The shellfire tailed off after half an hour. He walked back towards his car, thinking about the sound and the fury. Maybe the sound was the worst part; maybe a shell that simply exploded with no warning whistle would be less frightening. But it didn’t seem right; it somehow diminished the enemy. A noise like an express locomotive startled Milne. It rushed overhead, screech mixed with roar, and this time he fell flat. The savagery of the crash made every other shell-burst seem tame. The roadway seemed to rise up and punch him. After a long time the sky rained clods of earth. When he got up he was half-deaf, and staggering, and there was a smoking crater where he would have been thirty seconds later. So now you know, he said to himself. That’s what it’s like. Now you can go home happy, you idiot.
When Major Milne drove into Pepriac at half-past five, the intense sense of homecoming surprised him. It was only a collection of huts and canvas hangars and tents in the corner of a field; the huts were drab, the tents had faded, the hangars leaned and sagged; but he knew every detail; this was home. He stopped to look at a patch of wallflowers and tried to remember who had planted them. Harry Wild, was it? No, not Harry. They were planted last autumn, and dear old Harry shed his wings in August. Milne could see it now, quite clearly: both sets of wings folding back like a bird settling down for the night. Goodbye Harry. If the German Air Force found anything in the wreckage to identify the pilot, they sometimes put it in a bag and dropped it over a British aerodrome. Nothing came back to commemorate Harry. Except his wallflowers. No, that’s not right, Milne thought, they’re not his wallflowers. But they looked cheery all the same. Dusty and blown-about but cheery. Harry had been a bit like that. Always needing a haircut, always making daft remarks. One day somebody had called for three cheers for something, and Harry had said, “I bid four cheers!” Dotty, mindless nonsense, just what everyone needed to keep their minds off the goings-on upstairs. Good old Harry. He kept saying he was going to retire when he was twenty-one because he didn’t think it right to stand in the way of young and ambitious officers. Oh well, Milne thought, at least he wasn’t a flamer. The reds and yellows of the wallflowers waved in the breeze like paper flames. He stopped looking at them and drove on.
The adjutant walked into Milne’s office with a dozen pieces of paper to be signed. “How is everybody at Brigade, sir?”
“Everybody at Brigade is very happy.” Milne hung up his Sam Browne. “The sun is shining, partridge galore are running through the new corn, mess bills are low, and we are to have an enormous battle which will win the war.”
“Jolly good.” Appleyard laid the papers on the desk and strolled off to lean on the windowsill. “I could do with some decent shooting.”
Milne sat down and began signing. “You’re not thinking of leaving us for the trenches, Uncle?”
“What? No, no. Good God, no. But you must admit, a few brace of partridge would brighten up the menu a bit. One does get rather fed up with mutton.”
“You don’t seem impressed by the battle news.”
“Oh, well. It’s no surprise, is it? Everyone’s been beavering away around here since Christmas. New roadheads, railheads, depots, shell dumps, and everywhere you look nothing but camps and camps of infantry, all busily sticking their bayonets in bags of hay, not that a bag of hay feels the slightest bit like anybody’s tummy, and I should know.”
Milne stopped signing. “Should you? Why?”
Appleyard hunched his shoulders and looked away. “Oh, you know,” he said. “I pronged a couple of Boers in South Africa. Not normally the work of an officer, I agree, but we were a bit shorthanded that day.”
Milne waited. “Well, what was the difference?”
“You don’t want to hear about all that, Rufus.”
“Yes, I do, Uncle. Stomachs interest me.”
“All right. Suit yourself.” The adjutant turned away from the window and looked up at the rafters. “First. Getting the damn thing in. That’s no problem, provided you don’t hit a belt or an ammunition pouch. It goes in very easily. But whereas in training your bag of hay is suspended from a branch or tied to a stake which keeps it in place, your actual human foe tends to react violently to having half a yard of steel thrust in his guts, and unless you withdraw it quick he may commence writhing. When sufficiently vigorous, this writhing will slacken your grip on the rifle, which is contrary to King’s Rules and Regulations since it hinders withdrawal and furthermore presents an unsoldierly appearance. Writhing has also been known to enlarge the aperture, thus spilling the guts. You’d be amazed what a lot of guts the average man has, old boy. I know I was. Fathoms of the bloody stuff. You think it’s all out and he’s only half-done. God knows how the Almighty packed it all in there in the first place. Satisfied?”
