by Kim Newman
"You get 'ome, it's a lot smaller than it used to be," he'd said. "Not just the size of the 'ouses. Things people are worried about are smaller, too. You'll be dying for a pint of the local brew. I bet you've been dreaming about this foaming glass of Newcastle Brown or whatever muck it is you drink up there. For two years you've imagined that dirty great 'andful of beer you'll down in one the minute you get off the train. Queer stuff, beer. Wherever you go, the first pint's no bloody good. Especially at 'ome. The last pint you 'ave is always the best one."
The top of the pint had almost gone flat. Only a thin line of white foam ringed the brown liquid's surface.
He patted the pockets of his battledress trying to find a cigarette. One thing about the Army was they gave you plenty of pockets. Not like the tight bell-bottoms the younger blokes were wearing these days. The fashion came from Russia, like most daft things. He found a battered pack of Guards in the Penguin Pocket on his trousers. He took it out, along with the paperback Williams had given him, The Edge of the Sword by Anthony Farrar-Hockley. The author had been captured in Korea and been tortured. Farrar-Hockley had guts, but his book was very stiff upper lip, officerly and British and matter of fact. If Bob wrote up his story, he wouldn't be nearly so polite.
They had docked at Avonmouth late last night. Troopships never landed at Southampton, Pompey, London or even Liverpool any more because it was "bad for morale" Indo hands returned furtively to a dock
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
miles from anywhere, preferably in the middle of the night. It was not a heroes' welcome: no Lord Mayors, no military bands. They were greeted by glaring yellow sodium lamps, cranes, a knot of dock-workers huddling in grimy, glistening oilskins, a few MPs glowering from under the peaks of their red caps and a couple of dozen Queen Alexandra nurses in khaki cloaks...No anthems or hymns were sung, there was only the hiss of the rain on concrete, the clanking of chains, the occasional shout. There were no cigars, only the smell of bunker-oil and damp clothes, and the diesel fumes from the Deltic loco hauling the hospital train waiting on the quay for Uganda's less fortunate passengers.
The tab burned his throat, reminding him he'd not had anything to drink since a mug of tea at the WRVS caravan on the docks. Sod it, he thought. He lifted the glass and necked the lot in one go. "Worth waiting for, was it?" asked Bet.
"To be perfectly honest, no. It tastes of nowt much, doesn't have enough alcohol in, and is full of gas."
He theatrically placed the empty glass by the pump-handle in front of her.
"But it is nonetheless what we drink round here, and here is home. So I'll have another pint please, Bet, love."
Off the boat, Williams saw to it that Bob was marched through demob on the double. Everyone was frightened of Sergeant-Majors, especially officers. He'd sorted Bob's pay and made sure he didn't have to bother with the nonsense of giving up his uniform and kitbag and signing for every little bloody thing. He even wangled first-class express rail warrants.
They travelled together as far as Bristol Temple Meads, then Williams had to get off to change for Swansea. He was going to spend a few weeks with his sister, then he'd be back in the Army again.
"Listen to me, lovely boy," he'd said. "Going 'ome is hard work, but you got to stick it out, see."
The next pint was a little better.
"What are you going to do, Bob?" asked Bet.
"Reckon I'll hang around 'til you close, then find a caff that's open and read the Sunday papers 'til me Mam and Dad get back home."
She looked at him, knowing he was kidding her.
"I'll go back to accountancy I suppose," he admitted. "I can count with both sets of fingers and me toes, you know."
Aye, so it's just as well you didn't get any of them shot off isn't it? Sorry to butt in like this, man, but I had to introduce meself sooner or later. Me
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names Survivor-Guilt. You and me, were about to get to know one another right canny well, young Robert.
"You are a card Bob," said Bet. "And after everything you've been through and all."
Obviously there were stories going around town: how he'd suffered, how heroic he'd been. Maybe he should write a book so everyone would know the truth. He was lucky. He'd come back in one piece. The firm had even taken the trouble to find his BFPO address and write him that his old job was waiting. He was all right. Better than most.
Awright, Bob, whatever you say, marra.
