War Story (11 page)

“Let me take this opportunity of reminding you all of the rules,” Milne said. “No man starts to drink until the man in front has emptied his glass, turned it upside down and put it on his head. Anyone who cheats begins again with a full glass. Puking, or falling off the boat, disqualifies the whole team. Good, I see the Warwicks are at full strength again…”

Mayo dropped his handkerchief.

The leaders of each team began drinking, gulping, gasping, sometimes choking and spluttering. The tumblers were deep and the wine was raw. All around, troops roared encouragement, stamping and whistling.

“I say, old boy,” the adjutant said. “D'you think this is such a good idea?”

“Piss off, Uncle.”

“Half of them are fairly bottled already, you know.”

“Yes, I do know. And the other half are going to be completely bottled soon, you watch.”

The Warwicks lost to the Gloucesters by a couple of moüthfuls. The Irish Rifles romped home after a young sapper tried
too hard and poured a flood of wine up his nose. Two Cameron Highlanders got into a fight while their team was leading the other sappers, fell off the bench and were disqualified. Hornet Squadron came from behind to beat the artillerymen.

“The draw for the semi-finals,” Milne declared,”is the Gloucesters against the Irish Rifles and the sappers against the airmen.”

“Look here, Rufus,” Piggott said, hiccuping painfully,”why don't we call a halt now?”

“What? And let the others down?”

“Thing is, if we win again we'll have to drink again.”

“Twice, at least. The finals are best of three. That's how they do it in Russia. Don't they, Boris?”

“You feeling quite all right, Rufus?” Piggott asked.

“Fine. You look bloody awful, but I feel fine.”

“I don't care how many nuns got raped in Belgium,” James Yeo said. “That speech was the biggest atrocity of this or any war.”

“Bags me those chandeliers,” Essex said.

“Better hurry,” Foster advised. He was lobbing coffee-cups over the next table. Nearby, there was a violent splitting and rending as a group of staff officers began ripping a door from its hinges. A brigadier wandered by and punched Ogilvy in the head. “That's for hitting me with a bread roll,” he said amiably, and punched him again. “And that's for missing. Bloody awful marksmanship.” He wandered off, dodging a crossfire of crockery and crystal. “Told you he wasn't Bunny Bradley,” Foster said. “Not a hint of a stutter.” Ogilvy picked himself up. The first chandelier came down like a bomb.

The Gloucesters beat the Irish Rifles, and the airmen beat the sappers.

“They weren't really trying,” said Douglas Goss. “Did you see their number seven? He kept spilling a bit so that he had to be topped up again.”

“Ask me, they should be disqualified,” said O'Neill.

“Can't do that, old boy,” the adjutant pointed out. “They've already lost.”

“Don't deserve to lose,” Mayo said. “Wouldn't be allowed to lose in Russia.”

“The Gloucesters are ready,” the adjutant said.

Piggott groaned. “They must have guts like firebuckets. Come on, then. Where's Kellaway?”

“Throwing up his guts into a firebucket,” O'Neill said.

“Prince Boris will take his place,” Milne declared.

“I'll get another firebucket,” O'Neill said.

“Russian royal family never throws up,” Mayo told him.

“In Russia, I have a serf who throws up for me.”

The contest had attracted a lot of spectators from the square. In corners, a couple of private fights were going on: sprawling, ineffectual brawls between men too drunk to punch. The adjutant watched it all with the eye of experience. “You know, old man,” he said,”at this rate the military police are bound to turn up soon.”

“If they care to enter a team, Uncle,” Milne said,”we shall be more than willing to entertain the challenge.”

One of the gunners performed the starting ceremony. The leader of the Gloucesters' eight was so keen that he choked on his wine, and his team never recovered. Hornet Squadron won the first leg handily.

The night was warm and still. Bats hunted moths by the light of a moon that was as white and pure as a new gas mantle. A trail of translucent cloud lay beside it; otherwise the sky was clear and rich with stars. If you stared at them long enough it was possible to feel the Earth turning. Or maybe that was dizziness helped by a stiff neck. Paxton rubbed his neck, and the universe went back to behaving itself properly.

