stove, and a gramophone was playing a record of string quartets. The music had a harsh, driving urgency. Laceyâs eyes widened as the quartet cut the theme into pieces and flung them together again, the same only different. âThatâs the stuff,â he said. âStand no nonsense.â The door opened and Captain Piggott came in. Lacey stood up. âDid you have a good patrol, sir?â he asked.
âDud. No Hun, no fun.â Piggott was red-haired and restless. He noticed the gramophone and went over to it. âIs the adjutant in?â His head twisted as he tried to read the spinning label.
âCaptain Appleyard is not back from Contay yet, sir.â
âContay? What the devilâs he doing in Contay? Thatâs Kite Balloons, isnât it?â Piggott abandoned the label. âWhatâs this bloody awful music, Lacey?â
âDvoŠák, sir.â
âSounds foul. What is it, German?â
âBohemian.â
âJust as bad.â Piggott found a typewriter with paper in it and began poking the keys. âTheyâre all Huns, over there. Whenâs the adj going to be back? I want to play some cricket.â
âHe didnât say, sir. He went there for lunch.â Lacey went over and lifted the needle from the record. âWould you like a cup of tea, sir?â
Piggott nodded, still pecking away at the keys. Lacey assembled tea, sugar and milk. Piggott dragged the paper out and looked at it.
âYour filthy machine canât spell,â he said.
âI believe I hear Captain Appleyardâs car, sir.â Lacey put three china mugs on a tray. Piggott folded the sheet of paper into a glider and waited. As the door opened he launched it. The glider flew past Appleyardâs head but the adjutant didnât notice it. âAfternoon, adj,â Piggott called; but Appleyard didnât hear that either. Head down, frowning, he hurried across the room. He looked dreadful. His face was dead-white about the chin and mouth, yet blotched with colour at the cheekbones. There was sweat on his brow: sweat, after twenty miles sitting in the breeze of an open car? He moved with his shoulders hunched as if holding himself together. âGlass of water,â he said to Lacey without looking, and went into his room. The door banged shut.
Piggott found his glider and smoothed out the crumpled nose. He watched Lacey pour water from a jug, and spoon white powder into the glass. Lacey looked up. âBicarbonate of soda,â he said. âIncomparable for swift relief.â
Piggott followed him into the office. Appleyard was lying rather than sitting in an old, padded swivel chair. His tunic and shirt collar were open, and the top of his flies were undone. One foot was propped on a desk drawer. His eyes were shut but the eyelids trembled, and the hollows below them gleamed wetly.
Lacey placed the glass in his hand and held the fingers secure until Appleyard had swallowed most of the fizzing drink. âMr. Piggott is here, sir,â he said, and went out.
Appleyard sat up and wiped his face with a khaki handkerchief. âCome in, Tim,â he said. âTake a pew, have a cigar. To what do I owe â¦â He broke off to utter a belch that seemed to begin in his boots.
âYou feeling all right, adj?â Piggott asked.
âNothing to worry about. Touch of the Zuluâs Revenge.â Appleyard was an old-style career officer, now in his mid-forties, a balding bachelor who had seen much service in India and Africa and who wore three rows of faded campaign ribbons to prove it. So why was he only a captain? The squadron was too well-mannered to ask, and in any case there were more interesting things going on in the world. âEver see a Zulu, Tim? Very large gentlemen. Black as your hat andbrave as a bull. Bullets canât stop âem.â He had buttoned his flies and was rearranging the paperwork that cluttered his desk.