Chapter 13 twelve gilbert

Wake up, wake up, wake up, stop grabbing dicks, put your socks on.The man who yells these hilarious things and wakes us RAF Volunteers every morning at six o'clock is Air Staff Sergeant Swett.The sergeant had thinning hair on his forehead, and beneath the thinning, well-combed hair, an angry red birthmark burned on his scalp, forming the stark letter B.Everyone else in the ranks knew that one day, when the rest of the sergeant's hair returned to gravity and the call of the wind, the Bastard stamped on the top of that bald head would reveal itself as a blushing smear.It was the devil who branded that mark on his skull so that no one would doubt his arrogant and cold personality.

We were a group of four and we were stationed at a cottage at Ferry Training Camp in Yorkshire.It takes a lot of imagination to know how English families in peacetime really enjoyed their holidays in this poor place.After the necessary daily military training management (such as wearing only a vest and trousers to resist the biting sea wind, running across the freezing field, and the paralyzing command shouted out by the bastard sergeant, asking us to keep running, keep running), I and Hubert, Fulton, and James could only cower next to the hot water pipe.We used extra clothes to cover the door of this small holiday farm, and used old newspapers to seal the gaps in the windows. Every evening, in the hot air from the water pipes, we sat snuggled up like birds hatching eggs, drinking the food.Once, James took off the scarf but he was the only one who took it off.Could this misery be the picture of a British holiday?One night, Sergeant Wang Ba pushed open our door and shouted, "Oh, it's like the tropics here."Open all the windows!

From this man's point of view, the protests of our colored troops are unreasonable.Oscar from the first Antica.After Turok heard the order to move two by two, he was dumbfounded (this pissed off the sergeant: what kind of rotten thing did they send to me?), our every move made this person think we were west again. The RAF Volunteers in the Indian Islands are downright stupid.Eat, sleep, breathe in, breathe out!God, what we niggas do is all stupid!Pilots, choose one of the two, kill or be killed?For this question, we don't know if we use the answer of Air Force Sergeant, I prefer to kill you, will it cause a mess!And that uncouth Jamaican habit of sucking air through the teeth!This habit is transmitted to the ears of Sergeant Wang Ba from time to time, and he gives an order that this kind of noise will become a crime, and those who violate it will be dealt with according to law.Well, Brits please don't breathe through your teeth, just shrug your shoulders.Tell the Jamaicans and look at the man's face contorted from the withdrawal of that expression.Oh, and since we're all born under the sun, we're all part of this guy's crappy group.

Warm air is bad for you, he shouted, and will make you limp.Cold air is what keeps you alert.Once the windows were all open, we were a bunch of miserable cold blacks again.He looked at us contemptuously before leaving Biezhuang while talking: I saw that you now regret volunteering for the army.The four of us saluted his back with a wordless two-finger salute. Churchill preferred this gesture, but I assure you ours had a cruder meaning. Tell me, have you ever seen a dog with a gecko?My family used to have a dog named Xiao Hei, who was my childhood friend.I fought over Blackie with my sisters who wanted to suffocate him, took the baby cap off his head, the gloves off his hind paws, and gave him back his canine shuffling self-respect.I will find a small lizard and deliberately put it on the road that Xiao Hei passes by.The gecko felt that there was a dog nearby, so it quietly pretended to be dead.When Xiao Hei saw the gecko, his curiosity instantly arose, his ears pricked up, and his eyes widened.It was afraid of something unexpected, so it sneaked around the thing, staring at it, never leaving for a moment.Carefully, come closer, flapping the air above with one paw and jumping back.Go around in circles, smell the air, get closer, get closer.Jump forward, jump back, wait.Even a gecko blinks those eyes inherited from prehistoric times, and a dog can detect it.This can last for almost a whole day, until Xiao Hei finally plucks up the courage, slowly squats down, twists his buttocks, and grabs the gecko.Sometimes it comes close to catching, but usually the gecko runs away first.The gecko moves faster and more skillfully than my stupid dog.

You may be wondering why I'm telling you this.Keep calm.Listen to this again: the weather is fine, with a soft, tepid sun in the blue sky.Our first time out of camp.I walked through the British village of Hangmanby in a party of about six or seven people in RAF blue uniform.No need to obey orders, no need to hear instructions, only a few of us boys.We talked about the neat and beautiful garden: there is a flower in the garden that is still blooming. I forget who it is, but someone insists on knowing the name of the flower.The man closed his eyes, bit his lips and thought: it was a rose.

