Story, Volume I

by Dai Smith

  He turned a satisfied back on the gaping silence that fell upon the group. He ran to join his friends and they made their way to the Library and Institute where, that evening, the librarian, Salathiel Cull, known as Cull the Lull, because he was a political quietist and a preponent of gradualist views, was going to give them a talk on why the world’s great herds of driven folk should huddle into a compact and cosy mass and let evil bite them to the heart until its teeth were worn to the unhurting stump.

  ACTING CAPTAIN

  Alun Lewis

  The detachment was a very small one, a single platoon sent from the battalion to guard the dock gates and perimeter, but they had a bugle. Acting Captain Cochrane, the detachment commander, had indented persistently for one, and after two months’ nagging on his part, DADOS had grudgingly coughed up a brand new one. It was hanging over old Crocker’s bed in the fuggy blacked-out Nissen hut in which the administrative staff were sleeping. There was Crocker, an old soldier who had served in Flanders, Gallipoli, India, and the Far East; he was the cook, Acting Lance Corporal, C3, and used to it. Next to him Taffy Thomas was snoring; the air had grown slowly thicker and more corrupt with fumes from the stove, last night’s fish and chips, cigarettes and beer, and all the coming and going since black-out time on the previous evening; so you couldn’t breathe it into your lungs without a snore as it squeezed and scraped past your uvula. The fire was still flickering under a weight of grey ash and cinders in the stove.

  For no apparent reason Crocker woke up, groaned, yawned, pushed his dirty blankets off, and sat up, vigorously scratching his thin hair. He was wearing his thick winter vest and long pants with brown socks pulled up over the legs so that no part of his flesh was showing except where the heel of his sock was worn through. He listened a moment, to discover whether it was raining; then, finding it wasn’t, he unhooked his bugle from the nail above his head, turned the light on to make sure that the office clock, which he always took to bed with him, indicated 6.30 a.m., put out the light again, shuffled to the door, spat, breathed in, closed his lips inside the mouthpiece of the bugle, and blew reveille. He found he was blowing in E instead of G, but, after faltering an instant, laboured through with it in the same key. It was too dark for anyone to notice; not a streak of grey anywhere.

  ‘Gawd curse the dominoes,’ he grumbled, shuffling back to his bed. He shook Taffy Thomas hard, relishing the warm sleeping body’s resistance.

  ‘Get up, yer Welsh loafer,’ he shouted in his ear. ‘You’ll ’ave the boss on yer tail if you don’t get down there wiv ’is shaving water double quick. Get up. You ain’t got yer missus besidejer now.’

  Taffy didn’t get up as philosophically as Crocker. He was still young enough to resent and rebel against things the old cook had long ago ceased thinking about. Most things were a matter of course to Crocker; air raids, sinkings, death were as normal as cutting rashers of bacon in the dark and peeling potatoes in his ramshackle corrugated-iron cooking shed.

  However, Taffy got up. He put his hand on his head to feel how hot his hangover was, and then in a fit of irritated energy pulled on his trousers and pullover and searched about for his razor. ‘Well, we’re a day’s march nearer home,’ he said, dipping his shaving brush in the jam-tin of cold water he kept under his bed and lathering his face in the dark.

  ‘You pups are always thinking about leave,’ Crocker said, fed up. ‘D’you know I didn’t see my old lady for three and ’alf years in the last bust-up, nor any English girl. Plenty of dusky ones, of course, and Chinese ones that’d scarcely left school—’

  ‘Yeh, I know,’ Taffy interrupted. ‘You’re a real soljer. I know.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to write ’ome every time I found a flea under my arm,’ Crocker scoffed. ‘I’ve sat in the mud scratching my arse from one Christmas to the next wivout arsking to see the OC abaht it.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault we didn’t lose the war, then,’ Taffy said, wiping his shaved face in his dirty towel. ‘And if you’re moaning about me asking for leave and asking for a transfer, you’d better shut your trap, old soljer, ’cause I’m not going to sit in this dump doing nothing while my missus freezes in the Anderson and coughs ’er heart up every time Jerry drops a load on Swansea.’

  ‘What you going to do, then?’ Crocker taunted. ‘Stop the war?’

  ‘No,’ Taffy answered hotly. ‘Win the bleeding thing.’

