Chapter 36 prequel thirty five bernard

We had just arrived in India and were crammed like livestock onto a train in Mumbai.Hundreds of troops.The three of us walked side by side in a row, but soon became a minority.Surrounded by dark-skinned people.Behind me, in front of me, under me.Reach out and beg with white palms.Whisper in my ear: tip, tip.Some people held up colorful cakes, ingredients, and all kinds of gadgets.Others are shameless and want to get something for nothing.Someone behind me shouted: My lord, please, my parents are dead, give me some rupees. To my right, a father tried to sell his daughter to the British soldiers.My lord, the pretty girl is very clean.

Kids who should be at school run around my feet, barely clothed.The eyes were as black as apple cores.Some are too young to walk well.There are no parents to support him, in case he is stepped on by a tall horse.Nothing to give, only to walk through.Just ignore it as much as possible.No attempt was made to offend the locals.These people stink.Body odor covered with sweat and sickly spices. The confusion baffles me.Our brethren cried out, wondering which way to go: Hey, hey over there. Groups of brightly colored locals gestured with bony hands and murmured vaguely: My lord, good worker.Stay out of trouble.Please, work, my lord, please.The saliva of the locals sprayed my cheeks.

The British cry: line up, line up.Go from there.The crunch of the wheels.The screech of a train whistle.Dirty jokes from Air Force brethren.she?joke!It is also possible to cover the head. 】. The stationed base looks familiar.Concrete buildings with domes.Or possibly St Pancras or Liverpool Street in his hometown.There was even a guy jumping through the crowd wearing a black top hat, looking like Dad was going to work.Except that he was wearing a long shirt and his legs were wrapped in loose white cotton trousers.He smiled showing bright red teeth as he passed.Think someone slaps him on the mouth instead of the cheek to show gentlemanly demeanor.But he was too leisurely, chewing and spitting out red beads on the ground.

My lord, oranges are nice and juicy.We were warned to be careful with their oranges.Boil in dirty water to swell oranges.The cake itself was not a good presentation, Christmas-like gaudy and black with flies instead of raisins.Some brothers bought the worms, popped them open, and ate them.Can't blame them who knows when we'll get something to eat again. Instead of delivering a service, a local in uniform drove us into a car, muttering in a language we didn't understand.He carried several bags of equipment.Five bags, sometimes six.It weighed him down as he struggled up the train steps.After unloading the equipment, carry some more back.Blushing like a thunderbolt.He limped away, and the brethren taunted him: Rapper.

The train may be in Bombay, but the pedals my boots are on are made by Crewe.The coaly stench of steam reminded me of my childhood holidays in Dimchurch.A sudden puff of gray smoke wiped everything out.After the smoke cleared, a cow was seen walking on the platform through the mist.No one shooed it away, nor tied it down.You can count the number of ribs on a dirty beast.It rattled along, gently weaving through the crowd, breaking up a group of women carrying train engine coal wrapped in rags.Some struggled to carry children, with a round belly of coal in front, and local men as light as swallows pushed through it, begging for the British troops.The sight made us click our tongues and shake our heads frequently.

People come in through train windows.Face.finger.hand.arm.Push and squeeze hard.Clinging to useless things.Shouting for us to see.Do you like it, my lord?Take it, my lord.Most things look to me only in form.Should I eat it, play with it, or rub it when it's too hot? The train finally left the station.The natives started running.There is still hope.It wasn't until the train was running that the palms, arms, and gadgets were snatched back. Two minutes after leaving the station, I spotted some adults squatting by the tracks, defecating on the floor.For a moment, there was silence in the carriage, as if we had just been attacked.From the car window, I saw an elephant slowly dragging a car, jolting through the heat.I nudge the brother next to me.He just shrugged.There were hundreds of people on the train.The toilet is just a small hole in the floor with two handles for you to stand upright.The only time the silence was broken was when someone good at rhetoric shouted: Isn't there a poet who wrote about the taste of India?

It was a Cockney who answered, and he shouted back: My countrymen, it is the smell of India. Queenie told me to wait until called up to enlist.She kept saying you can wait until they ask.I don't know if this woman understands the rules of the game.We all know the few people we met at the Feather Hotel, we all understand.Harlow, Arthur, Reg, and George had all volunteered for the Army years before.Also the Royal Air Force.Harlow flies a Spitfire somewhere in Kent, and Arthur and Reg become radio operators.But after they took office, I lost touch with them.George is the shooter.Shot across France.Missing in action.Maybe one day he'll walk home and ask his family for a pint, which he can drink in under eleven seconds, which is his specialty.It's just me and Frank.We are older.He's a veteran of the bank and knows how to handle it.The other children are still young.They are not married yet, and the country needs them again.

