Heart of War by John Masters Page B

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.’
    â€˜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 … ’
    â€˜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!’
    â€˜Post’s in, sir,’ the R.S.M.’s voice was loud in the doorway of the billet. ‘Two letters for you.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    The R.S.M. saluted and went out with a crash of nailed ammunition boots. Quentin opened the first letter, from his son: Guy now had a hundred hours in his logbook; a week ago he had almost crashed his aeroplane landing in a sudden snowstorm; he had bought a motor bike and was using it to drive round Salisbury Plain and Pewsey Vale; had his father ever seen Stonehenge?
    Quentin smiled a little grimly, to himself. Where did the boy think the Regular Army used to train? He knew that part of the Plain between Tidworth and the Henge like the back of his hand. He continued reading. They were a ripping good crowd of fellows at Upavon; one had unfortunately already been killed; they’d all been sent up immediately afterward so that they wouldn’t lose their nerve; Guy thought it would have been more sensible to spend some time telling them exactly what the poor chap had done wrong, so that they could avoid doing the same; he was really not very good at flying, but had so far come out first in all the machine-gun practices, both those on the ground and those fired from the air; it might be different with Boelcke or von Rackow firing back at him … Mummy wrote sometimes, and seemed well. Lots of love …
    Mummy wrote sometimes
. Well, he was glad Fiona wrote tosomeone, but she certainly did not write to him, her husband. His only news of her came through Guy. It was Guy who had told him, in a letter, that she had apparently changed her intention to leave them all.