  ‘Garn,’ Crocker laughed jeeringly. ‘Get off and polish the cap’n’s Sam Browne. Win the war, be damned. What was you doing at Dunkirk if it isn’t rude to ask? We never scuttled out of it, we didn’t.’

  ‘Aw, shut up and get a pail of char ready for the lads,’ Taffy said. ‘I reckon you’d still be in your little dugout if somebody hadn’t told you the war was over.’

  He slammed the door after him, pulled his cycle from under a ripped tarpaulin, and, tucking his bag of cleaning kit under his arm, pedalled through the muddy pooled ruts, past the sentry shivering in his greatcoat and flapping groundsheet like a spider swollen by the rain, down the lane past the knife rest and Dannert wire obstacle that ran from the sidings to the quay where the Irish packet boat lay moored, and out onto the bleak tarred road that was just beginning to reflect a mildew-grey light along its wet surface. The detachment commander was billeted in an empty house on the hill above the harbour. Taffy’s first job was to boil him some water for shaving and tea, make a cup of tea with a spoon infuser, shake him respectfully, salute, collect his Sam Browne and yesterday’s boots or shoes, and retire to the scullery to clean them up. Then he swept the downstairs rooms, looked round to see whether there were any chocolate biscuits hidden in the trench coat pocket, threw his sweepings outside for the starlings to swoop and grumble over, and then go back upstairs to fold the blankets and sheets, empty the wash basin and jerry, and let the clean air of the ocean revitalise the room. The whole operation was conducted in silence, broken only by odd grunts and monosyllables from the officer and a sort of absent-minded whistling by the private. Taffy knew his man well enough to leave him alone while he pulled himself together; a glance at his reflection in the shaving mirror was enough to inform him as to the patient’s condition. He had a young face, but his narrow grey eyes and almost-pointed teeth, combined with the thin, bony forehead and cheeks, gave him an astringent, intolerant sharpness that only wore off after he had warmed up to the day’s task. He was a regular officer who had been commissioned a few months before the war began, and because of his martinet appearance and the facility with which he could fly into an abrupt temper he had spent most of the war drilling recruits on the square at the regimental depot. He had got the square in his blood by the end; muddy boots or tarnished buttons, an indifferent salute, the lazy execution of a drill or an order provoked him immediately to a violent reprimand; all his actions were impatient and smart, his appearance immaculate and important, his opinions unqualified and as definite as they were ill-informed. His nature was bound to insist sooner or later on action; he had got into a bad state at the depot and asked to be posted to a battalion. He considered it a rebuff when he was posted to this small harbour on the featureless north-west coast, and it hadn’t improved his frame of mind to consider that a further application for posting would be impolitic while an indefinite stay in his present post could only blur the image of a forceful disciplined soldier which he had so assiduously striven to impress on the depot command. He endured his inactive isolation with some acerbity and sought compensation in other quarters. He was careful of his career, knowing how easy it is to fall down the Army ladder; he paid court to the daughter of the battalion’s colonel with the same regard for tact and proper keenness as he employed in his conduct towards his senior officers. But he was not of a firm enough mould to subsist on long-term expectations of advancement. He had to have his fling. And, what with one thing and another, he usually got out of bed on the wrong side and had to work a little blood out of his system before he could sit on his table and argue politics or swop dirty jokes
with Sergeant Crumb, his principal stooge, or Private Norris, his clerk general who had a classics degree, an LLB, a mind of his own, and a stoop that barred him from promotion.

  ‘Quiet night last night, sir,’ Taffy said amiably when the hair combing stage had been reached and a measure of civility might be expected.

  ‘Was it, hell!’ the OC replied, wincing his face. ‘Mix me a dose of Andrews Health Salts, Thomas. They’re in my valise.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘What sort of morning is it?’

  ‘Nothin’ partic’lar, sir. What do you want for tonight, sir?’

  ‘My SD suit and my Sam Browne; best shoes and walking out cap. I don’t want any Silvo stains on it, either.’

  ‘Very good, sir.

  The vexed look left the harsh young face as he tilted the bubbling glass down his throat; beads hooked to the uncombed hairs of his moustache; it was pink at the roots and gold-brown at the tips. ‘Gosh!’ he said, ‘it makes you want to live a clean life always, tasting this stuff. God bless Mr Andrews.’

