Free Goshawk Squadron by Derek Robinson Page B

toast and carefully buttered it, clutching the knife in his fist.
    â€œThis bloody French weather,” Kimberley said. “You can’t trust it.”
    Church piled marmalade on his toast and spread it thickly and thoroughly. “I’ll take that bet,” he said distinctly. Again, nobody paid any attention. He put the toast back on the plate where he’d found it and got up and went out.
    â€œIt must be hell in the t-t-t-t—” began Killion.
    â€œTrenches,” Dickinson supplied. Killion nodded.
    â€œOh well,” said Dangerfield. “They shouldn’t have volunteered.”
    â€œFunny to think that people actually did volunteer in the beginning,” said Richards.
    â€œHilarious,” said Lambert.
    Finalyson went to the door of the tent. “Old Churchy’s standing out in the rain,” he said.
    â€œI don’t think he had any breakfast again,” Kimberley said. “Did he?”
    â€œDon’t worry about Church,” Dickinson said. “Church is feeling no pain.”
    â€œWhy does he do it?” Gabriel asked.
    â€œThe real question is, how does he do it and still manage to fly,” Rogers said. “But he does.”
    Woolley came in, wearing a potato sack over his head and shoulders. “Finlayson?” he said. “I want to look at your neck.”
    Finlayson stood up. “It aches a bit, but I can turn it all right, sir,” he said. Woolley walked behind him. “Move it,” he said.
    Finlayson turned his head from side to side. “Stop moving your shoulders,” Woolley told him. He gripped Finlayson’s shoulders. “Do it now.” Finlayson flung his head about. Woolley grunted and let go. Stuck to Finlayson’s left shoulder with sticking-plaster was a piece of string. On the end was a small firecracker. “Now look straight in front and nod,” Woolley ordered. He blew on his cigarette and lit the firecracker. “All right,” he said.
    Finlayson sat down, looking relieved. The firecracker exploded. He ducked, covering his head. It went off again. He jerked around; again it exploded, and he twisted the other way. The firework hissed and banged, and then he understood, and struggled to throw off his jacket.
    â€œGood God all bloody mighty,” he said, watching the stub fizzle and flutter about.
    Woolley was sitting astride a chair, drinking coffee. “Slow,” he said. “Too damn slow.”
    â€œOne of the buttons stuck,” Finlayson protested.
    â€œBugger the buttons, your neck is too slow. You don’t turn fast enough.” He leaned across and poured coffee on the dying squib. It sighed furiously. “No future in that,” he said. “Dead end.”
    â€œAll right,” muttered Finlayson. “I know.”
    â€œYou
should
know. That’s what happened last time, you didn’t look behind you. By rights you should be cremated. He must have been a very stupid German.”
    â€œI’m exercising it,” Finlayson said, rubbing his neck. “I’m having treatment for it.”
    â€œI don’t care if you have mass said for it. Get it right. Fromnow on I’m going to carry a Guinness bottle around with me. Every time I see you I’m going to chuck it at you and shout.”
    Finlayson stared at him, white-faced and hating.
    â€œThe Guinness bottle is very good for the throwing. If I hit you once, you’re grounded. Twice, you’re posted.” Woolley finished his coffee. “No flying today. Everybody get over to the butts. Gunnery practice.”
    Half of Goshawk Squadron sat on soaking wet camp chairs and hunched their saturated shoulders against Lewis guns which hissed steadily as the rain washed their hot barrels. The rest of Goshawk Squadron was slithering about in the deepening mud of a seven-foot trench, thrusting the targets up, waving them for a few seconds, and hauling them down again.
    Woolley