Last Waltz in Vienna [antikvár]

Part One 'Klaar!' There was a note of rising anger in Sergeant Lowe's voice. And again: 'Klaar! Where the bloody hell are yer?' Now he was using his loudest barrack-square roar. 'Coming, Sarge/ I shouted back, crawling out from behind the stack of jute sacks filled with Bailey bridging clamps where I had been spending my lunch-break reading my newspaper. If one knew how to shake the contents of these sacks into the right position one could build them into surprisingly comfortable seats, almost easy chairs. Having spent two weeks unloading them off railway trucks and stacking them I knew how to do it. 'At the bloody double, you!' the sergeant shouted. 'Been sitting on yer bloody ears again,' he grumbled when I had reached him. 'Been calling your name four times.' 'Sorry, Sarge.' He held out a white oblong envelope.' 'Ere that's for you, in't it?' Of course it was. It was clearly addressed to 13805783 Pte. G. Klaar 77 Coy. Pioneer Corps APO 1387 When I arrived in Britain in 1941 from neutral Eire, where I had been living since my escape from Nazi Austria, to volunteer for the army, I had hoped that I would be allowed to join a fighting regiment instead of the Pioneers, which was just a labouring unit. No such luck. When I asked to join the Royal Artillery the reply was 'Where were you born?' 'In Vienna, Austria.' 'Have you been naturalised?' 'No.' 'Report to No. 3 Pioneer Corps Training Centre.