Paxton, being the most junior officer, was the last to be seen.
“You’ve only been here four days,” Cleve-Cutler said, his expression as jaunty as ever,”and everyone hates you. Mmm?” He cocked the other eyebrow.
That hurt. “I can’t understand it, sir,” Paxton said. Nobody had spoken to him all morning. “Whatever I do, nobody likes it, even when it’s right, even when…” That was a low blow, saying everyone hates you. “I don’t want to play cricket, I want to fight.” He could very easily have cried. Tears were ready, waiting to leak out. He placed his right heel on his left toes and made enough pain to defeat the tears. “Nothing’s gone right from the start, has it?” he said angrily. “I flew that blasted Quirk all the way from England, which was more than the others could do, and Major Milne burnt it. Deliberately! Set fire to it! Is that the way to win the war?”
“Yes. Give me your hat.” Cleve-Cutler took it, and opened a penknife. He slit the fabric at the end of the peak. “What’s wrong with Quirks?”
“Nothing. It’s a topping machine. It almost flies itself.”
“Exactly. It’s not built to be dangerous, it’s built to be safe. The bloody silly thing’s so stable it stays straight and level when you want to chuck it all over the sky.” He was tugging the wire stiffener out of the peak. “The Quirk isn’t a fighting aeroplane, it’s a pussy cat. Major Milne was right to burn yours.” He squashed the peak with both his hands. “All the Quirks in France should be burned, then maybe we’d get sent something livelier.” He sat on the cap, bounced up and down, then tossed it to Paxton. “Now you’ll look more like a flier and less like a captain in the Church Lads’ Brigade.”
“I don’t care about that,” Paxton mumbled. But he did care. He liked his cap now that it looked properly broken-in, more like the rest of the squadron. But he wasn’t going to say so. “I got an Albatros yesterday,” he said. “That was from a Quirk. There’s nothing wrong with Quirks.”
Cleve-Cutler picked up a pen. “You’re grounded,” he said. “In fact you’re undergrounded. Your flight commander told me you were a turd, so I’m putting you in charge of the men’s latrines.” The half-grin had hardened into a glittering scowl. “Start now.” He pointed to the door.
A few moments later, Corporal Lacey tapped on the door and came in, carrying a bundle of files and documents. “Good heavens, sir,” he said. “What did you say to Mr. Paxton? He looks quite deathly.”
“Suicidal?”
Lacey thought about it. “Murderous.”
“That’s all right, then… Look here, I’m not going to read all that.”
“Certainly not, sir. There’s a summary and conclusion on a single sheet.” He placed the bundle on the desk. “I’ve kept everything as simple as possible.”
Cleve-Cutler rocked back on his chair and put his pen between his teeth like a cigar. “I did go to school, Lacey. Quite a good school, actually.”
“Yes, sir. Marlborough. Not noted for mathematics, however.” The CO looked away. “Still less for fraudulent accountancy,” Lacey added softly.
“Are you always as familiar as this with your Commanding Officer?”
“That depends how much he wants to borrow my Elgar records.”
“My God, you’re a spy. I should have you shot. Have you got the violin concerto?” Lacey nodded. Cleve-Cutler sighed. “Damn. I might compromise and have you lightly maimed instead. What the devil is that?” It was a distant popping, like the bursting of many balloons.
“It’s the officers, shooting at empty bottles,” Lacey said. “If the Hun ever attacks with empty bottles, we shall be ready for him.”
About half an hour later, Cleve-Cutler telephoned the adjutant and asked him if he could spare a few minutes.
Appleyard splashed some eau-de-cologne on his cheeks and the back of his neck: it tightened up the skin and stopped him sweating for a while. He chewed a peppermint lozenge, sucked in his gut until he could tighten his belt, picked up his clipboard and set out. Tiny silver sparkles danced in front of his eyes, and his ears were singing. He thought of loosening his belt; instead, he went back and took a swig of medicine. He chewed another lozenge and set out again, eyesight and hearing clear. “Got a touch of the old Afghan Curse today,” he said. Corporal Lacey paused in his typing and smiled sympathetically.
Cleve-Cutler gave the adjutant what seemed like a welcoming smile. “I make it just over a thousand pounds,” he said. “On a captain’s pay it’ll take you about three years to repay that. But you won’t be a captain, will you? You’ll be a nothing, once you’ve been court-martialled. Isn’t that right?”
Appleyard turned away from that appallingly jaunty expression. He could feel his gut slipping until it was below his belt. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. The singing in his ears had started again.
“It’s too late to ask me what on earth I mean,” Cleve-Cutler said. “That’s a card you play immediately or not at all. Anyway, you’re sacked.”
“I can explain,” Appleyard said.
“Start by telling me where it’s all gone. Not even you could spend a thousand pounds on booze and still be standing.”
“It’s a damned lie.” The adjutant was on the edge of a stutter. “Who’s been feeding you these lies?”
“All this stuff came out of your office.”
“I see. I see. I see.” Appleyard took a quick trip up and down the room. “My office. My papers. This is what the British Army’s come to, is it? Well, I’ll fight it. I’ve fought for my country, I’ve fought the bloody Boers, the Afghans, the Zulus, black as your hat, bullets won’t stop ‘em—”
“No, I don’t think you will,” Cleve-Cutler said.
The adjutant shut his eyes and rubbed the lids with his fingertips, several times. When he looked again, the CO was still in the same place with the same expression. “All I can say is I’m glad you find it so bloody funny,” he said.
Cleve-Cutler glanced through the papers again. For a long minute there was no sound but the soft rustle as he turned a page. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s forget all that’s been said, and start afresh. You’ve stolen just over a thousand pounds from this squadron. Now where on earth did it go?”
“Horses,” Appleyard said. “It went on the horses. There’s still lots of racing in England. Chap in Amiens, used to be a bookie, now he’s a lieutenant in the Signals, he runs a book on the English races. I lost most of it through him.”
“And the rest?”
“Drank it.”
“Now we know.” Cleve-Cutler stood up.
“I don’t suppose…” Appleyard blew his nose. “I mean, you wouldn’t consider…”
“You’re sacked, Uncle. Message ends.” He held the door open for him.
Foster lay on the grass outside the mess, his head resting on a cushion, and studied the sky through binoculars. “Remarkable,” he said. “Amazing.”
Some of the officers were resting in deckchairs. Most were half-asleep. “There’s damn-all up there,” Ogilvy said drowsily. “You’ve got a pigeon-dropping on the lens, Frank.”
“No, no. I heard it, and now I can see it. Definitely a Hun.” That aroused them. Foster’s eyesight was phenomenaclass="underline" on patrol he was invariably the first to see the speck that turned into an aeroplane. An anti-aircraft battery stationed at Pepriac crossroads opened up and rapidly battered the afternoon quiet to bits. “Told you so,” Foster said. “Daddy’s always right, children.” Two miles high the shells burst against the blue like little splatters of spilt milk.