by Gerald Kersh
There is a stupendous clicking of pressed triggers, and an uproar of “You’re dead,” until the Trained Soldier says, very sourly:
“Say there was bullets up the spouts of them rifles. Say there was live rounds. There couldn’t be, but just say. Well, you’d all be dead. It is strictly forbidden to point your rifle in the hut. I’m decent. I’m good-hearted. I’m one o’ the best, I am. But I can be a lousy, rotten swine if I want to. And I’ll put any of you inside that I ketch pointing rifles or assing about with bayonets—fencing, and throwing ’em, and chopping up wood or anything. So don’t you go and do it. School kids. Who goes fencing about with dangerous bayonets in huts? Soppy little girls do that, not Guardsmen. Now look. You’re in Lance-Sergeant Nelson’s Squad, Z Company, Coldstream Guards, Guards’ Depot, Caterham. Got it? And I’m your Trained Soldier, Trained Soldier Brand. Got it? Well, get it if you ain’t got it. This is your hut …”
We look. A great, scoured box; two stoves; ninety planks on sixty trestles, making thirty little wooden beds; a coal tub, two galvanized iron buckets, three brooms, a long scrubber, a mop, two scrubbing brushes.
“… This is your hut. From now on, this is going to be your home. And it will be kept as such—so clean you could eat fried eggs off the floor, just like you do at home. God help the dirty man in the Brigade of Guards. God help the man who goes around in tripe! Personally,” says Trained Soldier Brand, in a burst of friendly confidence, “I never used to use a nailbrush myself, for the simple reason that I used to bite my nails down to the quick. But then I lost all my teeth. And look at my nails now. Look how clean. I want to see every man’s nails like them. I’m proud of my fingernails, now.
“Everybody pick himself a bed. Keep it. You’re responsible for the tidiness of your bed area, and everything connected with it. There is only one right way of doing a thing, and that is the Army way. I am here to show you what to do. Come round me in a circle, and I’ll have a chat with you. I want to get to know you.”
*
He looks us over. He says: “It takes all sorts to make a world … and then what have you got? What’s your name?”
“Shorrocks, Trained Soldier.”
“What was your job in Civvy Street?”
“I was a grocer. I’ve got my own business.”
“What’s your religion? Not that I care a damn.”
“Congregationalist.”
“Well, every man is entitled to his own whatsiname. I’m a bit of a Mohammedan, myself. But I goes down as C. of E. There’s services for C. of E-ers and Roman Candles. Any other fancy religions—Baptists, Jews, Congregationalists, Methodists, Seventh Day Adventists, Peculiar Methodists (whatever they may be), Mormons, and what not, get along as best they can. If anybody’s got any religious arguments to make, he can go and have it out with the Company Commander. I ’ad a Buddhist in my squad, once. A white man, mind you, but a Buddhist. Gord bless you, we didn’t mind.
“While I’m talking, by the way, you can take off them civvy clothes, and put on proper ones. You’re expected to wear your underpants. In the first place, they’re issued for you to wear. In the second place, it’s un’ealthy not to. When cold weather comes you’ll be issued with long winter ones, and woolly vests, and gloves. Roll up your civvies. They’re to be sent ’ome; it’s illegal to keep ’em now. You’re in the Army. And look. I’ve got ’ere a cap badge. It’s the eight-pointed star, the Coldstreamers’ star. Look at it. I’ve ’ad it seven years, and somebody ’ad it seven years before me. See? It’s been polished and polished until the pattern’s almost all wore off. Can you read what’s on it? Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense. Evil be to ’e that evil thinks. Our motter. Got it? Well, a soldier prizes a cap star that’s wore down like this one. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You’re a decent-looking lot o’ fellers. The man that gets the best shine on one of his pairs o’ boots by the end o’ next week gets this star. I tell you, you could offer a quid for a star like that and not be able to buy it, but I’ll give it to the best-shone pair o’ daisy-roots end o’ next week.
“I’m warning you, they’re ’ot on shining in this mob; and rightly so. We got a tradition to keep up. Anybody who remembers the last war’ll tell you ’ow the Guards went into action like a parade. Not only ’ave we got to fight better, and ’ave better discipline: we got to look better. We’re the ’Ouse’old Brigade, and the oldest foot regiment in the British Army. I tell you, Jerry thinks twice when ’e sees us coming: we been getting ourselves a good name for thousands and thousands of years, ever since 1650, when Colonel Monk formed the Coldstream Guards.
