Read Online A Test to Destruction by Henry Williamson - Free Book Online Page A

take any notice? Anyway, what were you in civvy street, a Boy Scout?”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “All right, you saluted me six times, did you?” He saluted Phillip seven times. “Now you owe me one, you b——r!”
    Phillip gave him the Boy Scout’s salute.
    “So you’re a bloody joker, are yer? What’s your name?”
    “Lieutenant Maddison, reporting for duty from Landguard Camp, sir,” as he saluted once more.
    “God’s teeth, ’ow many more times you goin’ to flip about like a Bill Brown? This ain’t Caterham,” said the Quartermaster, in a voice suddenly mild. “You lot want some tiffin, eh? Well, come with me to the mess. D’you play bridge? Not very well? I don’t play very well neither, so that makes us all square. Ker-ist, listen to that bloody din! Like a f——g cattle-yard on market day.” Muttering something about showing the little cuthberts where they got off, the Quartermaster kicked open the door and at his appearance there was silence. Coming out again, he grumbled, “They can’t even blow, let alone they got no bleedun kissers. I told ’em there’d be some fat lips flyin’ about if they didn’t get on with it. Would you believe what the little bleeders was playin’ at? Seein’ ’oo could first blow out the stickin’ plaster and soap stuck in the ’oles made by shrapnel!”
    *
    About eight o’clock that evening, just as the four had finished dinner of fried steak and potatoes, followed by tasteless gritty prunes, the occasional booming of howitzers became a thundering that rattled the knives on the enamelled plates. Phillip opened the door and stared into a sky flashing with light. Away in the east arose red and green rockets above the calcium flares that told of some desperate endeavour between the opposing armies.
    “Close that bloody door!” yelled Moggerhanger. “We don’t want no eggs dropped on this f——g camp!”
    Phillip shut the door; he was yet to realise that the old man’s nerve had gone, that he had had too much war, having served continuously with the B.E.F. since the retreat from Le Cateau; that he had seen too many faces, hundreds of faces, pass before his eyes; and of all the many dead faces, some were now returning at odd moments, as though waiting for him to join them.
    “Can you tell me what the British S.O.S. colours are for tonight, sir?”
    “Ask my arse.” The Quartermaster put bottle and sparklet syphon on the table. “’Ow about a rubber?” He jerked a thumb backwards. “’Elp yourselves. We don’t stand on ceremony ’ere. We’re the Royal Staybacks, and don’t you forgit it!” They sat down. Cards were shuffled and dealt. “Your call, young feller.”
    Phillip passed. Allen passed. “Well, to test the feeling of the meat, one no trump,” said Colonel Moggerhanger, dropping hiscards face down on the blanket-covered table to light thick twist in his clay cutty.
    “No bid.”
    Phillip was wondering what Westy was doing. “Your call, Lamp-post.” From across the table acrid smoke of thick twist stung his eyes, “Oh, two clubs.” Red and green, red and green, was it the British S.O.S.? Had the German attack begun?
    “Two diamonds.”
    “Three no trumps,” said Moggerhanger, leaving his cards on the table.
    “No bid,” said Allen.
    “Four no trumps,” said Phillip, and spread his hand: ace, king of hearts; king to two of diamonds; queen to four of spades; ace, king, knave, ten, eight of clubs.
    “Bon, partner. Quite useful. ’Elp yourself to a spot of old man Johnny Walker.”
    “No thank you, sir.” He left the table, and moved across to the sandbag-covered window in the east wall of the hut. Why hadn’t he gone up the line to report to Westy, instead of footling about playing bridge.
    “What, you on the waggon?”
    “For the moment, sir.”
    “Got a dose?” asked Moggerhanger, as he scooped in the tricks.
    A stream of fresh air was faintly whining through the cracked talc pane behind the sandbag covering. From afar