Rising Summer by Mary Jane Staples Read Free Book Online

Egyptian. But orders were orders, even in the American Army and so it was all translated into English by the Wacs, then typed and filed.
    In keeping with a War Office belief that female Allied service personnel needed protection from male British soldiery, Sergeant Masters and her assistants were declared out of bounds to other ranks as far as their office was concerned. However, off-duty hours were another matter. Even the War Office hadn’t yet thought of a way to cage other ranks off duty. Several BHQ gunners were very taken with Cassidy, the friendly blonde. Gunner Dunwoodie thought her sheer magic. But he lacked self-confidence. He was also fairly brainless. It all came to nothing, however, for Top Sergeant Dawson put in a claim that made Cassidy exclusive to him.
    The news grieved Dunwoodie. ‘Done it on me,’ he said.
    Everyone said jolly hard luck, mate.
    I occasionally saw Sergeant Masters in passing. She would smile and wave, then pass briskly on. She tidied up as she went. She would correct the position of a fire extinguisher standing in the tiled hall of the mansion, adjust a displaced whitewashed lump of the stone that bordered the paths of the complex around the Nissen huts, or pick up a piece of paper that had managed to escape the eye of the sergeant-major. She would hand the scrap to the first gunner she met and say crisply, ‘I guess that’s yours, soldier.’ She did it to me one day when we came face to face outside the ration stores.
    ‘I guess that’s yours, Tim old boy, old boy.’
    I studied the scrap. It was kind of nondescript. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said and handed it back.
    ‘Wrong move,’ she said and stuffed it up my battledress blouse. ‘Listen, you’re not the friendliest guy in the world, are you? You keep passing me by.’
    ‘I thought that was you, I thought you were a born passer-by. I like a bit of stopping and talking meself. I suppose it’s more difficult for sergeants, they’ve got a responsibility to be efficient, they can’t stand about waiting for someone to come up and chat.’
    ‘That’s talking?’ said Kit. ‘All that eyewash? You’ve got room for improvement, old buddy. I’ll do what I can to help. Let’s see, where do you go during the evenings in this wildly exciting place?’
    ‘Village pub, mostly.’
    ‘You’re an alcoholic?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Is it recommended?’
    ‘Too much drink?’
    ‘No, you muttonhead, the village pub.’
    ‘Well, I like it,’ I said. She brushed an eyebrow with the tip of her finger. She had a clean look. She smelled clean. And she was very American with her wide mouth and white teeth. ‘It’s cosy and fuggy.’
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘Fuggy.’
    ‘Is that a word?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes, adjective of fug,’ I said, showing off my secondary school education. ‘Fug’s smoky fog.’
    ‘Is this a conversation?’
    ‘Just talk.’
    ‘It’s beating my brains out,’ said Kit. ‘All the same, see you in the pub one evening, then?’
    ‘Can’t wait, lovey.’
    ‘Excuse me?’ said Kit again.
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘What’s with lovey?’
    ‘Me,’ I said, ‘you get me as well as the fug.’
    ‘I think I need time to work that one out,’ said Kit.
    ‘Help yourself. By the way, are you a bit incompetent at some things?’
    ‘Is that a question?’ she asked.
    ‘Just thought I’d ask.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Well, I want you to know it wouldn’t worry me if you were.’
    ‘I might have been incompetent at fixing some things when I was five,’ she said, ‘but that’s all ironed out now.’
    ‘I was afraid of that.’
    ‘Come again?’
    ‘Hope the weather holds,’ I said. ‘See you in the pub one evening, then.’
    ‘Don’t break your back,’ said Kit.
    It was quiet on the whole. At least, it was in the UK. It wasn’t in the Pacific or Russia, or Burma or Tunisia. And it might not have been on Wimbledon Common, either, now that the weather had turned warm. BHQ was very quiet, much to the liking of