Rules of War by Iain Gale

Author:Iain Gale
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780007283415
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2008-09-27T22:00:00+00:00

Qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,

Auprès de ma blonde qu’il fait bon …

His song was cut short by a terrible, heart-piercing shriek from outside the doors and then … silence.

Malbec stared at the door, from beyond which there now came a low groaning. He tried to shut his ears and mind to it. Closed his eyes, and instantly saw the face of his wife. They heard a shell come in overhead, the shrill whine as it descended. Close, closer, until it was almost on top of them. Instinctively, the men covered their heads and with an earthshaking crash the bomb hit the ground only a few paces from the door of the casemate. More dust fell from the roof. Beyond the door they heard the screams begin again as people tried to run from the spinning black orb. Then the air outside the shelter was rent with a huge explosion. The door seemed to be pushed in and then sucked out by the blast. But still it held fast. Then, a dreadful stillness. And from outside the casemate there was not a sound. But then it came again. Worse this time, as the single groan was replaced with many more. Too many. Malbec opened his eyes and realized that he was pouring with sweat.

He cast a glance at Lejeune. The captain was staring at him. Malbec looked back to the door. And then, just for an instant, through the moans of misery without, he thought that he heard the particular, high pitch of a woman’s voice.

‘Save me. Save my boys. Save the children.’

And then something curious happened inside Claude Malbec’s, seething, thumping, boiling brain. He rushed towards the door and, thrusting the big sergeant aside, slipped the bolts and pushed it open. Its base slithered across the cobbles slick with blood and gobbets of flesh. Malbec peered into the awful afternoon and was greeted by a scene from hell.

The street was smoking and strewn with people and things which he realized had recently been people. Great chunks of stone had been gouged from the buildings on either side of the street and lay on the cobbles with the scorched and splintered roof tiles that had been sent crashing to the ground in their scores. Wherever he looked, it seemed to Claude Malbec that something was burning: wooden rafters, carts, horses … human flesh. A noise from above made him look up and he saw yet more bombs coming in, flying across the sky like so many evil, black comets.

Suddenly he was aware of a press of people moving towards him. People with terrible wounds, missing limbs and parts of their faces. Women carrying limp children in their arms. Other children, some covered in blood, suddenly lost, orphaned and alone, wailing in their bewilderment. Their clothes had been shredded by the explosions and their exposed flesh was covered in burns and lacerations. In the crowd he could make out two or three men who appeared to be more or less unhurt, doing their best to help the wounded.

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