War Story (17 page)

“Twenty minutes. Are you awake?” Milne nodded, and he clapped his hands. The mule, Alice, stopped grazing and ambled over. “Then listen to me,” Bliss said. “What am I going to tell my boss? He's worried. You don't send in half your returns, for a start. I know paperwork's a bore, and I know you all had a rough time a few months ago, but that's over now.”

Milne patted Alice's neck. The mule sniffed his pockets,
searching. “Oh what a greedy girl you are,” he murmured. All the time he was looking at Bliss, studying him. “You're turning grey at the edges, Bob,” he said. “You're twenty-four and you're an old man.”

“Twenty-five. Now look: if you pull yourself together you're in line for promotion and probably another decoration. If you don't, you'll get the sack.”

“You leave me no choice, Bob.” Milne swung himself onto Alice's back. “I shall fly home to England for tea and crumpets, and after that …” He dug in his heels, and the mule cantered away. “Tell your boss,” he shouted,”that it will all be over by Christmas! That's official!”

Milne wandered on muleback amongst his guests, hatless, his tunic unbuttoned, ignoring anyone who spoke. He was looking for the officers from the Green Howards. He found them, and said to the one who was married: “Look here, I'm going to Brighton, now. Would you like to come? We'll be back by six o'clock.” Everyone agreed that it was illegal and irresistible. Ten minutes later they took off. Bliss watched the FE2b fly north. “Suit yourself, Rufus,” he said. “It's your funeral.”

Paxton made himself walk across the field. He wanted to run, but it would be impolite to leave behind the gunnerylieutenant who had guided him for the last mile. Also, running in flying gear might look inelegant.

The wreck had been roped off. It was guarded by a lance-corporal.

“Good Lord,” Paxton said. “They must have hit the ground a fearful wallop.” There was not much to see: a fire-blackened hole, with the tattered and shattered remains of the outer wings of the Albatros scattered around it. He picked up a bit of wood and poked about in the hole.

“That's the engine down there, sir,” the lance-corporal said. “Petrol tank over here. One of the wheels is—”

“Thank you, thank you.” Paxton did not look at the man. “I know all about this particular merchant. We have met before. The guns … I don't see the guns.”

“We snaffled ‘em,” the lieutenant said.

Paxton snorted. Indignation pressed hard on his voice and
almost cracked it. “Well you can jolly well de-snaffle ‘em!” he said. “Jolly well give ‘em back.”

“No fear. I told you: this was our bird.”

“Bilge. I was nearest, I should know. It's mine.”

“Come and fight us for it.”

Paxton walked completely around the wreckage. All the German crosses had gone: no point in asking where. “Well,” he said. “I think it's a jolly poor look-out, that's all I can say.”

“You can have the bodies, sir, if you like,” the lancecorporal said. “I suppose.”

They lay about twenty yards away, side by side, half hidden in the grass, twisted and shrunken and blackened by the fire. Both faces had gone; only black smears remained. An arm was raised as if to shield the eyes of one body from the sun, but there were no eyes. By some fluke, the right foot of the other man had survived, white and intact. Perhaps the boot came off when the bodies were dragged clear. Paxton tapped the toes. “That's funny,” he said. “His foot's the wrong way round. See? It's back-to-front.”

“You find that funny, do you?” the lieutenant said.

Paxton wasn't listening. He had noticed a button on what had once been a chest. Perhaps a regimental button. He tried to work it clear with his stick, but succeeded only in making a deep scrape. “Blast,” he said. His nostrils twitched, and he sniffed. “I say …” He swallowed, and sniffed again. “I say, isn't that…?”

“Mustard, or horseradish sauce?” the lieutenant said.

Paxton stared, and then roared with laughter. The lieutenant sighed and looked at the lance-corporal, who had the brains to look at a distant observation balloon.

“I want a picture of this,” Paxton said. “There's a camera in the car. You can keep the guns, I'll take these gunners!” He smiled broadly and triumphantly.

The lieutenant said nothing until they reached the car. “I can walk from here,” he said. “You fellows really enjoy that sort of thing, don't you? I suppose it's the only way you can do your peculiar job. Thank God I'm just a gunner.” He didn't wait for an answer.

