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Authors: Paul Dowswell
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a mile away a couple of shells screamed down and exploded. Even from that distance they still shook the ground around them. ‘The war’s not over yet, sir,’ said the corporal and marched briskly over to Rifleman Heaton.
Corporal Entwistle had never liked Heaton. He was always too eager to obey the officers, always happy to volunteer. There was something smarmy about him. And those books he read – always fishing out an E.M. Forster or a James Joyce from his knapsack when they stopped for a break. That was all right for an officer. But Heaton’s father was a blacksmith. He had no business with books like that. He had just fished one out to read now. Corporal Entwistle pulled down the book and peered straight into his face. ‘Make yourself useful, lad. Go and fetch Sergeant Franklin and his patrol and tell them the war is over.’
Heaton immediately put down his book and gathered up his rifle and helmet. ‘Yes, Corporal. Which direction did they go?’
‘Just follow the path there into the woods, son. Make it sharpish.’
Heaton headed off as fast as he could, in the stooped posture which had become second nature to him. Like the others in the platoon, he was too exhausted to feel anything other than a kind of dull surprise about the end of the war. Maybe when they’d stopped the infernal artillery bombardment he could hear in the distance, maybe then he’d feel something. For now, that endless rumble just clouded up his mind.
As Heaton approached the wood, the artillery stopped and there was no small arms fire – not entirely unheard of, but rare anywhere on the Western Front. He could even hear a few birds singing and began to walk in a more upright manner.
He thought about what he was going to do when he got home, and the terrible row he would have with his father when he announced that he wanted to study to go to college. Heaton wanted to be a teacher. English literature. It was the thing he loved the most. Far in the distance he thought he could see a group of soldiers. He called out, ‘Sergeant Franklin,’ but they were too far away to hear. He called again to no avail and had began to run towards them when a sniper’s bullet caught him square on the forehead, throwing him off his feet and twisting him round as he fell. Private Heaton was dead before his body collapsed like a discarded doll on to the ground.
Chapter 9
8.00 a.m.
Eddie Hertz slept late – a rare luxury as he was often up before first light to fly the dawn patrol. Today he was off the roster. As he came to, the first thing he noticed was the scent of Céline’s perfume and he felt a stab of loneliness.
Eddie didn’t really believe her scarf would keep him safe, but he liked the idea of having something of hers so close to him. His fellow pilots were crazy about their rituals and superstitions. Some of them even took a cat up with them. Biederbeck had a black one – the classic witch’s familiar – but Eddie thought it was cruel to the poor animal. What would happen if it got stuck under your feet or was so terrified it wanted to jump out?
He threw on his clothes and splashed his face at the basin by the window. It was a short walk to the mess at the airbase, and if he hurried he’d be in time for breakfast.
Biederbeck was there, still in his flying gear, black soot on his face with an incongruous white patch around his eyes where he had removed his goggles.
‘Hey, Eddie,’ he shouted over. ‘Guess what I’ve been up to!’ He looked exceedingly pleased with himself.
‘Another notch on the propeller, huh?’ said Eddie. ‘Was it a Fokker? What does your cat think about that?’
‘Better than that, pal! I got one of those ammunition trains. About two in the morning. Saw it coming into this little town near to Mons. The smoke in the moonlight gave it away – so I came in low and dropped a couple of twenty-five-pounders. I’d like to tell you it was my skill and judgement –’ he winked, a habit Eddie was beginning
Corporal Entwistle had never liked Heaton. He was always too eager to obey the officers, always happy to volunteer. There was something smarmy about him. And those books he read – always fishing out an E.M. Forster or a James Joyce from his knapsack when they stopped for a break. That was all right for an officer. But Heaton’s father was a blacksmith. He had no business with books like that. He had just fished one out to read now. Corporal Entwistle pulled down the book and peered straight into his face. ‘Make yourself useful, lad. Go and fetch Sergeant Franklin and his patrol and tell them the war is over.’
Heaton immediately put down his book and gathered up his rifle and helmet. ‘Yes, Corporal. Which direction did they go?’
‘Just follow the path there into the woods, son. Make it sharpish.’
Heaton headed off as fast as he could, in the stooped posture which had become second nature to him. Like the others in the platoon, he was too exhausted to feel anything other than a kind of dull surprise about the end of the war. Maybe when they’d stopped the infernal artillery bombardment he could hear in the distance, maybe then he’d feel something. For now, that endless rumble just clouded up his mind.
As Heaton approached the wood, the artillery stopped and there was no small arms fire – not entirely unheard of, but rare anywhere on the Western Front. He could even hear a few birds singing and began to walk in a more upright manner.
He thought about what he was going to do when he got home, and the terrible row he would have with his father when he announced that he wanted to study to go to college. Heaton wanted to be a teacher. English literature. It was the thing he loved the most. Far in the distance he thought he could see a group of soldiers. He called out, ‘Sergeant Franklin,’ but they were too far away to hear. He called again to no avail and had began to run towards them when a sniper’s bullet caught him square on the forehead, throwing him off his feet and twisting him round as he fell. Private Heaton was dead before his body collapsed like a discarded doll on to the ground.
Chapter 9
8.00 a.m.
Eddie Hertz slept late – a rare luxury as he was often up before first light to fly the dawn patrol. Today he was off the roster. As he came to, the first thing he noticed was the scent of Céline’s perfume and he felt a stab of loneliness.
Eddie didn’t really believe her scarf would keep him safe, but he liked the idea of having something of hers so close to him. His fellow pilots were crazy about their rituals and superstitions. Some of them even took a cat up with them. Biederbeck had a black one – the classic witch’s familiar – but Eddie thought it was cruel to the poor animal. What would happen if it got stuck under your feet or was so terrified it wanted to jump out?
He threw on his clothes and splashed his face at the basin by the window. It was a short walk to the mess at the airbase, and if he hurried he’d be in time for breakfast.
Biederbeck was there, still in his flying gear, black soot on his face with an incongruous white patch around his eyes where he had removed his goggles.
‘Hey, Eddie,’ he shouted over. ‘Guess what I’ve been up to!’ He looked exceedingly pleased with himself.
‘Another notch on the propeller, huh?’ said Eddie. ‘Was it a Fokker? What does your cat think about that?’
‘Better than that, pal! I got one of those ammunition trains. About two in the morning. Saw it coming into this little town near to Mons. The smoke in the moonlight gave it away – so I came in low and dropped a couple of twenty-five-pounders. I’d like to tell you it was my skill and judgement –’ he winked, a habit Eddie was beginning
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