Tsk, that's not a rose, another said, every flower is a rose to you. It's a rose. This is not a rose. The debate continued as we walked past post offices and businesses.Tin cans and boxes piled high in the display windows, screaming that there was still a lot of useless stuff to buy.Hubert tries to convince the strict Presbyterian and teetotaler James to the bar.Do you think a small glass of beer can keep you from going to heaven? It was I who noticed it first.I hurriedly leaned into the group and whispered: Man, everyone is looking at us. The whole village came out to play a game of dogs and geckos.Peering out of dusty windows, staring at store doors, gaping at sidewalks, craning necks at doors, peeping around corners.The villagers kept their distance, but their eyes were fixed on us, the RAF Volunteers of the West Indies, with curious fear.Under this close surveillance, we black people move awkwardly like thieves caught in broad daylight.

Hubert said to me: Gilbert, you go and ask them what's wrong. Every eye for miles around is on us.Dude, do you have a megaphone so I can talk?I said.The whole village knew I was scratching my head.If any of those people had a pole long enough, I'm sure they'd poke us with a bamboo pole. After a while, the bolder ones approached us strangers with cautious steps.A young woman, with curly brown hair, dark eyes, and a beautifully large buttocks, finally stood at an arm's length from us and asked: Are you Americans?Her mind was on her beautiful legs in the nylon silk machine, and when she stood in front of us in a feminine way, our minds were also on her beautiful legs.

No, we are from Jamaica.I told her. A West Indian.The Trinitarians among us corrected it. The villagers approached us like a trickle flowing from the gap of the dam.Mostly just nodding as they pass by.An old man with a cracked face like a dry river bed warmly shook hands with each of us and said: Young man, we are all in this difficult time.We are so happy to have you here.Nice to have you all. An old couple patted James on the shoulder and asked: Excuse me, baby, may I have a word with you, please?It's my husband who said that you don't speak English. James replied: Of course, madam, but please tell me, what do you want me to say?Her husband yelled: "Damn it, Norma, you're right."

Norma concluded: Look, I'll say it.They talk just like we do.It's just funnier.Oh, baby, sorry to bother you. A middle-aged man in no uniform spoke to me until he kept his hands firmly in his pockets.He focused on the young woman talking to Fulton and now she and lucky Fulton were on good terms, after we had been assured that white women wouldn't hang out with blacks.The man didn't look at my face as he spoke, and asked: Why did you leave the nice sunny place and come here, you don't have to. When I said sir, because I was going to fight for my country, his eyebrows were like two worms doing a polka dance.

oh your countryHe asked, but didn't need an answer.Then he took the woman's arm and, against her will, directed her away from Fulton and our group. Picture this: You have a close relative who lives far away and you have never met.But your bond is so deep it's almost motherly.Your biological mother also never leaves this mother.Oh, she's a beauty, elegant, courteous, educated.Your dad told you: She sees you as her own children, like a heavenly father caring for you from afar.Her story of bravery is overwhelming, captivating for kids as much as for adults.Her photos are cherished by others and pasted in their photobooks, making people admire again and again.Give her the gift of everything that is your finest, finest, and most valuable.On her birthday, you sang and had a party.

