Part 15 (2/2)

Florry, in his confusion and embarra.s.sment, became aware of a circle of faces above him.

”Billy, you awful toad, playing games with some innocent swot,” came a voice of piercing familiarity. ”Good heavens, fellow, don't just lie there like the fallen Christ awaiting resurrection. Get your scrawny bones up and give us some account of yourself.”

A lovely apparition in mud and pale whiskers stood above him. He wore a small automatic pistol at his waist and some kind of many-buckled leather Burberry. He looked like a Great War aviator, all dash and style, more than any kind of infantryman, even to the scarf-silk, naturally-and the puttees and the hollow, n.o.ble sunburned face. His hair was almost white-blond from the outdoor living, the eyes still their fabled opaque blue.

”Hullo, Julian,” said Florry, in spite of himself excited. And a little nervous.

”Good G.o.d, it's Stinky Florry of the old school. Stinky, can it really be you?”

” 'E said 'e was a chum of yours, Julian,” said the runty redhead. ”If I'd known it for a fact, I wouldn't have knocked 'im down before Bob the Nailer invited him to tea.”

”Had Bob the Nailer known he was an Eton man, Billy, I'm sure sure he would have shown a degree more politeness,” said Julian with what Florry began to see was a kind of mock snootiness that must have been his style up here. ”Robert, you've already met the disgusting Billy Mowry, who actually calls himself a commissar. He's the only man I've ever known who's actually read he would have shown a degree more politeness,” said Julian with what Florry began to see was a kind of mock snootiness that must have been his style up here. ”Robert, you've already met the disgusting Billy Mowry, who actually calls himself a commissar. He's the only man I've ever known who's actually read Das Kapital Das Kapital, which is less impressive than it seems because it's the only only book he's read. He's not read book he's read. He's not read my my book, for example. He's not even book, for example. He's not even heard heard of me, or so he claims.” of me, or so he claims.”

”Comrade,” said this Commissar Billy to Florry, ”if you can work out a way to keep your fancy chum's mouth glued tight, you'll have served the revolution heroically. Anyhows, glad to have you here. We need all the fighters we can find, whatever the cla.s.s. I reckon you'll bleed just as red as any of us. I'm boss fellow, or so it says somewhere. Don't ask me why; these foolish fellows elected me.” There was something like warmth-though not much of it-in his voice.

”Only to shut him up about Karl b.l.o.o.d.y Marx, his patron saint. Come on, dear boy, to my quarters. You can meet these other fellows later; they'll be the first to admit they're not important enough to waste our time now.”

There was much laughter, and Florry saw that part of Julian's job here in the trenches was to make the boys laugh.

”Now,” said Julian, drawing him off, ”tell Julian why on earth you've come halfway across Europe to die in mud among louts and lice. I thought one fool in our form was enough. G.o.d, Stinky, you can't have turned into a b.l.o.o.d.y Communist, can you? You don't believe all their nonsense, do you?”

”Christ, Julian, it's good to see you,” Florry surprised himself in suddenly blurting. He could feel Julian's charm like a tide sweeping in to engulf him.

You hate him, he told himself. You'll destroy him, he told himself.

”Look at me, Stink. Yes, by G.o.d, it is is you. And what a present from G.o.d you are. Let me tell you, old man, this b.l.o.o.d.y giving oneself to the revolution is a good bit of trouble. It's a picnic in the mud among Java men. Good fellows, but the blokes haven't even read you. And what a present from G.o.d you are. Let me tell you, old man, this b.l.o.o.d.y giving oneself to the revolution is a good bit of trouble. It's a picnic in the mud among Java men. Good fellows, but the blokes haven't even read Housman Housman, for G.o.d's sake. And with your usual flair for the dramatic, you've managed to come upon something unique in history: it's the only time a city city has besieged an has besieged an army army. Why, it's-”

”Julian, before we go any farther, I must tell you something.”