“Other mobs aren’t so fussy about cleaning, and I’ll admit that when you’re tired it can be a bit of a business, getting all spick-and-span. But it’s worth it. You can tell a Guardsman anywhere for his smartness, especially a Coldstreamer. It can be overdone, this spit-and-polish, in wartime. But the principle of the thing is good. Like an old woman who’s always spring-cleaning … it’s uncomfortable, but the idea is all right…. Now what’s your name, son? Thurstan? And where did you come from? Durham, eh? You been a miner, ain’t you?”
“So what?” says Thurstan.
Trained Soldier Brand looks at him and says: “So what? So this: lemme give you a word o’ warning. I know your type. You’re tough, you are, or you think you are. Well, don’t get tough with the Army, because the Army’s tougher. See? And you’ll get hurt. See? You’re a miner. Well, you wouldn’t ’ave a kicking match with a pit pony, would you? Well, don’t try and beat the Army. Better men than you have tried to do it, and failed. You can be as tough as you like with ’Itler: you’ll toe the line ’ere, for the sake o’ discipline.
“How shall I put it? You ain’t expected to be angels, but Gord ’elp you if you’re not, that kind o’ thing. I’m warnin’ you, Thurstan, if you got any idea of playing up in this Depot, don’t do it. We’re ’ot on discipline. Discipline makes the Army. The Guards ’old their line and don’t break: it’s discipline that does it, and discipline means when every man has got confidence in his N.C.O., his Officer, and his pal. If you know just what everybody else in your mob is going to do, things are easy for you. That’s discipline, and take it from me, it’s essential. I’ve seen some of it working out East, and so has your Squad Instructor, Sergeant Nelson.
“Sarnt Nelson. A word of warning about him. He’s the decentest Sarnt you could wish to ’ave. He never goes about punishing fellers. He never chases you more than you can stand. He won’t bully you and chivvy you till you don’t know where you are. He’s never too tired to explain something to you. He’ll stand by you through thick and thin in the event of trouble. Nelson is ’uman and a good bloke. But Gord ’elp you if you take liberties with Sarnt Nelson! Just that: treat ’im decent and ’e’s a pal. Take liberties and ’e’s a terror. You’ll find that out, Thurstan, if you want to start something.
“You? Hodge? You’re a big feller, Hodge, and they like big fellers in the Guards. What do you weigh? You don’t know? Well, all I can say is, Blimey. Somebody told me you’d been seen reading the Bible. You’d be surprised ’ow things get around ’ere. Remember that, all of you, and be careful what you say. Some’ow or other, news gets about in this Depot quicker than at a tea party. Well, there’s nothing against reading the Bible. I’ve never read it myself, but far be it from me. That is what I say—far be it from me. Why, we’ve ’ad blokes here reading poitry before now, and one of ’em used to write it. I’m glad to see you, Hodge.
“And you. What’s your name? Bullock? Scrapper? Good. You won’t get a chance to box ’ere: you’ll be too busy otherwise engaged. We’ve ’ad a few decent scrappers ’ere in peacetime. Danahar. Jack Doyle. We used to ’ave some lovely fights in peacetime, but I’m afraid there’s none o’ that at present. There’s a war on. Religion? C. of E. I’ve got to put down a religion because of Church Parades. The Roman Candles go to Communion. The C. of E-ers go to a service.
“Now I’ll tell you roughly what you do. You get up at five forty-five,
when the second Reveille sounds. Then you wash and shave with great care, because they’re ’ot on washing and shaving ’ere. Then you make your bed up. You make it up nice and neat—I’ll show you ’ow—because they’re ’ot on making beds up neat in this place. Then on top of your blankets you lay out your ’oldall, containing your knife, fork, spoon, button-stick, razor, and shaving-brush, all polished till you can see your face in ’em, and your mess tins, also polished, laid end to end, like this … with the canvas bag neatly folded in the middle … so.
“Got that?