"And what about Terry, eh?" Bet said. "Who'd have thought he'd be that big a bastard? Pardon my French. If he come in here, the only pint he'd get'd be flung in his bloody rotten face."
"Do I look like a fanny?" yelled Sergeant Grimshaw, face up close against Terry's. "I repeat, do I look like a fanny?"
"No, sergeant," Terry said, wide-eyed.
"Then why are you trying to fuck me? You 'orrible Northern bollockbrain scum-filth snot-gobbling shit-faced granny-shagger."
Bob, backbone rigid, swivelled his eyes. Terry seemed to be blasted by the sergeant's breath.
"And what are you looking at, tart?"
Grimshaw loomed up against Bob, eyes huge.
"Are you his girlfriend? Are you two nancy-boys homos of the botty-banging Jessie persuasion? I'll have no unauthorised buggery in my barracks."
There were thirty or so young men on the parade ground, still in civvies, suitcases beside them. They were almost all National Servicemen, barely willing to heed the call of their country. Someone sniggered.
A weight was lifted from Bob and Terry, as the sergeant wheeled off to shout at someone else.
"Let me make myself perfectly clear, ladies. These two poove puddings may be lower than the shreds of toe-cheese I scrape out of my socks, but you are all equally worthless in my eyes. You are all, I repeat all, less than nothing. You are merely the fanny-discharge of your miserable whores of mothers. After nine weeks, you may, and I underline may, be elevated from the mud to the position of Private Soldier in the service of His Majesty, the King. You, do you love His Majesty, the King?"
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
The sergeant addressed a London lad called Butler, whose permanent grin could not be wiped away. Bob and Terry had met him at the station, on route to Basic Training Depot No. 9, which was near Walmington-on-Sea, a small town on the south coast.
"Yes, sergeant, I love His Majesty the King."
"If His Majesty the King needed to wipe his bottom after a royal shit, would you rip the tongue out of your head and humbly offer it to him as toilet paper? If His Majesty the King needed a holder for his candle-stick would you bend double from the waist and open your arsehole? If His Majesty the King required you to gob in your father's face, tit-fuck your mother and run a lawn mower over your virgin sister, would you reply 'at once Your Majesty, anything you say Your Majesty'?"
"Is that a rhetorical question, sergeant?"
The sergeant's hand latched onto Butler's crotch like a vice. Butler's eyes went red.
"Sing soprano, you spunk-eating splash of spew. Sing 'The Happy Wanderer'."
Butler screeched, tears pouring down his cheeks. Grimshaw literally squeezed the tune out of him, wringing his balls as if they were a musical instrument.
"I love to go a-wandering..." Butler yelped, stumbling through the song, "...with my knapsack on my back...fol-de-ree, fol-de-rah, fol-de-rah-hah-hah-hah-^^^rr^/?!"
Grimshaw gripped, white-knuckled, protracting the final note.
"Above us all is Lord God Almighty, who takes no interest in our affairs. Directly below God is His Majesty the King. Loyal to His Majesty the King are His Majesty's Armed Forces. His Majesty's Armed Forces have bestowed upon me absolute power of life and death over you, Butler. When I speak, it is not merely myself, Sergeant Grimshaw, speaking, but it is the voice of God, transmitted through His Majesty the King and down through every honoured echelon of His Majesty's Armed Services direct to your pustulant earholes. Can you hear me, Butler?"
The Lond
oner nodded through agony. Grimshaw eased his grip, then kissed him full on the lips.
"I love you, Butler. You are the best, the only, man in this whole squad. You are promoted to honourary Corporal for the duration of your basic. In my eyes, you are still the drippings from a syphilitic rat's knob-end. But, in comparison with them, you are a demi-god. You walk with giants, and you carry a Bren gun."
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The sergeant stood back to survey the recruits, who stood like trees next to their suitcases and duffel bags. Bob realised the man had managed in five minutes to make a cohesive unit of young men who were mostly still strangers to each other. They were united in their utter hatred of Sergeant Grimshaw.