”Oh, G.o.d, I do hate it when someone says they must tell tell me something. From the look on your face, you're about to tell me you've managed to get yourself listed ahead of me in Mother's will. I can forgive you anything, Stinky, except that. Now keep low here. First rule: never stand against a crestline. Bang, Bob the Nailer has potted you. Now, what was it you were going to tell me. Can it wait at least until-” me something. From the look on your face, you're about to tell me you've managed to get yourself listed ahead of me in Mother's will. I can forgive you anything, Stinky, except that. Now keep low here. First rule: never stand against a crestline. Bang, Bob the Nailer has potted you. Now, what was it you were going to tell me. Can it wait at least until-”

”Please, no. I must get this out. You must know.”

”Lord, you're not still ticked at me for the awful thing I said on Honors Day. Stink, I'd just had a rare turn-down from a b.l.o.o.d.y trollop-Jack Tantivy's sister, as I recall, awful girl-and I was drunk and looking for somebody to hurt. Lord, Stink, how I've often regretted that. You're not out here for revenge, lo these many years later? Here-”

He pulled out the little pistol, snapped it prime, and handed it to Florry.

”Go on then,” he said dramatically, closing his eyes. ”Do the deed. I deserve it. I can be such a cad. I hurt people all the time, Stink. Pull the trigger and rid the world of the awful Julian.”

”You b.l.o.o.d.y idiot.”

”Ah, Stink, that's the spirit. Give as good as you get.”

Florry saw that the pistol was the little Webley automatic, in .25 caliber.

”Here. Take the b.l.o.o.d.y toy. I've a Webley myself. The big revolver. When it comes to shooting, I could blast the moon out of the sky.”

”A four-five-five! Topping! Now that that I envy you. A b.l.o.o.d.y big four-five-five! Christ, I'd love to turn it on a Moorish sergeant. Or pot a Jerry or an Eyetye captain. What fun! War's great fun, Stink. Better than school ... better even than poetry.” I envy you. A b.l.o.o.d.y big four-five-five! Christ, I'd love to turn it on a Moorish sergeant. Or pot a Jerry or an Eyetye captain. What fun! War's great fun, Stink. Better than school ... better even than poetry.”

Florry exploded. ”Julian, I hate your poetry! I hate 'Achilles, Fool.' You've destroyed the talent you had at Eton with debauchery and sloth. You haven't written a good verse in years.”

Julian's blue eyes held his for the longest time. Then he smiled.

”Well spoken, Stink. Hate it myself. It's no b.l.o.o.d.y game when it's your own rump they're shooting at. Yes, as a poet I'm finished, I agree. I'm halfway through an awful poem called 'Pons,' and I've no end at all for it. It'll remain forever undone. Come on, we'll have a tot and I'll show it to you and we can have a good laugh over its utter dreadfulness. And some day we'll go back to Barbastros to the wh.o.r.ehouse. Now that's that's a pleasure you'll have to experience. These revolutionary tarts, Stink, they're utterly enchanting. They take your shooter in their b.l.o.o.d.y a pleasure you'll have to experience. These revolutionary tarts, Stink, they're utterly enchanting. They take your shooter in their b.l.o.o.d.y mouths! mouths! Extraordinary!” Extraordinary!”

”Julian.” Florry idiotically, wearily, repeated.

”Now, Stink, there is one thing I absolutely have to know.” He paused. ”How is Mother?”

Some days, Bob the Nailer was more active than others; like so many things Spanish, it seemed to depend entirely upon the whim of the sniper himself. If he awoke in an indifferent mood, he might prang away indiscriminately, manufacturing only enough noise to keep his own sargento sargento and priest off his back. If he awakened with the fire of zealotry moving in his bones, he might crawl close enough to do some real damage, and make things in the English section's crude trench at least interesting. and priest off his back. If he awakened with the fire of zealotry moving in his bones, he might crawl close enough to do some real damage, and make things in the English section's crude trench at least interesting.

