A Man of his Time

by Alan Sillitoe

  Pennants fluttered from marquees among the lines of tents, a bugler sounding reveille in the central square of the Hussars’ area. Men swilled themselves at the ablution troughs, queued for breakfast, or groomed their horses.

  The trooper dismounted beside Oliver, who looked at a squadron of Lancers cantering by from the Diss direction. ‘They’ve been on patrol, as far as the coast,’ he was told, ‘to see whether the Germans have landed. We’re all part of the Mounted Division, and that’s what we’re here for. There’s rumours every night that the Germans are coming, but it’ll be the day of our lives if they do. Every man-jack’s as keen as mustard.’

  In line for breakfast, mess tin and irons in hand, he thought: I’m here to kill Germans if I get the chance, and if they don’t kill me first – though they’d have a job should they try. Sweat under his cap from the sun’s heat, and heavy khaki cloying his body, a slight soreness at the feet, he exulted in the way he felt because it was no longer up to him how much time would be spent where he was, nor to what part of England or even the world he would be going next. Everything was new, and to be on the move was all that mattered.

  The roughest food tasted good when you were hungry, which he always was, commons of some sort turning up. Kirkby kept a seat for him at the trestle-table, sparrows darting for crumbs or alighting on horse manure to pick out undigested bits. The regiment owned him yet he felt more free than when under the basilisk eye of Burton where he had at times been no more than a slave. Here he was among friends and equals, and those above in the hierarchy could never be as harsh and villainous as his father.

  The neat mechanical contraption of a mobile forge was little different in principle to what he had been used to, and simple enough on being shown its workings. Much to be done, the days passed. From five o’clock reveille and through till dusk he made shoes for horses which had lost them on patrol, or worn them so far down they needed replacing. The sergeant-artificer said the army had no use for horses that went lame, while all Oliver knew was that nobody had.

  Handmade shoes were put together from new bars of iron or, more often, from worn-out shoes, because not enough could be carried on the wagons to make new ones. Of the different types of shoe the first four sizes were for cavalry and small horses, and others for heavier breeds of the artillery and engineers. Years under Burton’s tuition made everything easy. Out of two worn shoes he produced a strong and sufficiently blended piece of metal from which a new shoe could be made, adept at wasting nothing because Burton, whenever trade was slack, always set him to making new shoes from heaps of cast-offs. With such skill he thought the army had him cheap, but he was satisfied with the arrangement because food and shelter were taken care of.

  Farriers also learned to ride without saddles or stirrups, or became part of a line galloping for the kill across the fields. Before the war, eight months were needed to fit a man for the saddle but, as the sergeant bellowed, we have to train you in as many weeks, till you’re second to none, and will go through any Hun cavalry screen as if it’s made of brown paper.

  Sword in hand brought out a wilder Burton, surprising Oliver, a primitive inner force never suspected, a space being filled almost against his will, but he was spurred on for the charge with a weapon that had its uses, no time for thought except what concerned the hill or wood in front.

  Horses were made to lie down on their own and come to the trooper when called, and even if shots were fired they must remain standing. Scouts who knew map-reading rode crosscountry, by day, marched on compass bearings in the dark, got from place to place under as much cover as possible. On field exercises they were given the map reference of a supposed enemy position and told to get there, Oliver regretting that farrier work kept him from much of this.

  Exhausted by close of day, he washed and changed into walking-out uniform, lucky to be let off once for work well done. It was still light and he walked into Palgrave for a pint. Officers went to the Crown Hotel in Diss, some in motor cars, others on their chargers, but he found a pub corner, smoked a cigarette, and supped a strange brew, though welcome to a farrier’s throat. Alma came to mind, but he tore the vision away, to speculate on work to be done in the morning, or to wonder where in England the regiment would go next. Anywhere would do.

