You see, there is a list, written by the hand of the Almighty in a celestial book, which details the rich and wonderful accomplishments his subjects might achieve here on earth: father of philosophy, composer of the finest music, ace pilot of the skies, paramour to lucky women. Now I knew: beside the name Gilbert Joseph was written just one word – driver. All endeavours to erase, replace or embellish were useless. I knew that combustion engine was going to get me again.

‘I was told wireless operator/air-gunner or flight engineer, Flight Sergeant, sir.’

‘This is a war, Joseph, not a shop. Motor transport. Hear me, Airman.’

See, look, watch it come back. Driver. Yes, sir. I was off to be trained to do something I had been doing since the age of ten. Perhaps Elwood was right when he warned me: ‘Be careful, Gilbert, remember the English are liars.’

Fourteen

Gilbert

Driver-cum-coal-shifter was not an official trade in the RAF Table of Trades for Aircraft Hands, but I had been ‘coking’ for so long I felt it should appear. Age limit: none. Vision: blurred. Feet: frozen. At countless bleak and wintry railway stations in Lincolnshire I had shovelled more than my rightful share of the wretched black rock from lorry to truck. Coal dust! That rasping black grit seeped down so far into my hair that when I chewed it felt like the Almighty was scouring my head with sandpaper. My nose blew silt. Through five layers of clothing, including a bulky overcoat, that dust, that granular rock, was tickling my bare flesh when I undressed. A group of us complained to the CO. This coking felt like punishment, we told him. ‘We’re turning as black as Joseph, sir,’ someone said.

Until our CO chastened our mutinous zeal with the words, ‘Our men overseas are going through much worse than anything you airmen have had to endure.’ And a light rain of soot fell from my hair as I bowed my humbled head. But two days later, ‘Joseph, you’re down to sort the Yanks out.’

A nice long solitary ride, pretty girls waving, old men saluting and the legendary Yank hospitality at the end of it. Charlie Denton assured me I was jammy: ‘That’s all right that, Gilbert. It’s a bit of a comfy chair that run.’ Happy he said he was, tickled pink it was me.

My orders were to drive a truck to the US base up near Grimsby. There I was to retrieve ten wooden crates that contained shock absorbers suitable for our Spitfires. ‘Spitfires,’ the CO emphasised, ‘not Mustangs. Make sure they give us the right ones this time.’ How our shock absorbers ended up on a US army base – not even air force – was one of the mysteries of war. But blame was flying back and forth like bullets in a battle. The Americans were ‘bloody Yanks, arrogant sods, belligerent blighters’ for refusing to just deliver the wayward parts to us. No, they insisted someone from the RAF go to their base to identify and certify that the parts were correct before they could be released. This was not the first time this situation had arisen. Charlie Denton went the time before, staying overnight and coming back with enough Chesterfield cigarettes to keep him in best friends for weeks. It was a lucky man who got the cock-up-with-the-American-army run.

‘He’s coloured, sir.’

‘He’s what?’

‘He’s coloured.’

‘Ah, shit. Coloured, you say?’

‘Black, sir.’

‘Yeah, thank you, Sergeant. I do know what coloured means. What the hell are they playing at? Fucking Limeys.’

Now, the building I was standing in had, at a guess, taken only a few minutes to erect. Stuck together with chewing-gum, the only thing separating me from the American army officers was a wall made from a thin piece of board no thicker than the cover of a book. Perhaps if I had been standing in the room with them at the time, the substance of the exchange might have differed a little but let me assure you its audible clarity would not.

‘Shall I send him out?’

‘You said he’s coloured.’

‘He’s British, though.’

‘British! Who cares? British – it’s still trouble. If I send a coloured down to that unit, it’s trouble. Fucking Limeys.’

‘Shall I send him back?’

‘How coloured is he?’

‘Enough, sir.’

‘Ah, fuck. That Limey CO is playing around with me. Allies, he tells me. He may be air force but we’re all in this together, he says. Allies! Stuck-up Limey bastard. He didn’t like me pointing out his stuff’s in the wrong place. Our fault, he says. He didn’t like me telling him what day it was.’

‘Could we get a coloured unit to show the—’

‘No, no, no – am I gonna reorder the entire US Army just because some stuck-up Limey sends me a nigger? Not on my watch. He sent that black just to piss me off. Fucking Limeys. I’ll get him on the phone. These niggers are more trouble than they’re worth.’

‘What shall I do with the coloured driver, sir?’

‘I don’t know. My problem is what to tell this Limey asshole. Truck too small or what? Probably the only truck they’ve got. No, some paperwork missing? That oughta do it. Tell him to wait or get him something to eat. They always want something to eat.’

‘Send him to the mess, sir?’

‘No, not the mess, for God’s sake – he’s coloured!’

Reflex makes you do strange things when you have been bred to be polite, respectful and courteous. I leaped across the room, feigning curiosity out of an almost opaque window so this sergeant might not suppose I had heard their exchange. Chest out, arms by my side, was I to salute a US Army NCO?

‘At ease, Soldier,’ the sergeant said.

Coloured, black, nigger. All these words had been used to characterise me in the last few minutes. Insults every one. But funny thing is, not one of those aspersions caused me so much outrage as the word ‘soldier’! I am not a soldier, I am an airman. ‘Airman Joseph,’ I said, which made the sergeant reply, ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ I stood easy as he carried on. ‘Listen, ah . . . Soldier, no . . . umm . . . Airman, we’re not quite . . . umm . . . umm.’

As he struggled there was my Mother-bred instinct again. Could I in some way help this man out of this unfathomable plight? He looked a shy man. In peacetime, let me see, he would be serving in a ladies’ hosiery shop, turning berry-red when big-bosomed women wanted something that would fit.

‘You’re gonna have to wait a while,’ the sergeant finally told me. ‘You want something to eat?’

‘At the mess, sir?’

‘No . . . no . . . not at the mess . . . umm . . . umm. I’ll get someone to bring you something out.’

The officer from the other room called out for this sergeant. When the useless door had been closed behind them he said, ‘Finch, send the coloured back. I swear that CO Limey bastard was laughing. He was laughing! “Is there a problem?” he says. Ten minutes in Alabama and he’d have a fucking problem. He knew I couldn’t use a fucking coloured here. He just sent him to piss me off. He thinks he’s fucking won this fight. He was laughing. Thinks he’s pulled one over on us. Yeah, sure, asshole. Get the nigger outta here.’

‘He was just getting something to eat, sir.’

‘Feed him, feed him. Do what you want. But not in the mess, unless you want trouble. Just get him outta here, then get some private to check the parts and truck ’em over. Believe me, this is the first and last time those fucking Limeys get past me.’

When the sergeant returned to me, he smiled. ‘They’re bringing you something out but you can go back to your base after that, Airman.’

I had not, as far as I could tell, either identified, signed for or transported any crates containing shock absorbers suitable for Spitfires. And yet this man was telling me my job was done. ‘My orders, sir, were to pick up some parts.’

‘Yeah, that won’t be necessary.’

‘Sir, I am sorry but I do not understand.’

‘Listen, Soldier, it’s all taken care of. Just go back. It’s okay.’