Free A Splendid Little War by Derek Robinson

twitching. He took a deep breath and seemed about to speak, then turned away, stared hard at nothing worth looking at, turned back again. They watched with interest. He was in the grip of strong emotions. They had never seen him like this before.
    â€œLook here …” Even his voice was different: tight, a bit hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I don’t like your attitude. Any of you. Too jokey. Too casual. We’re here to do a job, not a music-hall act. It’s not good enough.”
    â€œOh well,” Wragge said. “You know what the boys are like.”
    â€œYes, I do. They treat war like a game.” Griffin’s temper was rising. “Like Eton against Harrow at cricket. And you’re no better.”
    â€œNot me. I hate the bloody game,” Hackett said.
    â€œCricket’s more than a game,” Wragge insisted. “I opened the bowling for Harrow and we were definitely … Here, I say …” He was looking into Griffin’s revolver. It trembled with rage, only six inches away.
    â€œThe bullet in here cost a shilling,” Griffin whispered. “You’re not worth a shilling. You’re not worth a slice of cold toast. I could shoot you now. No loss to anyone. You’re an ex flight commander who’s forgotten what war is about.” He used the gun’s muzzle to raise Wragge’s cap fromhis head and he fired a shot through it. Wragge staggered back. Ground crew stopped working and stared. The cap spun through the air and dropped and rolled in a small circle and flopped. “What is war about?” Griffin demanded.
    â€œKilling the other bastard,” Hackett said fast.
    Griffin turned to him. “And why are we fighting?”
    Hackett thought, Buggered if I know and buggered if I care. But the smell of the revolver was sharp in his nostrils and Griffin’s finger still curled around the trigger. “Why do lions roar?” he asked. “What makes eagles soar?” He frowned a little to look like he was making an effort.
    Griffin sniffed. He resented the questions because he didn’t see their point, and if he said so, he might look weak. “End of message,” he said, and strode off, heading for the Camels.
    Wragge found his cap. “Half a guinea, that cost.” He poked his finger through the hole. “Just because I opened the bowling for Harrow. I took three for twenty-seven. It wasn’t a very good Eton side, but still … What sort of an idiot shoots a chap’s cap?” They were walking to the train.
    â€œI shot that R.T.O. in the spurs,” Hackett said.
    â€œThat was different. The man was a buffoon.”
    â€œWell, the C.O.’s bonkers. And I’m hungry.”
    Chef was serving a second breakfast in the dining-room car. Like most chefs, he had been well built – spend your working life sampling your own cooking and you put on a few pounds – but the Red Army diet had soon changed that. All the
plennys
were thin. Now Chef was starting to add a few ounces. His shaven head made his inky black moustache, thick and curling at the tips, dominate his face. He never smiled and he never spoke. He put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Jessop, who said, “Oh, thanks awfully, you are a prince among men, Chef, and a scholar with the skillet.” Chef stood erect, thumbs and forefingers gripping the seams of his trousers, until he was sure that Jessop had finished burbling. He collected a couple of dirty plates and went back to his kitchen.
    â€œCan’t we teach him to say something?” Bellamy said. “
Bon appetit
, or
Rule, Britannia
. Anything.”
    â€œNot possible,” Lacey said. He was sitting in a corner, writing up the day’s menu. “Ever since he saw his entire family slaughtered. Wife, children, parents, grandmother. The Moscow Bolsheviks waded in blood to seize power. Chef was struck dumb, never spoke a word again.Devilled kidneys