Noblesse Oblige
Book Three
The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2014 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 2
A Cross to Bear 

“The trenches along the Somme are constantly filling with water.  We drain them where we can by cutting little channels that make their way down to the river.  When the rainfall is greater the trenches fill up quicker as the water table rises.  So too does the river level.”  Stephen paused to make sure Col Young was listening. 

“To stop the trenches from flooding when the river rises, our sappers use sandbags and boards, which they remove again when the river levels drop.  We will be coming into the period of heavy rain and high flows.  There is a real danger of our trenches flooding.  If the Germans were to shell our simple sandbag levees we’d be in real trouble; but so would they be if we shelled their drainage system.  In fact they are more vulnerable; our trenches are only about 12 feet deep; theirs are much deeper and the flooding would be worse.”  He paused again for emphasis.

The meeting at St Omer had been arranged so that Lt Knight-Poole could explain his proposal to harry the Germans by flooding their trenches.  Major McGough, who had replaced Dibden who had died from his injuries, was enthusiastic and had persuaded a group of tacticians to listen to Stephen’s ideas.  Thus Stephen found himself in the chateau at St Omer used as the GHQ.  Somewhere— in another room—sat Douglas Haig, the new Commander-in-Chief BEF.

“I propose that we fortify our drainage locks with reinforced concrete blast walls and try to disguise them from their air,” continued Stephen.  Col Young was looking out the window. “I propose we target the enemy’s drainage when the river is at its height.”  The party shuffled its feet.

“I have a second scheme,” he said, indicating a large topographic map on the wall.  “There is a large depression by the Somme where winter flows can be retarded before they threaten our trenches.  I further propose we channel this water through tunnels to the German trenches—hitting them at the same time that the river is allowed to flood back into their lines. Some charges or landmines will begin the flood and the power of the water will complete it.”

Stephen could tell that he had not been convincing.  Major McGough gave him a sympathetic look.

“If your scheme did work we would only be able to advance to useless, flooded trenches. The Germans would merely dig new trenches to the rear, Knight-Poole,” said Major Parr.

“That is true sir, but we have made little progress over the last year with our current tactics,” Stephen instantly regretted saying this, but it was not news to this group of officers.

“I might as well tell you Knight-Poole,” said Col Young, “that the thinking now, under General Haig, is that sustained bombardment with high impact shells to smash the German trenches followed by an advance across no man’s land by our forces in a disciplined manner will be the only way we can capture territory and break the Germans.  I think that your harrying tactic would be of limited effectiveness compared to improved shelling.”

Stephen knew that he hadn’t won his point, but was mollified by the fact that Major Parr and Colonel Tucker would accompany McGough and himself back to their position, which was now further south from where it had been by the canal nearly a year before.  They would look at the flood-prone landscape, but were most anxious to test a new cork bridge that had been invented.

Stephen’s group of Sans Culottes had suffered some losses, including Lt Fillbrook, and several men had been redeployed to other units to make up the numbers.  Ten times they had been ‘over the top’ with the infantry in a general advance and twice they had captured German trenches, only to be driven back.  However, they were chiefly engaged in small night-time raids into no man’s land where they cut the wire, using various techniques, in preparation for an infantry advance.  It was terribly dangerous and always Stephen went himself, suffering several flesh wounds from stray bullets, and making him highly regarded in the eyes of his men.

Only the week before he went up to St Omer he had been with his men, inspecting their feet and checking for lice.  The powder issued did not seem very effective and typhus was rampant.  “There is new issue of ‘Frenchies’ men,” Stephen announced, hands on hips, to the men informally clustered about him.  The men giggled.  “V.D. is rife in all the ‘houses’ and I don’t want any of you incapacitated or there will be charges and punishment.”  The men shuffled, thinking of their next leave. “These are a new type made of latex rubber.”  He undid a packet and held up an example, stretching it—something the older types did not do. The men looked on.

“How does it go on, Sir?” called out Jarvis.

“If I had a banana I would show you, Jarvis.  But it rolls on.”

“I think I’ll see my next fuck before I see my next banana” called out Reeves.

“I seen a banana once” added Quick “or was it a norange?  Not many seen in Salford.”

“I still don’t understand how you puts it on sir,” said Jarvis disingenuously.

“Show us!” called out someone from the rear.

“Yes show us, Lieutenant!” called out West.

“Pipe down or I’ll put you all on a charge!” admonished Sgt Spinner who was trying not to laugh.