Curiously Florry soon came to hope for interesting days. For Bob the Nailer was like a morale officer; he made the time in the trenches bearable, because when you are ducking bullets, you may be risking death but you are also blissfully unaware of rain, cold, mud, and all the other disgusting elements of the life of static warfare.

It was '14'18, again, the cold, wet living in mud hovels scooped from the earth, with only the occasional scurrying patrol into no-man's-land to liven things up, the occasional calling card from Bob to keep you honest. It was as if the tank hadn't yet been invented, and in a certain way it hadn't. Jerry couldn't get his PzKpfw IIs down here, Billy Mowry allowed, because the Spanish stone bridges were too old; the rumbling of a heavy vehicle upon them would bring them cras.h.i.+ng down, dumping Jerry and his tin toy in the drink. And of course b.l.o.o.d.y Joe Stalin wouldn't allow any T-26s up here where it was largely a POUMista show. But Florry almost wished for a tank or two; like Bob the Nailer, they'd make things more interesting-and boredom was almost as dangerous as the Fascists.

There was only one cure for boredom. It was Julian, who, whatever his horrors of the past, his history of cruelty, would not allow himself to be hated any more than he would allow anyone about him, particularly Florry, to appear put out.

His flamboyance and natural outrageousness seemed to cloak him in special grace and he was always happy, happier even than Billy Mowry, a true believer.

”I say, Billy, do you know why I joined this POUM thing of yours?” Julian baited on a day so like every other day it would have no place within a week or on a calendar.

Billy Mowry, sucking on a pipe while filling sandbags, delivered up the sour face of a man about to face an execution, paused, and finally sprang Julian for the pounce.

”No, comrade. Pray tell us.”

”Ah. You see, it happened like this. I saw the b.l.o.o.d.y great initials POUM on the banners outside this hotel on the Ramblas where I was rusticating one summer's day, and I said to myself, why, these silly b.u.g.g.e.rs cannot even properly spell the word POEM, and as our century's fifth greatest living poet, I went in to correct them and the next thing I knew, here I was picking lice as big as hobnails off my b.a.l.l.s.”

Everybody laughed. G.o.d, Julian.

Julian's true enemy, however, wasn't fascism or party politics or even war in general: it was time. Julian was the only one of them who could vanquish time. He could turn the months into weeks, the weeks to days, the days to hours. He could rip through the numbers on the clock and the pages of the calendar; he could make them forget where they were and how long they'd been there and how long they would would be there. That was his special, most lovely gift. And as Florry settled into the troglodyte life it was Julian who freed him from his bondage to the calendar: and when Florry looked at such a doc.u.ment in what seemed to be his third or fourth week on the line he was stunned to discover that not only had January turned to February but February had turned to March and that March was soon to turn to April. It was, however, still 1937. be there. That was his special, most lovely gift. And as Florry settled into the troglodyte life it was Julian who freed him from his bondage to the calendar: and when Florry looked at such a doc.u.ment in what seemed to be his third or fourth week on the line he was stunned to discover that not only had January turned to February but February had turned to March and that March was soon to turn to April. It was, however, still 1937.

”Ain't we low on wood?” Commissar Billy asked, part of the ritual of the sameness of days. ”Whose b.l.o.o.d.y turn is it to scrounge some up?”

”I'll go,” said Julian, shucking his blanket.

”Here, I'll come along,” said Florry, grasping his first chance to confront Julian alone.

”Stink, you do have a use then, don't you?”

But it wasn't a joke. The night was coming and without wood there'd be no fires and no warmth. But by this time there was d.a.m.ned little wood. The ground behind the trenches had been picked clean for hundreds of yards.

With their comrades' best hopes along as baggage, and a G.o.dsend from Bob the Nailer-sprang! the bullet rattled off the rocks a goodly distance away-the two clambered out of the trench and began to wander about the thickets and over the hills that lay behind them.

Florry steeled himself toward the hatred he felt he properly ought to feel and set out to trap Julian into some sort of acknowledgment of his treason.

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