“Now your lockers must be kept neat and tidy, because they’re ’ot on lockers ’ere. In the top shelf, your battledress, neatly folded—they’re ’ot on neat folding—and your stiff cap neatly placed on top. You will polish your chinstrap till it looks like patent leather, and get the buttons up till they sparkle, because if there’s one thing they’re ’ot on in the Guards, it’s buttons. Got it? Good. On the lower shelf you place your brushes, all properly numbered, sandpapered, and laid in proper order. You mustn’t keep any personal property in your locker, because they’re ’ot on that, too. When you make your bed down at night, you’ll lay your battledress down to crease: I’ll show you ’ow, because they’re dead ’ot on creases in this Depot. Your boots go up there on top. Got it? And you’ll ’ave to work on them boots. They’re full o’ grease: you’ve got to work it out, with energy, spit, and polish. Spit is the best thing for boots. A little polish: a lot of spit; that’s the rule. And your greatcoat must be hung on the left-’and peg, with the buttons polished till they blind you; because they’re ’ot on that, I can tell you. Kitbag on the right-’and side, neatly tied up.
“You’ve got to salute an officer whenever you see one. You’ll be taught ’ow by Sarnt Nelson. That’s ’is job, poor feller. You’ll be ’ere for eight or nine weeks. It used to be four months, and will be again shortly, but at present recruits are kept eight weeks or so before going on to the Training Battalion. You’ll ’ave Inspections, every so often, to see ’ow you’re shaping with things like drill. You won’t be allowed out o’ the gates for at least three weeks, and thereafter, once a week if you’re lucky. That’s so as you won’t disgrace the Guards by lounging about the streets with a packet o’ wine gums in one ’and and a bag o’ chips in the other. In three weeks or so you’ll begin, you’ll just about begin to appear to look like sort of soldiers. It’ll take a long time before you get the unmistakeable Guardsman’s Walk—straight as a poker, but supple as rubber; quick, regular, and easy. You watch Sarnt Nelson: ’e’s a typical Guardsman. See? You’re civilians, and walk as such, which is incorrectly. We’ve got to break you of the ’abits of a lifetime. You’ll be sore at first. That’s all right: it’s good for you.
“You’ll get your first leave in about thirteen weeks’ time, maybe. You can never be sure. Maybe thirteen weeks. For that time, consider yourself right away from Civvy Street. The funny thing is, you’ll feel uncomfortable when you get back to your own beds … and all the girls ’ll fall for you. Everybody falls for the Coldstream Guards. You know the poem?
“Why should England tremble when the Guards go ’ome on leave? It’s only for a short while, so why should England grieve?
“Very well, then. You’ll get a lot of Physical Training ’ere. They’re dead ’ot on P.T. in this Depot. You’ll get a lot of drill, too, and weapon-training. The Guards always make a name for themselves with bayonets. You ask Jerry. When the Coldstream Guards take up a front-line position, Jerry knows that sooner or later it’ll come to cold steel. And ’e’s scared. It pokes the wind up ’im.
“Well, you ast for it. You volunteered. It’ll be something to brag about afterwards, mind you. Not everybody’s fit for the Guards, even in wartime.
“Reveille, 5:45. Lights Out, 9:30. You’ll be on training till about four. Then, from four till seven, you’re on Shining Parade—you get your kit worked up and in proper order, and sit on your ground sheets going hard at the jolly old spit-and-polish, until seven pip emma. Then you’re free to go and buy yourselves a beer or a tea at the Naffy. Got it? Or you can read books or write letters, or talk to each other. During Shining Parade, no talking or smoking is allowed, nor no singing, ’umming, or whistling. Dinner is twelve-thirty. Tea is at five. Breakfast, seven. You can buy pies and stuff in the Naffy if you can eat ’em. You’ll be hungry enough, mind you; but Naffy pies….
“You mustn’t form a trade union. You mustn’t get girls into trouble. You mustn’t go about with your hands in your pockets. You mustn’t be immoral. You mustn’t smoke out o’ doors while an Alert is on. You mustn’t smoke in shelters. You mustn’t desert. You mustn’t go absent. You mustn’t be late for anything. You mustn’t gamble. You mustn’t get anybody else, for money or moneysworth, to do any jobs for you. You mustn’t have financial dealings with Trained Soldiers or N.C.O.’s. You mustn’t address me, or any other superior rank, with a fag in your mouth. You mustn’t get drunk. You mustn’t use foul language or tell filthy stories or possess filthy pictures. You mustn’t associate with bad women. You mustn’t steal, bear false witness against your neighbour. You mustn’t do anything not in the Army Act. I’ve never read the Army Act, but, put it like this—to all intents and purposes it’s safest not to do anything, much, unless you’re specifically ordered to do it by a Trained Soldier, N.C.O., or Officer. You will always be clean, kind, courteous, and what not. If you see an old geezer getting on a bus, give him a shove to help him along. If you see an old girl standing up in a public convenience, you will give her your seat. Conveyance: I always get them two words mixed up.
