by Gerald Kersh
Dale, as I indicated, has toughened. He always had everything in him that a man needs, but it took the rough society of soldiers to peel from his essential self the pale sheath of the city. A certain primness has dropped from him like a cloak, and there has come into his face a look of confidence. His shoulders seem to have set, as a boy’s shoulders do when he loses puppy fat. It happens—I tell you, it happens! Dale was a man (pardon the expression) seated on his bottom. He has learned to use his hands and feet—and behold, the riddle of Samson is reversed! Out of the meat comes forth the eater, and out of sweetness comes forth strength. The Schoolmaster has gone to his Officer Cadet Training Unit. But that gentle soul has got himself a certain physical resolution which nothing in his life before could ever have given him. Nothing could ever make that man less than a gentleman: but he has got something more than a theory of manual labour, and something deeper than a bookish sympathy with the thing he calls The People. He has come across the units that go to make up the strange, docile, cantankerous, trusting, suspicious, colourful English Masses. He will be a better officer for that, and a wiser man.
Certain people, of course, don’t change, and never will. Barker is the same. So is Bullock, his bosom friend. They remain the same for different reasons. Barker, the eternal Cockney, is supple. He is bamboo. He is many-jointed, but straight and tough. He will bend with every wind that blows, because that is how he is constructed for the stern business of survival. He has only one real shape and attitude, and springs back to it. The hurricane thinks it has levelled Barker to the ground; but the wind grows tired, and Barker stands upright. Bullock is unchangeable because nothing but death will ever move him. He stands stiff, and will break before he bends. Dour, solemn, narrow-minded, cautiously good-hearted, his great flame of indomitability always burns hot and strong. He is intransigent; a gnarled tree. He met that smashing fighter, Ack-Ack Ackerman, and they fought a draw. A poor boxer, but a dreadful man to fight: that is Bullock. If he changed, there would be the end of him. We ought to thank God that such men do not change.
Widnes, the boy who used to have wire hair, has taken to the Army. You have seen, perhaps, a new-hatched waterhen slipping into a pond and instantly swimming? Widnes, as soon as he felt his way among the back alleys of Army procedure, found himself in his element. He has put on weight, and will put on more. He took a Corporal’s Class, and, having triumphantly come through the hell that the drill sergeants hand out to prospective N.C.O.s in the Coldstream Guards, went On Orders and was told that he had been awarded the rank of Acting Unpaid Lance-Corporal. He is making the Army his career. Soon, he will be a Corporal, then a Lance-Sergeant, then a Full Sergeant, then Company Quartermaster Sergeant, then Company Sergeant-Major, then Drill Sergeant, then Regimental Sergeant-Major; and then an aged man, erect as a telegraph pole, with a voice like a football fan’s rattle and an impermeable respectability—a man like the great Charlie Yardley of the Training Battalion, or Britton, whose voice still paralyses men at eight hundred and fifty yards. Wars may come and go. Widnes will perform his duty, and take world calamity in his stride. It is feared, in certain quarters, that he may turn out to be heartless; but Sergeant Dagwood says that this kind of thing passes, like the gloom of adolescence; severity in a Young Corporal, he says, like wildness in a Recruit, is not necessarily a bad sign.
But John Johnson changed. He, fundamentally, is the Brummagem Fly Boy. But the Army has dealt with Fly Boys, since time immemorial. When dogs bring forth cats, then Fly Boys will get away with things in the Guards. There was one incident which, I think, undermined Johnson’s confidence in the fly technique. There is a shambling, big-boned man from the wildest moors of Yorkshire, a sort of peasant who falls down rather than sits, and has to get words up out of himself with a conscious effort. This man is called Old Jeddup, because Sergeants are always saying to him: “Hold yer head up. C’mon! Old Jeddup!” He weighs sixteen stone. A young subaltern, on a night stunt, tried to teach him how to move silently. Old Jeddup melted into the heather like a weasel and came back with a buck rabbit: he used to be a poacher. We have thousands of such healthily law-breaking sons of the soil in this Army. Old Jeddup, bar by bar, bought five shillingsworth of chocolate to send to his little son. He packed it in a small box. He fumbled and tangled himself with the string in the presence of the Fly Boy, and ultimately got the box tied up and tucked away in his tin of personal effects. Then he took it out again, and looked at it. John Johnson winked at us all and asked him how much he wanted for it. Old Jeddup said: “What’s it worth?” Johnson, being as fly as they come, said: “Quick! Half a dollar!” Old Jeddup said “Cash?” “Cash,” said Johnson; and Jeddup said “Done.” He handed over the box, and took the half-crown. But the box he handed over was empty; he had prepared a duplicate in advance. Then he told Johnson how this was the oldest of all confidence tricks, and gave him back one shilling. It undermined John Johnson, who, thinking thereafter before he demonstrated, automatically became more wise and less fly.