Paxton found the camera and walked back to the wreck. The lance-corporal took two pictures of him standing beside
the bodies, one smiling, one serious. On the way back to the car he saw something purple lying in a little hollow. It turned out to be the tail unit. He collected the rudder, which had crosses on each side. It rounded off a very successful day.

Milne returned to Pepriac at about six o'clock. A car was waiting for his passenger. All the other guests had long since gone, including Colonel Bliss. Most of the pilots and observers were sitting outside the mess, drinking gin-and-tonics or – if they were due to go on patrol – tonics without gin.

Milne waved to them and went to his quarters. Captain Dando left the drinkers and caught up with him as he was opening the door. “You can come in but you're not going to examine me,” Milne said.

“Suits me,” Dando said. “I wouldn't find anything new anyway.” He was about thirty, small, with a smooth, white face, and a rounded jaw, and neat, strong lips. “How was Brighton?” he asked.

Milne stretched out on his bed. He was still in his flying kit. “I had a damn good cry,” he said. “Can you believe that? They were refuelling the plane and I went and sat under a tree. Oak. Enormous. I looked at it and I thought of all the people who've come and gone while that tree was growing, and hey presto – I got the weeps. Sergeant saw me, came over, thought I was drunk. Very embarrassing. For him, I mean. I couldn't give a damn.”

“Perfectly natural,” Dando said.

Milne turned his head and looked at him. “I expect you're accustomed to this sort of thing.”

“It's happened before. I don't think you ever get accustomed to it.”

Milne watched him for a long time. Dando rarely blinked. “The funny thing is,” Milne said,”I sometimes have a great desire to go and blow a general's head off. One of ours, not theirs. Isn't that strange?”

“Well,” Dando said thoughtfully,”it's certainly a sign of life.” Milne laughed at that, and Dando joined in. Milne laughed until he exhausted himself. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said. “Dear oh dear oh dear.”

“Sorry,” Dando murmured. “Not meant as a joke.”

“Write it down. Tell Bob Bliss. He thinks I'm a bad boy.”

“He's going to have to know the truth soon.” Dando took a seat “I didn't tell him anything yesterday, because our tests aren't always completely accurate and anyway I wanted to see you before—”

“Very kind of you,” Milne said harshly. “Just spare me the medical niceties, they're wasted … Oh,
bugger,”
he barked. “I'm starting to bloody well cry again.” He found a handkerchief and spread it over his eyes. “My manners are going to hell, aren't they? I should be ashamed… There was nothing wrong with your tests, old chap. They hit the bullseye. I've known for a month it wasn't dyspepsia. Such a rotten coward. Didn't want to do anything.”

“There's not a lot that can be done,” Dando said.

After a while Milne took the handkerchief away. “What a lovely evening.” He got off the bed and went to the window. “I don't think I've ever seen such a marvellous evening. God must be getting good at it. Makes no sense, does it?”

“Nobody ever promised that anything would make sense,” Dando remarked gently.

Milne sat on the bed and blew his nose. “I shan't lead the patrol this evening. Tim Piggott can do it. Would you tell him for me?” Dando nodded. He waited to see if Milne had anything more to say. Then he left.

‘A' Flight took off about half an hour later. Milne, still sitting on the bed, heard the engines fade to nothing. He went out and found Alice. He rode the mule at a slow walk to the far end of the airfield. There was nothing to do there, so he did nothing.

The sky was slowly gathering its strength for another grand finale of a sunset. Milne had always seen the sky as his workshop: sometimes dirty and full of rubbish, sometimes clean and full of flying. The weather came from the west and the Huns from the east. Now, for the first time, he took delight in its colours and shapes: the clouds were dazzlingly white, the blue was inhumanly pure and deep. With a bit of imagination, the blue became ocean and the clouds were islands that drifted…

Alice looked around. The padre was bicycling towards them.

“I saw you out here all alone, old chap,” he said. “I wondered if you planned to come and have some dinner.”

Milne shook his head.

The padre dismounted. “You know me, Rufus,” he said. “A bad ball hit for six beats the best sermon ever preached.” He fed Alice a sugar lump. “Nonetheless, when a chap's spirit is troubled… Well, there's a trick I've learned that's worth a try.” He handed Milne a Bible. “Open it anywhere you like and let your finger fall, and just see what verse you get.”

