Lovely War(27)

“Guard!”

Ready.

“Long thrust!”

Lunge and jab, right at the dummy. It swayed at the impact.

“Guard!”

Back to the beginning.

“Long thrust! Twist! Kill, kill, kill! You say it!”

James gulped. “Kill, kill, kill!”

“Not like that, you pathetic sops! They’ll wipe the floor with you!”

“Kill, kill, kill!”

Just say it, James told himself. Just do what they want you to do. He lunged at straw-filled Fritz like a ruthless killing machine. Like a lethal weapon in King George’s hands.

“Rest position. Bayonets off. Tomorrow we’ll spar and engage in hand-to-hand.”

They headed back to their barracks. Ambiguous smells wafted from mess kitchens. James was hungry enough today to eat bully beef.

Private Chad Browning began to sing in a high-pitched, nasal, comical voice.


OH, OH, OH, IT’S A LOVELY WAR,

WHO WOULDN’T BE A SOLDIER, EH?

OH, IT’S A SHAME TO TAKE THE PAY. . . .



“What pay?” muttered Nutley. “When do we ever see that?”


UP TO YOUR WAIST IN WATER,

UP TO YOUR EYES IN SLUSH,

USING THE KIND OF LANGUAGE,

THAT MAKES THE SERGEANT BLUSH.


OH, WHO WOULDN’T JOIN THE ARMY?

THAT’S WHAT WE ALL INQUIRE!

DON’T WE PITY THE POOR CIVILIAN,

SITTING AROUND THE FIRE.



“Someone’s gonna hear you, Browning,” warned bowlegged Private Mick Webber, a bricklayer from Rutland. “If the wrong sergeant does, you’ll spend a night in the chokey.”


OH, OH, OH, IT’S A LOVELY WAR,

WHAT DO WE WANT WITH EGGS AND HAM,

WHEN WE’VE GOT PLUM AND APPLE JAM?



“I don’t mind the plum jam so much,” admitted Billy Nutley.

“You will,” muttered Mason, “when it’s the only sweet thing you’ve had in six weeks.”

“Mason,” James said. “Is it really as bad as they say out there?”

Mason took in the lot of them. “You’ll soon see for yourselves.”

“This war was supposed to end before I got old enough for it.” Everything Browning said came out as a joke. “Who do I submit my complaints to in writing, is what I’d like to know.”

“Sorry we were slacking on the job, sonny boy.”

“How about the food?” Nutley asked the old campaigner. “Is it as bad in the trenches as here?”

“Worse.” Mason elbowed Nutley. “But you’ll be lucky if food’s your main problem.”

Webber chimed in. “I want a nice Blighty one like you got, Mason,” he said. “An injury bad enough to send me home to my girl, but not so bad she won’t love me anymore.” He grinned. “How’d you manage it, getting pelted in the leg?”

James tried not to picture the horribly disfigured faces he’d seen near base hospitals. He pictured Hazel’s sweet face. How many scars would it take to change the way she looked at him?

Thrust, twist, kill.

“How often, Mason, do soldiers use their bayonets?” he asked.

At this, Mason smiled. “They make good can openers, and candleholders when you stick ’em into the trench walls. And there’s nothing like a bayonet for toasting bread over a little fire.”





DECEMBER 1942


     Third Witness





“IF I MAY,” Aphrodite asks, “summon one more witness?”

“Do we need to move down to a ballroom?” asks Hephaestus.

“Ooh, get one with a grand piano,” says Apollo. “I’ll sing.”

“That won’t be necessary,” says the goddess smoothly. “I summon my third witness.”

Outside the window, clouds obscure the moon and stars. The earth rumbles and shakes beneath them. It feels as though a subway train is hurtling by, the size of an ocean liner and traveling at the speed of sound.

A single knock sounds at the door of the hotel room. It opens, and a figure enters.

“That’s all right,” calls Hephaestus to the shadowed figure. “Just let yourself right in.”

“I always do.”

At the sound of the voice, Apollo and Ares freeze.

The new arrival glides down the corridor as noiselessly as a cat. His dark clothing calls to mind an undertaker. But when he removes his coat, they see a long black cassock stretching to his ankles. The square in a clerical collar forms his only speck of white.

They gape at him.

“A priest?” bleats Ares. “The god of the Underworld is a Roman Catholic priest?”

“Good evening, Uncle.” Aphrodite makes a deep bow.

Hephaestus sinks down onto one knee, and Apollo, sliding off the bed, follows his lead. Ares, muttering, genuflects as well, after a kick from Aphrodite.

“I thought you played professor when you visit mortals,” says Apollo. “My lord Hades.”

“IRS auditor,” says Hephaestus. “‘The only things certain are death and taxes.’”

Hades smiles. “I dress in the role that suits me.”