War Story by Derek Robinson Page A

explosive drifted on a gentle breeze and made his nostrils twitch.
    Milne was not testing his bravery. Where was the bravery in standing on a bare road in deserted countryside during a barrage? It made no difference to anyone whether he stayed or went. His survival was entirely a matter of luck. It takes no bravery to trust to luck. He was there to see the show, and to discover how watching the show affected him. Absurd reasons, both.
    The shellfire tailed off after half an hour. He walked back towards his car, thinking about the sound and the fury. Maybe the sound was the worst part; maybe a shell that simply exploded with no warning whistle would be less frightening. But it didn’t seem right; it somehow diminishedthe enemy. A noise like an express locomotive startled Milne. It rushed overhead, screech mixed with roar, and this time he fell flat. The savagery of the crash made every other shell-burst seem tame. The roadway seemed to rise up and punch him. After a long time the sky rained clods of earth. When he got up he was half-deaf, and staggering, and there was a smoking crater where he would have been thirty seconds later.
So now you know
, he said to himself.
That’s what it’s like. Now you can go home happy, you idiot.
    When Major Milne drove into Pepriac at half-past five, the intense sense of homecoming surprised him. It was only a collection of huts and canvas hangars and tents in the corner of a field; the huts were drab, the tents had faded, the hangars leaned and sagged; but he knew every detail; this was home. He stopped to look at a patch of wallflowers and tried to remember who had planted them. Harry Wild, was it? No, not Harry. They were planted last autumn, and dear old Harry shed his wings in August. Milne could see it now, quite clearly: both sets of wings folding back like a bird settling down for the night. Goodbye Harry. If the German Air Force found anything in the wreckage to identify the pilot, they sometimes put it in a bag and dropped it over a British aerodrome. Nothing came back to commemorate Harry. Except his wallflowers. No, that’s not right, Milne thought, they’re
not
his wallflowers. But they looked cheery all the same. Dusty and blown-about but cheery. Harry had been a bit like that. Always needing a haircut, always making daft remarks. One day somebody had called for three cheers for something, and Harry had said, “I bid four cheers!” Dotty, mindless nonsense, just what everyone needed to keep their minds off the goings-on upstairs. Good old Harry. He kept saying he was going to retire when he was twenty-one because he didn’t think it right to stand in the way of young and ambitious officers. Oh well, Milne thought, at least he wasn’t a flamer. The reds and yellows of the wallflowers waved in the breeze like paper flames. He stopped looking at them and drove on.
    The adjutant walked into Milne’s office with a dozen pieces of paper to be signed. “How is everybody at Brigade, sir?”
    â€œEverybody at Brigade is very happy.” Milne hung up his Sam Browne. “The sun is shining, partridge galore are running through the new corn, mess bills are low, and we are to have an enormous battle which will win the war.”
    â€œJolly good.” Appleyard laid the papers on the desk and strolled off to lean on the windowsill. “I could do with some decent shooting.”
    Milne sat down and began signing. “You’re not thinking of leaving us for the trenches, Uncle?”
    â€œWhat? No, no. Good God, no. But you must admit, a few brace of partridge would brighten up the menu a bit. One does get rather fed up with mutton.”
    â€œYou don’t seem impressed by the battle news.”
    â€œOh, well. It’s no surprise, is it? Everyone’s been beavering away around here since Christmas. New roadheads, railheads, depots, shell dumps, and everywhere you look nothing but camps and camps of infantry, all busily