Heart of War by John Masters

Hoggin’s fucking pig swill … ’
    â€˜ 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!’
    â€˜What’ll it be like when it’s all over?’
    â€˜We’ll all be napoo … This war’s going on for bloody ever, if you ask me.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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 theirfucking 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.
    â€˜Why aren’t those bastards fighting?’ England asked belligerently.
    â€œCos 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.
    â€˜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