“Thank you, no,” Paxton said. “I have…” He squared his shoulders and tightened his buttocks. “I have certain duties to attend to.”
“Bollocks. At this time of day? There’s nothing left to be done.”
“On the contrary, I have to inspect the men’s latrines.”
“Now? What on earth for? The men’s latrines will be full of the men.”
“I inspected them earlier and their condition was unsatisfactory. Mens sana in corpore sano, and vice versa. I’m sure I have no need to translate.” Paxton nodded, and left.
“Pompous prick,” Piggott said. Kellaway, totally at a loss, smiled with one side of his mouth and frowned with the other, and ended up looking foolish.
Chapter 4
Zeppelins strolled about the skies at night, and sometimes small bombs fell on large towns. Thus there was a blackout in Amiens. The ballroom of the Grand Hotel du Nord had been converted to an enormous dining room and it was brilliantly lit but the windows were heavily curtained in velvet. Each set of curtains was made in different colours: red and black, chocolate and orange, fawn and blue, green and grey, and so on. These were the house colours at Eton. The windows nearest the top table were curtained in purple and white, the colours of the college itself.
About three hundred Old Etonians were present. The vast majority were in uniform, with many of the uniforms representing the Brigade of Guards. At least eight full generals could be seen. The average age was about forty. “Quite a decent turn-out,” said Lord Trafford, who had travelled from England to preside. “Perhaps not so many young chaps as last year.”
“No, not so many,” said the general at his side, and got on with his soup.
“It would be a shame if the younger chaps lost interest.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case.” The general knew what the case was. Fifty thousand British casualties in the autumn offensive at Loos, that’s what the case was. Loos was an idiot place to pick a fight, nothing but a tangle of coalfields; and the fighting had grown more ferocious as it became more pointless. Bad for the men, worse for the officers – the young officers – because they were in front, leading. So that was where a lot of Old Etonians came to a sticky end, at Loos, and at lesser scraps called Neuve Chapelle, Festubert, Aubers Ridge, he couldn’t remember them all. No ground had been gained anywhere, or none worth having; but a tremendous number of Germans had been killed and that was what mattered. The general could not tell his lordship this: it was not done to talk shop on these occasions. But he wished the man would use his imagination. Where the devil did he think the younger chaps had gone? To the cinema? To see Charlie Chaplin?
Trafford opened his menu. “I see we are to have Hungarian crêpes. Sounds rather jolly, doesn’t it? Hungary… I’m afraid I’ve forgotten whose side the Hungarians are on.”
“Austria,” the general told him. “But that’s a technicality. The Hungarians are on the side of the Hungarians, a very loyal people, they don’t mind who they betray.”
Trafford smiled. “Neither do I,” he said,”as long as they make good crêpes.” They gazed out at the brilliant gathering, at the snowy tablecloths, at the ranks of heavy cutlery and the parade of crystal, all buffed to a fine shine, at the Spode crockery, specially made for the occasion and bearing the college arms, at the constant flow of waiters and winewaiters: the best of everything, either human or material, all caught in the glow of a hanging garden of chandeliers; and all enhanced by a gentle thunder of conversation, the heartwarming noise of male fellowship.
“Yes, quite a decent turn-out,” Trafford said.
At a distant table, Charlie Essex fingered his soup-plate and squinted at the chandelier, gauging range and height.
“Not yet,” Ogilvy said. “We can’t eat without light.”
“Only six courses to go,” James Yeo added.
Foster studied him, and then looked away.
“What’s up?” Yeo asked.
“Your haircut. It’s a trifle too severe. Doesn’t suit you, James.”
“Rubbish. It suits me fine, because I can’t see it.”
A bread roll passed overhead at high speed. “Hullo!” Charlie Essex said. “School’s out!” The T-shaped table in the mess at Pepriac was less than halffull for dinner. They were served roast pork. “I’ve got a complaint,” said Douglas Goss. “This mutton tastes of pig.”
“You must have bitten your tongue,” said Jimmy Duncan, one of the gunner-observers. The remark drew some laughter, not because it was all that funny but because Duncan had said it. He was a short, thickset Scot, who usually took so long to say anything that he got interrupted before he finished.
“That reminds me,” Milne said. “We’re to get another medical officer.”
“Last one got rabies,” O’Neill told Kellaway. “That was after the adj went and bit him in the arse. Isn’t that right, Uncle?”
“Absolutely true,” Appleyard said.
“I’ve been thinking,” Milne said. He spooned apple sauce onto his plate. “Now that summer’s here we ought to make the most of it. Enjoy ourselves a little. We could invite another squadron to dinner. Maybe even hold a dance, if we could find some girls and some music.”
“How about a horse race?” Piggott suggested. “Lots of cavalry hanging about doing nothing.”
Milne nodded eagerly. “That’s the stuff. I mean, just because there’s a war, it doesn’t mean we can’t make the most of life.”
“Concert party,” said Appleyard. “Song and dance. Comic turns. Funny hats.”
The others discussed the ideas at length, but Milne had no more to say. Paxton, bored by the conversation, glanced at Milne from time to time, and saw that he had stopped eating. One hand propped up his head while the other hand gathered breadcrumbs and made them into a tiny ball. The fellow’s a dreamer, Paxton thought. Look at him, he shouldn’t be leading a squadron, he’s past it, he ought to be pensioned off. There was a fine tremor in Milne’s fingers, a mere shimmer. What this squadron needs—
A bit of bread struck Paxton in the face, and made him recoil. “I just asked you,” said Piggott,”in English, which is the language we use around here, whether you’d be willing to organise a boxing tournament.”
“No.” Too brusque; far too brusque. “Not my sport,” he added.
“No boxing,” Milne said. “I don’t like boxing.” He took his fist away from his face. Tim Piggott was surprised to see how old he looked. His eyes were pouchy and there were unhappy brackets dragging down the corners of his mouth. The old man looked thirty if he looked a day. “Tell you what I think we ought to do,” Milne said. “We ought to get in a tender and drive to the nearest decent estaminet and celebrate something. I know: we’ll celebrate my birthday.” They liked that. It earned some pounding on the table.