He was sitting in the pilot's cockpit of an FE2b. It had been a very boring evening for him. After he had censored the men's letters there was nothing left to fill his time. He could have sprawled in a chair in the mess and drunk whisky, but his lunchtime drinking had left him feeling that whisky was overrated, and he was too restless to sprawl for more than ten minutes, so he went for a walk.

Inevitably it led towards the aeroplanes. Some were inside canvas hangars; some were in the open, tied down at the wingtips and the tail in case the wind strengthened in the
night. Paxton strolled around one, touching the nose, stroking the wings. The smell excited him: burnt engine oil, the tang of dope, a whiff of petrol, and something new to him, something harsh and peppery that might possibly be cordite.

Nobody was watching; the camp was asleep. And besides, he was Orderly Officer wasn't he? The canvas cover peeled off the cockpit easily and he climbed in. The seat fitted like a snug armchair. His feet found the rudder pedals and his hands closed on the joystick. A slight move, a tiny pressure, and he sensed an answering tension in the control cables. Paxton took a great breath through his nose. The way the plane sat forward on its tricycle undercarriage, nose-down and tail-high, he could easily imagine he was flying. There was nothing to be seen in front but the night, nothing above but the stars. He stared at them for a long time. When he looked down he saw a figure walking on the airfield.

It turned out to be Corporal Lacey. Paxton put his revolver away. “What are you doing out here, corporal?” he asked.

“Picking dandelions. They abound.”

“Pretty silly thing to do, isn't it?”

“Perhaps. It depends on your yardstick of silliness. Man took millions of years to emerge from the swamp and now look at him! Armies and armies of soldiers, all squatting in the longest ditch in the world. It's really quite funny. Provided you're not in the ditch, of course.” Lacey plucked another dandelion and blew its crown of seeds away.

Paxton was annoyed by Lacey's lack of patriotism but he was also taken aback by his casual reasoning. He said: “You ought to be careful. You're in danger of becoming a pacifist.”

“I am a pacifist.”

“Are you, indeed?” Paxton felt challenged. It took him a few seconds to remember the correct response. “And what would you do if you saw a German soldier raping your sister?”

“I'd get the brandy bottle. The poor man would need comforting after a dreadful experience like that.”

Paxton scoffed. “It's clear you've never seen anyone being raped.”

“It's clear you've never seen my sister. Rape is her only hope. She prays each night for a speedy German invasion of
Bognor Regis.” Lacey smoothed his hair. “Which reminds me: how are you getting on with Mr. O'Neill?”

“The man's an absolute pig. ”

“Ah.” Lacey demolished another dandelion. “I was afraid of that. You see, your difficulty is that you're not Toby Chivers.”

“And never will be.”

“True. But you're in Toby Chivers' bed and I'm afraid Mr. O'Neill can't accept that. They were terribly close, you see.”

“I don't care if they were Siamese twins, he has no right to behave like an Australian pig.” Paxton realised that he shouldn't be talking to a corporal like this, but it was too late now. “According to Fidler, the fellow's not even a genuine colonial. Is that right?”

“Yes and no. He was born in Australia, but his family sent him to England to be educated when he was only six. As it was scarcely worth going home for the holidays, he stayed until he was eighteen, and then joined the Army.”

“So all his Australian rubbish is just… just rubbish.”

“A natural reaction against the Anglican piety and cold baths of Lancing College. Not to mention the food, which I'm told was even worse than—”

“Hey! Who's that?” Paxton pointed to a dim, remote figure walking across the airfield. “Stop!” he shouted. The figure immediately ran. He chased it but within twenty paces it had merged into the night.

“Probably only a peasant,” Lacey said. “They often do a bit of poaching. Hares and partridge and so on.”

“Not while I'm Orderly Officer they don't. Where's the damn Duty NCO?”

“In the guardroom, I expect. Goodnight.” Lacey waved a hand in farewell. It was not a salute, but Paxton didn't stay to argue about it.

The Fourth of June had been fully celebrated. There was nothing intact left to celebrate.

Lord Trafford was staying overnight with a cousin who was a general and who occupied a small château outside Amiens. Trafford liked talking and he knew that his cousin alone would be a poor audience, so he invited fifteen o
twenty officers to join him for champagne at the château. The quartet from Hornet Squadron went along.

