Derek Robinson - War Story

“A British officer?” Brazier was deeply offended.

“So you see I don’t care if Frank dyes his hair sky-bluepink. He won’t get the sack from me. I need him too much.” Before long the dog Brutus chewed up Captain Foster’s clarinet. Corporal Lacey managed to find a secondhand valve trombone, and Foster was in the doorway of his tent, working on The Eton Boating Song , when he saw the Canadian, Stubbs, out for a stroll, and called him in for a drink.

They sat on the camp bed and sipped whisky from tin mugs.

“Do you really like France?” Foster asked. “Don’t you find it awfully dull after Canada?”

“Actually I’m an American,” Stubbs said. “I only joined the Canadian Army because it was a quick way to get into the RFC, but don’t tell anyone.”

“America.” Foster dipped a finger in his whisky and sucked it. “America. I’d love to be an American. No ties. Free to go anywhere, do anything.”

“I never lived anywhere except Grand Rapids, Michigan.”

“Grand Rapids. That sounds exciting.”

“I guess it is if you like making furniture.” Stubbs rubbed Brutus with his foot. “Would you like a job making furniture?”

“Not… all day, no.”

“In Grand Rapids they make furniture all year.” Brutus squirmed away from Stubbs’ foot and began chewing the trombone.

“Look here,” Foster said. All of a sudden he sounded tense and nervous. “I’m going to ask the most enormous favour.” He gave Stubbs the full force of his smile.

“Okay. Try me.”

“Well… the last time I went home on leave I did a damn silly thing. I met a girl, took her out, shows, dinners, dancing, all that nonsense.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yes, you might think so, I suppose. Trouble is, I sort of… well, fell in love. Can’t get her out of my mind.” Foster was frowning heavily. “Absolute bloody disaster, of course.”

“Why? Doesn’t she like you?”

“Oh, yes.” Foster gripped his tin mug so hard that his fingertips went white. “Yes, I’m pretty sure she was quite fond of me.”

“Sounds like a nice combination, then.”

“No. No, it’s quite hopeless. I’m afraid there’s absolutely no future in it.”

“I don’t see why. Just—”

“No future at all, believe me. I’ve thought about it a great deal and it’s all over, I can’t go on like this, it’s unfair to her, the only possible thing is to end it now, dead.”

Stubbs was briefly silenced by this burst of feeling. Then he said: “So what’s this big favour you want me to do?”

Foster sighed. “She keeps writing. I can’t forget her as long as she keeps writing, so I’ve decided the best thing for both of us would be if I arranged my demise.”

“Your demise. You mean your death?”

Foster nodded.

“Nothing but the best for the British aristocracy,” Stubbs said. “Okay, how d’you want to demise? With or without lilies?”

“I’d like you to write a letter, telling her that I was killed in action. It’s got to be definite and final. No half measures.”

Stubbs gave it some thought. “I could tell her I saw you get shot down. And crash.”

“Better say I was riddled with enemy bullets.”

“Listen, I can have you blown up in mid-air. No extra cost.”

“A flamer. Make it a flamer.”

Stubbs looked away. He finished his whisky, sip by sip. “Not a flamer,” he said. “I’ll say the rest, but not a flamer.”

Foster gave him pen and paper. “I’d do it myself,” he said,”but she knows my handwriting.”

“Okay,” Stubbs said. “What’s her name?”

“Jenny,” Foster said. “Her name is Jenny.”

Stubbs began to write. In a corner of the tent, Brutus was testing his teeth on the horn of the trombone. “Don’t tell anyone else about this, will you?” Foster said.

By 10 a.m. the day was as grey as a ghost. O’Neill flew a random pattern above a BE2c that was spotting for a shoot. About a thousand feet above him, the overcast spread from horizon to horizon. It looked like the biggest tarpaulin in the western world.

Paxton had begun this patrol eagerly. Now, after forty minutes, he was so bored that he was scratching his initials on the inside of the nacelle. The German archie was a bore. It was always in the wrong place or at the wrong height. The shoot was a bore. As soon as the guns found one target they switched to another. The German air force was a bore because it wasn’t to be seen. And then, suddenly, it was. A Fokker monoplane came out of the east. Paxton sat up as if he’d been stung.

The Fokker was at about the same height as the BE2c and was heading for it. O’Neill had seen the Fokker too; he dipped a wing so as to get a better view. Paxton fired a test burst. If they went down now they could catch the Hun when he was still a mile from the BE2c.

O’Neill did not go down. He circled, and after a while he climbed. Paxton couldn’t believe it. He turned and stared at O’Neill but all he got was blank goggles. Below, the Fokker was chasing the British plane across the Lines. Shellfire from both sides, black and white, littered the sky. Paxton slumped and swore. The FE levelled out and O’Neill cruised around for half an hour. Then they went home. O’Neill told Brazier there was nothing worth reporting.

Lunch was cold bully-beef, boiled potatoes and salad. O’Neill ate his meal quickly and went out. Paxton stayed in the mess.

“Hey!” Kellaway said. He was reading a week-old Daily Mail. ”Lord Kitchener’s dead!” He was amazed. Nobody else was.

“General Gordon’s not feeling too good, either,” Goss said. “And Napoleon’s quite poorly, so I’m told, while Alexander the Great…”

“Yes but… I mean, he was a field-marshal.” Kellaway was dismayed by their indifference.

“Who shot him?” Foster asked.

“I don’t think anyone did.”

“Too bad. A good opportunity missed.” Foster lost interest.

Kellaway turned to Stubbs. “Do you know Lord Kitchener’s dead?” he asked.

“No, but you sing it, and I’ll pick up the tune as we go along,” Stubbs said brightly. There was a weary chorus of groans and hisses. “That’s considered a pretty damn good joke back in Grand Rapids,” he protested.

“Says here he was drowned,” Kellaway said glumly.

“How’s your swimming pool coming on?” Goss asked Paxton.

“Oh, they’ve made a start.” The others looked interested, so he explained:”I’ve got a couple of dozen Chinkies digging a hole in the next field. Borrowed ‘em from a labour battalion. Dig like beavers.” The prospect of having a pool was exciting, and he answered a lot of questions. Success felt good.

O’Neill was on his bed, asleep. Paxton kicked the bed. “What didn’t you like this time?” he asked. “The colour of his eyes, or the way he parted his hair?”

O’Neill took a long time to wake up.

“We had that bloody Hun on a plate,” Paxton said. “It was a damned gift from God, that bloody Hun.” He was so worked-up that he couldn’t get the words out fast enough: they tripped and stumbled. “But you didn’t want it! One look down, and up you went! So the poor bloody Quirk got chased home while we chased rainbows!”

“You didn’t see the Albatros,” O’Neill said flatly.

“I didn’t see any Albatros, nor any golden eagle, nor—”

“Why not? You’re the observer.” O’Neill rubbed his face as if trying to push it back into shape.

“I observed the Fokker. One Hun’s enough for me.”

“Arse-hole. Our job was to guard the Quirk.”

“Which got jumped by the Fokker.”

“Balls. They saw it coming, they quit, they knew it couldn’t catch them, and it didn’t.”