"In a moment, you will all get a cheap thrill," Grimshaw shouted. "Corporal Butler here will order you to strip naked. The last man out of his kit will be cleaning the bogs with his toothbrush for the next month. Then, you will be examined for hideous diseases and disgusting parasites, be given a proper haircut with scissors the size of sheep-shears, and be issued with uniforms, boots and other essential kit. You will be required to care for these with your worthless lives. Remember, these are not presents. These are lent to you for the duration of your service. Each and every bootlace and jockstrap is the personal property of His Majesty the King. If an item is damaged or lost, the rules of war require me to inflict merciless and disproportionate punishment. Butler, give the order to disrobe, now."
"Men," Butler squeak-shouted, then dropping his voice an octave, "at the double, kit offl"
Bob unlaced his shoes first, and began neatly to get out of his civvies, folding and piling every garment as his Mam had taught him.
Some of the others were stark naked before he had his shirt and trousers off.
Buttons pattered on the asphalt. Terry was ripping off his clothes as if invited in for late night coffee with Sabrina. It began softly to rain.
Grimshaw wove in and out of struggling lines. It was not easy to undress standing-up. Men hopped from foot to foot as they fought with socks and shoes.
Bob knew he would be last. He tried to hurry, but he could not break the habit of neatness. At last, he folded his underpants and put them on the pile. He supposed he would have to learn how to clean toilets.
Grimshaw walked past and looked down, first at his shrivelled genitals, then at his perfectly-folded square of clothes.
"Very neat, Nancy."
Bob was astonished and relieved. There were other men still trying to undress.
Finally, there was only Frank Spencer, the squeaky-voiced semi-imbecile who had been at the station with Butler. He had started
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
undressing with his cap and worked down, and got his trousers stuck on his shoes.
Spencer fell over, sobbing silently.
"Butler, over here," Grimshaw shouted. "Piss in this man's eyes."
Bob saw Butler pause, realise how precarious his position was, and trot over to his friend. He pointed his knob, but couldn't get a flow going.
The rain was pissing down for him. Finally, he managed a pathetic dribble. He missed Spencer's face. Bob would have liked to think that was deliberate.
Spencer was crying out loud, scrabbling round like a crab, ripping his trousers apart at the seams in a last, desperate attempt to get them off.
"Rest of you, line up," Grimshaw shouted.
The rain was stinging cold, with a January wind pelting it against bare skins. Bob felt needles of ice against his back and buttocks. Like everyone, he was shaking, dripping rain droplets with every shiver.
"Best bath you've 'ad in years, you dirty beggars."
They huddled in a line, hugging themselves. Their clothes were forgotten, soaked through by the rain.
"Nobody gets a towel or a uniform until Spencer has well and truly been pissed on. And I mean by every man here."
Dread closed on Bob's heart. He had never been able to use a public urinal. He would point and feel pressure in his bladder, but it just didn't happen. He always waited for a sit-down to be free and pissed in private.
And now he didn't even need to take a slash.
Grimshaw, this elemental force of malign nature, would skip to Bob as quixotically as he had from Terry to Butler to Spencer. When he failed to produce the thinnest squirt of piss, Bob would be on the ground where Spencer was. The sergeant would probably order the rest to shit on him.
This was a nightmare that would never end. Nothing could be worse than this.
And it was only his first day in the Army.
"Sod this for a game of soldiers," Terry said through chattering teeth.
William Casper, who claimed to be eighteen but looked four years younger, was in line after Butler. He was the only other "volunteer" in the squad. He hardly had hair on his pubes. And he couldn't manage a piddle.
Bob thanked His Majesty the King and God. The wrath of Grim would not descend next on him.
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"Pathetic, the lot of you."
The Sergeant picked up Spencer, who was now at last free of all clothes but his socks and shoes.
"You all right, lad?" he asked, tenderly, smiling. "Could do with a cuppa rosie lee, I'll bet."
Spencer cried out and nodded.
"You'd love to be inside, warm. Wrapped up. Jam bun. Bourbon biscuits. Sing Something Simple on the wireless."
Spencer looked wistful, cracked an idiotic longing smile, and sagged, almost leaning on the sergeant, a cat cuddling up to a loving owner.
"Well, you can forget that, Private Piss-Stain Spencer!" Grimshaw yelled, raping the moment to bleeding bits. "You've not earned a uniform yet. None of you human-shaped lumps of shit have. Fall in formation, and start running."
