Derek Robinson - War Story

“Nothing was happening,” Tim Piggott said. “That’s the funny thing. We were in the middle of a patrol, no Huns, no nothing. And I got this sudden overwhelming impulse.”

“Well… perhaps not quite overwhelming,” the padre said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here now, would you?”

“If I hadn’t been strapped in I wouldn’t be here now. I tell you, padre, the urge to climb out of the cockpit and walk away was enormous. Irresistible. All right, nearly irresistible.”

“This may seem a silly question.” the padre said,”but where did you think you were going?”

“Nowhere. Just… away, I suppose. Away.”

They were sitting in the padre’s room. The guns rumbled like a passing train that never passed.

“I would suggest a spot of leave, but…”

“I’ve already had a spot of leave. Hated it. Ended up in London, getting drunk. Came back a day early.”

The padre chewed on his lower lip for such a long time that Piggott grew worried that he might draw blood.

“I promised myself I’d stop doing this,” the padre said,”but evidently my will is weak. Take the Bible, shut your eyes, let it fall open wherever it will, place your finger on the page, see what verse you get.”

“Rather like using a pin to find a winner.” Piggott followed instructions and opened his eyes. “Ecclesiastes, nine, verse ten. ‘Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.’”

“I say! That’s pretty snappy, isn’t it?”

Piggott read it again, silently. “Life is better than death,” he said. “That’s what it boils down to.”

“Yes indeed. And personally I find it very encouraging. I must admit I was beginning to despair… But what’s your opinion?”

“If it wins, I’ll back it,” Piggott said.

Someone had changed the soap in the Chinese bathroom. Now it had a delicate scent of lemons. The towels were crisp and thick, and had snarling red dragons woven into them.

Evidently she was giving a party. The terrace and the rooms opening onto it were full of talk, laughter, music. Paxton guessed there were fifty officers, all young, and half as many nurses, all pretty. You could drink champagne, or champagne. Everyone was drinking champagne. Chinese lanterns hung all around the terrace and never mind the blackout.

He wanted her with an urgency like hunger but he wanted her to himself. So he strolled around the edge of the crowd and kept away from her. He hadn’t been invited and she didn’t know he had arrived. Once or twice he had a very odd sensation: as if he were outside himself, overhead, watching himself stroll around. He had a drink and the sensation went away. He knew he wasn’t drunk. Maybe he was sick with wanting. Certainly there were moments when he could have killed all these people, just swept them away so that nobody was between him and her.

He drank a bit and smiled a lot. People chatted to him, or he to them. It was amazingly easy to talk to strangers: you just said the first thing that entered your head and before you could finish, they interrupted with something they wanted to tell you, and it was all balls so who cared? And all the time he kept away from her.

A car appeared below the terrace. One group left, and then they were all going. They made a lot of noise, and suddenly the only noise was the last car going down the drive.

He sat on the terrace wall, in the shadow between two lanterns. “Hullo,” she said from the house.

“Hullo yourself.”

“If you’re a real burglar, come inside and start burglaring.”

He got down and went inside. Now that he could get a close look at it, her dress – green silky stuff, so thin you could sort of see through it – was even more startling than he’d thought. It didn’t cover much, and what bits it covered seemed to be obvious whenever she moved. Half of him was scared of touching it and the other half wanted to give it a little tug to make it fall off. “What a rotten party,” he said.

“Oh, a real stinker.”

“I hated it.”

“Fine. Next time I shan’t invite you.”

“Again.”

“Certainly, again. I knew you wouldn’t like it. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“You’re always bloody right,” he said gloomily. “Everything about you is completely and utterly bloody right. That’s what I can’t stand about you. In fact I—”

“Oh, shut up.” She kissed him on the mouth, and this time it was much better. He knew where his nose went, and what to do with his tongue. He even had some success with his hands. When she tipped her head back and looked at him she said:”This must be your birthday.”

“Why?”

“All of a sudden you’ve grown up.”

He felt both pleased and embarrassed, so he said: “I’ve come for another dancing lesson.”

“Another kill?” She was delighted. It wasn’t flattery; he could see the sparkle in her eyes, feel the sudden hug.

“Another kill.” It wasn’t true, but who cared?”Devil of a scrap, against two of the blighters.” Anyway, it might be true, maybe the Albatros crashed, it was certainly shot-up.

“And how’s that big strong machine-gun of yours?” She put her cheek against his and whispered:”Still going bangbang-bang?”

“None of your business,” he whispered.

“Don’t worry. I’ll winkle that secret out of you.”

They danced. The music was very slow, and she was more interested in kissing than in dancing. “You’re the loveliest killer I danced with all night,” she said. He thought about that remark all the way back to Pepriac.

The bombardment had lasted all day and all night. When dawn came it took away the pulse of light that had danced along the eastern skyline, but the rolling thunder went on. “Get used to it,” Cleve-Cutler told his flight commanders when he called a meeting after breakfast. “I don’t know any secrets but the general impression at Wing and Brigade is that this is just the beginning.”

Piggott said: “If we’re going after the Boche artillery we must have hit every gun they’ve got twice over by now.”

“It’s not that easy,” Gerrish said. “I bet the Hun pulled his artillery back as soon as he saw what we were up to.”

“So what’s this? A summer sale? Clearing out old stock?”

“We’re after their wire,” Cleve-Cutler said, as breezy as a master of foxhounds. “Troops can get past shellfire but they can’t climb over barbed wire. So we’re blowing it to blazes.”

“Then what?” Gerrish asked.

“Then we capture their first-line trenches, of course.”

“There won’t be any first-line trenches left to take, if we go on chucking shells at them like this.”

“Then we take their second-line trenches. That suit you?”

“Or failing that, the outskirts of Berlin,” Piggott said.

“Funny you should say that,” Foster said. “Last time we had a Big Push, we captured about half a mile. Assuming we have two Pushes a year, I calculate we’ll reach Berlin no later than—”

“Save it, Frank. I have news,” Cleve-Cutler said. “We’re getting a better FE.” That made them sit up. “It’s the FE2d. What happened to the FE2c God knows, they probably murdered a few test pilots with it before they realised the wings were on back-to-front. Anyway, this version is supposed to be bigger and stronger and faster and climbs higher and for all I know it makes Welsh rabbit and tells your weight and fortune if you put a penny in a slot…” He was dishing out fat envelopes to each man. “It’s all in there. Go off and read it and brief your blokes. We’re supposed to get these new machines today. I’d like a word with Frank.”