Borgarnes Camera

I was on switchboard night duty. The duty was of twelve hours' duration, from eight till eight, and was fairly predictable. The first two hours would bring a steady stream of calls, which would gradually decrease until midnight. After that, there would often be no calls at all unless some facetiously bloody-minded individual decided to disturb a distant colleague who might be trying to relax after a hard day in the field.
As duty operator I was not allowed to leave the office on any pretence, not even to fetch my supper from the cookhouse, just across the way, so Charlie brought it for me. We sat and chatted in between calls until he decided it was time for him to turn in and he returned to the Nissen hut, leaving me with only my Agatha Christie whodunnit and the occasional lighting-up of the numbers on the switchboard for company. There was no need to switch the office lights on, because it didn't get dark. The sun shone brightly until about four o'clock in the morning, when a sort of grey twilight replaced it for an hour or so, then the sun reappeared and continued to shine brightly right through until four o'clock next morning. The permanent sunshine had made sleeping difficult for us at first, even with the windows completely covered with greatcoats and gas capes, and even that was not always efficacious, for we often sat in our sleeping bags reading or talking until the early hours of the morning before nodding off.
At midnight I plugged in the alarm jack as was the custom, rolled up my battledress tunic to form a pillow, stretched out on the wooden form as comfortably as possible and settled down to try to snatch a little sleep. I do not know how long I had been dozing, but the faint click of the office door being opened awakened me instantly. The door was opened slowly and the lanky form of Captain Gibb, the Orderly Officer, appeared silhouetted against the background of light. I kept still and silent and watched through half-closed eyes to see what he would do. For a few seconds he stood there, not moving,
as though waiting for his eyes to adjust to the different light, then he leaned forward, got hold of the toe of my boot, and wiggled it quickly from side to side. I sat bolt upright immediately. "You were asleep," he said, accusingly.
"Yessir."
The ready cheerfulness of my reply seemed to put him off his stroke, because his next words contained an element of doubt. "We-e-ell, you're not supposed to be asleep on duty, are you?" "On this job, oh, yes, sir. I've got the alarm jack plugged in and when a subscriber calls his number lights up and makes the alarm bell ring. I'll get someone to make a call for you if you if you like, sir, to show you what I mean."
鈥淣o, no, that won't be necessary. I'm quite satisfied with what you say. Is everything all right?鈥� 鈥淵es, thank you, sir. All quiet."
"O.K." He prowled around the office for a short time to satisfy himself that all was in order, asked one or two more questions, then, apparently satisfied, he bade me good-night and continued his rounds.
I'd had my peace disturbed, so someone else had to suffer for it. I plugged in to number six, and gave it a good ring. The sleepy voice of Corporal Turner, the Company Clerk, answered.
鈥淗ello, Company Office."
鈥淭hat you, Ted?"
"Yeh. Waddya want, Doug?鈥�
"Want to buy a battleship?"
"You what?"
"Or would you rather have a banana?"
"Why, you. . . "
鈥淚t's all right, Ted, I hastened to assure him. "Gibby's on his rounds. He's just been in here. He's on his way down to you now. He's walking, so it should take him a few minutes. I thought I'd let you know."
"Oh. Yes. Good job for you, too. Thanks, Doug. good night."
"Good night."
Sleep was impossible after that, so I removed gas cape and great-coat from the window just behind me and spent the rest of the night with Agatha Christie.
We heard of an incident that not only amused us but served as a warning as well. The rivers of Iceland are well stocked with fish, including salmon, and three of the riflemen based at battalion H.Q. at Reykjaskoli decided to try their luck at salmon fishing, but instead of using rods and lines they decided to do it the easy way, and used their rifles: They were caught in the act by the local policeman, or sheriff, who promptly took them back to camp and reported them to the C.O. They were charged with salmon poaching and the improper use of firearms and fined two hundred Kronor each, which severely restricted their spending money for a considerable time.

