Starshine by John Wilcox Page A

place. Sounds dangerous. A lovely little slip of a lass like that can’t be doing that stuff, can she? It don’t seem right, does it, Jimmy boy?’
    Jim sighed. ‘These are strange times, Bertie. Six months ago, who’d have thought that we would be standing in mud, trying to kill people? Put like that, I don’t suppose it’s so strange. She’s a plucky, marvellous girl, though, ain’t she?’
    Bertie’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, so she is, Jim. So she is.’ He looked down at his letter then up again at his friend. ‘Does she … er … say she loves you, then, Jimmy?’
    Hickman looked embarrassed. ‘Bloody hell, no mate. She’s, well, she’s not that sort of girl. She’s not sloppy and all that.’ He paused uncertainly. ‘Why, does she say that about you, then?’
    It was Bertie’s turn to show discomfort. ‘Well no. Not in so many words, anyway. But you sort of know, don’t you? I do, anyway.’
    Jim did not reply but, frowning, filled their glasses again and fixed his eye on the accordion player. The two sat in awkward silence fora moment and then, in unison, as though pulled by a marionette’s strings, they both slowly folded their letters, put them away in their tunics and lifted their glasses.
    Inevitably, it was Bertie who broke the silence. ‘You know, Jimmy, this life in the trenches, when it’s a bit quiet like, with no chargin’ about with bayonets and all that stuff, wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for old Black Jack.’
    Hickman slowly nodded. They had learnt that Sergeant Flanagan, seconded from a regular regiment – in his case the Connaught Rangers – with other regular NCOs to give ‘backbone’ to this territorial battalion on active service, had earned the nickname by his fierce demeanour in and out of action. It had quickly become clear that he was a bully with a sadistic bent, but also that he had taken a particular dislike to Bertie.
    ‘He certainly doesn’t seem to like Catholics,’ mused Jim, sipping his wine.
    ‘Ah sure, sure. And that’s the funny thing, so it is. Y’see, the Rangers are from the west of Ireland and they’re a Catholic lot themselves. What, then, is bloody old Black Jack, a Protestant heathen through and through, just like you, doin’ serving in a Catholic regiment, eh?’
    Jim shrugged. ‘He’s also a professional soldier, through and through, and the Rangers, so I’m told, are one of the finest regiments in the British army. I suppose he just happened to be from one of the few Protestant families in Galway, or somewhere like that, and he joined up to follow the flag in a good regiment. Now he’s no longer serving with Catholics, perhaps he’s enjoying the chance of showing his prejudice.’
    ‘Hmm. Well, I wish the bastard would stop showing it to me.’
    It was true that Flanagan seemed to take a delight in persecuting Bertie. As their platoon sergeant, he would single out the little Irishmanfor fatigues and special duties whenever he could. It was difficult, in the dirt and general discomfort of the trenches, for Flanagan to take advantage of Murphy’s natural dishevelment for his persecution, but he pounced on him whenever he could. Bertie seemed to have spent more time as latrine orderly for the platoon than standing on the trench firing step. Jim had tried whenever possible to come between the two and, indeed, the sergeant seemed to be wary of the lance corporal – perhaps not least because the young Lieutenant Smith-Forbes, their platoon commander, fresh from public school and exactly the same age as Jim, had taken to the tall, quiet, obviously efficient soldier. But Flanagan chose his moments carefully and Hickman could not always protect his friend.
    Jim took another sip of his wine. They were learning now to treat the pale yellow liquid with some respect and Bertie was already beginning to grin vacantly at everyone within sight. ‘Trouble is,’ he said, ‘he’s obviously a bloody good soldier. Have you seen the ribbons he