Lord of the Nutcracker Men by Iain Lawrence Read Free Book Online Page B

dissolved and he collapsed into pieces, and only his head was left, smoldering into ashes that drifted up with the sparks.
    There was silence for a moment; then the boys all shrieked and hollered. They jostled against me, pushing me sideways. I stumbled back against one, who shoved me on to the next. The firelight swept over them, flickering on their clothes and faces. It made them strange and savagelike, and they laughed and chanted.
    “Guy, guy, guy. Stick 'im in the eye.”
    They pushed harder. I reeled from boy to boy. Sparks burst from the fire, exploding at my feet.
    “Hang him on a lamppost. And there let 'im die.
    ” The ring of watching skulls gaped at me. The boys pushed me closer to the fire. What had started as a game, I thought, had turned to a wildness they couldn't control. Their hands pressed and shoved.
    I felt the whole heat of the bonfire scorching at my back, and I feared the boys would throw me on it. They would pitch me up—I was certain they would—and my arms would flail like those of the guys as I fell, spread-eagled, on the wood.
    Then Sarah was there, swirling in among the boys, and I thought she had come to pull me away. But when she took my hands she pushed me instead, and I spun around to find more hands waiting. I slipped into the rhythm then, into a mad sort of dance, a Red Indian dance of stamping feet and whoops and shouts. We flew round and round, under the sparks and the whirls of smoke, round and round the watching faces.
    I was sad when it ended. The boys went off in pairs and little groups, and the great fire dwindled to a heap of coals. Soon Sarah and I were the only ones left, and we walked together to the edge of the village. I didn'tmind her being there. Her hair had a particular smell that I liked very much, a lovely mix of smoke and gunpowder.
    It wasn't so bad, I thought, to have a girl for a friend. After all, she was almost like a boy. Except for her clothes and her hair, and her voice and her shape, she was
exactly
the same as a boy.

C HAPTER 7
    November 11, 1914
    Dearest Johnny,
    I can't tell you exactly where I am, as our commanding officer would not allow it. He is a very kind soul who is loath to read our letters at all. But he must, and he does.
    The best I can say is that we're somewhere near a town called Ypres. Goodness knows how you're supposed to pronounce it. We call it Wipers.
    We're not quite close enough that we can see the village, but I can tell where it is by the smoke that rises from the ruins. The Hun, unable to capture it, has decided to destroy it instead. He did the same thing in Belgium, of course, smashing the very best and oldest buildings like a child in a tantrum. Bit by bit, all the land around us, all the homes and the trees, are vanishing in the same way. Before very long there will be nothing but endless ruin and mud.
    It's the dreariest world. And the dreariest weather. Bitterly cold, it only stops raining when it starts to snow or sleet instead. We are settling down for winter, the first British soldiers to ever do that in the field. War used to stop when the snow began falling. But now it just goes on.
    The shells come down, the bullets fly, at dawn and dusk we stand to. We're still waiting for Fritz to come at our throats, and sometimes I wish he would. I wish he'd come and get it over with. The waiting is very hard for me.
    Enclosed is a sniper. The fellow stands for hours, as still as a heron in the marsh, watching through a tiny hole for a glint of sun along the German parapet. I envy him, Johnny. All that I ever see is mud, and a little bit of sky.
    All my love, forever and ever,
    Dad
    I was setting up the sniper when Sarah came by. She arrived on the footpath, hopping over the wall by the beech tree. “What are you doing?” she asked.
    “There's going to be a battle.” I pointed at my nut-cracker men lined up in their trench. “The Huns are going to attack.”
    “They shouldn't do that,” said Sarah.
    “Why