The Case of the Fighting Soldier by Christopher Bush

Author:Christopher Bush [Bush, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2018-07-02T04:00:00+00:00

Wharton spent at least some of his afternoon listening to one of Ferris’s lectures, and he was tremendously enthusiastic.

“Whoever would have thought it!” he said. “That chap’s a fighter, if ever there was one, and he knows his stuff.”

“Naturally he does,” I said. “He had all that experience in Spain, and he did two or three Courses, including one at least at a Weapons’ School, before he came here.”

“Weapon Schools!” he said, and snorted contemptuously. “Take that young fellow Staff. That’s your schools. Smart young officer, I grant you, and knows his stuff, but no real guts.”

“So you heard Staff too, did you?” I said. “The fact of the matter is this, George. You and I are attracted by men like Ferris and Mortar because they make us think we’re younger than we are. When they talk, we’re daredevils again. No carpet slippers for us on cold dark nights. We want to be out mopping-up tanks, and sticking knives into Huns.”

“Isn’t that the line of talk you want for the Home Guard?” he asked indignantly.

“It is,” I said. “And the fact that Ferris made you chuck out your chest and straighten your back just shows what a spell-binder he is. Anything else have you seen or heard, by the way?”

He said he had seen Brende, who had gone over both the Blacker and the Northover with him. He had also been introduced to Mortar’s successor, who had arrived while I was at the funeral. He described him as colourless, and as he does not concern this story, that one-word description will serve.

When I slipped into the Mess before dinner, Ferris was there. He asked me to have a drink with him, and I had it. Then he told me something that really pleased me.

“I think I’ve changed my mind, sir, about something we talked about,” he said, and just a bit shamefacedly. “I think I’ll try and mix in a bit more.”

“Good man,” I said. “Have another drink.”

He said he wouldn’t, and in the same breath was doggedly insisting that he’d always have tried to be a good mixer if it hadn’t been for others. I said I knew that. And would he join Wharton and me at the cinema after dinner. Flick was showing some brand-new films, and both Wharton and I were in need of a little relaxation. He said he’d be delighted.

The three of us sat by ourselves well at the back of the huge room and we did no talking, for the films were as good as promised. It was after twenty-two hours when we came out to the parade ground, snapping our eyes a bit after the strain, and glad to breathe the clear air after the smoke and fog of the room.

As we drew near our quarters I asked Ferris if he were pleased to get back to his old room again.

“I suppose I am,” he said. “I hope it won’t be ghost-ridden, that’s all.”

“I’m a pretty good ghost layer,” Wharton said. “Which reminds me.

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