Danny Wilson was the Company odd-job man. He looked after the latrines, kept the Company area clean and tidy, acted as Company runner, accompanied the driver of the water bowser when necessary, and generally did the work for which a man doing a more skilled job could not be spared. He was allowed to do the job in his own way, with no interference from anyone, and was quite content with his lot.
A small group of us were reading the notices on the Company notice board one day when a badly typewritten notice caused us to roar with laughter and brought the sergeant-major out of the office to demand to know what was going on.
"This, sir," one of the group replied, pointing to the notice, which was signed: D. Wilson, C.S.M.
"D. Wilson, C.S.M?" the sergeant major echoed, as if he didn't believe what he had read.
"Where is he? Bring him here."
One man dashed away, grinning broadly, and returned soon afterwards with Danny in tow. The sergeant-major grabbed Danny by the collar, hauled him right up to the notice board and jabbed an accusing finger at the notice.
"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded. "How long have you been the Company Sergeant-Major?"
Danny turned towards him with a mixed expression of pained surprise and injured innocence.
"Oh, no, sir. Not Company Sergeant-Major; Company Sanitary Man."
A roar of laughter greeted his explanation, and even the sergeant major had to cover his mouth with his hand to hide his smile.
"Well, don't do it again," he admonished, his initial annoyance somewhat mollified by Danny's ingenuousness. "It's most misleading and could get you into trouble, so just be careful in future. Understand?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"O.K., then. Off you go, and remember what I've told you."
A few days later another, similar, notice appeared on the board, but this one was signed: D.Wilson, W.O.
"Oh, so he's at it again, is he?" the sergeant major growled, ominously, when he saw the notice. "All right. Bring him here."
Once again Danny was found and brought to him.
"And what the hell does this mean?" he demanded, glaring at Danny. "What did I tell you only the other day? So you're a bloody Warrant Officer now, are you?"
After the previous episode he should have known better. Again he was the recipient of the mixture of pained surprise and injured innocence. "Oh, no, sir. Not Warrant Officer. Water Orderly."
The C.S.M. hauled him into the office and slammed the door. What happened then we never knew, but Danny gave himself no more rapid promotions.

