The bullet-pocked wooden door gave half-hearted resistance, reminding
Fox he wasn’t a paying guest. He pushed again with his shoulder. The door
surrendered. Staggering under the weight of an equipment-packed satchel and a
cardboard suitcase, he found himself standing Goldilocks-like in a spacious,
eerily pristine room sizing up five beds lining the far wall.
All singles. Immaculate bedding. Individual
side tables. Numbered signs looped over the foot of each bed. He chose the
closest to the door.
The November cold embraced the building. A
knifing wind was picking up, thrusting a deeper chill through Geilenkirchen, a
battle-battered town in North Rhine-Westphalia.
Gear stashed under the bed, shoes off and
grey-blue cigarette smoke spiraling towards the vaulted ceiling, he stretched
out on the all-white bedding and wondered who was the last health spa guest to
part with Reichsmarks for the privilege of being birched after the sauna and
plunge pool. Certainly not the Waffen-SS commanders who’d retreated with their
men and artillery deeper into the Fatherland as the British XXX Corps –
pronounced 30 Cor, Fox
reminded himself – came a-hunting.
The moment he flicked ash onto the scrubbed
floor, the door creaked. Four men stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the
pale, dying light. They took a beat. Synchronised smiles appeared. “Howdy,”
said the first man into the room. Tall, straight backed, he advanced on Fox,
one hand swinging a saxophone case. “I figure you’re our bunkhouse buddy.”
Fox tilted his head to one side. To him, most
Americans sounded the same but this one had a touch of the Hopalong Cassidys.
The four formed a semi-circle at the end of
the Englishman’s bed, their USO-issue uniforms seemingly ironed just minutes
before. The perks of showbusiness, Fox decided. Once on his feet, his thin
civvy-street socks offered little protection from the mortuary-cold floor. The
BBC didn’t run to funding a winter wardrobe for its war correspondents.
The newcomers looked like they could handle
themselves on either a stage or a battlefield. Although no longer up for the
latter, Fox was quietly confident he could switch on a microphone on the
former.
“I’m Harry Fox, BBC,” he said, shaking their
hands and feeling pressure a little too painful for someone who’d taken three
bullets in the Western Desert in ‘42.
No reaction. Fox added: “It’s like CBS and NBC
but without deodorant commercials.”
The Americans stared at him as if he’d broken
wind. Then, seconds later, came introductions to The Swinging Cats quartet. The
tall, assertive man was Samson. To his left Beamer then McMahon and Jackson.
Instruments? Respectively saxophone, double bass, drums and – when an undamaged
one could be found in war-whipped Europe – piano. Vocals too, added Jackson,
removing his garrison side cap and patting his neat, fair hair.
Beamer rested a man-height double bass case
against his hip. An oversize case shaped to fit a portable drum kit lay at
McMahon’s feet. Piano-less, Jackson’s long fingers twitched, waiting for ivory
keys to tinkle or, judging by his ice blue eyes, a throat to choke.
Fox’s still smoking cigarette held a teetering
column of ash. Turning, he opened his bedside table drawer and found a Bible in
German, a packet of condoms and an ashtray. “God, sex and tobacco. Hard to
fault the Krauts’ priorities.”
The four musicians stood, blank-faced. A
moment later, Beamer spoke: “Ah, the famous English sense of humour we’ve heard
so much about.”
Samson moved first, choosing the bed next to
Fox. The others stepped forward to claim the remaining beds.
Heaving his feet back onto the covers, Fox
rested against the pillows: “Planning to rehearse before tomorrow’s concert?
Perhaps I could record …”
The Americans froze. Another beat passed.
Samson bent to tighten a boot lace. “Sure thing. But first we’re gonna get some
chow.”
Fox tried another icebreaker. “I’ve been
invited to MC your event. I’m imagining a touch of Benny Goodman, a sprinkling
of Louis Armstrong?”
The room got colder. McMahon pointed a drum
stick at him. “A Jew and a jungle boy? We play untainted music – Frank Sinatra,
Bing Crosby.”
“You’re not spooked by their Italian and Irish
backgrounds?”
“Races you can trust.”
Samson cut the conversation off by offering
Fox a cigarette. Chesterfields. The Englishman’s hand shot out, plucked one
from its soft packet and nodded a thanks. The Americans lit up using Zippos.
Fox scratched a Vesta match.
Blowing smoke at Fox, Samson looked wary.
“Why’s a reporter getting into showbiz?”
