Read Online The Eldorado Network by Derek Robinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Derek Robinson
Tags: Fiction
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like it. We got quite lively for a while. That's how I came to be out here. Bloody old Summers's doing.'
'Solitary confinement?' Townsend suggested.
'That and a bit more. He wants them to drop a shell on me, shut me up for good.' Davis dumped the sandbag on its base, packing the dirt down hard. 'My Jarama doesn't tally with his Party Line fairy tales.'
Townsend had his notebook open, 'Tell me about your Jarama.'
Davis gave it some thought while he scraped up more dirt with his saucepan. 'Ready?' he asked. Bloody shambles. Got that?'
'Yes.'
'Well, that's what it was. Bloody shambles from start to finish.' Davis spat into the sandbag and closed its neck. His fingers were shaking as they tried to unknot a piece of string.
'How did it start?' Townsend asked gently.
'It started . . .' Davis sniffed, and blinked, and a tremendous weariness seemed to come over him. He stared, frowning at the muddle of footprints in the dusty dirt. 'It started without any breakfast,' he said. 'Imagine that. We'd spent all day in the train and all night in the truck, and it was cold, I'm telling you. You don't know what it's like to be cold till you've been tired out and starving at the same time. The cold soaks right into your guts, and your guts are empty, and you get to the state where your hand hasn't the strength to pick up a piece of bread.'
'This was when they brought your Battalion up to the Front,' Townsend said.
'Certainly!' Davis relaxed his hands, and began picking at the hard knots again. 'And about time too, or so we thought. First-class, fully trained, crack fighting men, we were. All in uniform made out of high-grade cheesecloth. Nothing fits, but that's democracy, isn't it? The main thing is, we're fully trained, we know exactly what to do.' He chewed on a knot and looked sideways at Townsend.
'What did they train you to do?'
'Attack,' Davis said. He walked his fingers down his thighs. 'Advance and defeat the enemy.'
'How?'
'Fire the rifle at him. We knew all about the rifle, we'd all fired it, once, on the range. Five rounds, Crack bloody marksmen, we were. Irresistible.'
'But what if the enemy resisted?'
'Then we threw the grenade at him, and he ran away, and we won. We were on the right side, see? We just had to attack and he would run away.' Davis beamed at Townsend, his bruised face distorting under the strain.
'Ahah! Senor Townsend!' Luis cried, bounding down the trench. 'The others sent me to -- '
'Sure, sure. Sit down and shut up.'
'But they want -- '
'The hell with them. You never found me. Okay, Davis, so you got here and no breakfast. This was what time? Dawn?'
Luis looked from Townsend's notebook to Davis's crooked grin, and suddenly realised: the American had found his Lone Ranger. He sat down and listened.
'It was daylight,' Davis said. 'There was some sort of food, bread, coffee, I don't know what, nobody could stay awake to eat. We all just got out of the trucks and fell asleep. Must've looked like a massacre: bodies everywhere.'
'What about the fighting?' Townsend asked him. 'Was there any fighting going on?'
Davis shook his head. 'That came later. They let us sleep for a couple of hours and then woke us up. Time to attack. The funny thing is, we all felt good. Couple of hours sleep, nice sunny morning, birds singing, and here was our chance to win the war. So, up the hill we went.'
Luis listened carefully. He deeply regretted his earlier criticism of Templeton. Then, he had spoken out of impatience and ignorance. Now was his chance to learn the truth about the gallantry of action, from this battle-scarred yet good-humoured veteran.
Townsend wanted to know how many went up the hill.
'The whole damn battalion, about six hundred. You could hear the bullets fizzing overhead as you got to the top of the hill. Everyone was grinning, we were all excited. Now and then we heard things going off bang, guns firing or shells landing, we didn't know and we didn't care. We just wanted to attack.
'Solitary confinement?' Townsend suggested.
'That and a bit more. He wants them to drop a shell on me, shut me up for good.' Davis dumped the sandbag on its base, packing the dirt down hard. 'My Jarama doesn't tally with his Party Line fairy tales.'
Townsend had his notebook open, 'Tell me about your Jarama.'
Davis gave it some thought while he scraped up more dirt with his saucepan. 'Ready?' he asked. Bloody shambles. Got that?'
'Yes.'
'Well, that's what it was. Bloody shambles from start to finish.' Davis spat into the sandbag and closed its neck. His fingers were shaking as they tried to unknot a piece of string.
'How did it start?' Townsend asked gently.
'It started . . .' Davis sniffed, and blinked, and a tremendous weariness seemed to come over him. He stared, frowning at the muddle of footprints in the dusty dirt. 'It started without any breakfast,' he said. 'Imagine that. We'd spent all day in the train and all night in the truck, and it was cold, I'm telling you. You don't know what it's like to be cold till you've been tired out and starving at the same time. The cold soaks right into your guts, and your guts are empty, and you get to the state where your hand hasn't the strength to pick up a piece of bread.'
'This was when they brought your Battalion up to the Front,' Townsend said.
'Certainly!' Davis relaxed his hands, and began picking at the hard knots again. 'And about time too, or so we thought. First-class, fully trained, crack fighting men, we were. All in uniform made out of high-grade cheesecloth. Nothing fits, but that's democracy, isn't it? The main thing is, we're fully trained, we know exactly what to do.' He chewed on a knot and looked sideways at Townsend.
'What did they train you to do?'
'Attack,' Davis said. He walked his fingers down his thighs. 'Advance and defeat the enemy.'
'How?'
'Fire the rifle at him. We knew all about the rifle, we'd all fired it, once, on the range. Five rounds, Crack bloody marksmen, we were. Irresistible.'
'But what if the enemy resisted?'
'Then we threw the grenade at him, and he ran away, and we won. We were on the right side, see? We just had to attack and he would run away.' Davis beamed at Townsend, his bruised face distorting under the strain.
'Ahah! Senor Townsend!' Luis cried, bounding down the trench. 'The others sent me to -- '
'Sure, sure. Sit down and shut up.'
'But they want -- '
'The hell with them. You never found me. Okay, Davis, so you got here and no breakfast. This was what time? Dawn?'
Luis looked from Townsend's notebook to Davis's crooked grin, and suddenly realised: the American had found his Lone Ranger. He sat down and listened.
'It was daylight,' Davis said. 'There was some sort of food, bread, coffee, I don't know what, nobody could stay awake to eat. We all just got out of the trucks and fell asleep. Must've looked like a massacre: bodies everywhere.'
'What about the fighting?' Townsend asked him. 'Was there any fighting going on?'
Davis shook his head. 'That came later. They let us sleep for a couple of hours and then woke us up. Time to attack. The funny thing is, we all felt good. Couple of hours sleep, nice sunny morning, birds singing, and here was our chance to win the war. So, up the hill we went.'
Luis listened carefully. He deeply regretted his earlier criticism of Templeton. Then, he had spoken out of impatience and ignorance. Now was his chance to learn the truth about the gallantry of action, from this battle-scarred yet good-humoured veteran.
Townsend wanted to know how many went up the hill.
'The whole damn battalion, about six hundred. You could hear the bullets fizzing overhead as you got to the top of the hill. Everyone was grinning, we were all excited. Now and then we heard things going off bang, guns firing or shells landing, we didn't know and we didn't care. We just wanted to attack.
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