Johnson, with all his false ideals, makes a good soldier, if only out of vanity; for he would die a thousand deaths rather than look silly. Bates, that simple man, has the profoundest admiration for him. But Bates is basically the simpleton. He has nothing in his nature more complex than a punch in the mouth. He is beloved. Bates is affectionate. He has a childish ingenuity. If somebody sends him for a left-handed monkey wrench he assumes that such a thing must be procurable, and won’t go away until he gets it. He believes what he is told, and the more firmly a thing is said, the deeper his belief in it. Then if a mob-orator shrieked Fascism at Bates, would he swallow that, too? He might repeat as gospel what he had heard, but he is the last man on earth who could live in the state of affairs that would come out of it, because he sets a vast value upon his personal liberties. A bit of a fool, Bates: but never, if you value your profile, never push him around; unless you happen to be his wife. And even then, not beyond a certain point. But what happened to Thurstan?
*
The Hut. Evening. Sergeant Crowne sits, setting up a new S.D. cap. In order to achieve the rigid rectilinear front beloved of the Guards, men evolve arrangements of adhesive plaster and bachelor buttons that might have been worked out, in fun, by Heath Robinson. So Sergeant Crowne struggles, muttering.
I shall not forget that night. It was the death-night of my beloved friend Old Silence. The occasion fixed itself in my memory. It is possible that I may forget my name. But that time, that place, and that atmosphere I can never forget. I did not learn about Old Silence until later. He had got seven days’ leave, to be married. He had been a lonely man, like Larra in the legend, living like a shadow on a horizon beyond the ordinary cares of humanity. Just before he had been called into the Army, Old Silence had fallen in love with a woman, who fell in love with him. Life, thereafter, had a new and fine significance for him. He discovered new things, deep and high. And so he had left us for seven days, singing in the cracked, uncertain voice of a man unaccustomed to singing, after we had slapped his back, and yelled encouragement, and helped him to put on his webbing, which John Johnson, of all men, had helped him to blanco. Everybody loved Old Silence. The lad from the Elephant stole a horseshoe and made ready to hang it over the vacant bed.
He was due back that night. He did not come. A week later, when conjecture had exhausted itself after every man had rejected the possibility of desertion, a letter came. Old Silence had been married. There was a breakfast. The letter stated it nakedly … a small breakfast for four guests. He was a man who loved everybody, and therefore loved nobody in particular. He had few friends, for he had a habit of silence, as his nickname implies. A raider dropped a bomb, and the remains of Old Silence were found with those of his bride. He had arched his back over her, trying to protect her. They were both dead in their first and last embrace. He died with his song unsung. There are few of us who would not have interposed ourselves between a bomb and him. Peace to Old Silence in the immensity! This is not the time to tell of the kindline
ss, the magnanimity, and the strength of that man. He was my friend. He died that night.
*
The radio was on. Because, at that moment, there was nothing available that was more to everybody’s taste, we tolerated a record of Caruso singing some Ave Maria. The Sergeant In Waiting, who, that week, happened to be Sergeant Hands, pushed his head into the hut and said: “Well … Humphrey Bogart’s gone absent.”
Thurstan was called by the name of that distinguished actor of criminal roles, because of a certain hangdog trick of the head and his brusque manner of speech. Besides, Humphrey Bogart can look every inch a killer; and although there was no actual resemblance, Thurstan resembled him in his manner.
“Gone absent,” said Crowne. “That settles it.”
“Pore——” said Barker.
“Why pore—–?” asked Sergeant Crowne.
“’E’s crazy,” said Barker. “’E’s not right. There’s something wrong with ’im. ’E ought not to be in the Army at all.”
“Mug,” said Hands. “Where’ll it get him? But I’ve been expecting this all along. He was working up towards it. I could see it. He’s been in trouble since he’s been here. Remember when he socked Tucker for touching his boots? He’s never been out of trouble from the first week. You could smell this coming. I despise a man that goes absent just like that. It’s a proof he’s got no guts. Even if he don’t like it, he ought to stand the racket. I didn’t like it. Nobody does, at first. No. Well …”
Sergeant Hands went away on his bicycle, about the complex and endless business of the Orderly Sergeant.
It was the Schoolmaster who said: “You ought to understand Thurstan. I could see this coming, too. I’m about the only person who ever talked with him.
“Thurstan is a wild animal. But I assure you that he’s all right. He’s had a rotten life. Don’t condemn him too quickly. He’s a decent fellow and a proper man. Don’t laugh at me when I say that. You don’t understand what the trouble is with Thurstan. Shall I tell you what? He can’t talk.”
“How d’you mean, can’t talk?” said Crowne. “’E’s got a tongue.”
“Sergeant Crowne! You’ve got a tongue. But tell me—can you explain exactly what you mean by the first pressure on a trigger?”
“Well, no, not if you want me to put it altogether in words. No, I can’t.”
“Can you explain what you mean by a corkscrew?”
“In actual words? No.”
“Can you describe what you see when you see a puff of cigarette-smoke?”
“No.”
“But you’ve got a tongue. And a tongue isn’t always enough. It’s like saying: ‘You’ve got a pen. Write a book.’ I’m about the only person who has talked to Thurstan, and I’m telling you that the thing that has made that man ferocious is, that he’s never been able to say what he’s wanted to say. That sounds crazy. But I’ve had his story from him.
