They drank their whiskies, thinking of France. Conrad genuinely wanted to go, not out of some kind of innocent gung-ho patriotism, but out of a desire to do his bit to stop Hitler. When Poland had been invaded and war declared, the whole country, Conrad included, had been grimly prepared for modern wholesale slaughter. Sirens had sounded, but no bombs had fallen on London or anywhere else. No German boots or tank tracks had crossed the French and Belgian borders. Given the lacklustre way the ‘phoney war’ was progressing, Conrad might just as well be drinking in a mess in Wiltshire as in northern France.
‘Are they anything like real battle?’ Burkett asked with a hint of anxiety. ‘The exercises?’
Conrad was surprised by the question. He had spent eighteen months fighting for the International Brigade in Spain, a subject that his fellow officers usually avoided. On the one hand, the idea that one of their number had fought for the socialists was awkward; on the other, Conrad had experience of real fighting and they realized that could come in handy in a war.
‘No,’ Conrad said. ‘Nothing at all.’ He thought of Madrid, Jarama Valley, Guadalajara and of the final nightmare on the slopes of Mosquito Hill. It was nothing like sitting on a damp knoll in the middle of England deciding when to order a brew-up. But he couldn’t explain all that to Burkett, so he tried to reassure him. ‘The training will help, especially when we first go into battle.’
‘Hmm.’ Burkett looked into his whisky. He was nervous, thought Conrad. Scared even. Well, that was fair enough. Rational.
‘Got any plans for next weekend?’ Conrad asked.
Burkett straightened up. ‘Meeting Angela in Winchester. We’re going to the pictures. She wants to see Gone with the Wind, although I rather think she’s been twice before.’
‘I thought Angela was Dodds’s girl? Or is that a different Angela?’ Dodds was a young subaltern in Baker Company.
‘Same Angela. He might think she is his girl, but she never was.’ Burkett grinned. ‘At least, not according to her. But he did introduce us. Which was very decent of him. All’s fair in love and war, eh?’ The captain winked.
Conrad didn’t answer. He wasn’t yet completely au fait with all the traditions of his regiment, but he was pretty sure that captains pinching second lieutenants’ girlfriends wasn’t one of them.
Burkett indicated that the mess orderly refill their glasses. ‘What about you? Are you married?’
‘Divorced,’ said Conrad.
‘Sorry to hear that, old man.’
‘I’m sure it’s for the best,’ said Conrad. Veronica running off with a racing driver while Conrad was getting shot at in Spain had not been pleasant, but the divorce, when he had finally agreed to it, had been a relief.
‘Do you have a girl?’
Conrad hesitated. Then smiled. He didn’t want to keep her a secret. ‘I do actually. In London.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Anneliese.’
‘Pretty name,’ Burkett said, and then frowned. ‘Isn’t it…’
‘German?’ Conrad said. ‘Yes, it is. She got kicked out of Germany last year.’
‘Jewish, is she?’
Conrad glanced at his fellow officer. The question was posed innocently enough. One eyebrow was slightly raised, but Burkett’s face registered only mild curiosity. Yet Conrad realized he was being judged. Burkett knew Conrad was a leftie who had fought for the Bolshies in Spain. He knew Conrad spoke fluent German, although he didn’t yet know that Conrad’s mother was German herself. And now he had discovered that Conrad had a girlfriend who was not only German but possibly Jewish.
Conrad could deal with Burkett’s ill-informed judgements about himself, but not about Anneliese. Anneliese and people like her were why Conrad had joined the army. Conrad knew, because he had seen it, that Anneliese had courage. For her, the war against Hitler had been going for years, and it was a war in which there had already been thousands of casualties.
‘Sort of,’ he answered.
Burkett thought better of asking what that meant and took another slug of whisky.
‘There you are!’ Conrad and Burkett turned to see a tall, lanky figure with fair hair and a flushed red face standing at the door of the ante-room. The figure moved towards them, his eyes on fire.
‘Dodds! You are improperly dressed,’ Burkett barked. ‘We do not bring weapons into the mess. Go and hand it in to the armoury!’ Second Lieutenant Dodds was indeed still wearing his Sam Browne and service revolver.
Burkett squinted at Dodds more closely. ‘Are you drunk?’
At first Conrad thought Dodds was going to slug Burkett, or at least try to, but then he came to a halt in the middle of the room.
‘I might be drunk. But you are dead.’ He whipped out the revolver and pointed it at Burkett.
Colour drained from the captain’s face. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
‘Put the gun down, Matthew,’ said Conrad, getting to his feet. The end of the barrel of the revolver was unsteady, but not unsteady enough that it would miss at a range of five yards.
‘Move out of the way, de Lancey. This has nothing to do with you.’
‘If you press that trigger you will be court-martialled,’ Conrad said. ‘Your life will be over.’
‘I don’t care,’ said the young subaltern. ‘My life is over anyway.’
Dodds was only nineteen. Conrad rather liked him. His father was a vicar in a rural parish in Lincolnshire. Although naive, he was enthusiastic, good under pressure and he had a kind of innocent charm that won over fellow officers and his men alike. Conrad had seen him reading and rereading letters from Angela, and he knew the boy was smitten. But this?
He glanced at Burkett, whose face was now white. The mess orderly, a lance corporal and the only other man in the room, was rooted to the spot.
Conrad took a step forward.
‘Stop, de Lancey! Or I’ll shoot you and then I’ll shoot Burkett.’
Conrad took a step to the left. He was as tall as Dodds, but had broader shoulders, so he hid Burkett from Dodds’s view. ‘Put the gun down now, Matthew.’
‘Out of the way!’ Dodds cried. He took a step back away from Conrad, his gun pointing straight at him. Conrad held Dodds’s eyes. They were bright blue, glittering through moisture.
‘Captain Burkett, I’m going to step twice to the left,’ Conrad said. ‘You stay behind me and then back off towards the door.’ There was a door at the back of the ante-room, which led through to the dining room. ‘Corporal O’Leary, stand back!’ he called to the mess orderly.
Conrad took two slow steps to the left. Dodds’s revolver followed him. Conrad could hear Burkett moving behind him.
‘I will shoot you, de Lancey,’ Dodds said.
‘No you won’t,’ said Conrad. ‘You might want to shoot Captain Burkett, but you don’t want to shoot me.’ He took a step forward.
He could see indecision replace anger for a moment in Dodds’s eyes, but only for a moment, before it was replaced in turn by a new decision. In that instant Conrad knew what would happen next, but before he could move, Dodds had whipped the pistol round and pointed it at his own temple.
‘Stop!’ Conrad shouted. ‘Don’t do it, Matthew!’
‘Why not?’ said Dodds. ‘I was going to kill myself after I had killed Burkett. I’m going to be court-martialled anyway — you said it. And now I’ve lost Angela, I may as well be dead.’
Conrad saw the boy’s terrible logic. ‘All right, Matthew, so you’re going to die. You’ve lost Angela. But why don’t you take a couple of the Hun with you? You’re a good officer. We’ll all be in France some time soon. You want to die, at least die fighting. Killing yourself now is the coward’s way out. And you’re no coward, Matthew. You are a soldier. A good soldier.’