Everyone looked to the right. This was the climax, the clincher, the cream on the cake. Sure enough, a trumpet call brought a squadron of cavalry surging into view, and behind it a second and a third, all boiling up to a full-blooded gallop. The horses went streaming over the trench. Paxton stopped breathing. Bright pennants raced from the ends of lances, swords made streaks of light. It was a race between the squadrons. The infantry had scattered to leave a wide gap. As the cavalry hammered past them they cheered, a throaty, disciplined roar that made Paxton grin with delight. He breathed again, deeply and triumphantly. The cavalry raced out of sight. “The breakthrough has been achieved,” said the megaphone. “Tea will now be served.”
The reviewing stand slowly emptied. Everyone drifted, in a haze of talk, to a group of trestle tables. Paxton took half a cucumber sandwich, a slice of cake and a cup of tea. He found himself standing next to a middle-aged major who blinked a lot. “What did you think of it, sir?” he asked.
The major sipped his tea and stopped blinking. He said: “I think perhaps someone has over-egged the pudding.”
“I meant the exercise, sir.”
“So did I, old chap. So did I.”
Potty, Paxton thought. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, and sidled away.
Bunches of troops were walking back to where they had come from. He rode his motorcycle across the field, twisting and turning to dodge them, and going slightly too fast because he enjoyed it and because he envied the way the cavalry had been free to race like the devil. Some soldiers stopped and cheered him. That made him feel good. He celebrated with a bit more speed. The rear wheel skidded out of a turn, nothing dangerous, just enough to earn another cheer, so he purposely skidded out of the next turn, straightened up and charged into a little hollow so fast that he came out of it flying, three feet of air beneath his wheels. He landed almost perfectly; but almost wasn’t good enough at that speed. The bike wobbled more and more as if it were shaking its head harder and harder until finally it fell over and flung him aside.
The nearest group of men waited and watched. When they saw him stand up, they walked on.
His lungs didn’t want to work. That was the worst thing. No matter how hard he sucked, his lungs refused to fill. All the breath had been knocked out of them and now they seemed numb or dead or something. Not dead: struggling. Failing. Useless. He thought: This must be what drowning is like, and immediately thought, What an odd thing to think, and then miraculously squeezed a cupful of air into each lung.
After two minutes he had so much breath he could afford to laugh.
The handlebar was a bit skewed but the wheels went round and the brakes worked. Trouble was, the engine wouldn’t start. No matter how hard he stamped on the starter, the engine wouldn’t even cough. He laboured at it until his leg was weary and his face was sticky with sweat.
It was a long way to Pepriac.
He propped the wretched machine on its stand, and sat down to rest. “D’you know what you are?” he said to it. “You’re a mechanical turd.” A soldier was watching.
He was short, and made to look shorter by the packs and webbing and equipment hung about him. “Hullo,” Paxton said. “I don’t suppose you can make this damn thing go, can you?”
The soldier came over and stooped to look at it. His hands and wrists, grasping his rifle, were small. The cords at the back of his neck were not yet powerful enough to be those of a man. “I could try, sir,” he said.
“Please do.”
The soldier laid down his rifle and took off his steel helmet. He had a small face with neat and tidy features, like a boy’s, and serious eyes. His black hair had been closely clipped. He sat on his heels to examine the machine; and Paxton, with a great rush of memory, saw who it was he looked like. The gardener’s boy. Dick. The best friend he’d never had.
No, that wasn’t strictly true. For a couple of weeks, in the summer holidays when they were both fifteen, he and Dick had been wonderful friends, closer than he had known it was possible to be, each totally trusting the other and each able to make the other laugh just by looking into his eyes. Dick was only the gardener’s boy but he had something special, not just good looks, although Paxton envied his smooth skin and freckles (he used to count them) but a kind of charm that Paxton had never met before. For that couple of weeks he felt he wasn’t fully alive unless he was with Dick. His parents noticed. They disapproved. Dick was barely literate and have you seen his fingernails? Paxton got packed off to stay with a seaside aunt until next term began. After that, it wasn’t the same.
But he never forgot. And now this young soldier, no bigger than Dick had been, touched the same chord. “How old are you?” Paxton asked.
“Seventeen, sir. I think I’ve got it.” He did something to some wires. “Your electricals was all loose, sir.”
“Ah. I had a small crash, you see.”
The soldier started the bike, revved the engine, let it stop.
“Splendid!” Paxton said. “You’re a genius. Jolly good stuff.” He stood up. “What’s your name?”
“Watkins, sir. Private Watkins.”
“Jolly good.” The more Paxton looked at him, the more he remembered Dick. He very much wanted this man to smile, the way Dick had smiled. “Aren’t you awfully young, to be in the… whatever it is you’re in?”
“Bradford Pals, sir. There’s younger than me.” Still no smile.
“Bradford Pals? That’s one of those battalions full of chaps from the same place, isn’t it? I met one the other day, in the Highland Light Infantry. Glasgow Tramways, they call themselves. I couldn’t understand a word they said.” Paxton chuckled. Still no smile. “It must be great fun, being with your pals.”
“The whole street joined up, so I joined up too. Didn’t know what I was doing. Just followed the others. Didn’t want to be left on my own.”
“Good man.” Paxton straddled the bike. “I expect you’re looking forward to the Big Push, aren’t you?”
“No, sir.”
“No? Why not?”
The answer unrolled like dirty puttees. “Fucking trenches, fucking lousy food, fucking sergeant hates my fucking guts, fucking fritz is going to blow me to fucking bits.” He picked up his rifle and helmet. “Sir.”
Paxton was shocked. Watkins clearly meant what he said. Briefly, Watkins was in command: he spoke from authority, greater authority than Paxton had. “Perhaps I see things differently,” Paxton said,”but believe me, from upstairs it’s pretty obvious that the Hun is on the run, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Just when he least expected it, Watkins smiled. “I wish I could fly,” he said. “I’d give anything to be able to fly.”
“Would you? Well, come and see me, and I’ll give you a flip in my plane.” Paxton started the bike. “I’m at Pepriac,” he shouted. “Lieutenant Paxton.” It was a reward for Watkins’ smile. Watkins would never be able to claim the reward, but it’s the thought that counts. He roared off, zigzagging until he got the hang of the lopsided handlebars.
Chapter 12
It was like trying to sneak up on a guard dog. At a certain point the dog began to snarl. Get closer and it barked. Push your luck and you’d probably get bitten. Back off and the dog would shut up. But it was always watching.
Frank Foster in one FE and James Yeo in another had crossed the Lines to see how near they could get to an observation balloon before the dogs barked and bit. Only one balloon was flying that day, opposite the southerly end of the British sector, near the river Somme. The wind had probably grounded the others. It was strong and gusty. Even from a distance Foster could see the basket swinging as the balloon wallowed. What was worse, the gusts sometimes forced the balloon sharply down, making the cable go limp; then as the wind eased, the balloon leaped again. The observers must have had strong stomachs and their observations must have been urgently needed.