“Go on, show us Lt Foot,” called out a cheeky fellow named Doling “It will be an ejucashun.”

Stephen looked at Spinner and then dropped his trousers.  There was a cheer from the men. Stephen gave his big cock a few strokes and Jarvis went to reach forward to assist him but a look from Sgt Spinner made him keep his place.  The prophylactic was stretched in both directions with West saying that for his own cock it would not require such contortions, and Stephen fitted it without too much difficulty and rolled it down.  The men were allowed to look more closely.  “Now fill it up, sir!” cried Rugg.

“That’s enough!” snapped the sergeant and Stephen removed the rubber— handing it to West—and fitted his member back into his army trousers.  The men gave a cheer and set up a chorus of a ribald song one of them had composed to the tune of ‘Lily of Laguna’, which glorified their commanding officer and his big cock and balls.  Stephen dismissed the men thinking that discipline was now lost forever.

*****

Stephen now led a similar group of his men who carried the cork footbridge down to the river—a tributary of the Somme in open and dangerous ground.  Parr, McGough and Col. Tucker looked on from a safe distance, sharing a pair of field glasses.  The bridge was unrolled and Stephen and six of the men entered the icy water to try and stabilise the bridge as it threatened to be carried away.  A group on the shore attached it while two others laboured on the bridge itself in an effort to unroll the remainder.

“These bridges are awkward things,” said Tucker, “but a quick lightweight structure is necessary.”

“Lt Knight-Poole has worked out a design for one with inflatable bladders rather than those clumsy cork floats, said Major McGough, proudly.  “You can even pierce it with shots and it will still float.”

“He’s very clever; I’m sure,” said Tucker primly, looking intently through the glasses.  Suddenly he saw Stephen shout.  He had spotted a machine gun nest on the opposite bank hidden among some bushes on a small hillock.

The other officers watched on helplessly, passing the glasses from one to the other.

The Germans hadn’t opened fire immediately because they were waiting until Stephen’s men where fully occupied and at their most vulnerable.  Now fire raked the bridge.  The two men on it were hit.  They dropped their rifles and fell into the water.  Stephen dived beneath the surface as the bullets hissed about him and swam under the bridge to retrieve the two men. They were bleeding profusely but he somehow pulled them under the low-slung structure, which was in imminent danger of washing away if the other five let go, and held their heads above the water.  The Germans were now strafing he water and Stephen and all the men were compelled to dive below the surface.  They moved under the bridge itself for better protection and this made it difficult to hold.

The officers then saw Stephen make for the shore, towing one of the bleeding men and two of the shore party risked fire by coming down to retrieve him.  The remainder fired their 303 rifles at the machine gun nest hidden in the bushes across the river for moral rather than effective support.  Stephen swam back and retrieved the other man.  He was weak from loss of blood.  Stephen tried to shield him with his body as he swam.  He felt a bullet pierce his shoulder.  The man was returned to the shore and dragged to safety.

Stephen swam back again, not heeding the pain in his shoulder.  He checked on the five still in the water.  One by one they swam back to the shore leaving only Stephen holding on to the cork bridge, which had begun to drift downstream.  He hid underneath.  The firing of the machine gun kept up.  Stephen wasn’t sure if the Germans were aware of his presence or just aimlessly firing.  The bridge came to grief on the German side some distance away and Stephen crawled cautiously out from under it.  He felt his shoulder:  Another flesh wound.  He was lucky.

The abandoned rifles were still on the bridge deck so he picked them up and made his way back through the trees following the river upstream until he came upon the machine gun nest.  There were only two men and they had not concealed themselves very well from the rear—perhaps they were still in the early stages of setting up their post.  Stephen moved from tree to tree, his clothes dripping and squelching.  He wished Martin were here, for he was a good shot with a hunting rifle.

Stephen squeezed off two shots in succession.  The second German didn’t even have time to look around.  Fearing that other Germans may be near by—in fact it was odd that they hadn’t arrived already—Stephen bounded down to the nest and disabled the Maxim gun with his rifle butt—wincing as he felt the pain in his shoulder— then he dived into the water and swam for the opposite bank where his men had already come down—some jumping in and swimming out— to form a reception party.

The officers had also come down to join them.  “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, Knight-Poole,” said Col Tucker.

“Are you all right Stephen?’ asked Major McGough?”

Stephen didn’t reply but simply said: “How are Myles and Pengelly?”

