Chapter 8: A boy called Jazzer

Back at Celle I had my platoon to attend to, and this took my mind off Miriam and the state she was in. I got distracted from my own problems by one of the riflemen in the platoon going Absent Without Leave (AWOL). He was a young bloke, not long out of the Junior Leaders battalion, about the same age as I had been when I'd joined 3RGJ. He had taken up with some local girl and wanted to marry her. You need permission from your CO to wed a local when serving abroad; he had been refused and was missing off morning roll call the next day. My company commander sent me out to track him down, and bring him back before he was away too long. After 21 days he would be classed as a deserter, and the local police and the British Army Military Police would then get involved, far better that the battalion dealt with it and not involve anyone else. I asked the lad's mates what they knew about the girl he was involved with. Not much was the reply.
Jazzer Cartwright hadn't been in the platoon long enough for his fellow squaddies to get to know much about him.
"When he first joined the platoon he visited the Copper Kettle with a couple of his section, " said Corporal Cheddy Gunn. "According to Clarky Kent he's now down there most nights, wrapped around one of the tarts."

Kent was on guard, so I went across to the guardroom and found out from him that Jazzer had been going down to the Copper Kettle every night that he was off duty; it seemed likely that it was there that he had met his inamorata.
'The Kettle' was a well-known knocking shop/bar/dance hall, not exactly out of bounds to our troops but not with a very good reputation. I asked Clarky for a description of the girl; his reply was not a great help.
"You know, Sarge, the usual sort of tart: big Bristols, long legs, and long hair." I asked him if she was young or old, or if she had a name.
"You know, Sarge, them lights in The Kettle are really dim, she could have been a teeny-bopper or a grab-a-granny. I think Jazzer called her Ingrid, or Helga, or it might have been Gerda."
I made a mental note to get Clarky off my platoon as soon as possible, the man was a moron–he certainly was no Superman.

I found a photograph of Jazzer in the platoon files and went down to The Kettle to show it around. It was about 10am and the place had not long opened. I showed the barman the photo and asked if he recognised the face. He answered by a shake of the head. It seemed that this was the early shift, and I would do better by coming back later.
That evening I turned up at about 7 pm. The place was still fairly quiet; a couple of bar girls/whores up at the bar gave me the eye as I sat down at a table. I gave them a look that said I wasn't here for their company, and they both turned back to the bar and continued their conversation.
As luck would have it I hit pay dirt straight away. I showed the photo to a waitress, a pretty, plump, big breasted, blue eyed and flaxen haired stereotype German madchen. She recognised him as 'Greta's toy boy'. It transpired that Greta was boasting of how she would marry her toy boy, retire to England and never have to turn another trick for the rest of her life–unless she wanted to.
I don't think Greta was too popular with my waitress—Ushi—because she voluntarily gave me directions to where Greta lived, about a click from the bar.

I banged on the door of Greta's flat, two floors up in a dingy tenement block, tucked away behind Celle railway station. After a minute or two a female voice from inside the flat called out, in German."Who is it?"
"The police. Open up at once!" I barked, in the most authoritative German I could manage. It did the trick. Working girls know better than to rile the police, and the bolt and chain rattled as the inhabitant hurried to comply. The door opened, and I shouldered my way past a rather blowzy looking woman, who must have been 40 if she was a day.
Judging by her dress of a hastily thrown on dressing gown, her hair in a mess and cum trickling down her thighs, she and Jazzer must have been indulging in rumpty pumpty when I had banged on the door.

I called out in English, "Get your clothes on Jazzer, and come out here!" I sat in an easy chair and addressed Greta, in German. "You, Greta, make us some coffee -- and get yourself looking decent." She looked at me in amazement but disappeared into the kitchen.
Jazzer came out of the bedroom, a mixture of sheepishness, stubbornness and fear on his young face. I indicated for him to sit down, and then I talked to him like a Dutch uncle. I pointed out Greta's occupation of whore; I pointed out the disparity of their ages. I pointed out that if he didn't return with me voluntarily I would lamp him and drag him back to barracks, where he would spend the rest of the year in the cells, before being court martialled.
Jazzer wasn't stupid, and seeing Greta in the full light of day–it was very dim in The Kettle—made him realise how great their age difference really was. He wasn't the first young bloke to be led astray by a winking twat, and it could have been me, all those years ago, if Annalise had been more like Greta.

"I love her, Sarge," he said. "She's the best shag I've ever had."–And probably the first shag he'd ever had, but I didn't say that–"She's not a whore; she gives it to me free." This was said with not as much conviction as his declaration of love.
"Look, Jazzer, you're a rifleman in the Royal Green Jackets; you've just finished your training and have the whole of your career before you. Getting married early on is no good for a squaddie; here one day, then on the other side of the globe tomorrow. It causes trouble at home, and you can't concentrate on your job properly." I hoped he didn't know of my marriage history. "You've gone AWOL, and that doesn't do your reputation in the battalion much good. You've let down your mates by not being where you should be, alongside them. As for shagging, I doubt you've had that much experience, but you need to sow your wild oats before settling down with one woman. There's hundreds of girls out there, gagging for a young stud like you, so try the field before you make your choice. You don't buy the first car you test drive." As I was dispensing these words of wisdom Greta came in with a pot of coffee and some cups.