Starshine by John Wilcox

powder they gave us in the trenches doesn’t seem to do any good at all.’
    ‘No, but there’s supposed to be fumigating machines at the baths, I’ve heard. So we can clean up completely there.’
    ‘I don’t know which is best, to kill the old ones or the young ones. If you kill the old ones, the young ones might die of grief, but the young ones are easier to kill and you can get the old ones when they go to the funeral.’
    ‘Hmm. I’d rather rely on the fumigating thing.’
    ‘Right. Let’s go and get clean.’
    Rain had set in on the Salient long ago and mud was just starting to be as much of an enemy as the Germans. The plain itself was low-lying, not far from the sea and soggy, even before rain fell. The farmers had cut in ditches to carry the water away but the shelling had opened them up so that they were as one with the sodden landscape, from which individual fields and woods had now virtually disappeared. The soldiers manning the trenches to which the British had retreated after repulsing narrowly the heavy German attacks of October were now cold, wet and lousy. It was a foretaste of what was to come.
    The boys soaked themselves in the canvas baths, pitched under canvas and fed by large cauldrons set over field stoves. The water was hardly hot enough but it was luxury to soak and soap themselves all over. Their clothes were fumigated and then cleaned while they bathed. They picked them up, brushed their hair and, off duty, decidedto walk into town, keeping their precious letters until they could find a corner of a congenial bar.
    The streets of Pop were narrow and crowded but, fortunately, there was no shortage of
estaminets
ready and happy to take their money. The Café des Allies beckoned and they entered. It was smoke-filled and crowded with British Tommies (a corporal had told them not go to ‘La Poupée’, which was reserved for officers only) but they found a tiny round table, covered with dozens of wine-stain roundels.
    ‘You want plonk?’ demanded a stoutly bosomed waitress.
    The two looked at each other. This was the first time that they had come down from the line and their first experience of a French
estaminet
. ‘What’s plonk?’ asked Jim.
    The waitress sighed. ‘It ees
vin blanc.
White wine. You Tommees call eet plonk. You want it? Ees one franc for a bottle. You want?’
    ‘Er … yes. I suppose so.’ Jim gave her a coin and she immediately seemed to magic from nowhere a bottle containing a yellowish liquid and two tiny glasses. She poured it and bustled away.
    ‘Well, old lad.’ Jim raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Polly.’
    ‘Ah yes. Here’s to Polly, bless her.’
    They emptied their glasses in one gulp. Bertie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Not much to it, is there? I’d rather have a pint of Ansells.’
    Jim replenished their glasses. ‘Doesn’t seem to taste of much, does it?’ He looked around. Everyone seemed to be drinking exactly the same wine, from bottles carrying no labels. ‘Everyone else is downing the stuff so I suppose it must be all right. Perhaps it’s what you might call an acquired taste.’
    Suddenly a piano accordion struck up. It was a lilting waltz and a little wizened man playing it and wearing a beret began to sing:
    Après la guerre fini,
    Soldat anglais parti,
    Mademoiselle in the family way,
    Après la guerre fini.
    Bertie leant forward. ‘What’s he singing?’
    ‘I think he’s being rude about British soldiers. But everyone’s laughing, so I suppose it’s all right. Shall we read our letters?’
    Immediately, they both settled back in their chairs, slightly turning away from each other, and began reading.
    ‘Blimey!’ Jim looked up in consternation. ‘She’s going to work in a factory. Driving a bloody overhead crane.’
    ‘Ah.’ Bertie screwed up his face in annoyance, his slowness in reading exposed. ‘I haven’t got that far. Hang on.’ Then, ‘Strewth! She’s going to be slinging shells all over the