Frank suggested.After drinking two half-pints of beer and water in the Feather Hotel, he popped the cigarette out the door, and the cigarette flew into an arch with sparks, and the barmaid Hilda shouted: You will start a fire! He blew a kiss to the waitress, and I thought his reaction was flippant, but he was motivated.Yes, Bernard, let's go, join the army, or we'll be reduced to infantry. Poor dead infantry.Everyone knew it, except Queenie, who didn't know that if she was called up, she would go straight to the battlefield.The gun is under the arm, the helmet is on the head, and the bullet is in the back.I don't need lobbying.I'm going into the Royal Air Force.If I'm going, I'll go as Blue Uniform.

When I told Queenie, she said: You think you're going to be big, don't you?I shook my head and said no.But I think, I'll ask myself, I'd also like to be an air hero.pomade boy, the sun on my curly hair.The enemy rattled towards me at three o'clock.Drive nimbly.Hide in the clouds.Give color to enemy planes.Honorable deeds accomplished heroically.And Queenie wept with joy when I got home. But I didn't enroll as a pilot with no vision.Neither did Frank.Ashamed to say, I was relieved when I found out.Both of us were sent to be pilots, which is what people usually call rookies.Ground staff.The choices we have are airframe or engine.Frank picked the airframe, so I picked the engine.

What are you going to do?Queenie said, I thought they'd at least teach you how to fly. She also wants to live a life with the hero.I know this is an indisputable fact. Finally reaching the base on the eastern edge, I was thrown from the truck and landed with my face in the dust.The dry sand in my mouth made me spit and choke.Someone is standing on my lap.Before he had time to yell, another person stepped on him.Standing wobbly on my hands, cursing as I fell.Everyone is running.There was the rumble of boots on the ground.Someone yelled: "Go!"go!go on!I get up quickly.Running with my head down, dust kicked into my eyes.I could barely see and could only follow the running footsteps.