  Having returned and breakfasted with the rest of the lads on old Crocker’s lumpy porridge and shrivelled bacon and greased tea, Taffy strolled off to collect his wheelbarrow and begin his second task, cleaning the lines. He had sharpened a beech stick to pick up the chip papers and litter; Curly Norris had suggested the idea, saying it gave the camp a better tone, made it more like a royal park. Curly also wanted to indent for a couple of fallow deer, or if DADOS refused to supply them, purloin them from the grounds of Magdalen College, Oxford. He said Taffy should lead the raiding party, singing the War song of Dinas Fawr.

  ‘You will probably be put on a charge,’ he said. ‘But what is a charge sub specie aeternitatis?’

  He was always laughing behind his twinkling spectacles, and even if you didn’t know what he was talking about, which was most of the time, his gaiety infected you and you laughed as well or wrestled with him.

  When Taffy arrived outside the office Curly Norris was just completing his housework. The office was swirling with smoke from the newly lit fire and dust from the floor. Curly’s first task was to sweep all the dust from the floor onto the tables and shelves and files. This ritual was always performed alone, before Sergeant Crumb arrived for the day.

  Taffy halted his barrow and respectfully tapped the office door.

  ‘Any old matchsticks today?’ he shouted. ‘Any old match-sticks?’

  ‘Take your dirty boots off my porch,’ Curly shouted. ‘A woman’s work is never done, don’t you men know that yet?’

  Taffy jumped in and screwed his arm round Curly’s neck. They were wrestling on the table when Sergeant Crumb appeared. At his bull’s bellow they stopped.

  ‘What the hell d’you think this is? A tavern?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘You’ll apologise to the OC if I catch you at it again, either of you.’ He smoothed the underside of his waxed moustache with a nicotine-stained forefinger. ‘What sort of a mood is he in this morning, Thomas?’ Sergeant Crumb always arranged the morning programme on the basis of Taffy’s report.

  ‘Got a liver on this morning, Sarge,’ Taffy replied. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if it turns to diarrhoea.’

  ‘I saw him in the Royal at closing time,’ Sergeant Crumb said. ‘He was buying drinks all round, so I expected he’d be off his food. Get cracking, Norris. Get the correspondence sorted out, let’s see what there is. Then get down to the stores and warn Rosendale to appear before the OC I saw him in town last night when he should have been on duty. Make a charge sheet out before you go. Section 40 – conduct prejudicial to good order. Get weaving.’

  Curly thought it a pity there wasn’t a mantelpiece for the sergeant’s elbows and a waistcoat for his thumbs.

  ‘Very good, Sarge.’

  ‘And you get down to cleaning the lines, Thomas. What are you hanging about here for?’

  ‘Want to see the OC,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Too busy,’ the sergeant replied, stiffening his weak chin. ‘Get out.’

  ‘I can see the OC if I want to,’ Thomas replied.

  ‘A-ha!’ laughed the sergeant, his shallow blue eyes turning foxy. ‘Getting a bit Bolshie, are you? What with you and Rosendale in the detachment we’d better hoist the Red Flag, I’m thinking.’ He straightened up, blew out his chest, hardened his characterless eyes. ‘Get out!’ he shouted.

  Curly wasn’t laughing now. He looked serious, bothered, and unhappy. The way these foolish and unnecessary rows blew up, these continual petty litigations springing from bad temper and jealousy and animosity; why did they allow their nerves to become public? Why couldn’t they hold their water?

  Taffy stayed where he was, stubborn and flushing. He had a bony ridge at the base of his neck, a strong chin and a knobbly receding forehead. Huge-shouldered and rather short and bandy in the leg, he gave the appearance of animal strength and latent ferocity.

  ‘That was an order,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘OK,’ Taffy replied. ‘But I’m asking to see the OC. You can’t refuse.’

  The sergeant began to hesitate, grew a little sick at the mouth, fiddled with the paper cutter.

  ‘What d’you want with him?’

  ‘I want to get into a Commando,’ Taffy said.

  ‘You’ll get into a glasshouse, maybe,’ the sergeant laughed unpleasantly, not at all sure of himself now.

  ‘Yes, for knocking you between your pig’s eyes,’ Taffy said.

  An immediate tension, like the shock of an electric charge, and silence.

