Derek Robinson - War Story

“I want you to fly me to England.”

Paxton felt he could reasonably smile at that. He swung his legs inside and sat on the cockpit edge. “You don’t really want to go to England, do you?” he said.

“No, I want to go to fuckin’ Australia where they’ll never fuckin’ catch me but if I can get to England maybe I can stow away on a fuckin’ boat or something.” His elbows were propped on his knees, and Paxton’s handkerchief was pressed hard against his cheek. Paxton tried to remember how old he’d said he was. Eighteen? Seventeen? He looked about fourteen. He looked as if he could do with a damn good meal, too. “I’ve thought it all out,” Watkins said flatly. “Bleedin’ France is no good, I don’t parley-voo an’ I got no francs, fuckin’ police are everywhere, they’d catch me like they caught poor old Dodds, an’ shoot me too, so you got to take me to England, I got a fuckin’ chance if I can get there.”

“Look here, I’m sure you’ve got this all wrong,” Paxton said.

“Could we be there in time for tea? Is it really fast, your aeroplane?”

“Let me try to explain,” Paxton said.

“I’d give any bloody thing to be home in time for tea. Any bloody thing.” He was chewing on his knuckles. “They had to shoot Dodds twice. Firing party fucked it up. Bastard officer had to finish the poor bugger with his revolver. We all heard it.” He looked at Paxton, accusingly, appealingly. “That’s never bloody right, is it?”

“I don’t know. What had he done?” When Watkins looked away, Paxton asked:”Did he desert? Was that it?” Watkins nodded. “Well, you know as well as I do,” Paxton said,”desertion’s a very serious crime. Was Dodds a particular friend of yours?”

“He wasn’t in my mob. I just happened to know him.” Watkins yawned. “You said you’d fly me to England. You promised.” He wasn’t pleading; merely reminding.

“I’m afraid we’ve got our wires crossed, old chap. I never said anything about England. Besides, have you any idea how far it is from here? It’s a jolly long way, and much further to Yorkshire. This bus won’t fly for ever, you know. One’s got to land and refuel several times.”

“I’ll pay you for the petrol.”

“No, no, that’s not the point—”

“I’ve got the money at home. Cash.”

Paxton sighed. This was becoming very difficult.

“Two pounds, I’ve got saved. Will it be more than two pounds, the petrol?”

He really was a handsome lad and Paxton would happily have paid more than two pounds to see him smile, but it was time to be firm. “It’s quite impossible for you to fly to England,” he said,”because for one thing you’d be deserting and for another thing my machine is going up on patrol very soon. Incidentally, how did you know this was my machine?”

“You got out of it and came over and talked to our Captain Jameson.”

“Ah. So you were one of the drill unit? Excellent performance, by the way. Congratulations. Now look here, old sport: you don’t want to go back to England. Damn it all, you’re a volunteer! You’re one of Kitchener’s Army!”

“So what?” Watkins said, with the bleak fatalism of a child. “What’s the sodding difference? They brought in fuckin’ conscription months ago, didn’t they? Bastards would’ve got me, one way or the other.”

“But you don’t want to miss the show!” Paxton urged. “I mean, this is the grand finale! Don’t you want to join in the fun?”

“Fun.” Watkins rested his head on his arm again. “Fun.”

“Yes, certainly, fun! You’ll be able to tell your grandchildren: ‘I went over the top at the Somme and we walked all the way to the Hun front line and we captured the lot!’ It’ll be a Cakewalk.”

“You believe all that bollocks, do you?”

“Listen to the guns.”

“Fuck the guns. I hate fuckin’ guns. I’ve been in an attack an’ I know what it’s like an’ it’s not like what you saw us do that day I mended your motorbike. That’s a fuckin’ fairytale, that is. It’s not like that in a real attack.”

“Indeed? What’s the difference?”

Watkins turned his head and looked at him, a long, wide-eyed look that seemed so candid and trusting that Paxton was quite flattered until he realised that Watkins was looking straight through him. Eventually he said: “I used to be a gardener’s boy.” So did Dick , Paxton thought, what a coincidence. ”One day I was cuttin’ the grass, pushin’ the lawnmower, up an’ down, up an’ down, an’ I saw this spider in the grass, just in front of me, runnin’ like a bastard to get away an’ before I could stop the lawnmower I’d run over the bugger. I thought at the time: poor little sod, chopped up by a fuckin’ great lawnmower, never stood a chance. Well, that’s what it’s like when you go over the top. You’re like a spider under a lawnmower.”

“Come on.” Paxton reached down to help him but Watkins would not move. “I’ll give you a lift back to your camp on my trusty motorbike.”

“Too late. I’m overdue. Absent without leave. I’m fucked.”

“No you’re not. I’ll make up an excuse for you. I’ll tell them I needed you to help me do something.”

“What have we here?” said Brazier. His head and chest appeared above the cockpit, and instantly Watkins scrambled to his feet, hatless, face smudged, eyes frightened, and looking as guilty as a murderer.

“It’s quite all right, adj,” Paxton began.

“You don’t belong here,” Brazier said, using that bright, confident tone that every soldier knows means he’s in trouble to the armpits so there’s no point in trying to dodge it. “I don’t know your face, do I?”

Paxton said: “Honestly, adj, I can—”

“What a filthy, tatty, shabby apology for a private soldier you are.” Brazier reached out with his cane and flicked a tunic button. “Do your buttons up, lad. And put your headgear on. And stand to attention when addressed by an officer!”

Watkins stopped fumbling with the button and searching for his cap, and jumped to attention. Paxton was amazed by the transformation Brazier had achieved. Watkins now looked as if steel rods had been inserted in his small body. His shoulders were forced back, his chest stuck out, his chin was tucked down and his head was quivering with the strain of holding himself so erect. “Name, rank, number,” Brazier snapped.

Paxton climbed down from the aeroplane while Watkins chanted his reply. He knew there was no point in talking to the adjutant. The Army had taken over; you couldn’t talk to the Army. He walked away and sat on the grass. He could hear Brazier asking about permission, and intentions, and absence from duty. If Watkins answered he spoke very quietly. Paxton lay on his back and counted the clouds. Brazier shouted: “Duty NCO!” in a voice that could have knocked the flies off the cookhouse roof. When Paxton stood up, Brazier and Watkins were standing beside the FE and the Duty NCO was doubling across the field towards them. Paxton gave up. He strolled back to the deckchairs. Most of them were empty. It was nearly time to get dressed and go on patrol.

“Who was he?” Goss asked.“Nobody.”

“You had a long chat with him. For a nobody.”

“He was a lost dog, if you must know. And now I suppose they’ll send him to the dogs’ home.” The Duty NCO was quick-marching Watkins towards the guardroom.

“Here’s your toilet-paper,” O’Neill said. He held out the sheet of poetry.

“Oh, fuck off,” Paxton said.

Goss and O’Neill looked at each other. “I don’t know where he picks up these words,” Goss said. “Not from me, I’m sure.”

“He’s been playing with those nasty boys in the street,” O’Neill said. “Just look at his fingernails!”