“War’s a bit like a game of rugger,” Paxton said. “It’s no good hesitating because the other fellow looks bigger than you. You must rush in and tackle your man. That’s the only way to get the ball.” The general’s voice had become quite husky when he’d got to that point.
“God Almighty!” Milne said. “What a load of suicidal bollocks!” He stood up, tossed his pipe into a bowl and banged the bottle on the desk as if he wanted to smash it. Paxton took a pace back. “Suicidal bollocks!” Milne shouted.
“What difference does it make?” Paxton shouted back. “I can’t die if I never fly, and you won’t let me—”
“You want to fly? Go ahead and fly.” Milne was seized by impatience.“Go now. Do what you like.” He kicked the desk.
“You said there are no machines.”
“Take the bloody silly Quirk that whatshisname brought.” Fury was growing in Milne, twisting his face, corroding his voice. “Go on! Do what the sodding hell you like!” He kicked the desk again, savagely, hurting himself and making the bottle topple and roll. Paxton grabbed it before it fell off the edge. It was hot. The bottle was hot. He stood it upright, stared at it, stared at Milne. “Who cares?” Milne said. Fury had turned to defeat. Paxton got out.
Paxton ran all the way to the hangars, to tell the mechanics to get the Quirk ready. So the old man’s potty, he thought as he ran. Who cares as long as I can fly? The sergeant on duty was doubtful. “Don’t know about immediately, sir,” he said.
“CO’s orders,” Paxton said, between gasps.
“Ah. She’ll be ready for take-off in half an hour, sir.”
He ran back to his billet. As he passed the mess, Tim Piggott poked his head out of a window and shouted. Paxton changed direction and cantered over. “Where’s the fire?” Piggott demanded. Paxton explained. “And when were you going to tell me about all this?” Piggott asked. “Me being your flight commander.”
“Ah.”
“You’re a prize tit, Paxton. Who are you flying with?”
“Um…”
“You’re a double prize tit. Last night you were a prick, today you’re a double prize tit. What next? Are you going to whistle Tipperary while you fart Rule Britannia?”
“No, sir.”
“No. And you’re not going to fly alone, either. Get Kellaway. And get a Lewis gun put on that plane.” Paxton’s face brightened. Piggott scowled. “And don’t use it!” he barked. “Stay within ten miles of here and keep out of trouble!” The window slammed shut.
All over the camp, the new day was gathering pace.
In the Orderly Room, with some early Mahler on the gramophone, Corporal Lacey was checking the morning mail. A small, square box for Lieutenant Ogilvy: chocolates from his fiancée. Larger package for Captain Foster: his shirts and silk underwear back from the St. James Express Laundry in London. A small but heavy packet for Lieutenant Duncan: probably more books on salmon fishing. Duncan read nothing else. A couple of cases of medical supplies. Saturday’s newspapers, of course – Lacey glanced at a headline: Great Naval Battle. British Fight Against Odds- and the padre’s Illustrated London News. Letters for half the squadron, and a package shaped like a cigar box for Lieutenant Paxton. Lacey sniffed it, and neatly unsealed one end. It was cigars. He put them aside, and sat back while Mahler finished the first movement. “Bravo,” he said. Then he released the rest of the mail for distribution.
The adjutant’s dreams made sleep intolerable and yet he resented having to wake up. It was the usual pattern, and familiarity made it no less unpleasant.
He sat on the side of his bed and tried not to swallow. He knew that if he swallowed he would regret it. The last fading impression of his dream drifted about him like mist: the more he focused on it the less he saw. It was about India, of course. Whenever he had a bad dream it was always set in India and everything was always grey and dingy and hot. He was always trying to get somewhere in a hurry and failing because there were too many people in the way, and his failure always grew worse and worse until it woke him up.
He took out his medicine bottle. He took one long swig and whacked in the cork. That killed off his dream. What a bloody day. He pulled out the cork and took another swig. Be warned, he told the new day. You be bloody to me and I’ll be bloody to you.
Kellaway didn’t want to wake up. When Paxton shook him, he moaned; and as Paxton shook him more and more vigorously his moaning wavered and broke, until at last his eyes opened. “Get up!” Paxton said. “We’re flying in ten minutes.”
Kellaway’s body had been drained of strength and filled instead with a dull, wearying ache. When he tried to speak his throat hurt and he couldn’t swallow. The furnace glare of sunlight became unendurable. He rolled over to escape it, and fell out of bed.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Paxton said. He was disgusted, not so much at Kellaway’s behaviour as at the fact that he was fully dressed. His uniform was stained with dirt and vomit. There was grass in his hair and dung on his shoes. His nose was cut, half his upper lip was swollen, and all that side of his face was scratched and bruised.
“Fidler!” Paxton shouted. “Fidler!” He kept on shouting until the batman arrived, on the run. “Get black coffee and run a bath for Mr. Kellaway,” Paxton ordered
“Looks like he needs a doctor, sir.”
“Have we got a doctor?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t be a prize tit.”
“Yes, sir.” Fidler hurried out. By the time Paxton had got Kellaway’s clothes off, Fidler was back with a jug of coffee. They sat Kellaway on the bed. Fidler held a tin mug to his lips, but Kellaway seemed to have no control over his mouth, and the coffee ran down his neck and chest and dripped onto his thighs. With his shoulders slumped and his arms dangling he looked very young. A feeble belch made his head twitch. “What’s that disgusting smell?” Paxton asked.
“Well, it could be vin ordinaire, sir,” Fidler said,”or it could be mule’s piss. Hard to tell the difference, sir.”
“Oh, shut up. Help me get him in the bath.”
They draped a dressing gown around Kellaway and walked him to the bathhouse. On the way they passed O’Neill. He said, “Constipation, it’s a terrible curse.”
“Kellaway’s not constipated, for heaven’s sake,” Paxton said.
“I didn’t mean him. Have you tried prunes?”
“Lout.”
The bath was nearly half-full. Fidler turned off the taps. Paxton said, “Go on, get in.” Kellaway blinked at him. His eyes went out of focus, and slowly the lids came down. “God in heaven!” Paxton said. He removed the dressing gown. Kellaway was trembling. A cut in his upper lip had reopened and blood was trickling down his chin. His eyes remained closed.
They picked him up and put him in the bath. “I didn’t tell you to run a cold bath, you fool,” Paxton said. “This is scarcely tepid.”
“Best I could do, sir. Boiler’s probably run out of coal.”
Kellaway’s eyes had opened. He was still trembling, making a confusion of ripples, but otherwise he did nothing. “Get on with it, man,” Paxton said. “We haven’t got all blasted day.” But Kellaway just lay there, his small white body looking flat and continually crumpled by the ripples. Paxton lost patience. He cupped his hands and threw water into Kellaway’s face and onto his head. “If that blasted Quirk is ready before you are,” he said, still splashing hard,”I’ll kill you.” Kellaway’s bottom lost its grip and his head slid below the surface. It was a big bath and his toes were nowhere near the other end. Bubbles and bits of grass and a smear of blood came floating up. “What the deuce?” Paxton said.