Song for No Man's Land 01, A: A Song for No Man's Land by Remic Andy

Author:Remic, Andy [Remic, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Fiction, Novel, War
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2016-02-09T07:00:00+00:00

They docked at Boulogne and were transported by truck and on foot to camps behind the front lines. Jones bribed a corporal to alter Webb’s posting, and when Bainbridge roared up on a BSA motorcycle, the two men watched the recently promoted sergeant stride through the darkness.

In the distance, the roar of an air offensive against the German Fourth Army was in progress, and the dulled sounds of machine guns drifted through the chatter of soldiers’ talk and the grinding of bombs.

“Jones!” bellowed Bainbridge, throwing his arms around his friend and lifting the smaller man completely from his feet. Bainbridge was a little bit wilder and a little bit more tufted but the same man he’d befriended so long ago in a Cockney drinking pit. “It’s damned good to see you!” he roared, voice louder than any Fritz machine gun.

Jones was laughing, and thumped Bainbridge in the chest as the Tommy lowered him to the ground. “God, man, you look old!” he said as he stared into the soldier’s face. “And by God, you’re a bloody sergeant now!” He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the stripes embroidered on Bainbridge’s arm. “I never would have thought it, letting such bad ——ing elements into the privileged ranks.”

“Shut it, Jones!” boomed Bainbridge, through several new broken teeth. “But good, eh, lad? I’ve been practising, like, and I’ve the right temperament for my rank, now—or so Captain Myers tells me, the stinking old goat. Who’s your friend?”

“This is Private George Webb, a childhood friend,” said Jones, and Webb and Bainbridge shook hands, Bainbridge crushing his fingers. “Now, you look after him, Bainbridge. No ordering him to slop out the latrine trench!”

“Somebody’s got to do it,” grumbled Bainbridge. “But I like him! He has a strong grip; we’ll see if that grip can be put to good use against Fritzy, eh, lad?” Bainbridge boomed out raucous laughter, but Webb merely smiled, a modest gesture that went unnoticed by Bainbridge as his colossal appetite for humour and madness took hold.

“So, then, tell me, how’s life back in England?” asked Bainbridge, as Jones led his two friends into the camp behind the Yser Canal, and towards the canvas shelter which was home to more than thirty men.

They ducked and entered the shelter. “Oh, you know,” said Jones, “the smell of home-cooking on a Sunday, roast chicken, roast potatoes, sprouts, juicy gravy, filling the warm house with that gorgeous aroma and making your mouth water . . .”

“Really?” said Bainbridge, licking his lips.

“Not really,” conceded Jones. “Rations are tight and there’s a roaring black market for anybody with the money. But Blighty is better than here; it’s better than the mud and guns. At least you can get whisky and have the odd bet. At least there are women.”

“Aye,” said Bainbridge, nodding. “I wish I’d stayed home longer, but with the call of the war, and all that . . . you know how it is. You should have seen it last week, though; do you remember Matchstick? No, he came after you left, I think.

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