Free War Story by Derek Robinson Page B

off towards the mess. “It’s probably none of my business, old boy,” Foster said to Paxton,”but were you on your way to shoot someone?”
    Paxton remembered that he was holding his revolver. He stuffed it in its holster. “Now that the cricket’s over,” he said thickly,”maybe we can
all
start shooting someone.” His nose began to bleed again. He threw his head back but a scarlet trickle escaped and splashed his tunic.
    â€œDexter here thinks we ought to start killing people,” Foster announced.
    â€œPaxton,” mumbled Paxton.
    â€œI second that,” Piggott said. “Let’s all kill Paxton, quick, before he bleeds to death.”
    Milne knew the Amiens–Bapaume road very well from the air. It was a Roman road: fifty kilometres with scarcely a bend. It ran north-east from Amiens, and it was useful to pilots because it crossed the Front. Bapaume was held by the enemy. If you were slightly lost and you could find the Amiens-Bapaume road you were okay, provided you knew north from south.
    But until now, Milne had never driven on the road. From Amiens to Albert the surface wasn’t bad. The town of Albert had been thoroughly knocked about, and beyond Albert shell-holes were commonplace. The traffic thinned out, and then disappeared altogether. Milne was on his own. Nothing was happening in the cratered wastelands on either side. It didn’t look like the rear of a battlefield. It looked abandoned and forgotten, like miles of exhausted open-cast mines.
    A military policeman came out of a dugout and waved him down. “This is the turning-point, sir,” he said.
    â€œJolly good,” Milne said.
    The man pointed to a spot where the road had been widened. “This is the last good place where you can turn the car. If you drive on, you might have to reverse all the way back, sir.”
    Milne turned the car, parked it on the shoulder of the road, and got out. “Thank you,” he said, and began walking.
    â€œYou don’t want to go up there, sir,” the policeman called. “Not at four o’clock. It’s coming up to the afternoon hate.”
    Milne acknowledged this with a wave and did not stop.
    The policeman went back into the dugout, where his mate was reading a newspaper. “Royal fucking Flying Corps,” the policeman said. “Too fucking daft to come in out of the fucking rain.”
    The day was pleasantly warm. Milne unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Now that he had time to look about, he saw little touches of colour between the shell-holes: iris, wild lupin, poppy, cowslip. There were occasional wrecks beside the road, mostly lorries, although he also saw a motorcycle twisted liked a corkscrew. Far away the remains of an aeroplane made him pause; but it was smashed beyond recognition. He strolled on and realised that he was whistling. He never whistled; he hadn’t whistled since he came to France. How curious that he should start now, in all this silence. There was a bit of dull mumbling and grumbling going on somewhere over the horizon but it only pointed up the absolute silence all around.
    A yellow butterfly arose and he made a grab for it. It dodged easily and flew ahead, zigzagging, never more than a few feet away, as if it liked being followed. “All right, you’re faster than me,” he said,”but can you whistle
Alexander’s Ragtime Band?”
The butterfly did some clever stunts. “That’s not whistling,” he said,”and you know it.”
    A group of men came in sight, about twenty, all running from the Front. Their boots made a dull clatter, like distant farm machinery. Milne found a broken cart at the side of the road and sat on it to watch them pass.
    Each man carried a shovel. They kept up a good pace, although their faces were shining with sweat. If they saw him they ignored him: nobody saluted, nobody even glanced; only one thing mattered, and that