“Mmmm.”
“Just make sure you don’t step on any of it. Extremely slippery stuff. You might go arse over tit, do yourself an injury.”
“Yes.” Milne resumed signing. “That’s a thing you’ve got to watch out for in wartime, isn’t it, Uncle? Doing yourself an injury.”
Appleyard wasn’t sure whether Milne was mocking him, so he said nothing.
Milne signed the last sheet, and re-read it. “Kellaway turned up after all. I thought Paxton said he went down in the Channel?”
“Apparently he didn’t.”
Milne shuffled the papers into a pile. “Funny sort of mistake to make.”
“Oh, Paxton likes to impress people. I’m told he was walking all over the ‘drome this afternoon, waving a revolver. Damn lucky nobody got shot, apparently.”
Milne stared. “Why didn’t someone stop him? Who’s Orderly Officer?”
“Paxton is. It was Spud Ogilvy’s turn, but Spud says Paxton was so keen to do it that he let him. Nothing was happening here today. Place was empty.”
“Too complicated for me, Uncle.” Milne yawned, hugely. “Why do I feel so tired all the time? I never used to feel tired …” There was a knock at the door. A despatch rider came in, saluted, and gave Milne a thick envelope. Milne signed for it and the man left.
“He’s early,” Appleyard said.
“It’s the fourth of June.”
The adjutant nodded, and looked at a calendar on the wall, and nodded again. He tugged at an ear while he gave the fact more thought. “Sorry, old chap,” he said,”I’m in the dark.”
“Eton College. Fourth of June is their big day. Brigade HQ is lousy with Old Etonians, and they’ve knocked off early so they can go to the Old Etonian dinner in Amiens. Half of ‘C Flight are going. Frank Foster, James Yeo, Charles, Spud, they’re all Etonians. That’s why I put them together.”
“Well, well.” The adjutant collected his papers and opened the door for Milne. “Well, well, well. I never knew that.”
“Yes, you did, Uncle, I told you at the time.” They walked towards the mess. “How are your terrible tubes nowadays?” Milne asked. “Is that new doctor any good?”
“He’s given me different medicine. Tastes foul.”
“Maybe you should see a specialist.”
“Nobody specialises in what I’ve got,” Appleyard said,”because nobody else has got it.”
When the squadron had assembled in the anteroom, Rufus Milne opened the letter from Brigade HQ. It was heavily sealed in a square brown envelope of thick paper, and he used a penknife to slit the end. A few men watched him but most looked at something else: the empty fireplace, the faded pattern of the carpet, dust-motes slanting in the air. When he closed the knife, its click was loud. “Flying orders for tomorrow,” he said. “Morning. One flight to provide escorts for artillery observation. That’ll be ‘C Flight. Various rendezvous with various Quirks from 9 Squadron at various times – Frank will have all the details. First rendezvous is 10.00 hours. You’ll be over the usual areas: Pozières, Mametz, Montauban.” The names produced a few soft groans. “Evening: one flight to provide escort for a photoreconnaissance patrol from IS Squadron. That’ll be ‘A’ Flight, and I shall lead it. No more details yet; they’
ll be telephoned through to us. But if the weather is clear and sunny, the patrol will be late in the evening, when the shadows are long. It seems that shadows can be very revealing on photographs. That’s all, except to welcome Kellaway, just arrived from Blighty.” Kellaway blushed and looked at his boots. “Kellaway and Paxton are in reserve until we get some more aeroplanes. That’s all.” Paxton did not blush. He chewed on a forefinger and watched Milne. The stillness and silence broke now that everyone knew the worst, which was not so bad after all; no worse than most days, in fact. The gramophone began playing ragtime. There was laughter, and a chair fell over. “Come and have a drink,” Piggott said to Kellaway. “Tell me all the latest London scandal. You too, Paxton.”
“Thank you, no,” Paxton said. “I have …” He squared his shoulders and tightened his buttocks. “I have certain duties to attend to.”
“Bollocks. At this time of day? There’s nothing left to be done.”
