Heart of War (6 page)

The owner of the
estaminet
came through from the front room, a slight woman dressed in black, about forty-five, hard of eye.

England yelled again, ‘More van blong!'

‘Tais-toi
,' she snapped. ‘Ze militaire police will come.'

‘Fuck the M.P.s, I want some more van blong!'

Madame went out, returning a few seconds later with a bottle. She cradled it in one hand and held out the other, palm up – ‘Four francs.'

‘Four francs!' the soldiers cried in unison. ‘We only paid three for the first two bottles, and that was a bloody rook!'

‘Differ'n wine,' she said shrugging. ‘Bettair. No more of othair.'

Grumbling, England smacked four silver francs into her hand. She gave him the bottle, and went out.

Quick began to sing again, but no one joined in, and he let a phrase die on his lips.

‘Fuck the French,' Harry England said sullenly. ‘Fucking robbers, that's what they are. The whole bloody lot of them.'

‘Robbers or whores … or both,' Bob Jevons said, whose father was the baker in Walstone: as Harry England's was the blacksmith, and Charlie ‘Dusty' Miller's the stationmaster; and Stan Quick's the postman; the fifth man, an old regular with nineteen years' service, mostly in India, was called Lucas, an unemployed labourer before taking the King's shilling to avoid starvation in the slums of Birmingham.

‘Don't take it so hard,' Lucas said now. ‘Afore we go back up the line, we'll have a few chickens and ducks out of these bleeding Frogs. Are we in France or Belgium?'

‘ 'Oo the 'ell cares? Wot's the difference?'.

‘It is in France, just. Like Armenteers,' Quick said, breaking once more into song.

Two German officers crossed the Rhine, parly voo
,

Two German officers crossed the Rhine, parly voo
,

Two German officers crossed the Rhine
,

To fuck the women and drink the wine, inky pinky parly voo!

Madame appeared, her sour mouth more tightly pursed than ever.
‘Taisez-vous!'
she snarled. ‘Be more quiet, or I call militaire police!'

The old soldier got up. He had drunk near a bottle of wine to himself but his leathery face showed no sign of it. He said over his shoulder, ‘Got to treat these Frog cunts nice …' He reached the madame – ‘We very 'appy 'ere, madame … Good food, good van blong … '

Her stony face softened a little – ‘Am glad …' The rumble of shelling from up the line, ten miles to the east, continually shook the little brick building. Harry England's hand trembled round the wine bottle.

Old Soldier Lucas said,
‘Bote thik hai
…
pukka memsahib
you are … We all
kushy avec
you, eh?' He put an arm halfway round her waist. She swung a small iron hard fist in a fierce sweep, landing on Lucas's nose. Blood spouted as she turned and strutted out, hurling
‘Cochons!'
behind her.

Quick doubled up with laughter. ‘That's right, Snaky! Treat 'em nice, and they'll eat out of your hand!' He slapped Miller joyously on the back. England drank. Lucas dabbed his nose with a handkerchief soaked in wine, and mumbled, ‘ Now wot the 'ell got into her? All I said was, we was 'appy 'ere …
Kushy
. That's 'Industani for 'appy.'

‘She doesn't speak Hindustani,' Jevons said. ‘She wasn't with the old 2nd Battalion in the Shiny.'

‘Fuck the war!' Miller said. His best friend in Walstone when they were boys had been Sam Mayhew; and he'd seen Sam's life seeping out of his lungs in red froth, soaking his tunic … near Neuve Chapelle that was. Took two days to die. They'd both been eighteen. He still was by the calendar. The calendar didn't tell the truth any more.

‘The war ain't so bad,' Quick said, ‘it's the people you meet.'

England said, ‘Why the 'ell did we join up, when we could ha' waited, and they'd have to come and get us?'

‘Patriotism,' Miller said. ‘ Our King and Country needed us … '

‘But they don't need half the fellows back there now, going out with our girls, earning five times what we do … then going on strike for more … eating off the fat of the land while we get Hoggin's fucking pig swill … '

‘ Aren't many left in Walstone, who could go,' Bob Jevons said. ‘The gentry's sons have all gone, too. I can't imagine Walstone without us … Why, it's today Miss Stella's being married, and none of us there to drink her dad's champagne!'

