Derek Robinson - War Story

“Anyway, who cares what we’re supposed to be celebrating?” Mayo said. “The fact is the old man’s thrown a party and Paxton’s got himself a Hun, so I’ll drink to that.”

“Balls,” Essex said. “The archie got it.”

“Really? Paxton didn’t say anything about archie.”

“We watched the whole damn thing,” Foster told him. “God knows what an Albatros was doing so low over our guns, he must have been insane, but they plastered him thoroughly and in the end they nailed him. I saw it happen.”

“Maybe they both got him,” Mayo suggested.

“If Paxton was the gunner in that Quirk,” Ogilvy said,”he missed every time. By a country mile. He might have hit France, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Ah,” Mayo said. “Well, now. Fancy that.” He looked from their unsmiling faces to the laughter and enjoyment all around. “Let’s not spoil everybody’s fun with anything as awkward as the truth,” he said.

They stood and drank, and watched the party. “Hey,” James Yeo said, and they waited. “This sailor friend of yours who went down with his ship,” Yeo said. “How d’you know what his last words were?”

“He sent a message in a bottle,” Foster said. “Juggins.”

Milne came out of his quarters, yawning and scratching, and saw Colonel Bliss sitting in a deckchair. “Bob, my dear chap, please forgive me,” he said. “Shocking manners. You’ve been waiting for hours and hours.”

“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.”