Martin had heard about Stephen’s Military Cross.  He had read it in The Times and several people had told him personally, but Stephen made no mention of it in his most recent letter. Martin had also read a distressing news item in The Times headed: ‘Death of War Poet’ and it continued: ‘renowned poet Douglas Owens, better known as the poetess Nancy Nott died as the result of enemy fire at Bellyache Wood near Ypres…’ Martin sat at his desk in Whitehall and thought of poor Reuben.  Where was he and what was he feeling, if indeed he knew of his beloved brother’s death?  He determined to go down to Croome where he hadn’t been for nearly six months.

There was no one to meet him at the station so he walked up to the house.  As he had been forewarned, a great storm had damaged the house and the avenue and indeed the ruination of the elms was a distressing sight.  He wondered what he would find at the house.

Chilvers greeted him—enthusiastically if one knew the phlegmatic butler.  He looked fatigued and much older.  Uncle Alfred was down.  They had tea.  Sugar was rationed and Martin had given it up.  Afterwards Uncle Alfred took Martin on a tour.  The devastation was much worse than he expected. Much of the south wing had been destroyed.  The roof had blown off and the walls had been blackened by a lightning strike. “We were lucky there was no fire.  The servants managed to save much of the furniture and nearly all the paintings,” said Uncle Alfred, but a dozen bedrooms, the smoking room and the billiard room had been destroyed.  Martin was upset but tried to think what Stephen would do.

“I’m wondering if we should even rebuild it, Uncle,” said Martin, now standing on the lawn and looking back at the house. “It was the least attractive part when grandfather added it and the redbrick doesn’t match the creamy stone of the older parts.”

Uncle Alfred nodded.  “It was the bachelors’ wing—that was what we called it and that was the way things were done when I was a boy.  We’re never going to need all those bedrooms again, are we?  If ever this war ends it won’t ever be the same again.”

Now it was Martin’s turn to nod.  “Yes, the best we can hope for is smaller but more comfortable: less staff but electric light.  You know, that’s a nice stone wall revealed where the billiard room stood.”

Martin took his bicycle down to the village and called on Titus Knight.  Martin had no news for him.  Titus knew all about Stephen’s M.C. “and Bar,” he added but he had not seen him for over a year.

He called on Miss Tadrew.  Hughes was there.  “I’m dreading conscription, your lordship. Mrs Hughes has cleared off—did so when she got out of prison—and if I’m called up there is no one to look after Tommy.”

“It won’t apply to you Hughes—not if it meant your child would have no support.  I’m quite sure of that, but I’ll check.” Hughes looked relieved and Miss Tadrew smiled at Martin.  He had said the right thing.  Miss Tadrew was invited to dinner at Croome and Martin remarked that the food and coal shortages in London were worse than in Dorset.  However, lighting would be subdued as the electric generator was now run for fewer hours each day and it was kept going by Mrs Capstick herself who had become quite handy with a spanner and oil can.

Martin next went to the vicarage and saw Mr Destrombe.  He too was invited to dine.  The vicar took Martin over to Stephen’s gymnasium, which had been finished less than a year ago but had never seen a gymnast.  It had been requisitioned for war work and Mrs Destrombe was in there with other ladies rolling bandages and packing boxes for the Red Cross. Martin still found time to admire the little building and longed for Stephen to see it.

The school also was completed but the playground was not.  It also had been taken over by the Army and was being used as a hospital, the children having to make do with the crowded conditions in the old school, which had lost half its teachers.  Martin felt terrible about this. He almost felt his efforts to get it built had been wasted.

The hardest visit was to Owens the chair bodger.  Martin did not know him well and found it difficult to talk.  He began with some anodyne remarks but Owens then swelled and said how proud he was of his son as a soldier and as a writer.  Martin was taken aback at his eloquence and he found he had great hot tears rolling down his own face, so moved was he by what the old man said.  He promised to look out for Reuben when he returned to France.

Before dinner, Martin went to see O’Brien who was with his young cousin, Sean.  They walked to the stall where Stephen’s Aine stood patiently waiting for her owner to return from war.  “We have made a small fortune, your lordship,” said O’Brien.  “The Army buy all we can raise.  I do hope that none of them are used by the troops back home, your lordship,” said O’Brien referring to the uprising in his native land.

“Neither do I, O’Brien.  One war at a time is still too many.  I would like to see the Irish happy, as would most in Britain, but I’m not sure how that will be achieved— no doubt you have your own views—but violence and the loss of men and beautiful horses is something neither side would want, I imagine.”

“Dat’s true your lordship.”

