A Plague of Hearts, Patrick Whittaker [good books to read for 12 year olds TXT] 📗

she showed no sign of the trauma she had just been through. Her maid’s outfit showed off the perfection of her figure to a degree that was almost pornographic. ‘A visitor, Ma’am,’ she announced with a curtsey.
‘Who is it, dear child?’
Before Lisa could answer, a coarse voice cried from the hall. ‘Screw the intros! Just tell me where Shadrack is!’
The Duchess dropped her pouch of snuff. ‘What the - !
‘The March Hare leapt to his feet. ‘It’s that bloody albatross. Don’t let him in.’
The bird ambled into the room. ‘That’s no way to treat a guest, pal. You should try being civilised.’
‘Civilised? Right now I would be happy to wring your neck.’
‘I wouldn’t try it. Nasty things happen to people who mess with the Albatross. Just ask Shadrack.’
Giving vent to a shriek of rage, the March Hare lunged towards the bird. The Duchess nimbly stepped in his way, her three hundred pounds of flesh easily absorbing the force of impact. The March Hare fell on his behind.
‘Impetuous youth,’ chided the Duchess. ‘This bird is quite right. He is our guest and therefore it is incumbent upon us to be hospitable. Besides, there are one or two questions I would like to ask him.’
‘Nuts,’ said the Albatross. ‘Just give me Shadrack.’
‘Little bird,’ said the Duchess, placing herself on the sofa. ‘You are in grave danger of finding yourself squashed between the carpet and my buttocks. Now just you behave yourself.’ She turned to Lisa. ‘My dear, fetch some fish for our visitor, will you?’
‘Raw,’ said the Albatross. ‘And make it herring.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Lisa curtsied and left.
Feeling defeated, the March Hare remained on the floor. It was as good a place to be as any.
‘Now,’ said the Duchess to the Albatross. ‘Perhaps you would care to enlighten us as to the nature of Shadrack’s regrettable condition?’
The Albatross hopped onto the sofa and made himself comfortable beside the Duchess. ‘Sure thing, fatso. Where do you want me to begin?’
‘At the beginning, of course.’
‘Well, it all began about two months ago. I was flying across what you folks laughingly call the War Zone.
‘It was morning...’
*
Morning on the Eastern Front. The War Zone basked in summer’s full glory, enjoying a rare moment of brittle calm. Across the cloudless sky, plumes of white smoke acted as reminders of the temporary nature of the present serenity.
In Trench 206, the men of Company B spoke in reverent tones of their last battle. It had lasted three days and nights, each moment a blaze of screaming, murderous upheaval. It was like being caught in the climax of a great symphony with your veins full of adrenalin and the music going on and on, changing only in pitch, never in volume.
That had been a good fight, said the men, remembering the endless onslaught of howitzers, the sharp, incisive crack of a thousand rifles. Above them, biplanes had swept through columns of fire and smoke, reminding some of swallows, others of the Angel of Death.
They agreed that some good men had died in that battle, but they had died noble, honourable deaths. Even Shorty Mendoza who lasted only a few seconds before mis-throwing a hand-grenade. Poor Shorty. While everyone else had the sense to run for cover, Shorty tried to redeem himself by picking up the grenade in order to rethrow it. They never did find his right arm, but at least they had recovered enough of him to ensure he qualified for a full-size casket.
Shadrack was shaking. Despite the heat, he felt intensely cold. The morning stillness played on his nerves like a cat with a ball. It seemed unnatural, almost hostile. And it gave him time to consider things he would rather not think about.
His one consolation was being on lookout duty, excused the chore of joining with the rest of the company in their version of manly camaraderie. He could hide his fear beneath his field coat. The others had to resort to cracking jokes and boasting about their prowess on the battlefield and in bed.
With his back against the trench wall, he sipped his coffee and stared at Sergeant Rock’s impressive back. Of all things Shadrack hated about this war - some profound, some petty - he hated Sergeant Rock the most. To him, the Sergeant represented all that was crass and futile.
‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ the bullish NCO told his men. His thick lips were wrapped with obscene intimacy around the butt of an unlit cigarette. ‘I was at the front during the autumn offensive and I can tell you it wasn’t at all nice. Man, how it rained! There was raindrops bigger than an elephant’s testicle and twice as hard. It cut so bad you didn’t dare whiz in case your wanger got cut in two. And these here trenches - they was like swimming pools. I knew this Major who went for a walk and stepped straight into a puddle. Guess the mud must have sucked him down or something, because we never did see him again. Times like that, war just ain’t no fun at all.
‘Which reminds me of this widow I was on intimate terms with back in the Hinterlands. A fine woman she was. Blessed with the biggest mazonkas this side of the Pearly Gates!’
Shadrack winced. Something had bitten his leg. He prayed that it wasn’t a body louse or any one of the other dozen or so parasites currently plaguing the army. They’d been told in training that such infestations would be considered self-inflicted wounds, which meant that a man could find himself court martialed just for carrying ticks. And as if that wasn’t enough, there were now rumours of bubonic plague.
