Free Rising Summer by Mary Jane Staples

uniform. He also expected military smartness. Even the ATS personnel weren’t safe from his eagle eye. If he saw any girl with the slightest wrinkle in her khaki stockings he’d rap out, ‘Pull ’em up, girl, pull ’em up.’
    He had seven men lined up in the workshop, including me. He cast his glinting eyes over us, looking as if he was quite sure one of us was a traitor. His enormous Dalmatian hound and Staff-Sergeant Dix stood by. The dog was not without the right kind of instincts, especially where food was concerned. I think it knew one of us was to be served up for its dinner.
    The spare petrol cans were to be checked in our presence. The major, on a point of principle, wished us to know the inspection wasn’t going to be carried out behind our backs. All seven of us had been logged as having taken out transport on a particular day. I was sure I knew which particular day. No-one cared to advise the major that there was a certain amount of friendly casualness concerning spare petrol, that it came under the heading of perks.
    The cans were brought from Staff-Sergeant Dix’s office and placed in a neat line. The major surveyed them and his hound nosed them. The major smacked one gloved hand with his cane. ‘Staff-Sergeant Dix,’ he said, ‘in the event of any of these cans being empty, I’ll want to know which vehicles they belong to and which driver or drivers used that vehicle on said day. I’ll want to know why it was that use of spare petrol wasn’t reported, wasn’t logged and wasn’t even bloody well noticed.’
    ‘Sir,’ said Staff-Sergeant Dix smartly.
    ‘A quantity of petrol has been removed from the premises of a civilian,’ said the major. ‘It’s being analysed. I hope it doesn’t prove to be WD petrol emanating from here. It could mean the gallows for some despicable fairy. Is that clear? Carry on, staff.’
    Sergeant Dix produced a notebook. A gunner in denims put his hand on the can chalk-marked number one.
    ‘Full,’ he reported, as he hefted the can.
    ‘Bedford, sir,’ said Sergeant Dix, referring to his notebook.
    Number two can, full. A Morris. Number three can, full. The Austin utility. Number four can, empty. The Hillman, Major Moffat’s own official transport.
    ‘What?’ said the major.
    ‘Empty, sir,’ breathed the workshop gunner hoarsely and the major cast a fiendish eye at Sergeant Dix, who referred again to his notebook.
    ‘Yes, Hillman, sir,’ he said faintly and carried on dazedly. The fifth and six cans were both full. ‘Sir?’ said Dix in an ill voice.
    ‘Almighty Jesus,’ said the major and looked at his driver, Lance-Bombardier Burley, lined up with the rest of us. Burley closed his eyes and silently prayed. The Dalmatian rumbled impatiently. The major walked slowly around the cans. He struck the empty one with his cane. It rang hollowly. Getting his breath back he said, ‘This one belongs to the Hillman, you say?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Numbly, Sergeant Dix explained that each can had been carefully numbered before being lifted from its vehicle and placed in his office, all under his careful supervision.
    ‘You weren’t told if a can was full or empty?’ enquired the major.
    ‘Orders, sir, were that we were only to number the cans and deposit them under lock and key.’
    ‘The clot who lifted that can from wherever didn’t mention it was empty?’
    ‘No, sir, not to me,’ said Sergeant Dix.
    It was obvious what the major thought. That an empty can had been filled from the Hillman’s can. His face was a study, his eyes a metallic grey. He addressed us. ‘You bleeders,’ he said. We stood rigidly to attention. ‘It’s an out-and-out fiddle, you hear me? By God, I never thought I’d live to see the day when some conscripted disciples of Fagin would frame their battery commander. You horse-tails, which of you is the big shot, eh? Who’s the smart Alec who’s master-minding the piracy?’ He walked up and down the line, eyeing each of us in turn.