‘Got to do something about this business, Pop,’ Maxi said. He wanted me to join in. I told him I had no intention of ending my service days in prison. Think of his sons back in Brighton, I cautioned.

The germ of a rumour about a strike spread to all the RAF out there. Soon everyone had caught it, everyone was dragged in – part of a team, you see. Top brass were jumpy. Squadron Leader Howarth stood on an ammo box, flanked by two Military Police, demanding silence. He called the strike a mutiny, then read out the Riot Act to the circle of disbelieving aircraftmen. Ordered us all to return to duty with immediate effect. Unfortunately the poor CO was the only person in the unit who didn’t know that his two Military Police guards were traitors. Part of the strike plot. He looked as dismayed as a lost child when one of Uncle Joe’s boys began to laugh.

The silly strike lasted no more than a few hours. No one had the stomach for it. Time enough for a game of cards, a letter home or for those chocolate-drop troops from West Africa to beat our lot at football in their bare feet. But still the troublemakers, the ringleaders, strutted around camp like they’d won us a victory. Top brass were listening now, they said. Boasted about some MP that was coming out from Blighty just to hear our grievances. It had all been worthwhile, they told everyone. Groups home were to be speeded up, all thanks to them. Toasted it in beer – the better this, the better that. Believed it too, for a while. Before, that was, they sent us all to Calcutta.

Thirty-eight

Bernard

It was usually a treat to get a few days in Calcutta. Off to the Bristol for a welcome sleep in a bed with cotton sheets. Always Laidlaw’s for a meal. Its best china (after wretched tin cups) tinkling with civilisation. A touch of shopping, perhaps – the Army and Navy or even Hogg Market. A film at the Globe or the Regal. A cold beer for some at the Nip Inn. For those who could, a dance at Firpos. Or just lazing around on the maidan, like young chaps, watching girls glide by.

But this trip to Cal was to be more memorable than most.

The men looked puzzled as we RAF tradesmen were issued with a rifle each. ‘Fix bayonets,’ NCO barked. What about ammo? we all wanted to know. ‘No ammo,’ he told us. Herded us on to trucks. Told us to stand in straight rows. Then we were driven off through the streets.

The carcasses of shops came first. Burnt out. Smouldering. Flurries of ash blowing like tropical snow. Goods everywhere. Items that should have been inside strewn down the street. Looted. Picked over for value, then tossed away. But not a native in sight. Not even a begging child was left on the road. Even those who’d never been in Calcutta knew that was an eerie spectacle for India.

More than one man gasped at the scene before us in the next street. Same burnt shops and flurries of ash. But among this were the corpses of the dead. They lay down every road we travelled. Some might have been taken for bundles of rags. Or discarded rubbish. Others were unmistakable. Caught in a silly pose. An arm up, a leg raised. Most carried a look of astonishment. Mouths agape. But all stiff with sudden death. The chaps looked to one another. ‘Fucking hell,’ more than one muttered. This was as savage as anything witnessed during the war. Faces blanched and eyes squeezed shut over some of the sights. Feral dogs worrying at the bloody clothing of the dead. Mouths smeared with blood like a baby’s with chocolate. Gangs of vultures (death’s lackeys) hunching together to squabble over the flesh. Yanking at sinews. Pecking at eyes.

I’ve no idea what started it. But nothing to do with us, we all silently agreed. The natives rioting. Bloody coolies at each other’s throats for something. Hindu against Muslim. Muslim against Hindu. Even those wretched Sikhs were in there somewhere. Spotted carrying swords and blowing a din on their conches. Everything soon became clear. The truckloads of cheerless RAF erks were there to keep them apart.

The stench was as sharp as toothache. No up-wind or downwind. There was no direction that gave relief. Fearful to breathe it into a living lung. Some chaps tore cloth from an old shirt to put over their noses and mouths. Sucking at the perfume of an erk’s sweat instead. The NCO soon made them take the masks off. ‘Get those off your faces. You look like bloody bandits,’ he said.

Many of us lost our footing as the truck’s wheels wobbled. We stopped. The driver looked behind, out of his window. He’d rolled over a body. An arm was still caught under a wheel. ‘You and you, pick that up.’The NCO ordered two men to pick up the body we’d just run over. One of them (troublemaker, Pierpoint, or Spike to his friends), standing square, just looked at this NCO. He put his hand out to his friend to stop him obeying the command.

‘Come on, pick it up, you two,’ the NCO repeated, then moved off. Pierpoint wiped sweat from the back of his neck. His friend watched him, confused. The NCO turned back to them. ‘Pick it up,’ he yelled.

‘Why?’ Pierpoint said.

A few gasps popped in the air. The NCO was as startled as most of the men.

‘What, Airman?’

‘Why, Sergeant?’

‘Because it’s an order.’ The NCO was sweating so much he looked as if he had been varnished. ‘Pick it up.’

Pierpoint flung his arms wide. ‘There’s hundreds of bodies – why are we picking up this one?’

Many thought he had a point.

‘Are you addressing me, Airman?’

‘Sorry. Sergeant. What is special about this one . . . Sergeant?’

‘Name, Airman?’ There was no reply.

‘Name,’ he yelled into his face.

‘Pierpoint, Sergeant.’

‘Well, Pierpoint, I can put you on relief duty. You could spend the day with the wogs picking them all up if you want. Now, get down and pick this one up.’ He lifted up some sacking and threw it at Pierpoint to wrap the body. But Pierpoint just let it drop to his feet. Then stopped his friend bending down to pick up the fallen cloth.

Maxi whispered, ‘Jesus, this is trouble.’

The NCO, blood-vessel red, swallowed hard. ‘Are you disobeying an order?’

His answer was delivered military style. Loud. Decisive. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Right. You’re on a charge. Both of you,’ the NCO said.

Pierpoint shrugged. His hapless accomplice was astonished.

‘Take those guns off them. Tie their hands. You’re both on a charge for refusing an order.’

Pierpoint looked relieved. He sat down where he’d stood on the truck floor, his silly friend now joining him with a defiant swagger. There was nothing to tie their hands with, but both obliged their chums by pressing their wrists together in a phantom bind.

Everyone knew what was coming next. Every gaze dropped to the floor to avoid the sergeant’s eyes. I felt him pointing to me and Maxi through the top of my head.

‘Come on, you two. Pick it up on the double.’

Maxi threw me a look. Is it worth it? Should we do it? he wanted to know. He knew my answer. We could be going home soon. And an order is an order.

‘Hindu or Muslim?’ some joker shouted from the truck. How are we supposed to tell the difference? How those coolies recognised one another as an enemy was a mystery to all. After two years in India, they still all looked the same to me. Apart from those Sikhs, that is, with their headscarves.

The body was warm. It gave Maxi a fright. ‘Is he still alive?’ he whispered. The throat was slit. Neck open in a scabby second grin. Stiff as an ironing-board. Stench thick enough to chew. The truck had cracked its arm into zigzagging pieces. An ear was dangling. Came off in my hand. I held it in my palm. Flimsy as a flap of leather from a shoe. ‘Just chuck it, Pop,’ Maxi shouted.

I turned away from the truck. Had to vomit.

‘You all right?’ Maxi said. I waved him away. Didn’t need to be seen.

Maxi started covering the body. Tucking the sacking under like bedtime. Ready to lift. Suddenly there was gunfire. ‘Come on, you two,’ the NCO shouted.