Heart of War by John Masters Page A

or two older local men.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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