Read Online The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Ho Davies
Ads: Link
head. He'd been in France in '40 and '41, and they were still a little in awe of him, but someone had plucked up the courage to ask him if he knew any good pickup lines.
" Combien? " he'd snorted, and left Karsten to translate.
As the dusk deepens, Karsten watches a line of British troops file up the beach into the darkness of the dunes. The column bunches near their stockade, those in front slowing to stare, those behind bumping into them. There's some pointing, some laughter at their expense, some hissed name- calling. Karsten rouses the other two, dusts the sand from his
uniform and steps close to the wire. Several of the men glance away quickly, as if suddenly shy, and it gratifies him, this flinch. "Almost have to pity them," Schiller mutters beside him.
"Pity them?"
"We're out of it, after all."
It's a shameful thought, and Karsten recoils from it. "They might shoot us yet." He knows it's unlikely--the stockade is
proof of that--but at least it silences Schiller, the older man sagging back against one of the fence posts, sliding down until he's sitting in the sand. And yet Karsten can't quite shake the notion. Amid all the hundreds of men on the beach, only the three of them are no longer in the war. They, and the dead, gently nodding in the surf. He looks down the column of pale faces, counting heads. Every fifth man? he wonders. Every fourth? Every third? He's a prisoner, their prisoner, yet for a moment he's buoyed by an almost godlike sense of immortality.
He glances around, abruptly guilty, but Heino is still slumped on the sand, cradling his hand, his back to Karsten and the British.
The boy is underage, signed up at a recruiting station by some myopic or cynical veteran. There's less than eighteen months separating them, yet Karsten sees him as a child, divided from the rest, not least by the virginity they'd guessed at and made fun of so mercilessly. The second of three sons, Heino joined up the day he heard his older brother was dead, killed by partisans in Yugoslavia, enlisting under a false name so his family couldn't find him. Karsten had taken him under his wing, reasoning that by the time the boy was shipped back, it would only be a matter of months before he could enlist again. But he did make Heino write home (in return for
an extorted promise to get him laid on leave), adding a note to his mother, at the boy's bashful begging, pledging to look out for her son. Karsten had even interceded with Schiller on Heino's behalf, back when Schiller was still sergeant.
Wunderkind , Schiller dubbed the boy, but in his economical
veteran's way he hadn't bothered to report him, and Heino had gone on to become something of a mascot for the unit.
They never did get the boy laid, it occurs to Karsten now.
And he hopes this is what Heino is brooding on.
He'd ask Schiller's opinion, but beside him he sees that the
other has his eyes closed. Not sleeping, though, Karsten is sure.
He wonders what Schiller's thinking behind those lids. Probably wondering where his next drink's coming from.
In training camp, Schiller had been a morose despot who'd never shown enthusiasm for anything except finding fault and cribbage (nagging them to play, gloating when he won, nagging them again when they quit in disgust). The men had been delighted when he'd been caught drunk one night, puking on the major's roses, and stripped of rank. But they'd been dismayed when he'd been shipped out with them to France.
In a sense, Karsten owes his recent promotion to Schiller's disgrace. After the sergeant had been demoted, another corporal had been elevated in his stead, creating an opening. Karsten had only sewn the stripe on the month before, tongue tip pressed to the corner of his mouth. Heino had raised his arm, posed it, flexing as if showing off a new muscle, and the men had given a little cheer, though Karsten knew they meant as much to jeer Schiller. He tried to shrug off their congratulations, tell them it was just one
" Combien? " he'd snorted, and left Karsten to translate.
As the dusk deepens, Karsten watches a line of British troops file up the beach into the darkness of the dunes. The column bunches near their stockade, those in front slowing to stare, those behind bumping into them. There's some pointing, some laughter at their expense, some hissed name- calling. Karsten rouses the other two, dusts the sand from his
uniform and steps close to the wire. Several of the men glance away quickly, as if suddenly shy, and it gratifies him, this flinch. "Almost have to pity them," Schiller mutters beside him.
"Pity them?"
"We're out of it, after all."
It's a shameful thought, and Karsten recoils from it. "They might shoot us yet." He knows it's unlikely--the stockade is
proof of that--but at least it silences Schiller, the older man sagging back against one of the fence posts, sliding down until he's sitting in the sand. And yet Karsten can't quite shake the notion. Amid all the hundreds of men on the beach, only the three of them are no longer in the war. They, and the dead, gently nodding in the surf. He looks down the column of pale faces, counting heads. Every fifth man? he wonders. Every fourth? Every third? He's a prisoner, their prisoner, yet for a moment he's buoyed by an almost godlike sense of immortality.
He glances around, abruptly guilty, but Heino is still slumped on the sand, cradling his hand, his back to Karsten and the British.
The boy is underage, signed up at a recruiting station by some myopic or cynical veteran. There's less than eighteen months separating them, yet Karsten sees him as a child, divided from the rest, not least by the virginity they'd guessed at and made fun of so mercilessly. The second of three sons, Heino joined up the day he heard his older brother was dead, killed by partisans in Yugoslavia, enlisting under a false name so his family couldn't find him. Karsten had taken him under his wing, reasoning that by the time the boy was shipped back, it would only be a matter of months before he could enlist again. But he did make Heino write home (in return for
an extorted promise to get him laid on leave), adding a note to his mother, at the boy's bashful begging, pledging to look out for her son. Karsten had even interceded with Schiller on Heino's behalf, back when Schiller was still sergeant.
Wunderkind , Schiller dubbed the boy, but in his economical
veteran's way he hadn't bothered to report him, and Heino had gone on to become something of a mascot for the unit.
They never did get the boy laid, it occurs to Karsten now.
And he hopes this is what Heino is brooding on.
He'd ask Schiller's opinion, but beside him he sees that the
other has his eyes closed. Not sleeping, though, Karsten is sure.
He wonders what Schiller's thinking behind those lids. Probably wondering where his next drink's coming from.
In training camp, Schiller had been a morose despot who'd never shown enthusiasm for anything except finding fault and cribbage (nagging them to play, gloating when he won, nagging them again when they quit in disgust). The men had been delighted when he'd been caught drunk one night, puking on the major's roses, and stripped of rank. But they'd been dismayed when he'd been shipped out with them to France.
In a sense, Karsten owes his recent promotion to Schiller's disgrace. After the sergeant had been demoted, another corporal had been elevated in his stead, creating an opening. Karsten had only sewn the stripe on the month before, tongue tip pressed to the corner of his mouth. Heino had raised his arm, posed it, flexing as if showing off a new muscle, and the men had given a little cheer, though Karsten knew they meant as much to jeer Schiller. He tried to shrug off their congratulations, tell them it was just one
Similar Books
