Deserter: The Last Untold Story of the Second World War. Charles Glass
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the barracks, told Bain that a second front was about to open in Europe. The army had begun recruiting men for the invasion even from military prisons. Soldiers willing to fight again would have their sentences remitted for the duration. Bain had doubts.
The steady cruelty of the regime persisted. ‘More days passed, each an ugly replica of the one that had gone before,’ Bain wrote. Bain’s friend from the Durham Light Infantry, Bill Farrell, collapsed during drill. The sergeants took him away, and Chalky White told Bain later, ‘Bill’s kicked the bucket, the bastards killed him. I’ll get one of them fuckers for this, I swear to God.’ White and the other SUSs, however, were powerless.
Bain, whose hatred of the guards was growing ‘like a malignant flower,’ wrote,
It was outrageous that the mean, stupid and sadistic staff, not one of whom had ever been within range of any missile more dangerous than a flying cork, should be able to abase, mock and abuse men who were, in many cases, their physical, moral and intellectual superiors or at least had been tested in circumstances of pain and terror beyond the imaginings of their present captors and whose failures surely merited something other than this kind of punishment.
At the daily ten-minute Communication Parades, the men could not speak about Farrell’s death within earshot of the staff sergeants. Instead, they rehearsed the formulaic exchanges of a suburban cocktail party. ‘Where do you come from?’ Bain asked a man facing him.
‘The Midlands. Near Coventry. What’s left of it.’
The man said he had read that American privates in Britain were paid more than British officers. ‘No wonder they’re fucking all our women.’
Bain asked, ‘How’d you get anything to read? Who gave it to you?’
The man from Coventry explained that the regulations, ‘the bit that Babbage never reads out’, allowed any prisoner with more than fifty-six days inside to request a book or magazine. All Bain had to do was ask one of the ‘screws’. Bain considered which staff sergeant to approach, settling on Brown. Brown, the short sergeant who had advised him how best to use his blankets in solitary, ‘was probably the least overtly hostile and sadistic.’ Bain found a chance two days later, when Brown took charge of the cell. ‘Excuse me, Staff,’ he said. Brown, startled that an inmate would ‘speak before spoken to’, said, ‘Well?’
‘I wondered if I could get something to read,’ Bain dared, with the innocence of Oliver Twist asking, ‘More.’
‘And what put that into your head?’ Bain answered that the regulations allowed him books and magazines. Brown demanded to know who had told him that. Bain protected his source, saying only that it was someone he did not know on Communication Parade. Peeved, Brown left to find something for Bain to read. He returned a few minutes later and threw a magazine in Bain’s direction. Bain looked at it in the near-darkness of the cell, suddenly seeing that the letters were in Arabic. Brown grinned. ‘Satisfied?’
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