"Smith, Wilbur - Courtney 01 - The Burning Shore" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

flying this morning wind has gone sou'-sou'-west, Sir, and she's
clearing something lovely, she is. Stars shining out over Cambrai -
Biggs set the tray he carried on the packing case and bustled about the
tent, picking up the clothing that Michael had dropped on the
duck-boards the night before.

What time is it? Michael went through the pantomime of awaking from
deep sleep, stretching and yawning so that Biggs would not know about
the hour of terror, so that the legend would not be tarnished.

Half-past five, Sir. Biggs finished folding the clothes away, then came
back to hand him the thick china mug of cocoa. And Lord Killigerran is
up and in the mess already. I Bloody man is made of iron, Michael
groaned, and Biggs picked the empty whisky bottle off the floor beneath
the cot and placed it on the tray.

Michael drained the cocoa while Biggs worked up a lather in the shaving
mug and then held the polished steel mirror and the lantern while
Michael shaved with the straight razor, sitting up in his cot with the
blankets over his shoulders.

What's the book? Michael demanded, his voice nasal as he pinched his
own nostrils and lifted the tip of his nose to shave his upper lip.

They are giving three to one that you and the major take them both with
no butcher's bill. Michael wiped the razor while he considered the
odds.

The sergeant rigger who ran the betting had operated his own book at
Ascot and Aintree before the war. He had decided that there was one
chance in three that either Andrew or Michael, or both of them, would be
dead by noon, no butcher's bill, no casualties.

Bit steep, don't you think, Biggs? Michael asked. I mean, both of
them, damn it? I've put half a crack on you, sir, Biggs demurred.

Good on you, Biggs, put on a fiver for me. He pointed to the sovereign
case that lay beside his watch, and Biggs pressed out five gold coins
and pocketed them. Michael always bet on himself. It was a racing
certainty: if he lost the bet, it wasn't going to hurt much, anyway.

Biggs warmed Michael's breeches over the chimney of the lamp and then
held them while Michael dived out from under the blankets into them. He
stuffed his nightshirt into the breeches while Biggs went on with the
complicated procedure of dressing his man against the killing cold of
flight in an open cockpit. There followed a silk vest over the
nightshirt, two cable-stitched woollen fisherman's jerseys, then a
leather gilet, and finally an army officer's greatcoat with the skirts
cut off so that they would not tangle with the controls of the aircraft.