Homeland by Clare Francis

shot.’
    ‘And what reason would they have anyway?’ the major bashed on. ‘Them, Poland, us . . . we all fought on the same side, for heaven’s sake.’
    ‘In the war.’
    ‘Of course in the war.’
    ‘I meant only that things have changed since then, that the new regime is an unknown quantity, that the Russians seem to be pulling all the strings.’
    Mention of politics seemed to irritate the major. He said crossly, ‘Well, if the Poles don’t like the way their country’s being run, they should go back and sort it out for
themselves, shouldn’t they? Not our concern. Not our responsibility.’
    With the sense of wasting his breath, Bennett argued in a tone of reason, ‘But we have a responsibility to make sure we’re not sending them back into danger, surely?’
    ‘You talk as though an army has the right to decide things for itself, Doctor. An army must always be the servant, not the master. Otherwise where would it ever end? Anarchy. Chaos. Civil
war.’ The major gave a satisfied nod, as if he’d scored a bulletproof point.
    ‘Yes, of course . . .’ Bennett conceded, because it was easier to do so.
    The major ran a finger inside his collar and craned his neck fretfully. ‘If it was up to me, I’d have the lot of them packed and on their way by next week.’
    It occurred to Bennett that there must be dozens of Phippses in the British army, men past retirement age who, lacking imagination or talent, had been cast into jobs to which they were totally
unsuited. Untroubled by doubt, they discharged their duties with a bleak efficiency.
    ‘The one thing they can’t do,’ the major added brusquely, his moustache shooting forward in agitation, ‘is go on as they are. Can’t have an army without official
standing. Makes a nonsense of the whole setup.’ He made to move away. ‘No avoiding a decision, Doctor. Go or stay. No sitting on the fence.’ The small defeated eyes refocused on
Bennett. ‘How’s the golf? Getting a couple of rounds in this weekend?’
    ‘I’m not sure I’ll have the time,’ said Bennett, who never played.
    ‘Well, I hope you don’t get caught by this damned weather. What a climate, eh? Never bloody stops.’
    With a nod and a last jut of his moustache, the major marched off down the corridor, his heels beating impotently on the lino.
    Bennett opened the door of the reading room to a low cloud of cigarette smoke and the babble of Polish voices. He found Wladyslaw Malinowski in a corner hunched over a table, a pen poised
motionless in his hand.
    ‘Hello, Wladyslaw. Not disturbing you, I hope?’
    ‘No . . . Please, Doctor.’ Wladyslaw sprang to his feet and shook Bennett’s hand as if they hadn’t met for some time, though it had been less than two days.
    ‘You feel better now, Doctor?’
    Bennett smiled. ‘I’m meant to ask after you, Wladyslaw. Not the other way round.’
    ‘But you OK?’
    ‘Yes. It was just a spot of bronchitis.’
    ‘Plenty onion, raw – this is good for chest.’
    ‘If you say so.’
    ‘And for the voice too.’
    ‘Oh, it’s always a bit croaky,’ Bennett explained lightly.
    Wladyslaw stood erect, almost to attention, until Bennett had sat down, when the Pole dropped back into his chair. He touched the sheaf of papers he had been working on. ‘My sister –
I write much to her.’
    ‘It’s absolutely wonderful that you’ve found her again. You must be overjoyed. Where’s she living?’
    ‘Lodz. This is in south-western Poland. She is married now. This is why I don’t find her before.’
    ‘You must have a great deal to catch up on.’
    ‘Sorry – catch up?’
    ‘A lot of news you want to exchange.’
    ‘Ah yes,’ Wladyslaw said with a sigh. ‘But I think perhaps I write too much.’
    When language difficulties arose, Bennett often found it best to wait.
    ‘We have brother Aleks,’ Wladyslaw went on. ‘He is murdered with officers at Katyn – ten thousand, you know. But I think it is not good to say