Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

The air tasted splendidly fresh. He breathed deeply, felt stronger and stepped out, heading away from the train. The grass was wet and his boots were soon drenched. Songbirds were busy all around him. Well, they would have been busy anyway, but he felt better to know that he had company. When he paused to look back, the trains were just a thin brown strip on the skyline. It was good to be free from all those duties. He turned and walked on, and nearly walked into a goat.

It saw him first and bolted, braying a warning. Other goats answered. He headed for them, out of curiosity, and came across the herd. They crowded together and stared. “Morning, chaps,” he said. That was when the boy stood up.

Or perhaps he was a girl. He or she was wearing a long robe with a hood that hid the face. A small child, ten or eleven perhaps. The robe had been made for someone much bigger. It brushed the ground and the sleeves were doubled back. Good for sleeping in, probably. “Hullo,” he said. “I’m James.” Damnfool thing to say to a Russian kid.

Then the hood got pushed back. Long hair, black and tangled, reached to the shoulders. That proved nothing. Plenty of small boys had long hair. Hackett saw more, and whether it belonged to a boy or a girl didn’t matter. The face was severely disfigured. It was as if a child’s face had been caught in a trap so that all the features were squashed. One eye was half-shut. The nose was shortened. The mouth was not where it should be, dragged sideways by a twisted chin. Hackett forced a smile. “These must be your goats,” he said. Gibberish. But he had to say something.

He dropped the smile. The kid’s expression hadn’t changed. Maybe it couldn’t change. “O.K. if I sit down?” No answer. He sat down. It meant getting his ass wet but a wet ass was nothing when he looked at the wreckage the kid had for a face. “This is your job, then,” he said. “I bet you’re good at it. I bet you’re the best damn goatherd for miles. I wish I’d brought you some food. Bread, cheese, fruit, cold chicken. You look as if a good meal would help.” Help? Nothing could help save this kid. He was born to be pitied. “What can I do to brighten up your day? There must be something.” Slowly, cautiously, the kid sat down. “Hey! I can whistle. Used to be good, when I was your age.” You were never his age, you dummy. He whistled. “What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?” because it was the only tune he could think of. He threw in a lot of trills and swoops, and finished breathless.

“Well, the goats liked it,” he said. And the kid seemed to have relaxed a bit. “Look, I can’t stay. I have all this funny money, roubles, no use to me, I want you to have it.” He reached forward and dropped a handful of notes in the kid’s lap.

That hurt. The kid jumped as if stung and the notes went flying. Some fell near a couple of goats, who nosed them and might have started chewing if Hackett hadn’t rescued them. “What’s wrong?” he said. “Take it, kid. You need it more than I do.” He collected the notes and offered them. “Buy yourself a treat.”

They stood and stared. Then the kid made a decision. He plucked the biggest rouble note from the bunch, went to the goats, found one and dragged it to Hackett. The message was obvious. Hackett had bought a goat.

He laughed and shook his head. The robe had a pocket, so he tucked the rest of the money in there. The kid released the goat. Then something unexpected happened, something that made Hackett’s heart give a little kick of delight. The kid took Hackett’s hand.

Now Hackett was led through the herd. The kid named each goat and glanced up to see if this was the one he wanted to buy; until Hackett realized that this was the only way the kid would take the money, so he chose the smallest, probably the youngest goat. The kid picked it up and gave it to him. Honour was satisfied. They shook hands and Hackett was pleased at the firm grip. “Good luck, chum,” he said, and bent and did something he had never in his life done before to anybody. He kissed the top of the boy’s head.

The little goat seemed content to be carried. Hackett, striding away, blinking hard, knew that he had been close to tears. Why? Because a small Russian child had a broken face? What a strange encounter.

When he reached the train he went to Susan Perry’s compartment. She was dressed, and brushing her hair.

“I went for a walk and a kid in charge of some goats sold me this one,” he said. “The kid — he, she, I couldn’t tell which, let’s say he — he didn’t sell it, I picked it out. The boy was… he looked as if a horse had stepped on his face. Two horses.”

She let the goat suck her fingers. “A mascot. All the best squadrons have a mascot.”

“I had a good idea while I was out. Squadron party tonight. To celebrate our engagement.”

“Yes, certainly.” The goat brayed as if it agreed too, and they laughed. “Don’t make a speech, James. Just bask in their envy.”

“If you say so.” He scratched the goat behind the ears. “I’d better give this animal to someone.” He didn’t want to leave.

“Try the adjutant, he’ll know what to do. It’s probably somewhere in King’s Regs.”

He moved to the door and then turned back. “I can say anything to you, can’t I? Anything at all.”

She looked mildly surprised. “Yes, you can.”

“I’ll get used to it. Never had much practice. But then… I never knew anyone like you. Pure luck. Luck is everything, isn’t it?”

“It helps. I’m glad a horse didn’t tread on your face when you were young.”

“An encouraging thought to start the day.”

“I suppose I’m out of practice too. But then, I never had anyone like you to practise on.”

He went to The Dregs, which was busy with breakfast. “Squadron mascot,” he said. “And I have an announcement.” He stroked the goat’s ears and it brayed happily. “I’m engaged to be married.” He handed the goat to the adjutant.

“Marriage isn’t allowed on active service,” Wragge said. “Anyway, the goat is far too young.”

“I knew a Canadian in France called Orson,” Dextry said. “And believe it or not, his surname was Cart.”

“That’s nothing,” Jessop said. “We had an adjutant called Mudd.”

Hackett poured himself some coffee and waited.

“Why shouldn’t a Canadian be called Orson?” Maynard said. “It’s not an unusual name over there.”

“He was married,” Dextry said. “So she’d married an Orson Cart.”

“That alters everything,” Wragge said. “I withdraw my objection. Goats are in.”

“I know I’m going to regret this,” Brazier said to Jessop, “but what’s the connection with an adjutant called Mudd?”

“Oh… chaps used to phone him up and say, ‘Is your name Mudd?’ It’s a play on words, you see. A sort of pun. They thought it was frightfully clever. They were usually sozzled, of course.”

“Nothing to do with the commanding officer’s engagement, then.”

“Um… on the whole, no.”

“Totally irrelevant, in fact.”

“Don’t rub it in, Uncle. I wish I’d never mentioned it.”

Lacey came in. “Mentioned what?”

Jessop took a large bite of toast. “Crunch crunch crunch,” he said. “And don’t try to deny it.”

Brazier turned to the C.O. “The floor is yours, sir.”

“I’m engaged to Flight Lieutenant Perry,” Hackett said. “We intend to marry as soon as possible. We’ll give a celebration party for the squadron tonight.”

Brazier led the applause. “By a happy coincidence,” Lacey said, “I found several cases of Russian champagne in the stores.” Much louder applause. “Ideal for what Count Borodin calls a prazdik , which is a Russian beano with all the stops pulled out. Should I invite the whole squadron to the prazdik , sir?”