  The beer went in a straight drain down his throat, his tankard empty on the ironlegged table. He watched a darts game, till a man in gaiters and deerstalker hat put another pint by his elbow: ‘Can’t see a hussar without a drink.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He stood, to shake the offered hand, of a farmer perhaps, with his pink face and affectionate blue eyes. The man went abruptly back to his whisky at the bar, as if embarrassed by his action, and Oliver thought the spirit of the country good if this was how soldiers were treated.

  In spite of money in his pocket he put on his cap and went back to camp. He folded his clothes carefully in the crowded tent, before going through the gate of oblivion into sleep.

  They grumbled at the bullshit of a kit inspection, every item to be accounted for, smartened up, and laid out. The regiment paraded in full field service order, alignment perfect for the march to Diss. They filed into the first of four trains taking them to Colchester and through Chelmsford. Eight men to a compartment, talk was low, they seemed awed by the murky spread, the endless cuttings and buildings of London. The train jumped points every few hundred yards, buildings so close they might come together and stop them getting on.

  The country beyond was flat and nondescript. They played cards, broke into their rations, and made a home out of every space as if, Oliver said, they were on an excursion to Skegness.

  They detrained at Reading, cookwagons waiting to hand out a meal of stew and bread. Oliver found warmth for the night in a hut of the cattle market near the station, others bedding down in the sheep pens. As the sergeant said – and you could always rely on him to say something – this is the Savoy Hotel compared with what you’ll put up with later. Right or wrong, Oliver didn’t care, and set his pack down for a pillow. Talk and laughter went on into the night, blotted out by passing trains or the shunting of trucks. The scrape of a mouth organ fell silent at the sergeant’s command.

  Oliver saw in his little pocket diary that it was 1 September. The regiment mounted and formed up by the station. When the thousand-yard column clattered out of the cattle market and went through the silent streets Oliver felt like a king on his high horse riding to war, laughing at the thought that though never making a king he would surely be going to war.

  The Thames flowed under the bridge, a boat steaming in the London direction, trees and bushes dawn-black along the banks, a cotton-wool drift of smoke between the houses. To be on the march was the only tonic for an enlisted man, cutting away tendrils of the past still clinging to his boots. Yet family and house were close, and he hoped letters would be given out when they reached Churn Camp.

  Fresh air swept his brow. To take his cap off would be very heaven, but he enjoyed the jingle of harness and clip-clop of massed hooves jostling with birdsong. The sky was clear and he was hot in uniform, but so was everyone. Cool-looking woods patched the hills to either side, and he thought how pleasant it would be to sit in a glade and read.

  They bivouacked at Woodcote, officers finding billets in cottages, the men to bed down in barns and stables. Oliver spread his groundsheet behind a headstone in the churchyard, sufficient protection from the night’s chill.

  A morning’s march led them to the riverside village of South Stoke, where the usual bell tents were ready, twelve men to circle clockwise with their feet at the centre, such accommodations scattering the Berkshire uplands. Water for the horses was drawn in canvas buckets twice a day from the Thames.

  On fine afternoons young men and women cycled from Oxford to see soldiers at work, march and gallop. Oliver smiled at Kirkby’s Nottingham shouts, unfit for anyone’s ears: ‘Come down here, duck, and see what this throstle’s made on!’ Beardmore joined in: ‘How about a bit of hearthrug pie? Can
I take you courting on the Forest?’ colouring the young men’s cheeks more than those of the girls, who often blew kisses and waved back.

  People on steamboats fluttered handkerchiefs, but the hussars soon couldn’t be bothered, thinking it strange that buntinged vessels were still in service, however far away the battle line was. Two young women, all hats and ribbons, came close in a rowing boat: ‘Remember us to Paris!’

  ‘Berlin more like,’ a soldier cried, but rumours every day that they’d be packing up for France were always false.

  Filling buckets was mindless enough work to bring Oliver’s mother and sisters vividly to mind. Burton’s face was wilfully blanked away, though Mary Ann would no doubt tell him not to think evil of his father, even if she knew what he had done, because without Burton she wouldn’t be able to go on living, in spite of the hard times he had given her. Everyone was redeemable, and Oliver knew he should endeavour to go by her laws rather than Burton’s, who could hardly be said to have any.