“On the contrary, I have to inspect the men’s latrines.”
“Now? What on earth for? The men’s latrines will be full of the men.”
“I inspected them earlier and their condition was unsatisfactory. Mens sana in corpore sano, and vice versa. I’m sure I have no need to translate.” Paxton nodded, and left.
“Pompous prick,” Piggott said. Kellaway, totally at a loss, smiled with one side of his mouth and frowned with the other, and ended up looking foolish.
Chapter 4
Zeppelins strolled about the skies at night, and sometimes small bombs fell on large towns. Thus there was a blackout in Amiens. The ballroom of the Grand Hotel du Nord had been converted to an enormous dining room and it was brilliantly lit but the windows were heavily curtained in velvet. Each set of curtains was made in different colours: red and black, chocolate and orange, fawn and blue, green and grey, and so on. These were the house colours at Eton. The windows nearest the top table were curtained in purple and white, the colours of the college itself.
About three hundred Old Etonians were present. The vast majority were in uniform, with many of the uniforms representing the Brigade of Guards. At least eight full generals could be seen. The average age was about forty. “Quite a decent turn-out,” said Lord Trafford, who had travelled from England to preside. “Perhaps not so many young chaps as last year.”
“No, not so many,” said the general at his side, and got on with his soup.
“It would be a shame if the younger chaps lost interest.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case.” The general knew what the case was. Fifty thousand British casualties in the autumn offensive at Loos, that’s what the case was. Loos was an idiot place to pick a fight, nothing but a tangle of coalfields; and the fighting had grown more ferocious as it became more pointless. Bad for the men, worse for the officers – the young officers – because they were in front, leading. So that was where a lot of Old Etonians came to a sticky end, at Loos, and at lesser scraps called Neuve Chapelle, Festubert, Aubers Ridge, he couldn’t remember them all. No ground had been gained anywhere, or none worth having; but a tremendous number of Germans had been killed and that was what mattered. The general could not tell his lordship this: it was not done to talk shop on these occasions. But he wished the man would use his imagination. Where the devil did he think the younger chaps had gone? To the cinema? To see Charlie Chaplin?
Trafford opened his menu. “I see we are to have Hungarian crêpes. Sounds rather jolly, doesn’t it? Hungary … I’m afraid I’ve forgotten whose side the Hungarians are on.”
“Austria,” the general told him. “But that’s a technicality. The Hungarians are on the side of the Hungarians, a very loyal people, they don’t mind who they betray.”
Trafford smiled. “Neither do I,” he said,”as long as they make good crêpes.” They gazed out at the brilliant gathering, at the snowy tablecloths, at the ranks of heavy cutlery and the parade of crystal, all buffed to a fine shine, at the Spode crockery, specially made for the occasion and bearing the college arms, at the constant flow of waiters and winewaiters: the best of everything, either human or material, all caught in the glow of a hanging garden of chandeliers; and all enhanced by a gentle thunder of conversation, the heartwarming noise of male fellowship.
“Yes, quite a decent turn-out,” Trafford said.
At a distant table, Charlie Essex fingered his soup-plate and squinted at the chandelier, gauging range and height.
“Not yet,” Ogilvy said. “We can’t eat without light.”
“Only six courses to go,” James Yeo added.
Foster studied him, and then looked away.
“What’s up?” Yeo asked.
“Your haircut. It’s a trifle too severe. Doesn’t suit you, James.”
“Rubbish. It suits me fine, because I can’t see it.”
A bread roll passed overhead at high speed. “Hullo!” Charlie Essex said. “School’s out!” The T-shaped table in the mess at Pepriac was less than halffull for dinner. They were served roast pork. “I’ve got a complaint,” said Douglas Goss. “This mutton tastes of pig.”
“You must have bitten your tongue,” said Jimmy Duncan, one of the gunner-observers. The remark drew some laughter, not because it was all that funny but because Duncan had said it. He was a short, thickset Scot, who usually took so long to say anything that he got interrupted before he finished.
“That reminds me,” Milne said. “We’re to get another medical officer.”
“Last one got rabies,” O’Neill told Kellaway. “That was after the adj went and bit him in the arse. Isn’t that right, Uncle?”
