Lovely War(43)

Sam Selkirk, who had seen service before, spoke. “What’s on the other side? How many divisions has Jerry got?” Selkirk had a face like a basset hound’s. It was tricky not to stare.

“Who’re you?” asked the wiry 2nd Section chap.

“Sam Selkirk,” said the basset hound.

The other nodded in greeting. “Clive Mooradian. Good to meet you.” He blew smoke into the inside of his coat pocket.

This got Chad Browning curious. “Here, why d’you do that?”

“And you are?”

“Browning. Chad Browning.”

“Well, Private Browning,” said Clive Mooradian, “there’s half a dozen of us here smoking. What d’you think will happen next if we let the smoke rise up, easy as you please?”

Chad scratched his head. “Er . . . I dunno.”

“Fritz’ll know just where we are, won’t he?”

Chad looked like he must be daft. “You telling me Fritz doesn’t know we’re here?”

Second Section thought this was hilarious. “Course he knows we’re in the trenches, dippy. If they can tell by the smoke that a handful of us are lolling here, smoking, here’s what’ll happen. His bombers will lob an egg grenade right into our laps. Or his snipers will train their sights on this spot, waiting for one of us to poke our heads up.” He glanced up at Billy Nutley. “You’d best find a way to get shorter, mate, if you want to make it through the week.”

Billy slumped as best he could. His back would soon hurt like the devil.

Frank Mason blew smoke through his coat. “Mooradian,” he said quietly. “You said you heard the adjutant talking to Feetham. Is that all you heard? About the thinning of the line?”

Clive Mooradian tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “No, it ain’t,” he said. He looked around to make sure no officers or NCOs (noncommissioned officers) were near enough to hear them. “Russia’s pulling out of the war, see? They’ve gone communistic over there, and the new government wants to be out of the war before the Germans kill every last starving Cossack.”

“So what?” chirped Chad. “What’s a bunch of Russkies got to do with us?”

Clive gave him a scornful look. “Think, dumb-arse. The Germans and Russians are in peace talks, right? And when they sign an armistice, where d’you think all those German armies from the Eastern Front are gonna go? Back home to kiss Ursula and Hildegard?”

“If they won’t,” said an older man from 2nd Section, waggling his eyebrows, “I will.”

“Go ahead, Casanova,” said Benji. “Tell ol’ Fritz to bring his sisters to the Front for you.”

“Shut up, shut up,” drawled Clive casually. “You’re wrecking my story.”

“They’ll come here,” said James. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Mooradian?”

“That’s right, genius.” Mooradian pointed his cigarette at James. “Who’s this bright young lad? Oh. Right. You’re Jimmy. So, Jimmy, how long d’you think the Eastern Front is?”

James shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot longer.”

“You’re not half right. A lot longer. We’ll have double, triple the German soldiers, all their artillery and planes. Facing our thin line of Fifth Army. How long d’you think we’ll last?”

Frank Mason spoke up. “What about the Oise River?” he said. “They said it’s so wet and soupy, it’s a natural defense, so a thinner line’s okay. The Germans can’t cross it easily.”

“Better hope so.” Benji took a drag on his cigarette. “Sounds like betting on a puddle.”

“But the Americans are coming,” Mick Webber said.

“Seen any sign of ’em?” replied Mooradian. “At this rate, they’ll get here in time to toast the Germans’ victory.”

Sam Selkirk, basset hound, shook his head. “It’ll be Wipers all over again.”

Frank Mason, seeing his comrades’ bewilderment, translated. “Ypres. Belgium.”

“What he means,” said Private Mooradian, “is that it’ll be suicide.”





APHRODITE


     Caught—January 15, 1918





AUBREY CAME TO the Y hut on his next free evening.

They sat at the piano. Hazel on the bench, and Aubrey to her right. When Colette sat by Aubrey, Hazel found herself sliding off the edge, so she got herself a chair.

Aubrey played, reminding himself not to stare at Colette. He had to hear her sing. Watch her move. She wore a dark blue dress tonight. No stiff uniform. One dark curl escaped her hairpins and dangled beside her ear.

He pointed to a French war tune. “What would you think of doing it like this?” He began to play it with a slow, sleepy, take-it-easy beat.

“What do you call that?” demanded Colette.

“Syncopation,” Aubrey said. God, she was gorgeous. So intense, like she wanted to pry answers out of him. Pry away, mademoiselle.

“How does it do that?” she asked. “It . . . turns the song on its head. It protests the, how do I say, the proper, the stuffy . . . Hazel, what do I mean?”