  When in charge of a detail for watering the horses it worried him to hear Burton’s voice behind his own, a persona that had its uses though he tried not to feel ashamed, because it was always effective when the men began larking about.

  Off duty, a cloud the shape of Baffin Land on the map followed a boat to London. He watched the placid smokey green stretch of water flowing by, and listened to birds fighting for space to manoeuvre overhead, or squabbling for food around the bushes, such intricate music mingling with shouts of command and the neighing of horses.

  Soldiers in the gnat-filled twilight stood outside the tents to sing O My Darling Clementine and Danny Boy, popular but sombre tunes. Oliver preferred to listen, not knowing why, though he liked hearing the songs.

  Letters were given out at the Divisional Post Office, items bundled alphabetically, meaning Oliver’s name was called early. From the postmark and the writing a letter could only have come from Alma. The previous one, in his tunic pocket, had been sent on from the drill hall, and he’d thought of throwing it into the fire, because nothing she could tell would be what he wanted to know. Their lives were divided, so whatever was written could only intensify the pain, and he wasn’t Christian enough to forgive.

  He opened his mother’s letter, a single sheet telling that all was right at home. A folded postal order for two shillings came: ‘From me and your father, who sends his love.’ He smiled at Burton being prevailed on to part with money, and as for his love, he knew what he could do with that.

  Albert Beardmore, seeing Oliver with a pad writing hastily to his mother, said he wasn’t much of a scholar, so had no way of staying in touch with his sweetheart. ‘I never liked school. The teacher was always hitting me, so I ran away.’

  ‘If your girl can read,’ Oliver said, ‘I’ll drop her a line, but you must tell me what to say.’

  ‘Her name’s Dora,’ Beardmore told him. ‘I’ll treat you to a pint if you do.’

  ‘No need of that. I’ll write to your mother as well, if you like. She can get a neighbour to read it.’

  Oliver couldn’t think what kind of girl Dora was, but was amused when Albert dictated that he couldn’t wait to get back to Radford for another walk up the cut, to that bit of wood called The Roughs near Wollaton colliery, where he would get her drawers down and give her juicy purse a sweet taste of the mutton dagger.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to say all that?’

  ‘Oh yes. She’ll like to be reminded. We had some lovely times. We didn’t have a bed to jump into so we took all the chances we could get and fucked in the fresh air like rabbits in a thunderstorm. She was fifteen when we started, but we didn’t care about that. I don’t mind if I have to marry her one day.’

  FIFTEEN

  Burton’s hammerblow brought forth Oliver’s image, a smile from that sensitive yet determined mouth in the fire’s dull glow. The bellows pumped up a man much like himself, hoping to spot something in the distance before whatever it was saw him.

  Now that Oliver had gone the atmosphere in the house was ominous. Burton had never worried about his children as far as health and life were concerned. They worked, played, and were sometimes a torment to him, but they were fed, clothed and shod to the limit of what he earned and of Mary Ann’s care. No reason to worry, yet Oliver’s absence was painful, and not only because he could no longer get at him.

  Mary Ann pined because he wasn’t there to be looked after, and Burton sometimes thought he was too much influenced by her, who always lived as if the world was about to end. What comfort he gave didn’t make a blind bit of difference.

  Thomas and Oswald would tell her time and time again that shoeing smiths were too much thought of to be sent to where the danger was, but it was natural that she ached now that he wasn’t at home. Nor could she be consoled that thousands of families suffered the same way. If he had gone off to get married it would have been different, a matter of joy that she could still see him, and make a friend of his wife.

  Sons and husbands gleefully broke their bonds, having waited all their lives for the chance to spite their families and escape. They ran to feel the hot shilling in their palm, Burton went on, and he hoped they’d be happy, though knew they wouldn’t for long. Every man was caught by the madness of wanting to get out of the country, even at the risk of his life, as if it was a Sunday School excursion and they could come back the moment they found it wasn’t.