  ‘You heard what he said, Norris,’ the sergeant snapped. ‘I’ll want you as witness.’

  ‘Hearsay doesn’t count as evidence,’ Curly said quietly.

  ‘What did you say?’ Sergeant Crumb swung livid on him. ‘You bloody little sea lawyer, are you trying to cover him?’

  ‘No. I’m not covering anybody. I simply happen to know that legal procedure excludes my repeating something alleged to have been said by a person not formally warned.’

  Sergeant Crumb wrote some words on a sheet of paper.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said, uncertainly. ‘Now get out.’

  Taffy shrugged his shoulders and slouched out. He hadn’t meant to say that. Not out loud. All the same, it was OK by him. He pushed his barrow down the muddy path to the stores shed.

  Rosendale was shaving in his shirtsleeves. His mirror was a splinter of glass an inch long stuck into a packing case. There was a heap of straw in one corner of the shed; the men were changing the straw of their palliasses; he, as storeman, was in charge; he gave more to some than to others – not to his friends, for he had none, but to the important people, the lancejacks and the lads with a tongue in their heads who determined public opinion in the camp. Rosendale was very sensitive to public opinion, partly because it affected his own advancement, partly because he was politically conscious and wanted to form a cell to fortify his somewhat introvert ideas. He was inept as a soldier, too untidy and slow to get a stripe; consequently he posed as a democrat refusing to be bought over to the ruling classes by a stripe, as one of the unprivileged millions who would be deprived of power and exploited by the boss class for just as long as they were content to endure it. He wasn’t making much headway in his campaign. His ideas were too dogmatic to convince men who saw life as a disconnected series of circumstances and poverty as a natural ill and active political opposition as both unpatriotic and unpleasant, something that might get you CB, or your application for a weekend pass rejected. He was popularly known as Haw-Haw.

  ‘Morning, Rosie,’ Taffy said, having recovered his equanimity. ‘Had a tidy sleep, love?’

  ‘Be damned I didn’t,’ Rosendale grumbled. ‘I slept in that bleeding straw in the corner there and a goddamn mouse crawled under my shirt and bit me under my arm. I squeezed him through my shirt and the little sod squirted all over it.’

  ‘Well, you’d better brass yourself up, Rosie,’ Taffy commented, ‘’cause the snoop has pegge
d you for being out of camp last night when you were on duty. I’m on the peg, too. So don’t start moaning.’ At such moments Rosendale lacked the dignity and calm bearing of the representative of the unprivileged millions. He became an anxious, frightened little man seeking an excuse, a lie, an alibi. ‘Curly’ll come down with the charge in a minute,’ Taffy said reassuringly. ‘He’ll tell us what to say, Curly will.’

  Curly brought the mail with him when he came. There was a letter for each of them. Rosendale was too het up to read his letter; he threw it without interest onto the table and bit his nails until the other two had read theirs. Taffy was a slow reader. Rosendale fiddled and shuffled, tears almost touching the surface of his eyes. ‘My missus is bad again,’ Taffy said, staring at the soiled cheap paper on which a few slanting lines had been pencilled in a childish scrawl. Big crossed kisses had been drawn under the signature. ‘She can’t touch her food again and her mouth is full of that yellow phlegm I told you about, Curly. And the rain is coming in since the last raid.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she go into hospital?’ Curly said. ‘She’s on the panel, isn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t know proper,’ Taffy said, rubbing his face wearily. ‘I used to pay insurance when I was in the tinplate works, an’ she’s been paying twopence a week to the doctor. But he don’t know what’s up with her. I fetched him down last time I was on leave; anybody could see she was had. All yellow and skinny, pitiful thin she was. Not eating a bite, neither, not even milk or stout, but only a drop of pink pop when she was thirsty. I made her bed for her in the kitchen to save her climbing the stairs. I stayed in every night with her. Had to go drinking in the mornings with my brother and my mates. And she was spitting this yellow stuff all the time, see? Very near filled the pisspot with it every day.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to get her to hospital,’ Curly said. ‘What the hell is that doctor doing? It sounds criminal to me.’

  ‘I told her to see another one,’ Taffy went on. ‘But my mother-in-law it is, she swears by him, see? He’s delivered all her kids for her, and he helped my missus through with the twins. So she won’t change him. She won’t go against her mother, see, Curly?’