by Alan Hackney
“Identity discs,” muttered Cox. “Every other week ’e’s on about them.”
They all began rummaging inside their shirts and stood with the red and green discs exposed on strings like so many charms.
“Properly to attention, now,” shouted Major Hitchcock, and began to sprint down the ranks.
He stopped suddenly at a man near Stanley and asked:
“Where are yours?”
“Left them atome, sir, last weekend, only I ’ad a forty-eight.”
“Very naughty!” shouted Major Hitchcock for the benefit of the whole parade.
“And your other one?” he asked a man with only the green one.
“Come off in me ’and only this mornin’,” said the man glibly.
“——liar,” said Major Hitchcock.
The man hung his head in shame.
Eventually the major came back into position in front of the parade.
“I’ve never been on a parade like this,” whispered Stanley.
“You wait, mate,” whispered Cox. “Wait till ’e’s on about pinchin’ the nominal roll some time.”
“Platoon sergeants!” bawled Major Hitchcock.
The four sergeants marched out to him, saluted, were given orders, saluted again and marched back.
The four great platoons were marched away, off the square to positions round an emergency water-supply tank outside the Company Office.
Major Hitchcock clambered onto the wooden covering of the tank and surveyed them.
“Come closer!” he shouted.
“’Ere we go,” murmured Cox.
“Right, pay attention,” said Major Hitchcock. “I hope this parade has woken you all up a bit because you’re most of you in need of it. I’m going to keep on with these weekly parades and get you lot organised. Some of you,” he continued, raising his voice, “think I’m the biggest shit on the face of God’s earth. Well, I am. I’ve got to be a shit when I’m dealing with shits, and, by God, some of you are an absolute shower. This business of the taps is typical. Sheer outrageous bloody dishonesty. I stopped a man this morning and asked him: ‘Who are you?’ He gave me a name and number and I knew damn well it was somebody else’s. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Where are your identity discs?’ Not got them on, of course. Pay book? In the office for a check-up. Oh yes, I know all the old yarns. What did I do? I sent for the orderly corporal and said: ‘Who is this man?’ and he knew who he was all right. Very well, I had him put under close arrest. Damned impertinence. Anyone playing silly-buggers round here is liable to be shoved in too, mark my words. Now, what next? Oh yes. Eighteen men were checked for not shaving on pay parade just now and they’re coming up on orders tomorrow. I’ll tell you now, they’ll get seven penn’orth. That man at the back! Are you the Company Commander or am I? I am? Well, keep your mouth shut, d’you hear me? Next week’s parade will be in battle order, with rifles. Right, get away smartly. Dismiss.”
He climbed down from the tank and went into his office.
“Better than a play,” said Cox. “’Ear that about shaving? Some days you could go in there trippin’ over a beard down to your ankles and ’e wouldn’t bother. Same with this colonel I was telling you about in some ways. Sometimes a bloke would go for a ball of chalk—a walk—go absent; come back next day and ’e’d give ’im twenty-eight days straight off, no bother. Other times a bloke would buzz off for, say, a fortnight, come back pissed as a newt and use obscene language to the guard commander, and all ’e’d say would be: ‘Don’t let it occur again or you’ll be shat on from a great height.’”
“What’s seven penn’orth?” asked Stanley.
“Seven days C.B.,” said Cox. “Cushy here, but no lark in some places. Lot depends on the provost sarnt. We ’ad one in my old battalion was ’ot on knife, fork and spoon. Every jankers parade ’e’d ’ave you doublin’ up, and what ever else you ’ad to show clean, it was knife, fork and spoon too. They ’ad to be bright, and no metal polish either, being it wasn’t allowed in Standing Orders as insanitary, and ’e used to smell ’em to see. One day some bloke sharpens ’is knife up like a razor and this provost sarnt is smelling it and it cuts ’is lip so’s ’e ’as to ’ave three stitches in it. Laugh!”
Stanley received a letter from his father:
My dear Stanley,
I was sorry to hear that you are back as a ranker. A little nepotism would, in my opinion, do the Army no harm. Jenkins from the garage has a commission in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. I saw Stilton on his bicycle talking to him last Thursday, but he went off before I arrived level with them. Extraordinary sort of vicar who never comes near one!
It occurs to me that you might be able to help me, as you are back in the ranks, with a song of which I have only heard mention. Its title is: ‘Gorblimey innit all right, eh?’ It appears to be out of print. Perhaps, as yours is a Home Counties regiment, you might come across it, and I would be greatly obliged if you would let me have the full words and musical notation.
I would strongly urge you to keep an eye open for other avenues of promotion. It may be after the war a more egalitarian society would welcome service as a sergeant-major more than service as a lieutenant.
Sarah, apart from some neuritis, is keeping well.
Your affectionate
Father.
In the course of the next few weeks Stanley and Cox were put on a variety of jobs. For two days they laid a cinder track to the Officers’ Mess at the camp, they helped to scrub out the Naafi, and spent a restful day in the weapon stores, in a pleasant smell of oil, cleaning Bren guns.
Eventually they were put on sweeping leaves from the concrete roads up at the camp.
“There’s one thing,” said Stanley. “You do get some vocational training. I think I’ve perfected a new method of leaf-sweeping.”
Instead of sweeping the leaves forward, causing them to disperse ahead, he was pulling them towards himself into cohesive piles, working backwards.
“It’s possible to do it this way with only one hand,” said Stanley. “Look.”
“You want to watch it, mate,” said Cox dubiously, continuing to follow standard practice. “Trouble is, you don’t make it look as if it’s any bother.”