“Absolutely true,” Appleyard said.
“I’ve been thinking,” Milne said. He spooned apple sauce onto his plate. “Now that summer’s here we ought to make the most of it. Enjoy ourselves a little. We could invite another squadron to dinner. Maybe even hold a dance, if we could find some girls and some music.”
“How about a horse race?” Piggott suggested. “Lots of cavalry hanging about doing nothing.”
Milne nodded eagerly. “That’s the stuff. I mean, just because there’s a war, it doesn’t mean we can’t make the most of life.”
“Concert party,” said Appleyard. “Song and dance. Comic turns. Funny hats.”
The others discussed the ideas at length, but Milne had no more to say. Paxton, bored by the conversation, glanced at Milne from time to time, and saw that he had stopped eating. One hand propped up his head while the other hand gathered breadcrumbs and made them into a tiny ball. The fellow’s a dreamer, Paxton thought. Look at him, he shouldn’t be leading a squadron, he’s past it, he ought to be pensioned off. There was a fine tremor in Milne’s fingers, a mere shimmer. What this squadron needs—
A bit of bread struck Paxton in the face, and made him recoil. “I just asked you,” said Piggott,”in English, which is the language we use around here, whether you’d be willing to organise a boxing tournament.”
“No.” Too brusque; far too brusque. “Not my sport,” he added.
“No boxing,” Milne said. “I don’t like boxing.” He took his fist away from his face. Tim Piggott was surprised to see how old he looked. His eyes were pouchy and there were unhappy brackets dragging down the corners of his mouth. The old man looked thirty if he looked a day. “Tell you what I think we ought to do,” Milne said. “We ought to get in a tender and drive to the nearest decent estaminet and celebrate something. I know: we’ll celebrate my birthday.” They liked that. It earned some pounding on the table.
“Your birthday’s not until October,” the adjutant said.
“Oh, Uncle,” Milne told him. “What a bore you are.”
Of the ‘C’ Flight pilots at the Fourth of June dinner, only the flight commander, Frank Foster, looked at all like the popular conception of an Old Etonian: tall, slim, dark-haired, handsome if you like the long nose and broad upper lip of the British aristocracy. He managed to appear aloof and languid at the same time. His title – he was the Honourable Frank Foster �
�� was a piece of social baggage he carried around but never used. The adjutant had once suggested that it might buck up the tone of the squadron if he used it, but Foster, gently straightening the adjutant’s tie, had said, in a voice as grave as a hanging judge, “Those who know me, don’t care, and those who don’t know me, don’t matter. There now, that’s better. You really must learn to look after yourself, Uncle, even if you do spring from humble peasant stock, I mean that’s not your fault. Just look at poor Spud Ogilvy here. Born out of wedlock to a pair of Irish charcoal-burners, never wore shoes until he was nineteen, yet he’s a credit to the squadron, isn’t he? Do up your flies, Spud, there’s a good chap. You’re not in Connemara now.”
In fact Ogilvy’s father was Master of the Hunt in Galway and one of the richest barristers in London; but it was true, Spud did look a bit like a gypsy: wavy black hair that flopped forward, high cheekbones, a quick smile that seemed too big for his face. James Yeo, by contrast, had left Eton a shy, somewhat lazy schoolboy and gone through the subalternfactory to emerge transformed into the classic young English officer, upright and alert and privately very grateful for his luck in being born at exactly the right time to fit into a big war. Soldiering was the perfect life for Yeo; it gave him everything he wanted – comradeship, excitement, purpose – and he was happy to do it for ever. He especially enjoyed the chance to do a lot of flying and win a few medals before peace came and put a damper on the glory.
Charlie Essex saw things differently. It was not true that he had been sent down from Cambridge in his first year because he was no good at sums or spelling; plenty of stupider undergraduates than Essex strolled through their nine terms (and many got a degree). The truth was that he had gone to Cambridge because he wanted to win a boxing Blue. It was Essex’s bad luck that there were a lot of good boxers in his weight that year. He lost more contests than he won. Finally he got his nose very thoroughly broken, and he knew he would never be good enough to get a Blue, so he quit. He didn’t much care. He’d learned that everything was a matter of luck, anyway.
War Story Page 7