“I’m here to interview the general in command.
But I’ve been given time off to recover from bouncing around in trucks all the
way from the Channel to the Rhine. Jerry really buggered those Froggy roads.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “’Buggered’ as in
‘sodomised’?”
“Wrecked.”
“The English language. It’s what separates
us.”
“And,” said Fox, having taken the long route
round to answering Samson’s question, “your concert for British troops will be
a jolly sidebar to the general’s piece: American jazz quartet takes time out
from entertaining its own troops to play for our men near the frontline. I’ll
also interview you and …”
“Grub time,” snapped Samson, slapping his palm
against his thigh.
In tight formation the four strode for the
door. Fox gave them 10 minutes before tramping through dirty slush to a large
mess tent close to where XXX Corps were bivouacked. He wasn’t planning to
complain about the walk. He and the other outsiders had been assigned digs in
the impeccable health spa while Lieutenant General Brian Horrocks and his men
made do with an abandoned church and rows of pup tents.
Sitting at a makeshift mess table, Fox tried
to identify chunks of meat submerged in thin gravy. Lamb, he decided
charitably. A few feet away, the Americans sat with their tin plates wiped
clean. They glanced at Fox, offering uniform smiles.
The buzz of conversation in the tent died as
General Horrocks followed by an aide-de-camp pushed through the canvas flaps.
They crossed to a small table close to the Americans. Four Jack-in-the-Boxes
shot up, shoulders back, salutes crisp.
Horrocks returned the salutes and was about to
drop into a folding chair when Samson moved swiftly towards him. Fox caught
snatches of the conversation. The Americans had bought gifts from Major General
Bolling of the US 84th Division. Samson tapped the side of his nose, presumably
indicating the presents were potable, then offered to deliver the presents to
Horrocks and put on a preview show for the commander and his aides.
Eyes twinkling, Horrocks invited the Americans
to stay after their performance and share the gifts. Shaking his head, Samson
explained the men had to rehearse later that evening: “Sorry … we’ll have to
skedaddle.” A private joke, judging by the feu de joie of smirks from his
countrymen.
Horrocks complimented their diligence. Dining
resumed across the tent. Fox’s plate lay untouched. He’d skedaddled.
Standing in the shadows, Fox angled his
wristwatch towards the soft light coming from Horrocks’ headquarters in the
church. Eight pip emma. Carrying their instrument cases and two whiskey
bottles, the musicians halted at the foot of the church steps.
Samson hissed at his fellow players. As one,
the men swooped down to their cases, snapped open locks and snatched out
weapons. Barrels gleamed in the church light. Fox, unarmed, pressed against a
wall. In his stomach, he felt the familiar clench of pre-battle fear. This time
it wouldn’t be his battle. There were metallic clacks as the men racked cocking
handles then, side-by-side, charged up the steps.
Through the open doors Fox heard frantic click, clicking as firing mechanisms
struck only frigid air. Couldn’t fight anymore, indeed, but he knew how to
empty submachine gun magazines. Shouts. Although he didn’t speak German, he
imagined the quartet’s outbursts were likely to be coarse, perhaps even blasphemous,
and certainly unacceptable in polite society.
In the church vestibule, the four attackers
crouched on their knees, hands behind their heads, fingers laced.
Heavily-armed, red-capped military police, their blancoed Sam Brown belts
reflecting the candlelight, encircled the men.
Horrocks appeared as Fox entered. “Splendid
job,” said the general. “If you hadn’t gone over to the other side, I’d …”
“Actually, sir, I’m with the BBC.”
“Just teasing. I was about to say I’d award
you a medal. Now …” the tip of his boot nudged Samson’s leg “… we have to find
out what happened to the real Yank musicians.” The German ignored the prodding.
Horrocks turned back to Fox. “And what tipped you off these treacherous
blighters were German assassins?”
“Aside from the bigotry, it was hard to
imagine jazz musicians turning down a free drink.”
--------------------------------------------
Historical footnote: December 1944. A month after The Cats had swung by – fictionally. In
the Battle of the Bulge, elements of which took place in the Geilenkirchen
sector, the Waffen-SS launched Adolf Hitler’s brainchild, Operation Greif. The
plan: German soldiers disguised in captured US and British army uniforms and
using Allied vehicles would infiltrate behind enemy lines to create confusion
and wreak havoc. The operation failed.
# # #
Copyright 2024 GREG FLYNN