  The others were in bed, and he sat waiting for Edith. Ten o’clock had gone. A train hooted along the embankment across the field, the dog growled and dragged its chain around the kennel, and wind rattled the door so that, thinking it might be her, he looked to make sure the stick was in its place. It was, but he stared into the fireplace until eleven o’clock, enraged at his enforced idleness, or the sleep he was missing. Mary Ann came down in her nightdress: ‘Where do you think she can be?’

  ‘Go back to bed. It’s no use two of us waiting.’

  ‘I can’t sleep while she isn’t here.’

  Neither could he. Everyone of the brood had to be under the roof before he could close his eyes. He set out mashcans and knapsack on the table Mary Ann had already laid for breakfast. ‘She knows that if she comes in at this time she’ll have a sore back for a week.’

  ‘You shouldn’t hit her.’

  ‘But where is she? It’s pitch-black outside, and she deserves what she’ll get for not thinking about how upset you’ll be. But she’s gone, I’m sure she has. So go to bed.’ He riddled the ash from the fireplace bars. ‘She won’t come back.’

  ‘Something might have happened to her coming up the lane.’

  ‘Not if I know her.’ Of the Burton girls Edith was the one most able to care for herself. She had liveliness and good looks, but was also strong and with a mind to match. She could give as good as she got from anyone. ‘We’ll know soon enough where she is. Let’s go upstairs, then.’

  Little to do, he left Oswald in charge and walked to the Nottingham Arms. The army had commandeered so many horses that times were getting hard. Some forges had closed because even farriers were joining up. Harry the bartender came to serve. ‘How’s your Oliver?’

  The first gulp tasted of soap. ‘He was all right when we last heard.’

  ‘Morgan’s two lads have gone. They’re with the Robin Hood Rifles, in Hertfordshire.’

  Not worth talking about. He drank, and at the click of a door-latch saw Alma looking at him from a few feet away. ‘What are you doing in a place like this?’ he asked.

  ‘Oswald said you’d be here.’ She had much to say, features taut, eyes red, and hair he saw as untidy, which disappointed him. He would drum it into Oswald that he must never again tell anybody where he was. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I don’t know. There isn’t much I can want. And if there was I wouldn’t get it from you.’

  He called Harry. ‘A whisky and water over here,’ then turned back to her. ‘If there’s anything I can do for you just let me know.’

  She sat by a
table. ‘I’ve sent Oliver two letters, and he hasn’t written back.’

  ‘Nobody can make him, though I expect you’ll hear soon. He’s a young soldier. A young fool as well, but no more than anybody else these days.’ From his full height he reached her warm and pulsating wrist. ‘I’d write to a nice young woman like you if I was in his place. Or I’d get someone else to do it for me.’

  She sipped her drink, and smiled, as if pleased at so many words from him. ‘My letters were long. He should let me know if he’s received them at least.’

  ‘Give him time. I expect he’s busy. He’ll come round.’

  ‘I’d like to think so, but don’t see how I can. Not after he found out about us.’ The whisky gave neither strength nor pleasure, and her face twisted into weeping. ‘I don’t know who I am anymore. I only want to die.’

  Not another one, he said to himself. Mary Ann, all of his daughters, and now her. Oliver can’t know how lucky he is to have so many women blawting over him just because he went for a soldier. And if she didn’t know herself, then she should. He expected everyone to know themselves, otherwise why were they alive? She would have to know herself one day, because if she didn’t nobody would do it for her. ‘You’re too young to die,’ he said kindly. ‘And too good looking. Drink that, and have another. It’ll buck you up.’

  ‘I’ll be sick.’

  It looked as if she might. ‘Not with all that water in it.’

  She looked away. ‘I was sick this morning, before I had anything to eat or drink. Perhaps I’m getting a cold.’

  He gave a grunt of premonition, but hoped he was wrong. ‘You must look after yourself. Oliver will be back one of these days. People say it’ll be over by Christmas, and even fools have been known to be right. Are you sure you won’t have another?’