The Machine Gunners by Robert Westall Page A

bloody man I'd strangle him. He should've been strangled at birth. Snotty-nosed gyet. He's really done for your granda, y'know. He was going to brew some tea when it happened. It blew him all the way down the yard and split the back of his topcoat from top to bottom. The buggers couldn't kill him at Caparetto in 1918, but they've nigh done for him this time. It's a bloody shame he's past it; twenty years ago he'd have seen the buggers off. Riffraff. What's Hilter more than a house-painter, when all's said and done?"
    All the time she was talking, Chas had the absurd fancy that Hilter and the Jarmans were sitting down to breakfast about two streets away, and that one attack by Nana and her famous rolling pin would settle the war once and for all.
    "Come in, if you can get," said Nana.
    Granda was sitting in his armchair, warming his hands on a mug of tea. He was wearing furry brown slippers, striped pyjamas, the split overcoat and a black beret with two highly polished brass badges on it. One was his old regimental badge, a lamb carrying a flag. The other was a German army badge, with the worn figure of a charging infantryman, and lettering no one could read. Granda pointed to that badge now.
    "I knew I'd cop it last night. I dreamed he came back for his badge."
    He was an Austrian soldier whom Granda had killed in a bayonet fight at Caparetto. Granda had taken the badge as a trophy; and ever since had dreams that the dead man came back and mutely asked for his possession. Granda had lived in terror of that man for twenty-five years, yet he could never be persuaded to throw the badge away.
    There was a fire in the hearth, and the huge black kettle on it as usual. It began to boil now, and the lid began to rattle. Granda's teeth began to chatter and Nana took the kettle off quickly.
    "That lid always reminds him of the machine guns."
    But it was too late. Granda was lost in his old nightmare. His hands did strange things, pulled invisible levers, settled together in front of his chest as if he grasped the handles of some weapon. The index finger of his right hand tightened slowly on an invisible trigger, as his left eye closed, and his right squinted tight.
    "Range? Three-seven-five. Gun cocked. Two hundred rounds expended. Three boxes of ammo in reserve. Barrel cold, topped up with water. Spare barrel in reserve, half worn-out. Sir."
    The family watched. Suddenly he braced himself, shuffling his feet as if groping for a hold. His body tensed, like a dog when it sees a rabbit, and then he began to shake all over, as if the invisible gun was leaping almost beyond control.
    "He's badly," said Nana. "He hasn't done that for ten years. He thinks they're coming for him."
    "Bleeding Christ!" screamed Granda. "Sodding thing's jammed. Recock, discharge, recock." His hands moved frantically.
    "I'll mix one of his powders," said Nana. "Come and give me a hand, Chas."
    They were kept busy at Nana's for the rest of the day. There was no hope for the house; the walls were cracked; even if the roof could have been put back on, the walls would have collapsed under the weight.
    The most they could do was rescue all the bits and pieces—the glass paperweight with the view of Boulogne in 1898; the great black Bible with the tarnished clasp; the bamboo table—and pack them up for storage. Granda dozed in his chair, the Battle of Caparetto fought and lost, his Kitchener moustache trailing over his open mouth. It was terribly black inside Granda's mouth. Chas was fascinated by it, kept staring at it, trying to see something in the blackness.
    Had Granda fought his last battle? Would he die there and then among his bits and pieces? Sometimes his breathing went funny, but it always recovered. Sometimes he moved in his sleep. Chas was glad to go down to the corner shop for some more cardboard boxes. The corner shop was untouched; just fuller than usual.
    Only once did he allow himself to slip away and look at Granda's special treasure. In the coal