Naked and delirious, Bob collided with Terry as they tried to stand in an orderly group. Grimshaw took his swagger-stick to shins, then started whipping buttocks.
The Sergeant jogged, and Bob tried to run along after him. His feet bled on the rough asphalt, and his ankles jarred with every step. The rain was bucketing down on them.
After half an hour, Grimshaw called enough and directed them to the baths where, he delighted in telling them, they could get the filth off their feet with a nice cold shower.
Bob thought it was a wonder no one had died. He and Terry leaned against each other and limped, moaning, towards the bath-house.
Inside, immaculately uniformed, plumply pink and comfortable, was an officer. He took a look at the stumbling men, who must have seemed like survivors of some war atrocity, and his look of composure vanished. He pantomimed appalled sympathy and wheeled on Grimshaw, red-faced.
"It looks like these men have been tortured," he shouted.
"That is correct, sah"
All anger vanished and the officer smiled indulgently.
"Well done," he said. "Carry on, sergeant."
Grimshaw looked at the men and shouted "into the showers, girls. And be sure to scrub behind your ears."
Bob read it over again.
Some will tell you the greatest hero the British Armed Forces have ever produced was Admiral Nelson, some will put up Monty, some General Gordon.
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But to any National Serviceman who went through Basic Training Depot No. 9, the only real hero is Private Arthur Seaton. They didn't give Seaton the Victoria Cross. In fact, they hanged him and buried him in an unmarked grave. If I knew where it was y Vd smother the plot in wreaths, and so would a hundred others. Seaton, you see, was the soldier who killed Sergeant Grimshaw. Grim would have been proud of him. One shot, straight to the head, just the way he liked it. Sometimes, when I wake up thinking I'm back in Walmington-on-Sea or Khe Sanh, I sob at the injustice. Seaton wasn't in our mob. He came along months after wed shipped out. There's not a man who trained at Walmington who wouldn't swap tickets for the Cup Final for the chance to see Sergeant Grimshaw's brains shot out. It's a tragedy it wasn't captur
ed on film. I hope they buried Grim at a crossroads with a bayonet through his heart and a tin of bully beef rammed up his arse.
He handed the page to Thelma. Frown-lines crinkled her forehead, and she was unable not to look as if she smelled something bad. "What do you think?"
Thelma struggled to find words. "It's a bit...hard. Really nasty." "I can't write a soft book, love. Not about the Army, not about the war." "It's so bitter, Bob. This poor man Grimshaw was just trying to.. .well, to toughen you up, make men of you. You can't still hate him."
"Thelma, Frank Spencer had eleven thumbs. He was a walking disaster. He couldn't cross the road without causing an accident. He couldn't boil a kettle without burning the water. When he got through his basic, Grimshaw wrote up a report on him and got him assigned to the REME, recommended him for bomb-disposal. How long do you think he lasted? There are bits of him they still haven't found."
"Have you noticed," Terry said, "how Grim fixes everything according to the weather? We get PT or beasting or cross-country runs or assault-courses only if it's cold and wet."
"Right," Bob agreed. "If the weather outside is halfway decent, we're indoors, learning how to use Blanco and Brasso, or how to clean a rifle, or how to break someone's neck with our bare hands."
"bids and rolls and throws and breakfalls," Butler snapped, getting the sergeant's voice perfectly. "I'd like to try some bids on Grimmy."
"He's not such a bad bloke underneath," Casper put in.
Everyone looked at him as if he'd just admitted he fancied Hitler.
Casper was a strange one. The grand obsession of his life was bird-watching. Birds of prey.
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"He's a bleedin' monster, birdy-boy," Butler said. "I tell you, when I'm out of this, back behind the wheel of a bus where the Lord intended I should be, I'll be dreaming of the day Grim steps out on that zebra crossing in front of my double-decker. Bump! Oh! Have I killed you Grim? Bloody shame! Never mind, eh?"
"But he likes you, Corporal Cockney Get," said Terry.
"Sing 'The Happy Sodding Wanderer', Geordie Shite."
