The Machine Gunners by Robert Westall

auntie—just ma ma's cousin. She wasn't sae keen tey have me in the first place, and we're sleeping three in a bed. She'll miss the money ma dad sends, that's all."
    "But doesn't she... love you?" Chas blushed as he said it.
    "Love me? You kids don't know you're born. All she and ma uncle love is their beer and fags. Ah've thought of running away many a time..." Everyone stared at him aghast, so that even Clogger became uncomfortable. "Ah'll be away, then. Ah'll have to hurry if Ah'm tey get back afore dark."
    "Before you go..." said Chas.
    "Aye?"
    "Everyone swear ... on the gun." So they brought the gun out of its wrapping, and laid Granda's Union Jack on it, and everyone put their hands on the gun and swore to look after Nicky. In the swearing, Fortress Caparetto became more than a game; it became a nation. And the Germans ceased to be the only enemies. All the adults were a kind of enemy now, except John.
    Clogger returned long after nightfall, his old bike laden with gear. He came by the back way—the loose boards in the fence.
    "Easy! Ah left a note for ma auntie whilst they were snoozin' off their dinner. Ah biked tey Otterburn an' posted a postcard there. They'll think Ah'm away ower the Scottish border by noo."
    Nicky really smiled.
    "I'm glad you're back. I'll get your supper."
    The police sergeant went round the homes of all Clogger's mates and questioned them. But it was easy to be stony-faced and lie when you pretended you were a French Resistance fighter, and he was a Gestapo swine.
    At each house the sergeant sensed something in the boy he talked to: not guilt, but hostility and cunning.
    At McGills', the last house, he turned to Chas's father on the doorstep.
    "This war's doing bad things to kids. They're running wild. You don't know where you are with them any more. These are decent kids from decent homes; but they go on more like slum kids with a dad in the nick. You know, against the police on principle."
    "Mevve that says more about the police than the kids." Mr. McGill spat on the doorstep, and turned away to shut the door in the sergeant's face.
    "Look," said the sergeant desperately, jamming his foot in the door, "they're up to something..."
    "Take your foot out of my house," said Mr. McGill dangerously.
    The sergeant left. But Mr. McGill was worried about Chas for all his fighting words. He beckoned Chas to come into the cold front room, with its big chiming clock. Chas trembled; he knew what was coming.
    He couldn't even pretend his father was some kind of Gestapo swine, like the police sergeant, or the Head flexing his cane. His father understood how kids really felt about things; more than most. Ever since he was little, Dad had meant safety: large, solid, bristly-faced, smelling of tobacco. His thumb always grew in three segments, where he had hit it with a hammer while he was an apprentice.
    But could any grownup keep you safe now? They couldn't stop the German bombers. They hadn't saved Poland, or Norway or France. Or the battleship the German submarine torpedoed in Scapa Flow itself.
    Their own air-raid shelter at home—it wasn't as safe as the Fortress. It was only covered with a foot of soil. Couldn't Dad have done better than that?
    He looked at his father, and saw a weary, helpless middle-aged man. Dad wasn't any kind of God any more. Chas screwed himself up to lie.
    And for some reason Dad made it easy; maybe because he was just so tired. He never looked at Chas. He took the big family Bible off the sideboard and made Chas swear on it that he knew nothing about machine guns or Clogger. And Dad didn't even believe in God.
    Chas swore with his eyes on the Bible. He could never have done it looking at his dad.
    It all worked like a charm. With John's help they dug up the second Anderson shelter—the small one intended for the Nichol family. They made it entirely underground; buried deep, it could only be reached by a tunnel from the big one. They filled it with food and useful things from