“But I am ’ere to show you the ropes. It’s not my duty to lecture you.
“Everybody will buy a tin of black boot polish, a tin of dark tan, a duster, a slab of Blanco Khaki Renovator, a tin of Bluebell Metal Polish, and a twopenny-halfpenny brush. With the possession of these ’ere articles, your troubles begin, and so do mine; for your webbing must be spotless, your brasses must damn well flash like a gigolo’s eyes…. Is there an educated man ’ere?”
A dark, quiet individual whom we call Old Silence, says: “I’ve been to school.”
“Well, tell me. Is it Gigolo, or Jigolo?”
“Pronounced Jigolo.”
“I thought as much. I was having an argument. Someone said Gigolo. Then someone else said Jigolo, and I agreed. Where are you from?”
“London, Trained Soldier.”
“What business?”
“Unemployed.”
“Do you mean you’ve got money of your own, or that you just couldn’t get a job?”
“Both, Trained Soldier.”
“’Ow old are you?”
“Thirty-four, Trained Soldier.”
“Well, son, we’ll soon find you plenty jobs round ’ere…. And your name?”
“John Johnson,” says the Brummagem Fly Boy suddenly.
“Not so much of the ‘John Johnson,’ you. Address me as Trained Soldier! Don’t tell me where you come from: I know. You’re a Brummy Boy. I can tell by your accent. Well, don’t get fly here, son. It won’t pay you. And you?”
“Bates, Trained Soldier. Oi come from Leicester. Oi was a brewer’s drayman. Oi’m Church of Englernd, Trained Soldier.”
“Married?”
“One proper woife, Trained Soldier, but she left me. She took all the furniture. Oi got an unmarried woife, now, and she’s noice, Trained Soldier. Yow loike to see a pic-tcher, Trained Soldier?”
“In a minute. And what’s your name?”
“Abbs, Trained Soldier. I got a brother in the Coldstream Guards. Did you ever meet him, Trained Soldier? Abbs, from Walsall. Jimmy Abbs. I’m Alfred Abbs. Thirty-five. I got six kids, all girls. My wife’s uncle just died of a growth in ’is throat—big as a babby’s head. I——”
“—Every morning,” says Trained Soldier Brand, “the hut will be swept and tidied, and everything will be put in its right place. Every Saturday, it will be scrubbed from top to bottom, and your bed-boards and trestles wi
ll also be scrubbed till they are as white as snow, because I don’t mind telling you, they’re ’ot on that. Also, you better take care to scrub your ’oldalls till they’re like driven snow. They’re ’ot on ’oldalls, too. Got it? One other thing: don’t keep things under your mattresses in the daytime. More men get put in the book for that than anything else. And for God’s sake see your rifles are clean. A dirty rifle is a serious offence. Oh well …” He yawns. “Muck in,” he says, with conviction, “that’s the great rule of ’appiness. Muck in. Muck in. That’s what the Bible says: muck in. Do unto others as you would ’ave others do unto you. In other words, muck in. Got it? What ’ave you got to do, Bates?”
“Not leave nothing under your mattress, Trained Soldier!”
“Oh Gord lumme, I want my mummy and the puddens she used to make!” cries Trained Soldier Brand. “Why should England tremble, eh? Did you hear me say ‘Muck in’?”
“I thought——”
“You thought. Wot with did you think? You ain’t ’ere to think. You’re not in Civvy Street now. Why, if everybody went around thinking, we wouldn’t ’ave no army. Muck in. What did I say?”
Bates thinks deeply, and says: “Mook in, Trained Soldier.”
“There now. You got it right that time, didn’t you? You can do it if you try, can’t you? That’s the style. Go on like that and you’ll be a Brigadier before you know where you are.”
“Will oi really, Trained Soldier?”