‘What'll it be like when it's all over?'

‘We'll all be napoo … This war's going on for bloody ever, if you ask me.'

‘We didn't. 'Ave some more van blong … You'll 'ave to go out into the parlour and get some more, Bob. Madame's not going to come back and let Snaky try it on with her again.'

‘I didn't,' Lucas said aggrievedly. ‘She doesn't understand good English, that's what.' Lucas's real Christian name was Rupert, but like all men in the British Army with that surname he was called Snaky, as all Millers and Rhodes were called Dusty.

There was a long silence, while the five soldiers stared into their wine glasses, drank, and stared again. The booming of artillery continued without cease, but they were too far away to hear small arms fire. Closer above in the night an aeroplane flew low, its engine thrumming in the dark. To drown out – useless hope – the shaking of the artillery, England said, ‘What do you reckon we'll be doing next?'

‘Chatting,' Lucas said shortly, ‘what the 'ell do you think we'll be doing?'

England drank – he was already three parts gone, his hand shaking worse than ever. Lucas noticed the trembling hand and said ‘Your hand's shaking, man. Shell shock, that's what you've got. The Regimental will have you on a charge tomorrow. Only officers is allowed to get shell shock. Twenty-eight days Field Punishment Number One for you.'

England ignored the badinage, or did not hear it. ‘It's time the fucking Frogs did something. After all, it's their
fucking country, innit? But it's us what's dying for it.'

Four French civilians came in by the back door, leaving their clogs just inside, on the scrubbed brick floor, and shuffling silently to a table the other side of the room in their bedroom slippers. They were all men in their fifties and sixties, wearing the black velvet coats and the blue trousers of small farmers or farm labourers. As they entered they acknowledged the presence of the British soldiers with a brief – ‘M'sieurs'; but did not glance in the soldiers' direction.

Madame had learned by some telepathic means that the farmers had come into her back room, and appeared from the parlour, smiling as much as the natural chicken's-arse formation of her mouth would allow. The soldiers heard the muttered French, then she went out again.

‘Why aren't those bastards fighting?' England asked belligerently.

“Cos they're too old. Is
your
dad in uniform?'

Madame reappeared with two bottles and set them down on the table with glasses. One of the French farmers gave her money; it slipped out of her wet hand to the floor, and all five soldiers saw the two silver francs.

‘Look at that!' England gasped, ‘two bottles of van blong, two francs. One franc a bottle … and what's the old bitch charging us? Four francs!' He pushed his chair back hard, so that it flew backward across the room, crashing into the wall. He roared, ‘Madame, five more bottle van blong, one franc each,
unfronk
, see?' He staggered towards her waving an empty bottle from the table. Two of the farmers stood up, gesticulating; the others poured the wine, not looking up. Madame slipped out to the parlour slamming the door behind her. England stared after her, followed, wrenched the door open, and found himself in the front room, crowded with British soldiers, some farm girls, and one or two older local men.

‘This is bloody robbery!' he yelled. ‘She's jewing us four francs a bottle but giving it to her own blokes for one franc!'

He hurled the empty bottle at the plate glass mirror, engraved with a slogan for Byrrh, that hung on one wall.

All the British soldiers present jumped to their feet. ‘One franc? The old bitch!' They started throwing chairs through the windows, hurling bottles and glasses against the wall.

The night air whistled fresh and cold through the room, blowing out the thick cloud of tobacco smoke from
caporals
and
bleus
. ‘Fucking Frogs!' England shouted.

Resignedly, his four friends from the back room joined in the riot of destruction. The
estaminet
had rapidly emptied of all civilians, except Madame, who stood with folded arms and rattrap mouth, watching the carnage. The noise rose to a fortissimo. With the windows open the massed artillery a few miles to the east joined in with heavy rumbling bass under the treble exclamations of shattering glass and the tenor thumps and crashes of chairs hitting against the walls.

The Military Police burst in, led by a corporal about six feet high, and as wide, with a broken nose, two cauliflower ears, and a brass knuckle duster on each fist.

