Maslin - The Long Hitch Home

Copyright 2015 by Jamie Maslin

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Print ISBN: 978-1-62087-831-6

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-033-4

Cover designer: Anthony Morais

Cover photo credit: Thinkstock

Printed in the United States of America

for

Emily

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T here are many people who deserve a special mention for their help during the creation of this book. I wish to express my gratitude to all of the many wonderful and varied people (over eight hundred) who so kindly gave me a ride during my long hitch home; to Danilo Grtner, Owen Coomber, Wim Vanderstok, Ethan Martin, Wolfgang Glowacki, Jessica Nilsson, Manon Margain and Etienne Margain for providing many of the beautiful photographs used to illustrate this book. As always a special thank you must go out to Lucas Hunt: agent, gentleman, poet, friend; for his encouragement during the writing process and staggering patience in waiting for delivery of a long overdue manuscript. Above all, I must thank my amazing wife Emily, for her belief in me and my writing, and for paying my share of the rent during this long, drawn-out creative process.

In the interests of protecting anonymity, certain names and minor details have been strategically altered in the text.

Theres a voice that keeps on calling me

Down the road, thats where Ill always be.

Every stop I make, I make a new friend

Cant stay for long, just turn around and Im gone again.

Maybe tomorrow, Ill want to settle down,

Until tomorrow, Ill just keep moving on.

The Littlest Hobo

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

T he shrill of a military ambulance siren jolted me from my slumber as if Id been punched squarely in the face. In an instant we were all on high alert, jumping from our seats inside the dank Red Cross field hospital, hastily preparing for the vehicles arrival.

Go! Go! Go! yelled someone outside.

Grabbing my helmet I ran down the aisle between two rows of steel-framed beds and collided with a petite nurse fixing a bandage around a soldiers bloodied head, knocking her to her knees. There was no time for apologies. I powered through, running past battered soldiers and a barely human-looking corpse that had been dumped unceremoniously near an ammunition box. My heart pounded in my chest. I hoped I wouldnt be the one who made a critical error this time.

Forcing my way through the tents heavy fabric, I stepped into a torrent tearing apart the earth, creating ankle-high pools of muddy slop. Within moments the obese droplets had soaked me through. The rain fell with an unnatural intensity, the likes of which I had never experienced before. I shivered.

Seconds later the ambulance skidded to a halt, slewing sideways and throwing a vile spray in its wake. Two medics reached it first. Wrenching open its rear doors with a critical urgency, they hauled out a stretcher holding a motionless form.

A primal wailing came from inside the vehicle.

I reached the ambulance and stuck my head in.

Three bloodied casualties remained. The nearest cried out, clutching what looked like a bullet wound to the abdomen. He would have to walk. Supporting him as best I could we hobbled inside the tent, just in time to see a fellow medic pretending to have sex with the corpse.

We burst out laughing.

Cut! shouted the director.

It was my third day on set as an extra, a job I was doing not out of love for the silver screen but for some quick hard cash while I was working out what to do with my life. Today I had been given the part of a Second World War medic. The day before it was a U.S. Marine, the week before that a British P.O.W.

All was not going well.

This particular scene, shot in the clearing of a pine forest in southern England, was battering us into submission. It had taken most of the morning and countless retakes. By now all involved were soaking from the rain machine suspended from a crane above the set, and were more than ready for a hot drink and a bacon sandwich. It would be a long time coming.

Do you know how much it costs every time one of you fucks this up? yelled Rupert, an Assistant Director.

He was fresh out of schoolan expensive oneand rumor had it only got the job through family connections. He was the least-liked person on set, and competition was running high for that accolade.

Move over to the ambulance and stay put until I tell you! he yelled at the extras in the tent. He accompanied his demand by giving those within arms reach a slight push as they went past.

Could he be any more condescending?

Yes.

Chop, chop. Quick as you can, I dont have all day! he added.

But then he manhandled the wrong person.

A big, muscled, no-nonsense ex-army corporala real one just playing the part of a medic on setspun around and eye-balled Rupert with real venom.

Dont touch me, boy! he asserted in an uncompromising military tone that superseded Ruperts tenuous authority. Why do you touch people as they walk past? Are we incapable of reaching a point fifty feet away without you physically guiding us in the line of travel, or do you just have a thing about feeling up strangers?!

My heart warmed to him immediately.

Rupert went white. The threat of real violence was in the air.

He might have had a fancy-sounding job title, but in reality Rupert was the lowliest of the multiple Assistant Directors on set, being a so-called third AD, one step up from the starting job in filma production assistant or runnerand so was hardly in a position to sack the guy.

Rupert stared at the ground, squirmed uncomfortably, then backed down.

Sorry, was all he could muster in a meek voice.

I never saw him touch another extra.

It was another couple of hours before we got the scene right and made it back to the expansive catering tent. The place was heaving with a couple hundred extras: Nazis, U.S. Marines, Red Cross Nurses and Medics, all lounging at long tables looking bored. The majority had spent the morning here, waiting to be called for their particular scene. Not surprisingly, the best food had already been devoured, leaving us with the vegetarian option for lunchlukewarm bean-based casserole.

I headed for a table containing a couple of U.S. Marines with whom Id worked the previous day: Chris, a big Greek personal trainer in normal life, who had a strange obsessionor, more likely, complexwith critiquing the size of other mens biceps, as well as an odd pride in his almost total covering of gorilla-like body hair, and Russell, a full-time extra and total movie nerd who had been in just about every major feature film shot in the U.K. over the last decade.