“Ah’ve seen a hailstone measured nine inches around out home, honest to Gawd, Ah have.”
“Must be as good as a barrage.”
“Ah’d like to see any goddam barrage do the damage one of our thunder an’ lightnin’ storms’ll do,” shouted Chris.
“I guess all the barrage we’re going to see’s grenade practice.”
“Don’t you worry, buddy,” said somebody across the room. “You’ll see enough of it. This war’s going to last damn long… ”
“Ah’d lake to get in some licks at those Huns tonight, honest to Gawd Ah would, Andy,” muttered Chris in a low voice. He felt his muscles contract with a furious irritation. He looked through half-closed eyes at the men in the room, seeing them in distorted white lights and reddish shadows. He thought of himself throwing a grenade among a crowd of men. Then he saw the face of Anderson, a ponderous white face with eyebrows that met across his nose and a bluish, shaved chin.
“Where does he stay at, Andy? I’m going to git him.”
Andrews guessed what he meant.
“Sit down and have a drink, Chris,” he said. “Remember you’re going to sleep with the Queen of Sheba tonight.”
“Not if I can’t git them goddam… ” his voice trailed off into an inaudible muttering of oaths.
somebody sang again.
Chrisfield saw a woman standing beside the table with her back to him, collecting the bottles. Andy was paying her.
“Antoinette,” he said. He got to his feet and put his arms round her shoulders. With a quick movement of the elbows she pushed him back into his chair. She turned round. He saw the sallow face and thin breasts of the older sister. She looked in his eyes with surprise. He was grinning drunkenly. As she left the room she made a sign to him with her head to follow her. He got up and staggered out the door, pulling Andrews after him.
In the inner room was a big bed with curtains where the women slept, and the fireplace where they did their cooking. It was dark except for the corner where he and Andrews stood blinking in the glare of a candle on the table. Beyond they could only see ruddy shadows and the huge curtained bed with its red coverlet.
The Frenchman, somewhere in the dark of the room, said something several times.
“Avions boches… ss-t!”
They were quiet.
Above them they heard the snoring of aëroplane motors, rising and falling like the buzzing of a fly against a window pane.
They all looked at each other curiously. Antoinette was leaning against the bed, her face expressionless. Her heavy hair had come undone and fell in smoky gold waves about her shoulders. The older woman was giggling.
“Come on, let’s see what’s doing, Chris,” said Andrews.
They went out into the dark village street.
“To hell with women, Chris, this is the war!” cried Andrews in a loud drunken voice as they reeled arm in arm up the street.
“You bet it’s the war… Ah’m a-goin’ to beat up… ” Chrisfield felt his friend’s hand clapped over his mouth. He let himself go limply, feeling himself pushed to the side of the road.
Somewhere in the dark he heard an officer’s voice say:
“Bring those men to me.”
“Yes, sir,” came another voice.
Slow heavy footsteps came up the road in their direction. Andrews kept pushing him back along the side of a house, until suddenly they both fell sprawling in a manure pit.
“Lie still for God’s sake,” muttered Andrews, throwing an arm over Chrisfield’s chest. A thick odor of dry manure filled their nostrils.
They heard the steps come nearer, wander about irresolutely and then go off in the direction from which they had come. Meanwhile the throb of motors overhead grew louder and louder.
“Well?” came the officer’s voice.
“Couldn’t find them, sir,” mumbled the other voice.
“Nonsense. Those men were drunk,” came the officer’s voice.
“Yes, sir,” came the other voice humbly.
Chrisfield started to giggle. He felt he must yell aloud with laughter.
The nearest motor stopped its singsong roar, making the night seem deathly silent.
Andrews jumped to his feet.
The air was split by a shriek followed by a racking snorting explosion. They saw the wall above their pit light up with a red momentary glare.
Chrisfield got to his feet, expecting to see flaming ruins. The village street was the same as ever. There was a little light from the glow the moon, still under the horizon, gave to the sky. A window in the house opposite showed yellow. In it was a blue silhouette of an officer’s cap and uniform.
A little group stood in the street below.
“What was that?” the form in the window was shouting in a peremptory voice.
“German aëroplane just dropped a bomb, Major,” came a breathless voice in reply.
“Why the devil don’t he close that window?” a voice was muttering all the while. “Juss a target for ’em to aim at… a target to aim at.”
“Any damage done?” asked the major.
Through the silence the snoring of the motors singsonged ominously overhead, like giant mosquitoes.
“I seem to hear more,” said the major, in his drawling voice.
“O yes sir, yes sir, lots,” answered an eager voice.
“For God’s sake tell him to close the window, Lieutenant,” muttered another voice.
“How the hell can I tell him? You tell him.”
“We’ll all be killed, that’s all there is about it.”
“There are no shelters or dugouts,” drawled the major from the window. “That’s Headquarters’ fault.”
“There’s the cellar!” cried the eager voice, again.
“Oh,” said the major.
Three snorting explosions in quick succession drowned everything in a red glare. The street was suddenly filled with a scuttle of villagers running to shelter.
“Say, Andy, they may have a roll call,” said Chrisfield.
“We’d better cut for home across country,” said Andrews.
They climbed cautiously out of their manure pit. Chrisfield was surprised to find that he was trembling. His hands were cold. It was with difficulty he kept his teeth from chattering.
“God, we’ll stink for a week.”
“Let’s git out,” muttered Chrisfield, “o’ this goddam village.”
They ran out through an orchard, broke through a hedge and climbed up the hill across the open fields.
Down the main road an anti-aircraft gun had started barking and the sky sparkled with exploding shrapnel. The “put, put, put” of a machine gun had begun somewhere.
Chrisfield strode up the hill in step with his friend. Behind them bomb followed bomb, and above them the air seemed full of exploding shrapnel and droning planes. The cognac still throbbed a little in their blood. They stumbled against each other now and then as they walked. From the top of the hill they turned and looked back. Chrisfield felt a tremendous elation thumping stronger than the cognac through his veins. Unconsciously he put his arm round his friend’s shoulders. They seemed the only live things in a reeling world.
Below in the valley a house was burning brightly. From all directions came the yelp of anti-aircraft guns, and overhead unperturbed continued the leisurely singsong of the motors.
Suddenly Chrisfield burst out laughing.
“By God, Ah always have fun when Ah’m out with you, Andy,” he said.
They turned and hurried down the other slope of the hill towards the farms where they were quartered.
II
As far as he could see in every direction were the grey trunks of beeches bright green with moss on one side. The ground was thick with last year’s leaves that rustled maddeningly with every step. In front of him his eyes followed other patches of olive-drab moving among the tree trunks. Overhead, through the mottled light and dark green of the leaves he could see now and then a patch of heavy grey sky, greyer than the silvery trunks that moved about him in every direction as he walked. He strained his eyes down each alley until they were dazzled by the reiteration of mottled grey and green. Now and then the rustling stopped ahead of him, and the olive-drab patches were still. Then, above the clamour of the blood in his ears, he could hear batteries pong, pong, pong” in the distance, and the woods ringing with a sound like hail as a heavy shell hurtled above the tree tops to end in a dull rumble miles away.