Any Survivors (2008) by Martin Freud Page A

was sure the man from the mountain provinces would not be able to tell the difference. Good acting was not achieved by imitation but by grasping the essence of the situation. Was Shakespeare himself there to have heard King Lear swearing or Caesar speaking to his wife?
    I began my tirade: ‘You sad little barometric worm. Do you really think I have the time and inclination to train you personally? Is this why I was decorated in the highest order? So that I can waste my precious talents in the manner of a primary school teacher? Oh no, I won’t! I have a sailor's patent not a nursing diploma! You are more likely to see the German fleet rise from the bottom of the sea at Scapa Flow and start fighting again than hear me utter a single word of instruction. And even if our admiral himself gives me an order to do the same, I would throw my logbook on the floor and then he can sink the battleships on his own!’
    The poor man sunk his head and was completely silent. Perhaps I had gone too far. Then I had an idea that could save me from this unfortunate situation. I continued: ‘Of course, I realise how unfamiliar everything will be to start with and you will want to pose questions all of the time. Carry on, I don't mind, as long as you don't ask me. It is your duty to find out what you need to know. Don't hold back. I will even help you. If I think there is a situation where you should be asking more questions I will subtly kick your shins. You may want to put on an extra pair of knee-high socks.’
    I thought to myself: if I manage to keep this chap with me all of the time, then I have an inconspicuous method of asking questions and finding out things that would otherwise have been impossible. In a nutshell, I may just about survive.
    ***
    As it happened, it was a Sunday and no one was on duty that day. Lunch for the sergeants and my new recruit was served by the orderlies in clean aprons. Shiny cutlery was laid out and there was even a tablecloth. With my source of information close by, I felt relatively safe. For the time being everyone's sole concern was one thing: the post. I, for my part, had little interest in seeing what letters were waiting for my predecessor. I could only imagine the ladies from his diary chattering about their daily lives, demanding their money or sending photos. I was not looking forward to this. I have never enjoyed reading other people's letters, but here I had no choice. There was not a single moment where I was on my own, and if anyone saw me throwing the letters away without reading them I would no doubt arouse suspicion.
    It wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. There were no letters from ladies with dubious addresses. He must have given them a false address. In fact, there was very little post for me. There was a postcard sent from Munich showing three women dressed up as Münchener Kindl . 1 The hood covered their foreheads so you could only see the tip of the nose, cheeks, mouth and chin. The voluminous cloak covered their figures up to the knees, at which point their bare legs stuck out which made them look more convincing. All three girls were from the serving classes. I could just make out a bruise on the instep of the one in the middle, likely to have been obtained from polishing the parquet too vigorously with a broom. This was assuming the girl was from an area where the polishing of parquet was not yet done mechanically. The postcard was accompanied by the words: ‘Do you recognise me?’ and I added, being the honest man that I was, ‘No’.
    There was also the latest chess magazine and a letter enclosing 5 marks for the correct answer to one of their challenges. Then there was a bill for tailoring services marked ‘third reminder’ and a few more unremarkable items. Then, to my surprise, there was a proper letter with female handwriting on violet paper. It was promisingly heavy but when I opened it nothing interesting fell out apart from some newspaper cuttings consisting