Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Wewereallessentiallyletter-writingtypes,andwhenwespoketoeachotheroutofthelineofduty,itwasusuallytoasksomebodyifhehadanyinkhewasn’tusing.Whenweweren’twritinglettersorattendingclasses,eachofuswentprettymuchhisownway.Mineusuallyledme,oncleardays,insceniccirclesaroundthecountryside.Rainydays,Igenerallysatinadryplaceandreadabook,oftenjustanaxelengthawayfromaping-pongtable.
Thetrainingcourselastedthreeweeks,endingonaSaturday,averyrainyone.Atseventhatlastnight,ourwholegroupwasscheduledtoentrainforLondon,where,asrumorhadit,weweretobeassignedtoinfantryandairbornedivisionsmusteredfortheDDaylandings.Bythreeintheafternoon,I’dpackedallmybelongingsintomybarrackbag,includingacanvasgas-maskcontainerfullofbooksI’dbroughtoverfromtheOtherSide.(ThegasmaskitselfI’dslippedthroughaportholeoftheMauretaniasomeweeksearlier,fullyawarethatiftheenemyeverdidusegasI’dnevergetthedamnthingonintime.)IrememberstandingatanendwindowofourQuonsetbutforaverylongtime,lookingoutattheslanting,drearyrain,mytriggerfingeritchingimperceptibly,ifatall.IcouldhearbehindmybacktheuncomradelyscratchingofmanyfountainpensonmanysheetsofV-mailpaper.