Milne did this. “Numbers, Chapter 21, verse 9,” he said.”‘And Moses made a serpent of brass, and put it upon a pole, and it came to pass, that if a serpent had bitten any man, when he beheld the serpent of brass, he lived'.” He returned the book, still open.

“Stuff and nonsense,” the padre said. “I don't believe it for a moment. Do you?” He studied the page, and grunted. “According to verse 6 the real serpents wouldn't even have
been
there if God hadn't sent them to bite the people. I must confess that there are times when it strikes me that the Almighty throws his weight about a sight too freely.” He tore out the page and screwed it up.

“Bad luck,” Milne said.

“Worse things happen at sea. Anything I can do for you?”

Milne combed the mule's mane with his fingers, teasing out the tangles and the burrs. He smoothed its ears until the animal had had enough and shook its head. The padre got onto his bicycle and waited. “There is one thing,” Milne said. “You could tell them to start up my machine. And tell them to put ballast in the front cockpit.”

“Ballast? Ballast.” The padre pedalled away. “Ballast, ballast, ballast,” he repeated, the words growing fainter each time.

Milne watched the sunset develop. The colours became absurdly rich, vast sweeps of lemon yellow and rose and buttermilk and brick red, as if a drunken genius had been turned loose. It deserved a symphony, Milne thought, but what it got was a lone piper leading a company of Scots infantry along the road that flanked the aerodrome. In the distance an engine coughed and died, coughed again and roared. He nudged the mule with his knees.
After dinner the adjutant went to bed, hot with fever. “Waste of time, old boy,” he had said when Dando offered to examine him. “You don't speak the lingo. This is an old Hindustani curse, this is.” The padre and Dando settled down to chess in the anteroom. After five minutes, Paxton came over and looked. “Who's winning?” he asked. No answer. He went for a walk, and was watching some of the men playing football when Corporal Lacey approached. “You have been sent a box of cigars, sir,” he said.

“Yes? From my uncle, I expect.”

“And you may have noticed that we have no hot water.”

“Nothing to do with me. Go and tell the adjutant.”

“Mr. Appleyard generates his own heat. What's more he rarely takes a bath. However, with your agreement and your cigars I can get hold of a lorryload of coal this evening, thus guaranteeing hot water for the rest of the month.”

Paxton stared. “Sounds very fishy to me. Why don't you just—”

“Why don't we just ask the Army for more coal? Because the squadron's had its ration.” Lacey was calm, almost placid. “Why have we run out? Because the adjutant swapped a quarter of the coal ration for thirty cases of wine. Why was that a mistake? Because he forgot to give any wine to the officer commanding the fuel depot. Why should that matter? Because the officer hates his job, and if we tell him we've run out of coal he will enjoy greatly not giving us any more for as long as possible. How long is that? Until our next ration is due.”

They watched the football. Someone scored a goal, and performed a handstand to celebrate. “But perhaps you like cold water,” Lacey said.

“You want me to give my cigars to this wretched officer at the fuel depot,” Paxton said.

“No fear. The sentry at the back gate gets the cigars. He's
reliable.
I wouldn't trust the officer with a bar of chocolate, the man's a scoundrel, an absolute rogue.”

Despite himself, Paxton laughed. “Your idea sounds fairly crooked to me.”

“In the Army,” Lacey said,”the shortest distance between two points is a crooked line.”
At eight thousand feet it was still as bright as mid-afternoon. The flood of sunlight coming from behind him meant that Milne could see everything to the eastward with astonishing clarity. Only one thing annoyed him: he had forgotten his silk scarf, and now every time he turned his head to search the sky, cold air whipped around his neck. That meant stiffness and aches. It was such a stupid mistake. He knew exactly where he had left the scarf; he could see it now, hanging over the back of a cane chair. Idiot.

Eight thousand feet was as high as this FE2b would climb. If he eased the stick back he immediately sensed the plane flirting with a stall: the engine simply couldn't shove the wings through the thin air fast enough. Even so, eight thousand didn't guarantee safety; plenty of Huns got a lot higher than that. Far to the south a tiny trickle of black archie showed itself. Probably a French patrol going home. Elsewhere, the sky was empty. Millions of men down below, all cramped and crowded and crushed together. Nobody else up here. What a silly war.