Whoâs your batman?â
âPrivate Fidler, sir.â Paxton had never seen such an unhealthy-looking face: flushed yet grubby. And there was, sweat in the hair.
âOld Jack Fidler!â Appleyard chuckled, and coughed, and swallowed. âA real old soldier, Jack is. Heâll look after you, donât worry.
And
himself, of course.â He gave up fumbling with the button. âPlay cricket, do you?â
âLook, sir,â Paxton began.
âNot sir, old boy. Adj. Or when weâre in the mess, Uncle. Sir makes me feel ever so, ever so old.â He blew his nose, hard, and gazed into the handkerchief. âDreadfully old,â he said. âHorribly old.â
âVery well. Adj. I think you ought to know about something rather odd that happened to my aeroplane when I landed this afternoon.â
âTell your fitter, old boy. I know absolutely damn-all about flying-machines.â
âIt involved the CO.â
âIâm strictly non-technical.â Appleyard was fussing with the mass of papers on his desk. âDonât know one end of an aeroplane from the other, especially now theyâve gone and put the propeller in the middle. What?â He grinned, encouragingly. Paxton caught a glimpse of his tongue, and looked away.
âThe CO deliberately put a match to my plane this afternoon,â he said. Appleyard was still fussing, so Paxton raised his voice a little. âIt was brand new, I spent five days getting it here, and he deliberately set fire to it. Result â complete and utter destruction of a machine in perfect condition â¦â Honesty checked him. âWell, almost perfect, I mean it wasnât all that badly damaged, just the undercarriage and theââ
âHeavy landing, eh?â Appleyard dumped files in a tray.
âYes, I admit Iââ
âDonât worry, old man.â Appleyard came around the desk and squeezed his shoulder. âHappens all the time. Nothing to lose any sleep over. Beg pardon,â he said as a slight belch escaped him. âYouâre a lucky chap, you know. Wish I had your problem. I canât stay awake for two minutes on end, thatâs
my
problem.â He chuckled again, and coughed his way back to his chair.
âBut I donât understand, adj,â Paxton said. âFive days I took to ferry that Quirk here.
Five.
And now itâs just a heap of ashes.â
Appleyard sat and looked at him. In the distance, a gentle rumble of thunder quickly ran out of strength. The noise drained into the summer silence and was gone. âYou feel pretty strongly about this, donât you?â he said. âI can tell. They donât call me Uncle for nothing.
Corporal Lacey!â
he shouted. âYouâre entitled to feel strongly,â he told Paxton. âAfter all, itâs your neck, and if the machineâs as inflammable as you say â¦â The door opened. âAh, corporal: be so good as to arrange a meeting with Major Milne for Lieutenant Dexter.â
âPaxton,â said Paxton.
âReally?â Appleyard was taken aback. âNot Dexter?â He waved Lacey away, and the door closed. âWell, thatâs different. Damn it, Iâm sure I had it here â¦â He scrabbled among his papers. âYes, look, here it is: Second-Lieutenant D.E.M. Dexter, Sussex Yeomanry.â
âIâm Paxton.â
Appleyard did some more scrabbling. âPaxton. Yes. Found it. My God, you should have got here last week. Youâre a bit late, arenât you?â
âNot as late as Dexter, Iâm afraid. He flew into a church.â Paxton was amazed at his own callousness, but also pleased. He felt ready for a bit of callousness.
âNobody told
me.â
Appleyard crossed out Dexterâs name, firmly, several times. âFlew into a church, you say. Extraordinary thing to do ⦠What sort of church? Nothing here about it that I can
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