“His father was an animal. He used to beat his mother. She was a silent woman. Thurstan never really learned to talk. Nobody talked to him. He came from a village in the wilds of the North. He hardly went to school at all. Do you remember how he’d always ask somebody to tell him what was on the detail: usually me? He couldn’t read or write. He’s ashamed of it. He was ill-treated by everybody except his mother, and she never talked to him, and he was unable to express his sympathy for her. As soon as he was old enough—and he was a strong kid—he went into a mine. I can’t get a clear idea of what he did, because I don’t know the circumstances. But he was in charge of pit ponies, or something of that sort. And it seems that he had reason to be scared of one of them.”
A Northern collier says: “Ah. They can be orkard.”
“It seems there was a black pit pony. It went mad and chased him. He saved himself by pushing a lamp into its mouth. But he hadn’t the nerve to go back. He was ashamed of that, too. When he went home his father beat him. He couldn’t explain himself. He got a terrible thrashing. He ran away from home. After that he lived as best he could. He never learned to say what it was necessary for him to say. You know how necessary it is for a man to talk a bit. Thurstan never did, never could. He married. His wife was afraid of him. She found somebody else. He couldn’t do anything except fight it out, and went to gaol for three months. When he came out, he fell in with a mob of dock rats. He went in for robbery. He was let down by his associates, and caught. He didn’t talk: he wouldn’t, and anyway, he couldn’t. He did another six months. He went to Liverpool, and fell in love with a girl there. But he couldn’t get around to talking to her. He not only had nothing to say, but he couldn’t even begin to say the things that he felt he had to say. He didn’t have confidence. He’d start a word, and end by grunting. You’ve heard him.
“Now everybody knows what it is to feel that he’d like to have a chat, and yet have nobody to talk to. Imagine poor Thurstan, poor old Thurstan. He comes of a race that loves to talk and tell stories. He felt he had a lot to say. But it was choked back in him. So he became silent. The most dangerous thing in the world is, for a man to become silent. That’s what happened to Thurstan. There was only one way in which he could express himself; by using his hands. He knew only one argument: physical violence. He felt inferior to things, except when he could hit them. He has had terrible fights. He’s a fighter. But he’s always run away. To Thurstan, there has never been any use in explanation: there was nothing he could explain. It was all in his head, but he could never get it out. When things became too much for him, he simply left them. It wasn’t cowardice: it was that he didn’t know any other way of dealing with things. He ran away from the pit to somewhere else. From there, elsewhere. He’s horribly alone. Life was too much for him, and he welcomed the war. He ran away from life, as he knew it, into the Army. And then—poor fellow—the Army was too much. He felt he didn’t fit. And so he’s run away. And I am willing to bet on something.”
“What?” said Crowne.
“He’ll be back in two days,” said the Schoolmaster. “He’s never spoken, but he’s listened. He’ll go away from here, right into the teeth of everything he ever wanted to get away from. Here, he has men fighting with him, instead of against him. Here, people are willing to teach him things for nothing, even to read and write. Thurstan is silent, but only because he can’t talk. He’s no fool. He’ll think it out. I’ll bet a hundred cigarettes to twenty that he’ll be back in two days. Two days from tonight. A hundred cigarettes to twenty. Who takes me?”
Pause.
‘Well?” said the Schoolmaster.
“Taken,” said Hacket.
It happened quite dramatically. At that moment, Sergeant Hands came back. “He’s in,” he said. “Reported himself to Sarnt on Guard. Talking! Says: ‘Take me back. Here I am. Shove me inside. I’ll pay it off. I’m willing to be a soldier.’ And then he says it’s on account of Captain Scott. Nuts, I tell you, nuts, crazy, crackers!”
With a radiant face, the Schoolmaster said: “Give me that twenty cigarettes! I’m telling you that Thurstan is a good fellow.”
“Or the value thereof,” said Hacket, and laid down one shilling and one penny; the price of twenty Woodbines. “Fags are scarce.”
*
Fourteen weeks have eaten themselves up. Our Company Sergeant-Major, the Iron Duke, wily old soldier, case-hardened roughneck veteran, has warned us. The Detail confirms it. We are for the Holding Battalion. This is a sieve through which all Guardsmen must pass; a clearing-house; a pack from which one is dealt. Companies go there, stay a while to mount guards in London, and so depart to rougher and dirtier work. This parting, now, fills us with no such sense of amputation as we experienced when we left the Depot. We have almost lost—though we never could quite lose—our tendency to thrust out roots wherever we rest. We have forgotten what it means to have any but portable property. All that we need to eat with, march with, sleep with, and defend ourselves with, is contained within the ninety pounds or so of our equipment. We have the habit of mobility. We have become soldie
rs.
As we hammer down the stuff in our big packs—(with what hopping anxiety did we assemble our first Change Of Quarters Order in the prehistoric period before we came here!)—Sergeant Dagwood looks at us and smiles. He has an ugly, lumpy face, every wrinkle and pore of which is a secondary masculine sexual characteristic, like hair on the chest; this powerful, gentle Sergeant. It breaks into a smile of remarkable charm. Years of command have hardened it: you cannot shout an order and look pleasant at the same time. But when he smiles, friendliness shines through his countenance like sunlight through a bomb-battered wall.