Sergeant Rock shouted an obscenity, then let rip with a great guffaw. Apparently, the vulgar expression he’d used had been the punch line to a joke. The men rocked with laughter. ‘I ain’t kidding,’ said Sergeant Rock. ‘It was the darnedest thing I ever saw and to this day I still don’t know what she did with that rolling pin!’
More raucous laughter.
Shadrack turned away in disgust and chanced a look over the top of the trench. In theory, he should have used a periscope, but such equipment had not found its way to the Front for two years or more.
No-Man’s Land stretched before him like a harsh, ugly fact begging to be ignored. The scars it bore would have been no sadder had they been inflicted upon the face of a good friend. It was a landscape of despair, devoid of all hope, all meaning. It was the line which separated reason from insanity.
The ochre tones of mud laced with barbed wire depressed him. In the distance, a series of wooden spikes served to mark the beginnings of the enemy’s battle lines. There was no sign of movement, but Shadrack could easily picture the scenes in the opposing trenches. They would be much the same as here - men singing and joking, smoking cigarettes and bragging about their bravery. No-Man’s Land was a mirror; each side of it a reflection of the grim reality of the other.
Beside a spent mortar shell, a badly decayed arm rose from the mud like an accusation; it served as a meeting point for a swarm of flies. Unless there was a poison gas attack, it would soon be crawling with maggots.
Shadrack squinted against the glare of the sun, tried to determine whether the sleeve on the arm bore two stripes or three. Meanwhile the boys of Company C - led and encouraged by Sergeant Rock - had launched into a ditty which told of love, war and the sexual proclivities of a certain barmaid and her donkey. Some sang in tones as rich and vibrant as mortars. Others managed as best they could, seemingly oblivious to the painful limits of their vocal abilities.
Above them all, Sergeant Rock’s voice roared like a monstrous cannon.
‘I’ve never seen a lassie so abused,’ they sang, sitting comfortably on their ammo crates, nursing insipid tea and ersatz coffee. Though they would have preferred to be in a circle, the geometry of the trench forced them to sing side by side. ‘We had our way and left her bruised. We kissed her donkey and wished her well. But God help the Devil if she goes to Hell.’
Halfway through the chorus, one of the men detached himself from his comrades and strolled up to Shadrack.
‘Not much of a war, is it?’ he said, handing Shadrack a lighted cigarette. The stripe on his arm announced that he was a lance corporal. He had scarred cheeks and a bruised forehead. ‘It’s all a bit untidy for my liking.’
Shadrack took a long drag on the cigarette, savoured the bitter taste as it crept over his tongue and down his throat. It was the first time in weeks that anyone had shown him anything like friendship and he was surprised at how deeply grateful he felt. Picking a shred of stray tobacco from his lip, he searched for small talk. ‘If you ask me, they’re building for their biggest push yet.’
‘The Spuds, you mean? They’re more likely to be fast asleep in their bunks. Can’t take the excitement the way we can. Knew a few of them before the war, and they were lazy bastards to a man.’
‘Have you ever wondered,’ asked Shadrack, ‘where we are?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Are we in Hearts or Spades? We’ve advanced and retreated so many times I bet even our Generals don’t know where this place is.’
‘According to Sergeant Rock,’ said the Lance Corporal, ‘there used to be a village here. But those bastard Spuds bombed it out of existence.’
‘I suppose,’ said Shadrack, ‘that it’s Hearts. At least technically. I mean, it may have been Spades once, but now we’re here it’s our territory and therefore Hearts.’
‘You’re a funny bugger, Shadrack. You’ve been with us two months and still none of us can figure you out. You fight like a demon and think like a scholar. And you’re always bloody day-dreaming.’
‘What else is there to do? Whem we’re not fighting for our lives, things tend to get a bit boring around here.’
The Lance Corporal shrugged. ‘They call me Vinegar Joe, by the way. That’s on account of my father being Crudestuff of Crudestuff foods.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘You should have. They’re the biggest producers of beef in the Kingdom.’
‘I don’t eat beef. In fact, I try not to eat meat at all. Some of my best friends are animals.’
‘Know what you mean. I’ve met a few talkies in my time, and they all seem like good blokes.’
‘Sure,’ said Shadrack, who wasn’t listening any more. He was gazing up at the sky, following the progress of what appeared to be an extremely large sea gull. ‘That bird’s asking for trouble.’
Vinegar Joe looked up. ‘It’s big enough to be a talkie. You reckon it’s a spy?’
‘Could be. But if it is, it’s one of ours. There aren’t any talkies in Spades.’
‘Yeah, but we wouldn’t send one to war.’
‘And I don’t think they would, either.’
Vinegar Joe looked doubtful. When it came to the enemy, he was always prepared to believe the worst. By now, the rest of the company had sighted the bird. Fourteen rifles were trained on its belly.
‘Wait till it gets closer,’ ordered Sergeant