At the little dinner Stephen’s heroism was discussed but then the conversation gravitated to the loss of life on the estate, including Douglas Owens’ death. “We will need new cottages for war widows and those who are incapacitated,” announced Martin.  “No one must be put out on the street, Mr Destrombe, even if they can’t pay the rent.”

“I was thinking of a memorial of some kind,” said Mrs Destrombe, “Somewhere where relatives can lay flowers.  It’s hard for those whose loved ones have died abroad.  They need to be able to mourn.”

Martin did not sleep well.  He missed Stephen in the big bed.  The next morning the post arrived with his early tea.  There, in one of the letters, was the most dreadful news.  Martin let out a groan that summoned Chilvers to see what the matter was. 

***** 

Stephen was sitting in his dugout when he got Martin’s letter.  He should not have been surprised, but he still was.  He fought to control himself.  He read it again and the words swam before his eyes: ‘2^nd Lt Christopher Tennant was dead.’

Christopher who had survived the Dardanelles campaign and had been successfully evacuated had apparently died of fever in Egypt. “I should have been there with him,” he sobbed to Carlo.

“How could you, sir?” replied Carlo in real distress, never having seen his master like this before. “You could not prevent a fever.”

“I would have made it alright,” continued Stephen in anguish, but not really heeding what Carlo said. “That’s what I do.  You don’t understand.  I told him that he’d be alright.  I told him about the girl…the daughter of the vicar who played tennis and wore…you know…things in her hair…that was supposed to be his life.  He was supposed to be a country doctor—not this.”

“I don’t know about that, sir, no one in their right mind could have predicted this.”

Carlo put Stephen to bed.  He was crying for a long time and then he fell silent.  He refused food.  Carlo sat by him for some hours.  The noise of the guns was terrific for the big push on the Somme was underway.  Stephen had had his men out all day extending trenches and forming breastwork.  Lt Toomey came in.  He was very young and quite scared.  “What is the matter with Lt Knight-Poole?” he asked Carlo.

“He’s not well,” said Carlo. “Fever.”

The young officer looked alarmed and came over.  “He does seem hot.  Could you leave us a minute, private, I want to have a word with him.”  He shook Stephen gently and Stephen rolled and opened his eyes.  “Stephen, I have a problem: I have to take my men out tonight and cut the wire.  I don’t know how many lines of it there are.  I can’t see it clearly with the glasses.  Will there just be ours and theirs?”  There was a pause.  “And Stephen, I’m scared.”

Stephen held out his hand. “If you want to get into bed with me you know the rules Christopher.”

“What rules?  You know my name is Patrick, Stephen.  Are you alright?”

Despite his disquiet, Toomey held his hand for some hours and felt better.

When it was dark Stephen suddenly jumped up in his bunk, waking Toomey who was still holding his hand. “I’ll come with you Chris,” he said. “We’ll cut the wire.  Get Myles, Pengelly, and Sgt Spinner.”  The lieutenant rushed off.

Stephen produced five pairs of bolt cutters—his own modified design to cope with the heavy gauge of the German wire.  The men were assembled and their faces were blackened.

Stephen led them by the traverses to the front line where the infantry were to attack the salient on the morrow.  There was no moon but flares regularly illuminated no man’s land.  Stephen assigned them all a section—only a few yards apart.  They would do twice this width and not leave any wire standing in the gap.  Stephen slithered over the parapet, not wanting to block out the light from one of the loop holes that would draw German fire.  His men followed and they made their way on their stomachs to their own wire, which was easily snipped.  None dared talk and they waited for noise to cover their own sounds.  The first opening was made and they continued slowly for about 100 yards until they  met the German wire.  Each made a pair of cuts.  The wire twanged and they flattened themselves in the mud. They moved to the left.  Stephen hissed: “Landmine.”  They circumvented this metalwork and made more cuts.  They began to slither back to their own lines.  Suddenly there was a flare and a burst of fire. The British trench returned it.  Stephen’s face was illuminated in the sharp green light.  “Run for it.”  The men got up and ran to their lines in a hail of rifle shots. Three of them dived over but Lt Toomey had tripped.  Stephen went back.  He was tangled in some stray wire.  Stephen laid flat and freed him then he pushed him ahead and threw him over the parapet.  Suddenly Stephen found himself in the air.  The world was sideways; the stars circled all around.  He landed with a thud on the canvas roof of an improvised shelter in the trench and a hail of earth and stones cascaded down after him.  He had been thrown into the air when a rifle shot from the Germans had exploded a land mine-— probably a British one near him.  He was dazed but alive.