I was relieved from my signal office duties at 17.00 hours and went to tea, after which I cleaned my boots and polished my cap badge before freshening up with a good wash. Then, with my pipe fully stoked up, I set off for the Army Post Office to get a ten-shilling note changed into Kronor. Unfortunately, it was after six when I got there so I had to return to camp with my note still in my pocket.
The fire in the iron stove was burning merrily when I entered the hut and some of the boys were huddled round it like players in a rugger scrum. I settled on to my blankets and wrote a couple of letters, then, feeling peckish, I boiled a mess tin of water on the stove and made a mug of hot Oxo. The aroma must have whetted Charlie's appetite, for he decided to do the same.
Four of the others were playing cards in a corner and having heated arguments about the rules of the game. Each accused the others of cheating, and each of them had his own ideas about the rules of the game and was not going to change his opinion to please anyone. The noise of the arguments was distracting others from what they were doing, until Ronnie Hall grabbed the fire shovel and started to bang it on an empty petrol tin. The noise that made in the confined space of the hut was ear-splitting, but there was no doubting its efficacy. The noise abated immediately and from then on we only had to bang on the petrol tin or boot it across the floor whenever the outburst was renewed to restore peace and quiet.
Their continuous arguing must have made them thirsty because they eventually demanded something to drink. Someone put a mess tin of water on the stove, but by then the fire had died down and the fuel had run out and the water refused to boil. That started another argument that was only quietened with the assistance of the petrol tin. After many threats, promises, and much pleading, cajoling and cursing the fire slowly burned brightly enough to cause a few bubbles to appear on the surface of the water. Snatching the mess tin impatiently off the stove we threw in a handful of tea and some sugar, added a dollop of milk and thrust it into the middle of the card players with a take-it-or-leave-it attitude.
As if there hadn't been enough strain on one's patience for one evening I chose that moment to do some serenading with my mouth-organ, but after making a complete mess of "The Isle Of Capri", and tearing "Red Sails In The Sunset" to unmusical shreds I decided it wisest to accept their ultimatum to put a sock in it or else and got undressed and slid into my sleeping-bag. Soon others began to follow suit and before long we were all either lying or sitting in our fleapits having a quiet discussion on a variety of subjects.
Inevitably, the conversation gradually veered round to a discourse on food, especially those tasty, pre-war items once so much taken for granted but which, after almost two years of war, were now no more than a nostalgic memory. Charlie Clayton, who had got married while on leave from South Wales, was drooling about home cooking and the house he hoped to have once the war was over.
鈥淎 nice little semi, three up and three down, with separate bathroom and toilet upstairs, and a nice bit of garden back and front. In London of course. Wouldn't want to live anywhere else. I'd like eggs and bacon for breakfast, with maybe sausages and fried bread."
With our monotonous diet of McConachie's and rice very much in mind we were not very happy at being reminded of meals no longer available to us. McConachie's tinned stew was not to everyone's taste, and we had had it dished up at dinner, camouflaged as pie for tea and warmed up for supper. The R.S.M. had paid us a visit to see how we were settling in, and on his rounds at dinner-time he had asked the inevitable question: "Any complaints?"
"Yessir," came the unanimous reply. "We've been here three weeks now and all we've had so far is McConachie's and rice. It's too monotonous. Can't we have a bit more variety in our diet?"
The R.S.M. promised to look into it for us, and at tea-time the blackboard in the dining-hall, on which those who required supper had to write their names, bore the words: SUPPER TONIGHT TURKISH POLENTA. Almost every man in the camp put his name down for supper that evening, but when the exotic-sounding dish was served we found it was McConachie's and rice mixed together. But the R.S.M. was safely on his way back to Reykjaskoli by then.
Despite our injunctions to belt up Charlie rambled on regardless, lying back with his hands clasped behind his neck and gazing with rapturous expression at the ceiling as though he could see the lovely food up there. "For dinner I'd like roast beef and Yorkshire pud, with spuds, peas, beans, and carrots, with lashings of good thick gravy, and stewed fruit and custard for afters."
"Charlie!" The warning call was more ominous this time, but Charlie seemed oblivious to it.
"And for tea I'd like a nice ham salad and buttered scones with lashings of strawberry jam "
"CHARLIE!" But Charlie was in full spate by now, totally engrossed with his gastronomic mirage. There was no alternative but to take immediate action. Nobby Clark and Lea Morrison slid quietly out of bed, put their gym pumps on and pounced upon Charlie and lifted him, sleeping-bag, blankets and all, and carried him, protesting loudly, out of the hut and dumped him on the hard, rough ground many yards away from the hut, with instructions to stay there until he came down to earth again. What Charlie called them when he limped painfully back is not quite clear, but it sounded like something synonymous with lice-ridden sons of dubious parentage.

Les Morrison stood near the stove in the middle of the hut and delivered his momentous announcement: "Something's in the wind, chaps. There's a big move afoot."
"What sort of move?" Ashy asked.
"I think we're going home."
"Don't talk daft, Les," I advised him. "This is an eighteen month tour of duty and we've only been here five minutes."
"That's right," Ashy agreed. "The army didn't send us up here just to have a look at the scenery. We're not due to go back until the end of next year."
"I know that, but I still think we're going home. I can feel it in my water."
Some of the others also scoffed at the idea of a premature return home, but a few of the seeds of rumour must have been sown in fertile minds, because some of the card players who had been slyly paying out in halfpennies instead of auras now offered, with spurious magnanimity, to accept them back, only to be told, with equally-spurious magnanimity by those who had had halfpennies palmed on to them, that it was quite all right, they didn't mind having them, thank you.
The discussion continued for some time and was only terminated when Captain Woodward strolled into the hut and engaged Ashy in quiet conversation. They were standing near me as they conversed, but it was only when I heard my name mentioned that I deliberately eavesdropped.
"Have any of your signallers had any experience of the number eighteen set?" Captain Woodward asked.
"Oh, yes, sir. They all know how to use it, but if it's a fully- experienced operator you want, Burdon's your man. He's had more experience than any of them."
I had started to rise when I heard my name mentioned, but Captain Woodward motioned to me to remain where I was. "It's all right, Burdon, I don't want you personally. Carry on with what you are doing."
I subsided on to my blankets and continued my reading, while Ashy and the captain continued their conversation in subdued tones. I dismissed the trivial incident immediately, little knowing what it had in store for me in the future.

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