Then one day, you hear her calling.She is worried and needs your help.Your parents say go for it.Leaving home, leaving friends, leaving lovers.You sail across the ocean, and the waves are as solid as concrete buildings, rising around you.Shaking, tired, hungry, going to my mother when she needed it, all sacrifices meant nothing.It's sure to be an adventure.After hearing all this, can you imagine, can you believe, that not long, not long, you're going to see your mother? Finally, she is the nasty slut who comes to meet you.Dilapidated, old, and dull as if it had long since died.The mother had a blackened eye, bad breath and a lonely tooth that dangled in her mouth when she spoke.The relative in the story, you have heard so many deeds, is this her?This eccentric and boring woman.This festering stinky bitch.After your long journey, she didn't clean up for you.no smile.No welcome.But she despised you with her arrogant eyes, and said: Who are you stinking bastard? Well, Gilbert, you're going too far.I hear you say that.You know I'm talking about England, you know I'm talking about the motherland.You might also want to tell me that Bremen is at war, not at its heyday. Looking long at Britain for the first time, some of us shook our heads, sucked our breath through our teeth, and were not disappointed.What makes them frown is this unbearable slaughterhouse.The sight of the devastation to which they had been confronted elicited an exclamation of pain and astonishment.The wreckage of this bomb-ravaged place staggers down the street like the devil's work.Others looked at the gloomy sky, their teeth chattered, and their empty arms got goosebumps, asking whether the British summer could only feel this warmth.Seeing the women hard at work on the rails, wielding hammers and picks like a strong man, the little islanders were dumbfounded.Women talk back to whistling boys just as well as men.And the younger islanders, those unaccustomed to the courtesy of white men, lowered their eyes, bit their lips, and looked around for affirmation the first time they were served by a white woman.What do you need, young man?Yes, serve them tea or buns.The college-educated Lienwal wondered why so many people spoke so poorly, as vulgarly as sugarcane cutters.Hubert looked at the countryside with a gentle smile on his face: But you see, this place is just like his hometown.he said to those who yawned at the metaphor.Don't the green hills look like the verdant Kao Kepi Township?Aren't the flowers as delightful as clusters of delicate pink hibiscus?The river can also flow out of the same magnificent wonders as the Dun River.And I mustn't forget James, confused and dressed like a soldier, surrounded by English children (white urchins with dust-blackened faces and dried snot sticking to their mouths), facing He yelled loudly: Hey, show us your ass. But in my case, I just have one problem.Let me ask my motherland this simple question: how can England not know me? On our first day in England, as the train panted us through town and country, we colonial troops played a game.Look at something and see who can be the first to tell where it was made in the UK.Are Fords built in Cambridge or Dagenham?We had a little argument, but we knew the answer. Look at me now: a young man in a navy blue uniform, white shirt, bow tie, cropped trousers, and white stockings.I stand in the classroom, bright daylight streaming through the classroom through the light drawn by the blinds.Classmates and teachers all looked at me, waiting.I held my head up like a major in parade, arms down.Listen to me read it now: high-pitched and clear, without missing a word.I began to recite the canals of England: the Bridgewater Canal, the Manchester to Liverpool Canal, and the main arterial canal that used to be used by the China Company in Stoke-on-Trent.I could have also told you about the railway, the road, the port or the wharf.I might have also shouted that the Houses of Parliament in Westminster have a House of Commons and a House of Lords.Given a date, I can go higher and tell you about some big regulations that were debated and passed.And it's not just me.Ask any RAF Volunteer in the West Indies, ask any of us colonial troops, where British ships are built, cotton is woven, steel is cast, automobiles are made, jam is boiled, cups are formed, Where lace is weaved, where glass is blown, where tin is mined, where whiskey is distilled.to ask.Then sit back and do a little homework. Check this out now.A British soldier, a Tommy.Aitkin's Tommy.His skin was as white as soap, and his hair was more oiled than his boots.See him sitting in the bar sipping warm rum and rolling a cigarette in tinfoil.Ask him: Tommy, tell me, where is Jamaica? Then listen to his answer: Well, I don't know.Africa, isn't it? See the woman in the green cotton dress standing at the kitchen table and the two children looking up at her, licking their lips in anticipation.Watch how carefully she spoons her ration of sugar into the chocolate bowl.Ask her what she knows about Jamaica.Where is the tooth?What did you call it?Teeth what? Mrs. Highveld, she lives in a big house, and the walls are covered with photos of her ancestors.Watch her have coffee with friends every morning.Ask her to tell you about the people of Jamaica.Did she see the little boy standing high in the classroom, the daylight drawing rays across the classroom, the little boy talking about the British canals, Parliament, the great laws passed?Or maybe she, along with some people in power, told you about wild men, jungles, and hanging branches through the woods, from friends she knew or books she read? It is inconceivable that we Jamaicans, West Indians, members of the British Empire should not be able to fly back to our country to defend against foreign aggression when threatened.But tell me, if there is trouble in Jamaica, what major, general, non-commissioned officer will find that dear island?Give me a map and I'll take a look at Tommy.Can Aitkin or Mrs. Havelaugh point to Jamaica.Let's watch them turn the page, twist their eyeballs to look, turn the page to see if this area is printed on the back and miss it, and then shrug their shoulders and surrender.But give me that map, blindfold me, turn me around three times, and I, dizzy, can still keep my finger on my motherland.