*****

“Major McGough, sir,” said Carlo saluting.  “My mast…I mean Lt Knight-Poole is in a bad way sir.  It’s not just the injuries, it’s…I don’t know what it is exactly…but please order him home to Blighty for some leave.  He hasn’t been home for nearly two years.  I’m afraid we’ll lose him at this rate.”

“You were his valet in civilian life; is that right, Private Sifridi?”

“Yes sir, before that I was a steward on the liners.”

“Were you ever on the Edinburgh Castle?”

“Oh yes sir, for many voyages.”

“I thought so.  I have family in South Africa and made regular trips.  I thought I recognised you—always chatting to the ladies you were.”

“Perhaps I was sir—but not anymore,” said Carlo. “I am settled—or rather I was settled until all this came along and I just want to serve my master—I mean Lt Knight-Poole.”

“No, Captain Knight-Poole.”  He handed Carlo an order he’d been holding.  “Will you tell him or shall I?”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand.  He is just beyond caring.  He rambles in his speech.  He won’t get out of his bunk and if he does it’s only to do something foolhardy.  I think he’s lost his judgement, sir.” Carlo looked beseechingly at the major.  “Could you please contact Col Martin Poole in Boulogne or Whitehall, I don’t know where he is.  He will be able to get the Captain out of here.  He’s a lord.  That must still be good for something.” 

***** 

Martin was indeed in Whitehall.  He worked furiously and even saw Lt Col Churchill who had returned to England following his seeing action on the front at Ploegsteert Wood with the Royal Scots Fusiliers and was now at a loose end awaiting some political appointment that had not been forthcoming due to his role in the Dardanelles Campaign. “Asquith is finished—like me,” lamented Churchill as he took a glass of whiskey at Boodles with Martin. “I think sending a cruiser to pick him up might be a bit much to ask, Lord Branksome,” he said, now referring the Stephen, not the Prime Minister, “but I think I have enough influence to get him brought home in comfort.”

Martin was suddenly alarmed. “But of course he mustn’t be treated differently to any other soldier, Col. Churchill; he would never countenance that.”

Churchill rolled his eyes and laughed. “You can’t have it both ways, Lord Branksome.  Let’s just say that he’s a hero like they’re all heroes and will be treated like all our soldiers should be treated.”

*****

Thus Martin found himself two weeks later in the wind and the rain down at Dover when a military ferry docked.  He scanned the decks.  Then he saw Carlo and waved.  Carlo was beaming and waved back.  Suddenly there was Stephen.  It was his tall, broad-shouldered, handsome self, except he was on a stick and he looked ill.  Martin was suddenly worried. They were united and hugs were exchanged. “Oh Derby, how are you?” asked Martin in distress.

“All the better for seeing you.  Do you remember how I liked to surprise you when you returned from school?”  Martin did and nearly broke down at the redolence of the memory.

“Well I have a surprise for you,” said Martin at last.  They crossed the dock and there stood Martin’s magnificent Rolls Royce Silver Ghost.  Stephen leaned on his stick and grinned for the first time.

“If I wanted danger I would have stayed on the Somme, Mala.” Martin looked hurt but was pleased that Stephen had made a joke and a look from Carlo indicated that this was a good sign. “Mala, I hope you don’t mind, but could we give a lift to a couple of pals of mine.  I met them in Boulogne and they could use a comfortable ride more than me.  Carlo will you go and find them and ask if they would come with us.”

Stephen was settled into the car and a travelling rug was put around his bad leg. “I was blown up by a landmine,” said Stephen by way of explanation.

“Derbs, I am so sorry about Christopher.”

Stephen just bit his lip and nodded tightly.  Martin held his hand under the rug.

Presently Carlo returned with two sergeants. Stephen spoke: “This is Sgt Swane and Sgt Louch; this is my friend Lt Col Poole.”  The two men saluted, despite having only a pair of legs between them. “I would like to say that I won their other legs at cards, but they fleeced me to the tune of 10 pounds over the three days we were stuck in Boulogne.”

“Best three days of my life, sir,” said Swane.

“Even without the money,” added Louch

And it really was to them the best time in their lives, these two characters that laughed and joked despite their horrific injuries, thought Martin.  Stephen seemed to have worked his magic on them and once again Martin was in awe of him.

The two sergeants lived not far apart in a dismal portion of south London.  When the magnificent red and silver car pulled up at their respective houses it was immediately surrounded by children.  Stephen insisted on escorting each one to their front door, meeting Swane’s wife and Louch’s parents and sister.  Martin was also introduced and his job was to write down all their details; Stephen would be in touch.

