Free War Story by Derek Robinson

anything connected with O’Neill. “What is it?” he asked.
    â€œIf we knew that, sir, it wouldn’t be suspicious, would it? Personally, I kept well clear of it, myself.”
    Paxton hesitated, but he saw no alternative. “All right, lead on,” he said, and unbuttoned his revolver holster.
    They walked through the camp. “I must say I’m surprised to find an Australian in the squadron,” Paxton said, allowing his distaste to show. “God knows there are still plenty of decent Englishmen left.”
    â€œBless your heart, sir, Mr. O’Neill’s not what you’d call a
real
Australian,” Fidler said. “It’s more of an act, with him.” He chuckled at the thought.
    Paxton wanted to know more but he wasn’t willing to askand it seemed that Fidler had nothing to add. They walked in silence for a few yards. “What about Toby Chivers, then?” Paxton asked. “Was he English?”
    Fidler began to speak but then stopped and cleared his throat. “Sometimes I can’t believe Mr. Chivers has really gone, sir,” he said. “It makes no sense. Not in his case.”
    They turned the corner of the cookhouse and saw O’Neill standing in a patch of knee-high grass. Paxton let his hand rest on the butt of his revolver and approached O’Neill cautiously. “All right, what is it?” he asked.
    â€œSee for yourself.” O’Neill nudged something with his foot. “Come on, it won’t dare bite you. You’re the bloody Orderly Officer.” The Australian accent made his voice slack and contemptuous.
    Paxton took out the revolver and advanced. Fidler had vanished. Paxton looked at what O’Neill was looking at and saw nothing but grass. “I can’t see anything,” he said.
    â€œJesus.” O’Neill sighed, and shook his head. “If you can’t see it I’d better pick it up and show you. Here, hold this for a minute.” He thrust something hard and heavy into Paxton’s left hand. Instinctively, the fingers closed. When Paxton looked up, O’Neill was ten yards away and running. “Keep the spring in!” O’Neill shouted. Paxton squeezed until his fingers hurt. He was holding a hand grenade. His stomach clenched at nothing, as it had nothing to clench, and gripped it hard.
    By the time he had worked out that the obvious solution was to fling the bloody thing as far away as possible, he knew it wasn’t going to explode. That meant he was holding the spring in. He knew very little about hand grenades but he felt sure that this one was safe as long as he kept a tight grip. His stomach slowly unclenched.
    He could still chuck it away, of course; there was plenty of open space. But that would be much less satisfying than finding O’Neill and giving the grenade back to him. And if O’Neill wouldn’t take it, Paxton would toss it to him and leave, fast. These japes were all very jolly but enough was enough.
    Paxton marched back through the camp, holding the grenade in one hand and his revolver in the other, and soonsaw where O’Neill was. O’Neill was playing cricket. Splendid! There would be plenty of spectators for the showdown. He headed across the field.
    Tim Piggott was batting. He was enjoying himself, the ball looked big to him, he was whacking it vigorously over or between the fielders, and so far he had scored forty-seven runs, a squadron record. O’Neill was fielding very close to Piggott. “Not now, old boy,” Piggott called out as Paxton advanced. “Buzz off.”
    â€œBut this is important.”
    â€œDont talk tripe. I only need three for my fifty. Get out of the way, I can’t see the bowler.”
    The bowler was beginning his run-up. Reluctantly, Paxton moved back. The bowler flung down a fast delivery. Piggott smacked it crisply over Paxton’s head, and ran two. Paxton stared at O’Neill, who was