The Machine Gunners by Robert Westall Read Free Book Online Page A

Chas saw the top half of her body, still obscenely weighing out potatoes...
    Then he threw himself through the shelter door. He caught his knee on a corner of the bunk, and it was agony. Then his mother landed on top of him, knocking him flat, and he heard Dad's boots running, as he had never heard them before. Then a crack like thunder, and another and another and another and another. Great thunder-boots walking steadily toward them. The next would certainly crush them.
    But the next never came; only the sound of bricks falling, like coalmen tipping coal into the cellar and glass breaking and breaking...
    His father drew down the heavy tarpaulin over the shelter door, and his mother lit the little oil lamp with her third trembling match. Then she lit the candle under a plant pot that kept the shelter warm.
    "Did you shut the front door, love?" she said to his father. "I'm frightened someone'll nip in and steal those insurance policies. And where's Mrs. Spalding and Colin?"
    Chug, chug, chug, chug:
    "The buggers is coming again!" shouted Mr. McGill.
    "Where's the bloody guns, where's the bloody fighters?"
    Above the chugging came a kind of rhythmic panting-screeching; and a kind of dragging-hopping, like a kangaroo in its death-throes. It was even more frightening than the chugging, and it came right up to the shelter door. A body fell through. It was Mrs. Spalding.
    "Is she dead?" said Mrs. McGill.
    "No, but she's got her knickers round her ankles," said Mr. McGill.
    "Aah had tey hop aal the way," gasped Mrs. Spalding. "I was on the outside lav and I couldn't finish. The buggers blew the lav door off, and they've hit the Rex Cinema as well. Is there a spot of brandy?"
    "Aah pulled the chain, Mam. It flushed all right." It was Colin, with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
    "You'll get the Victoria Cross for that," said Chas with a wild giggle.
    "Shut up, Charles. Have you got no feeling?" Mum turned to Mrs. Spalding, who had crawled onto her bunk and was busy pulling up her knickers. "I'm sorry, love. We got down the shelter so quick I left the brandy and the case behind. I'm worried about the insurance, too. Jack didn't shut the front door. Go back and get them, Jack!"
    But the bombs had begun whining down again. Every time he heard one, Chas stared hard at the shelter wall. Mr. McGill had painted it white, and set tiny bits of cork in the wet paint to absorb condensation. Chas would start to count inside his head. When the counting reached twenty, he would either be dead, or he would see little bits of cork fall off the shelter wall with the shock wave, and know he had survived... till the next whistling started. It was a silly pointless game, with no real magic in it, but it stopped you wanting to scream...
    His grandpa always said one only hit you if it had your name on it... he'd seen photographs of RAF blokes chalking names on their bombs... did the Germans do that too?... How would they know his name... did they have lists of everyone who lived in England... ? Perhaps the Gestapo had ... he must stop thinking like that, or he would scream... make a fool of himself like Mrs. Spalding... play another game, quick.
    Yes, there was another game. He was lying in a trench with Cem and Carrot-juice. The black machine gun was in his hands, leaping, vibrating, spraying out orange fire at the black bombers. And he was hitting them every time. They were blowing up, it was their crews who were screaming now, being blown in half... one, two, three, four, five, six, seven... oh, this was a good game... try as they might, the bombers could not reach him. He got them first, swept them away on the blast of the big black gun, sent them down into Hell to burn...
    "Hey, cheer up, son. It might never happen." It was his father's voice, and he was staring at the white, rocky wall again, and for the moment, the bombs had stopped.
    At dawn, they climbed out stiffly. They were surprised to see their house still standing; and the rest of the