At last they arrived at Branksome House. “I’m sorry Aine is not here; she’s down at Branksome with the O’Brien’s.”

“I hope I haven’t changed that much Mala,” said Stephen, “but it’s you I most urgently want to see.”

The whole of the household was lined up in the hall to welcome Stephen back.  He had a word for all of them.  Carlo could not restrain himself and hugged Glass who was in tears.

“Could I have a cup of tea—without condensed milk?” asked Stephen in a plaintive voice, but with a raised eyebrow.  “And could I have it in my bath.  I can’t remember when I last had a proper one.  Come and look at my injuries, Mala.  I look like one of The Plunger’s paintings.”

The bath was prepared and Martin and Carlo helped lower him in; he was a very heavy young man. Stephen had a number of wounds old and new over which Carlo had a proprietorial interest and Martin let him explain the origins of each one as they knelt beside the bath while Stephen contentedly sipped his tea. “This one is quite bad, said Carlo caressing Stephen right shoulder, “It’s the MC one.”

“And bar” added Stephen.

“The leg is the tendons, my lord, so you can’t see ’em, although there is a nasty gash here he said rubbing his strong thigh.  That’s from the landmine.”

“Derby we are going to see the best doctor in Harley Street tomorrow.”

“Of course there are the wounds you can’t see,” continued Carlo.  Both he and Martin were gently soaping him.  There was a long silence as they worked.  Then Carlo spoke with a voice that cracked with emotion: “The wound in my heart would have been more than a ‘Blighty’ one if anything should have happened to him.  I was so worried your lordship.  I could hardly dream we’d ever be back here.  It still don’t seem real.” He broke down in sobs. Martin couldn’t put his arm around him, because it was wet but he said:  “You’re a good man Carlo.”

“Come on you two, stop that blubbing.  Now who’s going to relieve the troops?  There’s a bulging salient here.” Stephen’s cock was rising in the water.

“We both are, if that’s all right with you Carlo,” said Martin. “You know we’ve been comparing notes, Derby.”  More soap was applied and Stephen was duly pleasured.  Martin went, quite unashamedly to put Stephen’s cock to his lips when he thought of Carlo’s trials.  Stephen didn’t mind who sucked him of course, but Carlo was touched when Marin passed it over, like a child’s ice-cream cone, and allowed the first suck to go to Carlo who seemed to draw some ill-defined nourishment from the action.

There was much laughter too and a good deal of splashing when at last Stephen was allowed to spill, Martin and Carlo making sure their faces were coated in his seed.

That night Martin was content, for he at last had Stephen in his bed.  He had been going in for some trench warfare of his own and had been tonguing the silky black hairs that lined Stephen’s manly trench.  He had moved up to his armpits where the same hair smelled of Stephen.  Suddenly he said “Look” and Stephen’s head turned to the uncurtained window. There beneath the clouds and somewhere south of the Thames was a squadron of three Zeppelins.  The low drone of their motors could be clearly heard.  The boys got out of bed and, still naked, and stepped through the window onto the narrow balcony over Piccadilly.  Martin stood in front and Stephen stood pressed behind him with his hands clasped across Martin’s belly and his own Zeppelin between his thighs.  The sight was awesome as the huge ships moved slowly across the city.  Suddenly there were the crossed rods of searchlights, which captured the underside of the silver airships and seemed to hold them there.  Aeroplanes could be herd approaching and the airships rose from the clutches of the lights and disappeared into the clouds.  The boys stood there waiting for the Zeppelins to reappear. It was not a cold night.  Suddenly there was a large red glow in the clouds.  “Phosphorous bullets,” said Stephen.

There was nothing more to see so the boys closed the windows and got back into bed. “I love you Mala,” said Stephen “and I hate this war.”

Martin just hung on tightly to Stephen, trying not to hurt any of his wounds. He lay there thinking as he felt Stephen’s chest rise and fall. The war had a way of reaching out to touch people with its long tentacles, to injure and kill them near or far from home.  And there was no hiding from it—even in a bedroom in the great metropolis of London the war stalked one from the air and was carried like an infection inside men’s hearts.

Martin at last closed his eyes and laid his head on the triangular patch of silky black hair which, along with the Military Cross (and bar), was the chief adornment of Stephen’s magnificent chest and drifted off to sleep. 

To be continued…

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you. 

Posted: 02/14/14