Harvest of War Read Free Page A

owned the chateau had decamped to safer lodgings, but some of the servants, either too old or too young for active service, remained. Among them was a boy in his mid-teens; good-looking after a fashion with full, red lips and thick dark hair which he was constantly pushing back from his brow in what struck Tom as a rather affected manner. His name was Louis and he helped out in the kitchen and generally fetched and carried. He often hung around the officers’ quarters, waiting for the chance to run errands, for which he was rewarded with cigarettes and chocolate.
    One evening, Tom was in his room, tidying himself before going down to dinner, when there was a knock on the door. Louis stood outside with a glass of Pernod on a tray.
    â€˜For you, Lieutenant,’ he said.
    â€˜No, not me,’ Tom responded. ‘I didn’t ask for it.’
    â€˜Yes, for you,’ the boy insisted, stepping adroitly round Tom into the room.
    â€˜No!’ Tom said again. ‘I don’t even like Pernod. You must have got me mixed up with one of the others.’
    Louis put the glass down and gave Tom a lascivious smile. ‘You give me cigarettes, yes?’
    â€˜No. Why should I give you cigarettes? I didn’t send for that drink.’
    The boy stepped closer. ‘Yes, you give me cigarettes and I . . .’ He leaned in and whispered in Tom’s ear a suggestion of such extreme obscenity that Tom felt himself grow hot with shame.
    He took a sharp step backwards. ‘No! You will do no such thing! Get out, and take your foul suggestions with you. I wouldn’t dream of indulging in anything so gross.’
    Louis’s eyes widened mockingly. ‘No?’
    â€˜No! Now, get out.’
    The boy shrugged and moved to the door. As he reached it Tom said sharply, ‘And don’t go making any such lewd suggestions to any of the other officers, or you might get a hiding. No English gentleman would stoop to anything so low.’
    Louis gave him a smile of amused contempt. ‘You think?’
    He left the room, closing the door softly behind him, and Tom, deeply shaken, grabbed the glass of Pernod and drained it, even though the taste revolted him. He looked at himself in the mirror. Why had the boy approached him? Was there something about his face or his bearing that gave a clue to his awful secret? He thought he had concealed it very well but now he wondered if other people guessed it too, and the thought made him blush again.
    Going downstairs he was jolted out of his introspective mood by the sight of a familiar figure standing in the hall. Ralph had been wounded a month earlier and sent home to recuperate. Tom’s heart leapt. Ralph had been the most significant presence in his life since his schooldays. They had joined up together and this was the longest time they had been apart since that first day. At Tom’s exclamation of delight Ralph swung round and ran to the foot of the stairs.
    â€˜Tom! Thank God! You’re still OK. Oh, it’s good to see you!’ He gripped Tom’s hand in a fervent clasp and pounded him on the shoulder.
    Tom, in a confusion of mingled joy and shame, resisted the urge to embrace him.
    â€˜It’s good to see you, too. But I’d rather you were still safe in England. How are you? Completely recovered?’
    â€˜Fit as a flea and thankful to be back in harness.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜God, yes! You’ve no idea how awful it is at home. People constantly asking “what’s it like out there?” and “how did you get wounded?” and then the next question is always, “when are you going back?” As if anyone who has been through it wants to talk about it when they get home!’
    â€˜I remember,’ Tom agreed.
    â€˜Oh, I’ve got news! I had a letter from Leo. She’s in Salonika. Have you heard anything?’
    â€˜Yes, there was a letter waiting for me when we got back here