Penguin Books Australia

Tim took a step back. Astonished. This Englishman, who'd migrated to Australia only a couple of years before the war started, knew a good form when he heard it.

'How does a German boy like you speak the King's English so well?'

The child's manner changed. Outraged. He drew himself to his full height, though he didn't reach much above Tovell's waist. As the band wheezed to a halt, men nearest the door heard the boy exclaim, full of scorn:

'I'm not a German! I'm not one of les Boches! I'm a Frenchman, monsieur. One of the glorious Allies. I'm one of you!'

'Well! Blow me down!'

Tim wasn't sure what to do next.

The airmen burst into laughter. They banged the tables and cried, 'Good on you, sonny! You tell him.'

'That's the kid I buzzed off as I came in,' said the man who was late. 'Come and have a drink, chum.' He held out a glass of beer.

The fuss caught the attention of the officers. Captain George Jones DFC, commanding B Flight to which Tovell belonged, called out, 'Is anything wrong, Tim?'

Glad of someone else to take responsibility, Tovell waved away the beer and led the boy to the top table. Ripples of laughter spread as they walked across the room.

'Another new recruit, eh? Is that one of yours, Tim, come out of the woodwork? You told the missus yet?'

Tovell ignored them, and continued his stately escort: the soldier and this funny little kid, pathetic in his threadbare clothes, toes sticking through his shoes, but every bit as dignified.

'Well, Tim, who have we got here?' asked Captain Jones, as the band struck up again with tunes from 'The Merry Widow'.

'The boy pushed his way in, sir. I thought he was just another little Hun and was going to boot him out. But he speaks good English. Says he's French. One of the Allies.'

'Is that so?'

The child's face softened with his dimples. 'But certainly,' he said. 'I've been with the British Army throughout the war. First with the field artillery, then with the air force. It's with 48th Squadron that I came to Bickendorf.'

'Don't talk nonsense!' Captain Jones didn't like fibs. 'Tell me the truth.'

'Hang on a moment!' Major Ellis interrupted. He was seated at the same table, looking quizzically at the boy. 'I believe I've seen this little fellow around No. 48's hangers these past few days. You're their squadron mascot, right?'

'Oui, Majeur. But I'm with 48th Squadron no more. I've gone to the 43rd instead.'

'Why?'

'Because they're nicer to me.'

The boy spoke in an engaging way: one designed to flatter and charm.

'A child? As a mascot with a fighting unit?' Captain Jones was unconvinced. 'How come?'

'I have nobody, monsieur.' The orphan spoke to their sympathies. 'My father and mother were both killed when the war began. So I've been told. I don't remember them, though sometimes I think about Mamam . . . But the Tommy soldiers saved me, and I became their mascot. I helped to bring them victory. Vive la France! God save the King!'

He spoke with such emotion that the airmen found themselves surprisingly touched. His words seemed to stir their gentler feelings, suppressed by years of warfare, and they softly voiced their assent, 'Hear, hear! Good lad! Well spoken . . .'

'And what do you want with us, young man?'

'I'd like to share your Christmas dinner, Captain.'

'Why not with your friends from 43rd Squadron? They're celebrating Christmas. They told me after soccer. Why come to us?'

The orphan's attitude changed again. He had a variety of parts, each one of which he played in turn. It was the lesson of survival. So, now, he spread his hands, raised his eyes, and uttered a little French laugh.

'It's true the Tommies are having Christmas lunch. And what are they eating? Boiled mutton and cabbages! But you diggers are having a banquet! It's the talk of the aerodrome. Roast duck and apple sauce. Fruit and custard. I come to you because the Aussie Christmas dinner is so much better!'

The boy's frankness was greeted with more laughter and banging of tables.

'Too right, mate! He knows a good thing.'

Captain Jones was disarmed. Even Tim Tovell allowed himself a smile. There was something endearing about the lad that reminded him of the family waiting at Jandowae.

'Perhaps he might join us, sir,' he said to Major Ellis.

'That's not for me to say,' replied the Officer Commanding. 'This dinner has been paid for by the men themselves. We officers are here as your guests. It's for the squadron to decide if the lad can join them.'

Tovell turned to the mess.

'What do you say, boys? Can this young digger sit down?'

More applause and shouting.

'Course, Tim! Move up there. Find the kid a place.'

'There's your answer,' said Les Ellis. 'But Tim, keep an eye on the boy. See him safe back to the Tommies. You're a father, and know about these things . . .'

'Certainly, sir.'

Les Ellis watched them walk across to the tables. He'd chosen the boy's guardian well. At forty, Tim was one of the oldest men in the squadron. He'd see the lad right. Every other airman seemed much younger. George Jones, with six enemy planes shot down this year, was just twenty-two. And Major Ellis himself was only twenty-four.

The humour and the pathos of the moment caught him. He looked at his fellow officers, and said with a laugh that seemed to suddenly choke, 'Extraordinary little chap! I wonder who he is?'