LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      ‘What do you believe then?’

      ‘I believe that everyone is corruptible and I’m always afraid that I might become corrupt. I believe that all societies are a plot to corrupt the individual.’

      ‘That’s anarchy,’ said young Cohen, ‘and you are never an anarchist by any measure. After all, Skipper, society has a right to demand a citizen’s loyalty.’

      ‘Loyalty? You mean using another man’s morality instead of your own. That’s just a convenient way of putting your conscience into cold storage.’

      ‘Yes,’ reflected Cohen doubtfully. ‘The SS motto is “my honour is my loyalty”.’

      ‘Well, there you are.’

      ‘But what about family loyalty?’

      ‘That’s almost as bad: it’s giving your nephew the prize for playing the piano when the little boy down the street plays better.’

      ‘Is that so terrible?’ asked Cohen.

      ‘I’m the little boy down the street. I wouldn’t have even got as far as grammar school unless a few people had let a prize or two go out of the family.’

      ‘What you are really saying,’ said young Cohen trying to make it a question rather than a verdict, ‘is that you don’t like bombing cities.’

      ‘That is what I’m saying,’ said Lambert and the young navigator was too shocked to think of a reply. Lambert drained his cup. ‘That’s good coffee.’

      Hastily Cohen reached for the pot to pour more for him. He wanted to demonstrate his continuing admiration and regard for his pilot. ‘Coffee isn’t rationed,’ said young Cohen.

      ‘Then fill her up, and give me two hundred Player’s.’

      The roses on the table were now fully open. Lambert reached out to them but as he touched one it disintegrated and the pale-pink petals fell and covered the back of his hand like huge blisters.

      ‘Men are disturbed by any lack of order.’ The voice by his shoulder made Lambert start for old Mr Cohen had entered the room without either of them hearing him. He was a tall man with a handsome face, marred only by a lopsided mouth and yellow teeth. He spoke the careful style of English that only a foreigner could perfect. However a nasal drone accompanied his flat voice which gave no emphasis to any word nor acknowledged the end of a sentence.

      ‘You and I might be able to see the virtue of chaos,’ he continued, ‘but dictators gain power by offering pattern, ranks, common purpose, and men in formations. Men want order, they strive for it. Even the world’s artists are asked only to impose meaning and symmetry upon the chaos of nature. You and I, Sergeant Lambert, may know that muddle and inefficiency are man’s only hope of freedom but we will not easily convert our fellow men.’

      ‘You are mocking me, Mr Cohen.’

      ‘Not me, Sergeant. I have seen men line up to dig their own graves and turn to face the firing squad with a proud precision. I am not mocking you.’

      ‘The British are not easy to regiment, Father.’

      ‘So they keep telling me, my son, but I wonder. In this war they have gained the same sense of national identity and purpose that the Nazis gave the Germans. The British are so proud of their conversion that they will almost forgo their class system. I see the clear eyes and firm footfalls of the self-righteous and that is a good start on the road to totalitarian power. History is being quoted and patriotic songs revived. Believe me, the British are proud of themselves.’

      There was a commotion outside as Digby stumbled down the stairs with his suitcase but Mr Cohen did not pause.

      ‘Some day, in the not-so-far-distant future, when the trade unions are being particularly tedious, students are being unusually destructive, and the pound is buying less and less, then a Führer will appear and tell the British that they are a powerful nation. “Britain Awake” will be his slogan and some carefully chosen racial minority will be his scapegoats. Then you will see if the British are easy to regiment.’

      Sergeant Cohen smiled at Lambert. ‘For goodness’ sake don’t argue with him or we’ll be here all day.’ He got to his feet.

      ‘I wouldn’t mind that at all,’ said Lambert. The old man bowed courteously. As the two airmen went into the hall old Mr Cohen followed Lambert closely, as if to separate him from his son. Lambert turned to the old man and waited for him to speak but he didn’t do so until his son had left.

      ‘All fathers become old fools, Lambert,’ he said and then stopped. Lambert looked at him, trying to draw the words from him as one does with a man who stutters. The words again came in a rush: ‘You’ll look after the boy, won’t you?’

      For a moment Lambert said nothing. Sweet came down the stairs. He took the old man’s arm and said airily, ‘Don’t worry about that, sir,’ but Cohen had selected only Lambert for his plea.

      Lambert said, ‘It’s not my job to look after your son, sir.’

      Young Cohen was still within earshot on the balcony above them. Digby saw him and felt like tugging the back of Lambert’s tunic in warning.

      Lambert knew they were all listening but he didn’t lower his voice. He said, ‘It simply doesn’t work like that. A crew all need each other. Any one of them can endanger the aircraft. Your son is the most skilful navigator I’ve flown with, probably the best in the Squadron. He’s the brains of the aeroplane; he looks after us.’

      There was silence for a moment, then Mr Cohen said, ‘He certainly should be good, he’s cost me a fortune to educate.’ The old man nodded to himself. ‘Look after my boy, Mr Lambert.’

      ‘I promise.’ Lambert nodded to the old man and hurried upstairs cursing himself for saying it. How the hell could he protect anyone? He was always amazed to get back safely himself. He passed young Cohen who was coming downstairs with a large case.

      When he was alone with his son the old man said, ‘You hear that? Your Captain Lambert says you’re the best.’

      Mrs Cohen appeared from nowhere and brushed her son’s coarse blue uniform distastefully.

      ‘His captain says he’s the best. Best on the Squadron, he said.’

      Mrs Cohen ignored her husband. She pulled a piece of cotton from her son’s sleeve. ‘I see that Mr Sweet, the officer, is wearing gold cufflinks. Why don’t you take yours with you? They look so nice.’

      ‘Not in the Sergeants’ Mess, Mother.’

      ‘How old is Captain Lambert?’ she said.

      ‘He’s not a captain, Mother, he’s a flight sergeant. That’s one rank above mine. We call him captain because he’s the senior man on our aircraft.’

      His mother nodded, trying to understand and remember.

      ‘Twenty-six or twenty-seven.’

      ‘He looks much older,’ said Mrs Cohen, looking at her son. ‘He looks forty, an old man.’

      ‘Do you want him to fly with a child?’ said Mr Cohen.

      ‘This Mr Sweet can help to make you an officer, Simon.’

      ‘Oh, Mother, you’ve been talking about me.’

      ‘Would it be so bad, Simon?’ said Mr Cohen.

      ‘It would mean changing to another crew.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘They don’t like officers flying under NCO captains. Anyway, it would make Lambert’s job more difficult, having me sitting behind him with shiny little officer’s badges. And we wouldn’t be together in the Sergeants’ Mess. And perhaps I’d have to go away to a training school.’

      ‘Quite a speech,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘The most I’ve heard

Скачать книгу