Friday 16th – Jan and Mechelen – Spring/Summer 1941

Later, winding his way back to his sleeping quarters in the administration block, Jan has to stop and re-orient himself. He stands there, frowning, swaying under the broad canopy of the sky, with all the stars glittering overhead, and moves his hands and points to remind himself of where all the buildings are and where he needs to go. After a while he steps out confidently, then stops and retraces his steps, and goes through the gesture-guidance ritual again. He laughs.

As he walks along the last, gravelled, path to the administration block (the little stones knocking him off balance periodically) he’s talking to himself quietly.

“This is it. This is the place. This is the war. I’m here now, with the men. Yes. This is it. Now I’m here. This is what I will do. What I’ll be doing. With the men. In the war. Yes. Uh-huh.”

Earlier, he’d noticed the point when he tipped over into being very drunk: he’d been standing at the bar, leaning in towards Mechelen, who was talking. Jan had felt his concentration waver, and Mechelen’s voice had been drowned out by a slow wash of white noise in Jan’s head, his fingertips had slipped off the edge of the bar, and he’d almost stumbled, standing still. He’d frowned, squinted, and pushed his face closer to Mechelen’s, trying to refocus on the words that were dribbling out of those moving lips.

“I really loved being in battle. Loved it. Loved it. Because it was a test, and it was thrilling – in a way that you can’t understand unless you’ve been in it. Despite the danger and all the metal flying and killing people, and the stink. In battle, you’re…more alive – unless you’re dead, ha ha. And everything’s important. That’s what you realise.”

He pauses, looking at Major Martens, knowing that, despite his nodding, he doesn’t understand what Mechelen is talking about. How could he?
“And I was bloody good at it. We were a superb unit, all through the whole Western campaign – every officer – ” – he gestures around the room – “and nearly every man. Nearly every man.” (His eyes unfocus for a few seconds, as if he’s thinking of something far away.)

“But now I’m doing this. And I’ll make sure I’m bloody good at this, too. And that my unit’s bloody good. The best. Barman!”

Two more schnapps.

Earlier, Jan noticed that none of the other officers lingered around Mechelen: they approached, bought or took a drink, spoke briefly, and then returned to their table or gaggle of comrades. Jan, without any friends or peers, was trapped in Mechelen’s magnetic field. Where else could he go?
“Policy, professionalism, commitment. That’s what it all rests upon.”

Jan nods queasily. The table lamps leave swirling tracks of light on his retinas. His gaze slides sideways. There are glass bowls on the bar, full of cut sausage and raw onion. The light above the bar glistens on the pulpy, sheened skin of the onion, and on the nuggets of fat embedded in the sausage chunks. He blows out his cheeks, looks somewhere else.

He’s made it to the administration block. The bricks are damp against his forehead when he rests it against the wall. He digs in his battledress pocket for the key.

“Come on, come on. You bastard. Remember what you’re here for. Bastard.”


The door squeaks open and closed, and he has to give it a couple of shoves before the lock clicks and engages properly.

In the darkness, not knowing where the light switch is, he stands for a while, waiting for the shapes of the room to resolve themselves out of the dusty murk that’s swirling in front of his eyes.

“Oh, Mariette. Why can’t you be here?”

[…]