There was the screech of an airplane flying low.One, two, maybe more than one.Before I had time to watch, the artillery fire hit the ground.The dust kicked up in a straight line, splinters whipped across my chest.I screamed (I admit it).The boot skids along the ground in the other direction.The dust is like a thick fog.I'm blind.lost.Not sure where to go.Then someone grabbed me.Grab my shirt and pull me toward the trench.It was packed with people and there was no room left.I know I yelled a little before I squeezed in. The incoming voice roared in my ears.I step on someone.His forehead hit the back of his head.Brighten your fucking eyes.He yelled in my face. Everyone was yelling: You fucking head down, you stupid rookie. The plane flew down again.Everyone squirmed, ducked, and cursed.The bullets slammed into the ground, soared into the air and fell, covering us like a blanket of suffocation. I look at those planes.Two Japanese Zero fighters.Dive down and shoot at the ground.Their artillery fire sometimes crackled like harmless firecrackers.But so close.I can see the driver.I think I see him laughing. Then someone stepped on top of me.A whole bunch of people bumped into my back.haunt me.I choked up.Can't call out.Then there was an explosion, a powerful crack that stopped everything for a second.Then stones and dirt fell on us like hail.Everyone choked and coughed, covering their heads and mouths with their hands.The dust around us is like a thick London fog.I couldn't breathe and it felt like someone was grabbing my face.I fumbled for air trying to inhale.I couldn't help but grab the person next to me, and that person threw me away.Mouth choked with loess that makes people breathless.My mouth is dry and my tongue is enlarged. The noise of the plane quickly faded to a hum, like distant bees.I started breathing again.I inhaled a whole lungful of the most fragrant stench I have ever tasted.It ends abruptly.The Japanese soldiers left.This feeling of relief caused the entire trench to sigh in unison. Fuck off my arm you broke it, you stupid bastard. Someone talk to me.I moved away from him and said sorry but he wouldn't listen.We started crawling out of the trenches, everyone coughing and vomiting like tuberculosis patients.I lost my footing and fell in again.That's when I noticed a noticeable bulge in the front of my shorts.I get an erection. hurry up.I hear voices from above.I looked up to see a hand stretched out.I wanted to wave him away, but the brother insisted on pulling me away.I grabbed his hand firmly like a handshake and climbed up. He said: You just got off the boat?And I wanted to hide my shame as much as possible, so I squirmed and put my arms in front of me.The brother appeared to be about eighty years old.We all look the same because of the unspoken law of dust aging.I don't know if he noticed the bulge on my body.I shake myself to relax, dust trickling down the big ill-fitting shorts.It looks like it again.I started telling him how long I had been in India, but he was gone. I let out a sigh of relief.This is the closest I've come to actual combat.I was bombed in London.Houses, shops, factories, everyone on the street was stunned by the explosion.Queenie and I hid like mice.Under the shelter of the garden rescued the water, sitting and candles listening to the planes whispering overhead.Woe to us if we stand in their way.I am of no use to her.But now, the bullets break through the ground inches from me, and someone is aiming at me because I'm dangerous. move quickly!Move equipment off the runway.Move, move!Clear this place. People started running again.I run with them.There are two Hurricanes on the runway.shot to pieces.The situation was horrible, as if the bird had been shot and fell from the sky.The landing gear twisted, and one wing fell apart, its nose buried in the dirt.Broken copper and rotten iron.fluttering cloth.Limp and lifeless. I can't see the rest of the squad, the brothers who came with.My gear was still on the truck, which had been abandoned, tilted at an angle, one round stuck in a shallow monsoon ditch. Come on, move away.Get that gear out of the way! I found a space among the group, and I stretched out my hand to join in rescuing the downed kite.The metal burned out.I choked with sobs and pulled my hand back, then quickly put it back before anyone noticed.There were dozens of people around the plane.Do your best.Trying to find a foothold on dry land.Slowly, the kite moved, disconcerted like a corpse.Soon our sweat dripped onto the dusty ground and turned into a fine layer of mud.I accidentally slipped and slipped.Face dropped into that layer of warm artificial sludge.I stood up, my wet hands hissing as they tapped the hot metal again. The first kite, followed by the second.Pushed from the airport into the graveyard of the plane.A kite of despair.No wings, no tires, no windows.No hope of flying.It was no different from being stabbed by a bullet.The golden rust powder shakes off all around.There are also animals that build holes in some scrap machines. Seconds after the airport cleared, a plane landed.Vibrated like an earthquake, bouncing along the way.The dust swirls into a sandstorm.The rumble of the engine was the only sound.Volte's Revenge. That one lost.My brother next door said. The pilot jumped out of the plane and pushed his hair back.He was just a kid looking around with his hands on his hips.Soon someone spoke up.The Japanese plane crashed and landed half a mile before.There was a burst of cheers from the crowd surrounding the pilot. Gurkha soldiers will catch him.Said the same brother.Just arrived?I found him talking to me.He looked down at something on my lower body.I folded my hands in front of my shorts just in case, before I saw it was my knees that caught his eye.My knees are bleeding.Blood dripped down the leg.Can't feel anything. Just a scrape, no big deal.I said. he laughed.is nothing.The white knee fact is in front of you.No matter how I look at it, I don’t think it’s white.You have just arrived. I stayed in the Japanese island of Mumbai.I told him. He pressed his tongue against one cheek.As I said, you just arrived.Don't worry, you'll get used to it.I must have looked confused.Those little eyed bastards.He went on to say that you will get used to their funny little ways in the future.They come every day.It's early today, it must be a national holiday or something.But come every day.The time of the watch can be adjusted with the cold wind in the air.He held out his hand.My name is Macy.Full name is George.Maximilian, but everyone calls me Maxi.His hands were weathered and felt like gnarled wood. My name is Bernard.Bligh. So, what do they call you? I didn't answer.I just remember the last time someone called me poor dude. They took him through the camp and down the airport, past dozens of locals in rags and straw hats.Men and women came out of nowhere with makeshift shovels to smooth out the newly created crater.They stopped and watched with the RAF and officers.A Japanese pilot.Put your hands on your head.Two soldiers with bayonet-loaded rifles pressed against his back.Push him forward.while shouting.Not English.They are foreigners themselves.Black person.Indian.Macy said: Gurkhas, they may not look like us, but they are good people.You can't mess with Gurkhas. He is still young.That Japanese pilot.Unwise slum dwellers who don't know what to fight for but fanatically believe that the Emperor is God.He looked twelve or thirteen years old.His face was bumped to the side, bloody.No shoes.No trousers.Bare bamboo legs.He shuffled as he walked, flipping across the ground at odd angles.He only wore a vest with their pictorial characters engraved on it.The brothers spit on the ground as he passed.Some mocked.Some applaud.Some turned their backs and ignored them.He goes on.Don't look at anyone. Where are you taking him?I asked Macy. He shrugged and sighed.Let's put it this way, uncle, do you know what's written on his vest?The writing on his vest.They all wear this one.It read: Fight for the Country.die for the country.Swear to die.We cannot house war criminals, there is no place for them. Oh, what to do with him then? Macy put two fingers on his temples, and quietly said bang.I feel like a fool.A fool with white knees who expects war to be polite.In fact, frankly, we were doing him a favor.Macy told me that at least he kept his dignity and ate the enemy's bullet.