“He was always called ‘Sally' Chandler,” Trafford said. “Eton had some mighty floggers in my day but Sally Chandler stood out. He had a magnificent arm. He once flogged thirty boys before breakfast. Thirty boys! Just think of it.” Trafford beamed. “That was the great thing about Eton in my day. There was none of this modern nonsense about justice, or fair play. Everyone got flogged whether he deserved it or not. And, of course, we
did
deserve it. But I understand all that's changed now.”

“Not entirely,” Foster began; but Trafford had paused only to refill his glass. “People complain about bullying at schools,” he said. “I tell them they don't know what they're talking about. Did you ever hear tell of Miles Pratt? No?
Sic transit.
Pratt was a famous bully of my day. I bear the scars still. Pratt would strap on a pair of spurs, climb onto the back of his fag, and ride him around a room as if it were the Grand National! My thighs were like raw beef. Oh, Pratt was famous. People had far more respect for Miles Pratt than for the Headmaster, wouldn't you say, Rupert?”

“Never knew him,” the general said. “He got expelled the year before I started.”

“What for?” asked Ogilvy.

“The usual thing,” Trafford said. “I suppose that's all changed, too.”

“On the contrary,” said Foster,”it's part of the entrance examination now.”

“When the school captain examined my entrance,” Charlie Essex said,”he gave me two lollipops and an orange.”

“That's nothing,” said a major in the Rifle Brigade. “I got a box of chocolates and a crate of champagne. Is there any more champagne, by the way?”

“I don't suppose there will ever be another flogger like Sally Chandler,” Trafford said wistfully. “D'you know, he once flogged a pair of choristers who just happened to be passing his study?”

“Miles Pratt won a VC in the Second Afghan War,” said the general. “Posthumous, thank God.”
As the military police fought their way in through the front door, the adjutant led the airmen out through the kitchen. “Quickly but quietly,” he urged. O'Neill carried Kellaway on his back like a sack of coal. “Hurry, hurry,” the adjutant said. Goss stumbled and fell. “I think I've broken my ankle, Uncle,” he said. “Break what you like,” the adjutant told him, “but do it fast.” The
patron
was holding the back door open.
“Merci mille fois”
the adjutant said, giving him a handful of money. Then they were all out in the night. The distant crash and shout of battle was cut off as the kitchen door closed. Mayo began wandering off, down the alley that backed the bar. “Not that way!” the adjutant said.

“You can't talk like that to me,” Mayo said thickly.
“Moi, je suis
the next Czar of Russia but three and I'll have your bloody head chopped off if—”

Piggott grabbed him and dragged him back. There was a ladder against the alley wall and the adjutant was pushing men up it as fast as he could. Mayo, unable to escape from Piggott, surrendered to him and began to waltz. Soon this struck him as hugely funny, and he stopped waltzing to laugh. “Shut him up!” the adjutant hissed. Piggott punched Mayo in the stomach. The laughter turned to a groan, the groan to a gurgle as Mayo was sick. Spitting and wheezing, he let himself be steered up the ladder.

They were in a churchyard.

“One short,” O'Neill said. “Where's the old man?”

“Vanished ten minutes ago,” the adjutant told him. “No idea where he's gone.”

“Gone berserk, if you ask me,” Piggott said.

A deep sigh came from Kellaway. He lay stretched out on the top of a tomb, his arms crossed on his chest.

“He wants to die here,” O'Neill explained. “He reckons it's handy for the pub.”

“Did we win the boat race?” Jimmy Duncan asked. “I sort of lost count.”

“Stand him up,” the adjutant said, pointing to Kellaway. As he spoke there came a glow of light in the alley, a rush of boots and oaths and the thud of blows. O'Neill shook Kellaway by the foot. Kellaway rolled over twice and fell off the tomb, crushing something fragile, a vase perhaps. “Follow
me,” the adjutant muttered. He hurried them through the churchyard, down a muddy track and into a cobbled street. The street led back to the town square. “Rufus can look after himself,” the adjutant said. “We're going to take the tender and get out of here, now.” But the tender was not where they had left it. “Damn,” said the adjutant. “Damn, damn, damn. Also bugger.”