Read Online The Machine Gunners by Robert Westall - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Westall
Tags: Fiction, General, Historical, Classics, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Military & Wars, Transportation, Aviation
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pavement.
Boddser took off his gas-mask haversack, then his school-bag, his school raincoat, his blazer. He rolled up his sleeves slowly, one after the other. Chas could think of nothing but to do likewise. He took off his gas-mask case. It was not like Boddser's. It was a circular tin, twice the size of a large tin of beans and nearly as heavy. It swung from a long thin leather strap.
And then the idea came to Chas. It set him aghast. But it was maim or be maimed now. He put the case down carefully and took off his schoolbag and coat and blazer, laying them in the fine gravel of the gutter. He came up with his fists clenched, ready. Boddser advanced without hurry.
"Take your specs off," shouted Chas. "I don't want your mum complaining to me dad if I break them!"
"Playing for time, McGill," jeered Boddser. "That won't save you." But he took off his spectacles and handed them to a minion, and advanced again. Chas saw the first blow coming, and ducked it.
Then he swung his right fist wildly, a yard from Boddser's face, and opened his hand. Fine gravel sprayed into Boddser's eyes. There was no need for the second handful. The huge menacing figure was suddenly crouched up helpless, tears streaming down his face.
Calmly, full of murder, Chas picked up his gas-mask case and swung it. It hit the side of Boddser's head with a sound like a splitting pumpkin. Boddser screamed but did not fall. Chas swung at him again. The gas-mask case dented dramatically. Boddser crashed into the corrugated-iron fence. Chas raised his tin a third time. All the hate of all the years, infant school, junior, boiled up in him.
It was as well that Cem snatched the gas mask from his hand.
"You're bloody mad. Stop it, stop it!" Cem yelled. Chas snatched for his weapon again. Clogger kicked it away and held Chas's arms behind his back. Then everyone watched Boddser aghast as he reeled about, blood spurting from both hands held across his face. Then the wolf gang turned and fled.
It was Clogger who approached the moaning lump, pulled the hands away and looked. A two-inch flap of forehead hung loose.
"Shut your wailing man; ye'll live," he said to Boddser. "Stop going on like a wee bairn." He turned to the group. "We'd better be getting him to the hospital."
Fortunately it was only two hundred yards away. A stiff starched sister took over.
"How did this happen?" she said like a High Court judge.
"I hit him," said Chas.
"What with?"
"Me gas mask."
"You're a wicked, vicious boy," said the sister. "I shall ring up your headmaster personally. You grammar-school boys should know better. You might have killed him."
"He was bigger than me!"
"That's no excuse. British boys fight with their fists!" Chas felt like a criminal.
"British boys fight with their fists," said Chas's dad, and went off to mend the greenhouse. He didn't speak to Chas for two whole days, and neither did his mother, even all through the air raid.
"Britishers do not use weapons, they fight only with their fists," said the Headmaster, flexing his cane. "Bend over, boy!" It was six of the best and very painful.
The class treated him with awe-struck and horrified silence. It was their opinion that Boddser had asked for it, but Chas shouldn't have done it.
"But what do you do if you're small?" asked Chas hopelessly. Nobody answered; they got on with their class-work.
The neighbours said Chas was a wicked boy who would come to an evil end, mark their words. It was all very trying. Chas felt imprisoned in a glass bubble. No one would talk to him but Audrey. So it was Chas, Nicky and Audrey who started the whole thing off, one night after school.
"Look, there's Boddser," said Audrey. Both Nicky and Chas jumped, for their different reasons. But Boddser was only getting on a bus to go home with his mum, his head still completely encased in a spotless white bandage that was changed every night. The school was beginning to call him "The Sheik of Araby" because it looked like a
Boddser took off his gas-mask haversack, then his school-bag, his school raincoat, his blazer. He rolled up his sleeves slowly, one after the other. Chas could think of nothing but to do likewise. He took off his gas-mask case. It was not like Boddser's. It was a circular tin, twice the size of a large tin of beans and nearly as heavy. It swung from a long thin leather strap.
And then the idea came to Chas. It set him aghast. But it was maim or be maimed now. He put the case down carefully and took off his schoolbag and coat and blazer, laying them in the fine gravel of the gutter. He came up with his fists clenched, ready. Boddser advanced without hurry.
"Take your specs off," shouted Chas. "I don't want your mum complaining to me dad if I break them!"
"Playing for time, McGill," jeered Boddser. "That won't save you." But he took off his spectacles and handed them to a minion, and advanced again. Chas saw the first blow coming, and ducked it.
Then he swung his right fist wildly, a yard from Boddser's face, and opened his hand. Fine gravel sprayed into Boddser's eyes. There was no need for the second handful. The huge menacing figure was suddenly crouched up helpless, tears streaming down his face.
Calmly, full of murder, Chas picked up his gas-mask case and swung it. It hit the side of Boddser's head with a sound like a splitting pumpkin. Boddser screamed but did not fall. Chas swung at him again. The gas-mask case dented dramatically. Boddser crashed into the corrugated-iron fence. Chas raised his tin a third time. All the hate of all the years, infant school, junior, boiled up in him.
It was as well that Cem snatched the gas mask from his hand.
"You're bloody mad. Stop it, stop it!" Cem yelled. Chas snatched for his weapon again. Clogger kicked it away and held Chas's arms behind his back. Then everyone watched Boddser aghast as he reeled about, blood spurting from both hands held across his face. Then the wolf gang turned and fled.
It was Clogger who approached the moaning lump, pulled the hands away and looked. A two-inch flap of forehead hung loose.
"Shut your wailing man; ye'll live," he said to Boddser. "Stop going on like a wee bairn." He turned to the group. "We'd better be getting him to the hospital."
Fortunately it was only two hundred yards away. A stiff starched sister took over.
"How did this happen?" she said like a High Court judge.
"I hit him," said Chas.
"What with?"
"Me gas mask."
"You're a wicked, vicious boy," said the sister. "I shall ring up your headmaster personally. You grammar-school boys should know better. You might have killed him."
"He was bigger than me!"
"That's no excuse. British boys fight with their fists!" Chas felt like a criminal.
"British boys fight with their fists," said Chas's dad, and went off to mend the greenhouse. He didn't speak to Chas for two whole days, and neither did his mother, even all through the air raid.
"Britishers do not use weapons, they fight only with their fists," said the Headmaster, flexing his cane. "Bend over, boy!" It was six of the best and very painful.
The class treated him with awe-struck and horrified silence. It was their opinion that Boddser had asked for it, but Chas shouldn't have done it.
"But what do you do if you're small?" asked Chas hopelessly. Nobody answered; they got on with their class-work.
The neighbours said Chas was a wicked boy who would come to an evil end, mark their words. It was all very trying. Chas felt imprisoned in a glass bubble. No one would talk to him but Audrey. So it was Chas, Nicky and Audrey who started the whole thing off, one night after school.
"Look, there's Boddser," said Audrey. Both Nicky and Chas jumped, for their different reasons. But Boddser was only getting on a bus to go home with his mum, his head still completely encased in a spotless white bandage that was changed every night. The school was beginning to call him "The Sheik of Araby" because it looked like a
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