War Story by Derek Robinson

was to keep on running. A tall, thin lieutenant came pounding along behind them, head down, fists clenched. He saw Milne at the last moment, kept running for five yards, then stopped. “Carry on, sergeant!” he shouted, but the order turned into a gasp for breath. He stoodwith his hands linked on top of his head and his chest heaving. The squad ran on, leaving a faint haze of dust.
    â€œJolly warm work,” Milne said.
    The lieutenant turned. He was blinking hard because his eyes were stinging from sweat. “It’s a warm spot,” he said,”sir.” He wiped his eyes and looked at Milne again. “May I ask …” He pressed his ribs, and winced. “Are you looking for your regiment, sir?”
    â€œNo, no.”
    â€œGreen Howards, I believe.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œOnly … they’re not in this part of the Front, sir.”
    â€œQuite so. Actually I’m Flying Corps now. I thought I’d come and take a squint at the real war. Like some chocolate?”
    â€œI ought to tell you, sir…” The lieutenant’s breathing was getting better. “The Hun batteries have got this road pretty well bracketed. They give it a bloody good pasting every day. Especially the afternoon hate.” He accepted a square of chocolate.
    â€œAnd when does that start?”
    The lieutenant looked at his watch. “A minute ago.”
    Milne nodded, sucking his chocolate. “Maybe the Kaiser’s given them a half-day holiday.”
    â€œMaybe my watch is fast.”
    A faint, clean-edged whistle came out of the east. The lieutenant cocked his head. The whistle magnified fast, at first splitting the afternoon silence and then tearing it, ripping it apart and finally releasing a bang that Milne felt through his boots. Two hundred years nearer the Front, a brown fountain created itself beside the road, climbed and spread, hung poised for a long moment, and fell. “You knew it would drop short?” Milne asked.
    The lieutenant nodded. “One develops an ear for that sort of thing.” Another shell was on its way. “A chap can’t be forever diving into a hole, just because …” This time the explosion was fifty yards nearer.
    â€œWhat if two come over at once?” Milne asked.
    â€œYou just have to listen twice as hard.”
    â€œI see. And I suppose different types of shells make different sounds?”
    The lieutenant took out a filthy handkerchief and wiped his neck. “I really ought to be pushing on,” he said. Flies circled his head. He seemed not to notice them.
    â€œDon’t worry about me,” Milne said. “I’ll find my way back, in due course.” Shells were falling over a large area now. Most fell out of sight, but the persistent, irregular
crump-crump
was like the stamping of giant cattle. He saw a pulse thumping away in the lieutenant’s neck, and realised he was afraid that Milne might think he was afraid to stay. “Your troops must be wondering what’s become of you,” Milne said. “You’ve been most helpful. I think I’ll stroll on a bit further. Many thanks.”
    They shook hands. Milne knew, from his glance, that the lieutenant thought he was wrong in the head; but then, everyone thought all RFC pilots and observers were a bit mad. It went with the job.
    He walked on a few paces for the sake of form, and watched the lieutenant hurry away. The bombardment grew heavier, and seemed to wander in a random fashion. Milne ate his chocolate and watched distant eruptions of mud enliven the landscape, following the fancy of some German battery commander. The howlings in the sky were suddenly louder and nearer; he blinked at the instant ferocity of the shellburst, and once or twice he lurched when the edge of a blast-wave shoved him in the chest. Then the attack grew bored and fickle and went off to blow up other bits of harmless field. The stench of high