The Machine Gunners Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Robert Westall
in the face with her tongue sticking out."
"Rubbish! Someone's been having you on."
"What, no murder?"
"No, and bugger off before I run you in."
"Yes, sir," said Cem respectfully, and turned to the nettlebed to retrieve the bike.
As he rode off, the look of triumph faded from Fatty Hardy's face. He'd forgotten to ask the one question he'd been specially told to ask.
"Hey, lad, come back. What's your name? Where d'you live? I have to have your name!" But Cem seemed to have turned stone deaf. Perhaps it was the effort of pedalling so hard.
Cem dropped into a neighbouring desk, puffing.
"They've found it."
"Thought so. Watch it, here's Liddell."
Stan Liddell swept in with his usual gusto, gown flowing and a too-short pullover displaying the bottoms of his braces. This suited Stan well, as he liked hooking his thumbs into his braces while he talked. He usually had something interesting to say, and today was no exception.
"Found this, this morning," he announced, holding up the tailfin of an incendiary bomb. The class craned and muttered.
"That's nowt, sir. Boddser Brown's got fifteen, and McGill's got ten."
"Not like this one. See it's painted black instead of green, and has a yellow stripe? It's a new type the Jerries have just started to use. Twice as powerful."
That caught their attention, and he held it for the next half-hour. Because he talked inside gen on weapons. He held up Home Guard training posters, diagrams of grenades and rifles. Then the talk turned to machine guns, and alarm bells began ringing in Chas's head.
You cunning sod, Liddell, he thought, and waited, unscrewing the top of his ink bottle. There was one big poster lying still rolled up on the desk, and Chas knew what it was: a diagram of the machine gun. Stan would hold it up, and throw his quick glance round the class, looking for the guilty face. Cem's. There was no time to warn him.
As Stan held up the rolled poster with a flourish, Chas knocked over his bottle of ink.
"Oh, bugger!" It went all over Cem's trousers. Everyone turned to look, including Cem. Stan's moment of truth was completely ruined. Chas mopped wildly with a hanky at Cem's trousers.
"That's a picture of our gun he's got. Watch your face."
"For heaven's sake, McGill, will you pay attention! And you, Jones. This is a picture of a German aircraft machine gun, the MG 15, calibre 7.62 mm, firing 1000 rounds a minute, effective range one mile."
The class looked at him, but now they looked—not exactly all innocent, but at least all equally disorganised. Stan knew he was beaten.
"Right, boys. Open your English exercise books. I want an essay on War Souvenirs."
Silence fell, but for the scratch of pens. Chas knew how he could gain one hour, and no more. And that hour would be his last chance to save the gun. He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and wrote.
I used to have the best collection of war souvenirs in this town. I have eleven incendiary-bomb fins, twenty-six spent bullets, eighteen pieces of shrapnel, including one piece a foot long, and fifty empty cartridge cases including ten in clips that my Dad's friend who is in the Armed Trawlers gave me.
But now my collection is second-best, because Boddser Brown in 3B has beaten me. He has a 3.7 inch nose cone, and a pongy German flier's helmet, and lots of German money with Hitler's face on it, and a picture of a German girl in pigtails, called Mein Liebling. I wish I knew how he got these things, because he's beating me hollow, and if I can't beat him soon, I shall give up and start collecting cigarette cards instead.
The bell went for the end of the lesson.
"Close your books and pass them up," said Mr. Liddell. There was a storm of protest.
"But sir, we haven't finished. Can't we finish it for homework?"
"No, pass them up." You could tell Mr. Liddell couldn't wait to get his hands on those books. Chas grinned to himself. He owed Boddser Brown that one.
By four o'clock, Boddser was outside the Head's
"Rubbish! Someone's been having you on."
"What, no murder?"
"No, and bugger off before I run you in."
"Yes, sir," said Cem respectfully, and turned to the nettlebed to retrieve the bike.
As he rode off, the look of triumph faded from Fatty Hardy's face. He'd forgotten to ask the one question he'd been specially told to ask.
"Hey, lad, come back. What's your name? Where d'you live? I have to have your name!" But Cem seemed to have turned stone deaf. Perhaps it was the effort of pedalling so hard.
Cem dropped into a neighbouring desk, puffing.
"They've found it."
"Thought so. Watch it, here's Liddell."
Stan Liddell swept in with his usual gusto, gown flowing and a too-short pullover displaying the bottoms of his braces. This suited Stan well, as he liked hooking his thumbs into his braces while he talked. He usually had something interesting to say, and today was no exception.
"Found this, this morning," he announced, holding up the tailfin of an incendiary bomb. The class craned and muttered.
"That's nowt, sir. Boddser Brown's got fifteen, and McGill's got ten."
"Not like this one. See it's painted black instead of green, and has a yellow stripe? It's a new type the Jerries have just started to use. Twice as powerful."
That caught their attention, and he held it for the next half-hour. Because he talked inside gen on weapons. He held up Home Guard training posters, diagrams of grenades and rifles. Then the talk turned to machine guns, and alarm bells began ringing in Chas's head.
You cunning sod, Liddell, he thought, and waited, unscrewing the top of his ink bottle. There was one big poster lying still rolled up on the desk, and Chas knew what it was: a diagram of the machine gun. Stan would hold it up, and throw his quick glance round the class, looking for the guilty face. Cem's. There was no time to warn him.
As Stan held up the rolled poster with a flourish, Chas knocked over his bottle of ink.
"Oh, bugger!" It went all over Cem's trousers. Everyone turned to look, including Cem. Stan's moment of truth was completely ruined. Chas mopped wildly with a hanky at Cem's trousers.
"That's a picture of our gun he's got. Watch your face."
"For heaven's sake, McGill, will you pay attention! And you, Jones. This is a picture of a German aircraft machine gun, the MG 15, calibre 7.62 mm, firing 1000 rounds a minute, effective range one mile."
The class looked at him, but now they looked—not exactly all innocent, but at least all equally disorganised. Stan knew he was beaten.
"Right, boys. Open your English exercise books. I want an essay on War Souvenirs."
Silence fell, but for the scratch of pens. Chas knew how he could gain one hour, and no more. And that hour would be his last chance to save the gun. He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and wrote.
I used to have the best collection of war souvenirs in this town. I have eleven incendiary-bomb fins, twenty-six spent bullets, eighteen pieces of shrapnel, including one piece a foot long, and fifty empty cartridge cases including ten in clips that my Dad's friend who is in the Armed Trawlers gave me.
But now my collection is second-best, because Boddser Brown in 3B has beaten me. He has a 3.7 inch nose cone, and a pongy German flier's helmet, and lots of German money with Hitler's face on it, and a picture of a German girl in pigtails, called Mein Liebling. I wish I knew how he got these things, because he's beating me hollow, and if I can't beat him soon, I shall give up and start collecting cigarette cards instead.
The bell went for the end of the lesson.
"Close your books and pass them up," said Mr. Liddell. There was a storm of protest.
"But sir, we haven't finished. Can't we finish it for homework?"
"No, pass them up." You could tell Mr. Liddell couldn't wait to get his hands on those books. Chas grinned to himself. He owed Boddser Brown that one.
By four o'clock, Boddser was outside the Head's
Similar Books
Dr. Brinkley's Tower
Robert Hough
Days of Redemption (The Firsts Book 6)
C.L. Quinn
Beg
C. D. Reiss
Mum's the Word
Dorothy Cannell
Bowie: A Biography
Marc Spitz
Kaleidoscope
Tracy Campbell
Defender: A Terran Times Tale
Viola Grace
Beanball
Gene Fehler
Moonsong
L. J. Smith