For a few moments the noise increased to an even higher level as the soldiers, who had been destroying in earnest silence, broke into oaths and shouts at the redcaps; and, whereas before they had had no one to fight, now they faced the police with flailing fists and clubbed bottles. Harry England caught one redcap a fair blow in the nose and then he found himself wheeling, whirling, falling. Had he been hit? He did not know. He was on his knees, dragging himself to his feet … his unfocussed eyes caught blurred sight of a tunic, a tunic with the big pleated pockets of an officer … breeches … puttees to below the knee … an officer … He staggered to his feet and swung his fist, the blow landing fair and square in the middle of the long face above the collar and tie … three stars on the shoulder … a captain, good, good! ‘Take tha',' he yelled, the frustrations and fears of months boiling over. The officer fell back against the wall, his hand to his mouth.

He lowered his hand, spitting out a tooth, blood seeping from a corner of his mouth. It was Captain Kellaway.

England stood a moment appalled. He had hit the captain, his company commander. He tried to straighten up to attention, but the wine would not let him. The Military Police stood all round, breathing hard. Three men lay on the floor, unconscious. Everyone else stood rigidly at attention, staring straight ahead.

England staggered forward crying, ‘I'm sorry, sir … I didn't mean … Oh Jesus, sir, I didn't … ' He fell into Kellaway's arms, weeping.

‘We'll take him away, sir,' the M.P. corporal said, grabbing England by the collar and dragging him off the officer's chest.

Kellaway dabbed his mouth with a khaki silk handkerchief. He looked round the room and said, ‘Who here's not in B Company?'

A few hands were raised. Kellaway turned to the corporal, ‘These are all my men, corporal. I'll see that they are punished … and that the damage is paid for.'

The corporal said, ‘They was resisting arrest, sir … drunk an' disorderly … hobstructing the police in the hexecution of their duty … striking a hofficer … '

Kellaway said quietly, ‘And you are wearing knuckle dusters, corporal … Look, none of us want a fuss.'

He turned to the Madame and, pulling a wallet from his pocket, handed her five five-pound notes. Her eyes gleamed and she said, ‘More.
Dix
. Ten!'

Lucas said, ‘She was charging us four francs a bottle of van blong, sir, and the Frogs one franc.'

Kellaway spoke briefly to the Madame in fluent, virulent French. She almost blushed as he turned to Lucas – ‘You're the senior soldier? Fall everyone in and march them back to their billets. Give me names and companies of men not in B. Company commanders' orders for all of you at nine a.m.' He went out, touching the peak of his cap.

The room full of soldiers looked at each other. The M.P. corporal said, ‘Lucky for you 'e came in. You lot deserve a good bashing in the Glass House.' He went out, followed by his men.

Stan Quick said, ‘Wot was the captain doing 'ere? 'E knows this isn't an officers'
estaminet.'

‘Looking for handsome young soldiers – like you,' Lucas said.

England groaned. ‘I'll knock your block off, Snaky. The captain's a … gentleman … good officer … I hit him … '

‘He's a good officer … and a millionaire … and a pouf. You serve in the Shiny as long as I 'ave and you'll learn that a man can be anything … and still a good officer … or a bad one. All right. Get fell in.' He picked up a bottle off a table near him and emptied it in a single long glugging draught. He put it down, and said, ‘Never leave a full bottle or an empty cunt … By the right, quick – march!'

‘Post's in, sir,' the R.S.M.'s voice was loud in the doorway of the billet. ‘Two letters for you.'

‘Come in, Mr Nelson,' Quentin said, holding out his hand for the letters. Neither was from Fiona. He hid his disappointment as he looked up at the warrrant officer. ‘Anything to report, before I go to Brigade?'

‘Nothing, sir. The men are grousing a bit, because of the route marches ordered for next week, but there'd be something wrong if they didn't grouse.'

Quentin grunted. The men had to be kept fit, whether they liked it or not. The funny thing about spells out of the line was that the sick rate always went up. Up the line, living in cold or waterlogged trenches, sleeping in mud and filth, constantly harassed by shell fire, mortar bombs, and snipers, eating nothing but bully beef and army biscuits, averaging three hours' sleep a night – the sick rate was so low that when it rose, you automatically suspected malingering. He said, ‘Tell the Adjutant I'll be leaving for Brigade in twenty minutes, and to have my horse ready. That's all.'