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“All right. But you know what I mean.”
“That time done pass. Now everybody want survival. They call it number six. You put your number six; I put my number six. Everything all right.”
The Lieutenant-Colonel’s party turned into something quite unexpected. But before it did things had been going well enough. There was goat-meat, some chicken and rice and plenty of home-made spirits. There was one fiery brand nicknamed “tracer” which indeed sent a flame down your gullet. The funny thing was looking at it in the bottle it had the innocent appearance of an orange drink. But the thing that caused the greatest stir was the bread—one little roll for each person! It was the size of a golf ball and about the same consistency too! But it was real bread. The band was good too and there were many girls. And to improve matters even further two white Red Cross people soon arrived with a bottle of Courvoisier and a bottle of Scotch! The party gave them a standing ovation and then scrambled to get a taste. It soon turned out from his general behaviour, however, that one of the white men had probably drunk too much already. And the reason it would seem was that a pilot he knew well had been killed in a crash at the airport last night, flying in relief in awful weather.
Few people at the party had heard of the crash by then. So there was an immediate damping of the air. Some dancing couples went back to their seats and the band stopped. Then for some strange reason the drunken Red Cross man just exploded.
“Why should a man, a decent man, throw away his life. For nothing! Charley didn’t need to die. Not for this stinking place. Yes, everything stinks here. Even these girls who come here all dolled up and smiling, what are they worth? Don’t I know? A head of stockfish, that’s all, or one American dollar and they are ready to tumble into bed.”
In the threatening silence following the explosion one of the young officers walked up to him and gave him three thundering slaps—right! left! right!—pulled him up from his seat and (there were things like tears in his eyes) shoved him outside. His friend, who had tried in vain to shut him up, followed him out and the silenced party heard them drive off. The officer who did the job returned dusting his palms.
“Fucking beast!” said he with an impressive coolness. And all the girls showed with their eyes that they rated him a man and a hero.
“Do you know him?” Gladys asked Nwankwo.
He didn’t answer her. Instead he spoke generally to the party.
“The fellow was clearly drunk,” he said.
“I don’t care,” said the officer. “It is when a man is drunk that he speaks what is on his mind.”
“So you beat him for what was on his mind,” said the host, “that is the spirit, Joe.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Joe, saluting.
“His name is Joe,” Gladys and the girl on her left said in unison, turning to each other.
At the same time Nwankwo and a friend on the other side of him were saying quietly, very quietly, that although the man had been rude and offensive what he had said about the girls was unfortunately the bitter truth, only he was the wrong man to say it.
When the dancing resumed Captain Joe came to Gladys for a dance. She sprang to her feet even before the word was out of his mouth. Then she remembered immediately and turned round to take permission from Nwankwo. At the same time the Captain also turned to him and said, “Excuse me.”
“Go ahead,” said Nwankwo, looking somewhere between the two.
It was a long dance and he followed them with his eyes without appearing to do so. Occasionally a relief plane passed overhead and somebody immediately switched off the lights saying it might be the Intruder. But it was only an excuse to dance in the dark and make the girls giggle, for the sound of the Intruder was well known.
Gladys came back feeling very self-conscious and asked Nwankwo to dance with her. But he wouldn’t. “Don’t bother about me,” he said, “I am enjoying myself perfectly sitting here and watching those of you who dance.”
“Then let’s go,” she said, “if you won’t dance.”
“But I never dance, believe me. So please, enjoy yourself.”
She danced next with the Lieutenant-Colonel and again with Captain Joe, and then Nwankwo agreed to take her home.
“I am sorry I didn’t dance,” he said as they drove away. “But I swore never to dance as long as this war lasts.”
She said nothing.
“When I think of somebody like that pilot who got killed last night. And he had no hand whatever in the quarrel. All his concern was to bring us food …”
“I hope that his friend is not like him,” said Gladys.
“The man was just upset by his friend’s death. But what I am saying is that with people like that getting killed and our own boys suffering and dying at the war fronts I don’t see why we should sit around throwing parties and dancing.”
“You took me there,” said she in final revolt. “They are your friends. I don’t know them before.”
“Look, my dear, I am not blaming you. I am merely telling you why I personally refuse to dance. Anyway, let’s change the subject … Do you still say you want to go back tomorrow? My driver can take you early enough on Monday morning for you to go to work. No? All right, just as you wish. You are the boss.”
She gave him a shock by the readiness with which she followed him to bed and by her language.
