“Stubbs wrote a letter,” Cleve-Cutler said. “Have you still got it?”
“Jenny got it. But of course Jenny’s dead too She hanged herself, poor creature.”
“Go and get cleaned up, Frank. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Foster didn’t get cleaned up. He went to the padre’s room. “Got a knotty problem for you,” he said. “How does one recognise the Word of God when one hears it?”
“I don’t think I’ve been asked that one before. Let me think… Normally, the question doesn’t arise, I suppose. God makes it abundantly clear who’s speaking.”
Foster made a grimace.
“No, that’s not very adequate, is it?” the padre said. “May one ask: do you suspect that you might have been on the receiving end?”
“God knows. All I know is I’ve been getting some very strange messages lately.”
“Such as?”
Foster picked a cricket ball out of a chair and sat down. “I’m afraid the first message was that I shouldn’t tell you or any of the others.”
“Ah.” The padre buffed his crucifix on the sleeve of his cassock. “Well, I can only say that He knows best, of course, but it’s most unlike God not to operate through the normal channels. Could it be that transmission was garbled, perhaps?”
Foster shook his head.
“My guess is,” said the padre,”that you are somewhat reluctant to proceed. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this discussion.” Foster nodded. “I’ve been in the same dilemma,” the padre said,”and more than once I’ve found it very helpful to let God reconsider His decision. ‘Look here, God,’ I’ve said, ‘if that’s really what You want me to do I’ll do it, but frankly, speaking as man to God, I think You ought to sleep on it.’ And next day He’s changed His mind.” The padre stopped because it was clear that Foster wasn’t listening.
“You heard about Stubbs?”
“Yes. A sad loss. Such a likeable—”
“It’s a forgery. He wasn’t a flamer at all. The whole thing was a joke. You watch, he’ll be back in time for dinner, large as life and twice as ugly.” Foster stood up.
“I feel I haven’t been much help,” the padre said. “Look here: before you go, just pick a verse at random in the Bible. It sometimes helps.”
Foster opened the Bible and let his finger fall. “Proverbs 25, verse 33. ‘Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep’.”
“Not very thrilling. Want to try again?”
“It’s the Word of God,” Foster said. “It must mean something.”
Kellaway walked into the billet and said: “Goss and Stubbs have—”
“We heard,” Paxton said. “Too bad. Shut up, Bunny’s got the shakes, I’m trying to cure him and we’ve only got half an hour.”
Kellaway watched. They were standing by the table. O’Neill hugged himself, making his biceps bulge, and then relaxed. “Take a breath,” Paxton said. O’Neill took a breath and reached for a nearly-full glass of red wine. Just before he touched it he pulled his hand back and turned away in disgust. “It’s not going to bloody work,” he said.
“Imagine it’s a block of wood. Just pick it up. Forget the wine.”
O’Neill tried again. He gripped the glass, released it, gripped it differently, raised it. “Bloody good!” Paxton said. O’Neill got the glass halfway to his mouth and his wrist started to tremble. Wine slopped. “Oh, bollocks,” he said, and put the glass down.
“Try using your other hand,” Kellaway suggested.
“Try using your other head,” O’Neill snarled.
“Maybe if you kept your elbow tucked in tight,” Paxton said. He demonstrated. The glass went up and down smoothly. O’Neill tried it and spilled very little. “Makes me feel crippled,” he said.
“Trouble is you’re pissed,” Kellaway said.
“Trouble is I’m not pissed.”
“Well, get pissed and then you’ll be okay.”
“How can I get pissed when I keep spilling the stuff?”
Paxton drank the wine. “You’ve got the Australian Disease, old chap. No known cure except death, which I can arrange although it’s very expensive.”
“Why not?” O’Neill said. “You nearly arranged it once today already.”
“I hit the Hun, didn’t I? He hardly touched us. You’ve got to have faith, Bunny.”
A batman knocked and came in. “Captain Foster presents his compliments,” he said,”and would Lieutenant Paxton do him the honour of joining him in his tent.”
“Me?” Paxton said. “How odd.”
“I expect he wants you to turn the pages of his music for him,” Kellaway said.
Foster poured another inch of whisky into Paxton’s tin mug and spilt half an inch over his hand. “I’m telling you all this,” he said,”because I was like you once, and I wish someone had told me. If someone had told me all about women, poor old Stubbs wouldn’t have been a flamer. Women aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Flamers aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. And that’s not all. I’m not all I’m cracked up to be, and it’s taken me a hell of a long time to discover that. Hell of a long time. And I’ll tell you another thing I’ve learned. Time isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Time isn’t worth a damn. You can take that from me. It comes and it goes, and you can’t do anything about it. See?” He pointed to an alarm clock, loudly ticking on his chest of drawers. “Five seconds just came and went. That’s five seconds of your life you’ll never have again. Paxton. Never mind. Life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. D’you know how many Huns I’ve killed? Forty-two thousand eight hundred and fifteen. I’ve got their names here somewhere. Names aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Take mine. Next stop, a peerage. Who wants to be a bloody silly peer? House of Lords isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, not by a long chalk. Full of Old bloody Etonians. Eton isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Full of thugs and skunks. Half of them are in the boneyard, I expect. Killed in action. Killing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I should know, I’ve killed a few. Killed Stubbs this morning.” He sipped his whisky.
“I honestly don’t see how it could have been your fault,” said Paxton. He was getting a bit bored with Foster.
“All it takes is a gun. It doesn’t take courage. You think you’re brave, but courage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I know you. You’re not brave, because you’re never afraid. I’m afraid. I’ve been afraid for months. I was afraid James Yeo might get killed. I liked James, I loved James. Love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Didn’t save James, did it? Didn’t make a blind bit of difference to the war, either. Bloody war. It just goes on and on and on. Listen to it. War’s not what it’s cracked up to be. Any bloody fool can go to war. The trick is to get out of it. I wish somebody had told me that years ago.” He pulled open a drawer and took out his Service revolver. “Fucking flies,” he said, and fired three thunderous rounds at the flies circling inside the tent. Brutus bolted. Paxton had fallen off his chair and dropped his whisky. Foster looked at the smoking gun. “Nothing’s what it’s cracked up to be,” he said, and put the muzzle to his head and fired again.
Four gunshots were nothing unusual on Pepriac aerodrome. The place was rackety with small explosions all day long: trucks backfiring, motorbikes being kick-started, aero engines being tested. FEs were always landing, taxying, revving up, taking off. The armourers fired Lewis guns into a great heap of sand, and above all the barrage made its constant din. Nobody noticed the four gunshots except O’Neill, who was sitting on the grass looking at his shaky right hand and waiting for Paxton to come back so they could go on patrol.