Derek Robinson - War Story

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Yeo said to him.

An orderly tapped on the door, looked inside, saw Collins. Collins went to him, then crossed to Paxton and murmured: “Major Milne’s compliments, sir, and could he see you in his office.” Everyone heard. There were grunts of satisfaction. O’Neill slid the mustard across the table. “Take it, you’ll need it,” he said. “The old man’s going to eat you alive.”

On the way to his billet to get his Sam Browne, Paxton passed Jimmy Duncan, who was walking carefully, as if the ground were icy. Even so, he stumbled. “Did we win?” he asked, and the words stumbled too. “We did win, didn’t we?” When Paxton said nothing, Duncan looked up. “Oh, it’s you.” He snuffled wetly and unpleasantly. “What a bloody fool you are, to be sure,” he said.

The sight of a mule eating the commanding officer’s breakfast made up Paxton’s mind for him.

He was convinced now that Hornet Squadron was a joke, and a poor joke at that. He marched up to Milne’s desk and saluted. “I request an immediate transfer, sir,” he said. That wasn’t what he had meant to say; in fact he hadn’t meant to say anything; but when the words came out they sounded exactly right. The sooner he escaped from this fifth-rate comic opera, the better.

But Milne appeared not to have heard. His desk was close to an open window, where the mule was looking in. Milne had swung his chair around and was feeding the mule from a breakfast tray. “That business last night,” he said, sounding as mild as ever, and paused while the animal licked half a slice of toast from his palm. “All a jolly jape, wasn’t it?”

Paxton didn’t know what to say. Agreeing or disagreeing seemed equally dangerous. For a moment he was flustered. Then he counter-attacked. “If you say so, sir,” he said. That’s rather clever , he thought. Rather adroit. On the strength of it he stood at ease.

Milne dipped a strip of bacon into an egg yolk and offered it to the mule. Paxton could see now that Milne had a bottle in his lap. He leaned sideways to get a better view. Actually the bottle was tucked into Milne’s trousers. It was full of gin. Or, if not gin, something just as clear. One hand was curled around the bottle, while the other fed the mule. Extraordinary , Paxton thought. And what a shocking example to set the men. No wonder there’s no esprit-de-corps here.

“This is Alice,” Milne said. He might have been running donkey rides on Margate sands. “Hasn’t she got beautiful eyes?”

“No, sir.”

“Shall I tell you what I think? I think you thought that nobody was taking you seriously.”

“If you say so, sir.” It didn’t work so well the second time. For no reason, Paxton suddenly suspected that his flies were unbuttoned. He dared not look down.

“The truth is,” said Milne, buttering toast for Alice,”that nobody was taking you seriously, and quite right too, because you’re a joke, Dexter.”

“Everything is a joke here, sir.” He linked his hands in front of his flies. “I didn’t come to France to play cricket. Or swim. I came to fight for my king and country.” Under cover of looking modest he glanced down. All was well, which encouraged him to add: “And I’m Paxton. Dexter’s still dead.”

“You’re quite right: everything is a joke here.” Milne got bored with feeding Alice and dumped the entire breakfast tray, coffee and milk and all, out of the window. “This whole war is a joke… Ah, I’ve offended you… Paxton. There, you see? I got it right.” Milne curled himself in his chair and cuddled his bottle.

Paxton sniffed. “You’re entitled to your point of view, sir. One of my cousins died of wounds last year, which wasn’t very funny.”

“Tall, was he?”

“Six foot two.”

“I thought so. All the tall ones go first. Their heads stick up over the tops of the trenches. If this war does nothing else it’ll reduce the average height of the average man to five foot three. In fact the only visible result of this war so far has been to shrink the infantry by blowing the heads off the tall ones and standing the others in several feet of water. And that, you must admit, is a small triumph for science.” Milne smiled amiably and scratched his head with the stem of a pipe.

Paxton didn’t believe a word, but hearing it from his squadron commander made him feel uncomfortable, like listening to the vicar poke fun at the Church of England. “I’m prepared to take my chance,” he muttered. “Just give me a chance to fight.”

“Ah, yes. Fighting. What exactly did they tell you about air fighting, back in dear old England?”

Paxton cleared his throat. “Enough, sir,” he lied; but since Milne wasn’t serious, what difference did it make?

“Tell me some.” Alice, the mule, brayed. “She gets jealous,” Milne explained. “Pay no attention.”

Paxton remembered the ceremony when pilots had been awarded their wings. A one-armed general with hard, unblinking eyes and deep vertical lines in his face as if split by the sun, had told them he envied them. They were the new cavalry of the clouds, and superbly well mounted too.

“War’s a bit like a game of rugger,” Paxton said. “It’s no good hesitating because the other fellow looks bigger than you. You must rush in and tackle your man. That’s the only way to get the ball.” The general’s voice had become quite husky when he’d got to that point.

“God Almighty!” Milne said. “What a load of suicidal bollocks!” He stood up, tossed his pipe into a bowl and banged the bottle on the desk as if he wanted to smash it. Paxton took a pace back. “Suicidal bollocks!” Milne shouted.

“What difference does it make?” Paxton shouted back. “I can’t die if I never fly, and you won’t let me—”

“You want to fly? Go ahead and fly.” Milne was seized by impatience.“Go now. Do what you like.” He kicked the desk.

“You said there are no machines.”

“Take the bloody silly Quirk that whatshisname brought.” Fury was growing in Milne, twisting his face, corroding his voice. “Go on! Do what the sodding hell you like!” He kicked the desk again, savagely, hurting himself and making the bottle topple and roll. Paxton grabbed it before it fell off the edge. It was hot. The bottle was hot. He stood it upright, stared at it, stared at Milne. “Who cares?” Milne said. Fury had turned to defeat. Paxton got out.

Paxton ran all the way to the hangars, to tell the mechanics to get the Quirk ready. So the old man’s potty , he thought as he ran. Who cares as long as I can fly? The sergeant on duty was doubtful. “Don’t know about immediately , sir,” he said.

“CO’s orders,” Paxton said, between gasps.

“Ah. She’ll be ready for take-off in half an hour, sir.”

He ran back to his billet. As he passed the mess, Tim Piggott poked his head out of a window and shouted. Paxton changed direction and cantered over. “Where’s the fire?” Piggott demanded. Paxton explained. “And when were you going to tell me about all this?” Piggott asked. “Me being your flight commander.”

“Ah.”

“You’re a prize tit, Paxton. Who are you flying with?”

“Um…”

“You’re a double prize tit. Last night you were a prick, today you’re a double prize tit. What next? Are you going to whistle Tipperary while you fart Rule Britannia?”

“No, sir.”

“No. And you’re not going to fly alone, either. Get Kellaway. And get a Lewis gun put on that plane.” Paxton’s face brightened. Piggott scowled. “And don’t use it!” he barked. “Stay within ten miles of here and keep out of trouble!” The window slammed shut.