“Oh, absurd,” said Stanley. “It’s perfectly effective.”
A passing lorry stopped just beyond them and a sergeant-major jumped out.
“Cor Christ, the R.Q.M.S.,” moaned Cox, busily increasing his strokes per minute.
The R.Q.M.S. came vigorously towards them.
“You lot,” he called loudly. “What d’you think you’re on? Push them! And use both hands!” he roared.
“Sir,” said Stanley reasonably, “I think I’ve found a better way. If you’ll——”
“Arguing?” asked the R.Q.M.S., with quiet menace. “Stand to attention!”
Stanley with a broom in one hand, decided that it would be better to come to attention without the broom. He dropped it.
The R.Q.M.S. turned another colour.
“Names?” he asked. “I’ll remember you two! Corporal!” He shouted across the square.
The corporal, notebook in hand, was doubling over the square. He called out: “Sah?”
“Put these men on coal! They’re not to leave the camp till I’ve seen them! I know their faces all right!”
“Right, sir,” said the corporal, at attention. “I’ll put them on, sir.”
The R.Q.M.S. stormed away in the lorry.
“Come with me,” said the corporal abruptly. “Now you’re for it. You made me drop a bollock with him catching you.”
They were introduced to a grim, leathery lance-corporal at the coal-yard.
“Shovels,” said the lance-corporal economically, pointing.
For a full two hours they were kept hard at it, shovelling the heavy, intractable lumps into sacks, heaving the sacks onto a pneumatic tyred cart, and following the ambling horse from hut to hut, to unload the coal into bins.
“Woo,” groan
ed Cox, gripping the small of his back. “Be better off as janker-wallahs.”
“Coke now,” ordered the lance-corporal.
“Cor crummy, no Naafi break?” expostulated Cox.
“Sacks over there,” said the lance-corporal.
The coke was lighter, but had nobbly projections which made it almost impossible to shovel.
At one o’clock a minion came from the R.Q.M.S., delivering a message.
“The R.Q.M.S. says you can go now,” he announced. “Only if he ever catches you slacking again he’ll have you on coal from eight in the morning to eight at night. He says he’ll break your backs.”
“I’d like to break his bastard,” said Cox, straightening with difficulty. “Sauce.”
“Well,” said Stanley, “the sooner we get in the gardening squad the better. I’m terribly sorry about all this, Cox.”
“Can’t be helped,” said Cox. “Only for Gawd’s sake remember, you’ve got to use your loaf.”
They trailed painfully back to the barracks.
After their lunch Stanley said:
“It’s just occurred to me, Cox. We were dismissed. We could easily finish for the day.”
“You’re right there,” said Cox approvingly. “Now, let’s see. There’s a dodgy way out down by the river, and we could nip off to the Regal.”
They strolled casually through the huts till they came to the concertina wire perimeter fence.
“But there’s wire,” said Stanley.
“Ah,” said Cox. “The detention wallahs from the nick renovate it sometimes, being it’s a lousy job. They leave a bit usually they can easily nip out of when they’re back in circulation. This bit’s got a bit of hessian stuck on, looking natural, as though it’s been blown there by the wind. Now where are we?”
He began testing the coiled barbed wire.
Suddenly there was a furious knocking on the hut window behind them.
“Oh Cor stone me, an N.C.O.,” murmured Cox.
The window was opened, but it was a gnarled old Depot Company private who leaned out.
“Not there!” he croaked. “Up to yer right, ’bout five yards.”
“Oh, ta, mate,” said Cox.
They moved along and Cox put a boot on the fencing. The whole coiled wire fence sagged at once to an insignificant height. They clambered easily over and the wire sprang up again.
They walked smartly along the tree-lined towpath of the River Gravel and came up into the town.
When the lights went up for the interval at the Regal, they looked round and saw many members of Depot Company. As it was early afternoon, these were almost the only patrons.
“Look at it,” said Cox in disgust. “All those dodgy buggers. No wonder the Army don’t pay. What sort of a civvy firm could you run like that?”
*
The next day they lined up in the last rank of the morning fatigue parade. All the usual jobs had been given out, and by great good fortune an old leathery sergeant-major on a large army bicycle pedalled slowly round the end of the office block and dismounted near the orderly sergeant.
“Bit of luck,” said Cox out of the side of his mouth. “It’s Dicky Bird.”
“Two men!” called the orderly sergeant.
Cox and Stanley fell smartly out and presented themselves.
“You dig?” asked Sergeant-Major Sparrow.
“Sir,” said Cox. “And my mate ’ere used to be employed at a Cambridge college on the Dig for Victory garden.”
“Pack it in,” said the orderly sergeant. “Last time it was my week as orderly sarnt you was saying you was a coppersmith.” He turned to the sergeant-major: “These two blokes’ve got nothing on.”
“Report to Cogswell up the camp and draw forks,” said the sergeant-major.
“Sir,” said Cox.
“Who’s Cogswell?” asked Stanley as they made their way to the camp.
“Blowed if I know,” said Cox. “What do they teach you blokes at college? You never want to make difficulties or you lose your chance. We can make this caper last a week.”
At the camp they walked about till they saw a gaunt figure on the skyline, tirelessly turning over the soil.
“That’ll be Cogswell,” said Cox. “We’ll nip in the Naafi now we know where ’e is.”
After an hour they reported to Cogswell.
Cogswell was in his braces. His battledress blouse hung nearby on a post, the left sleeve covered to the elbow with long-service stripes.
“Blimey, look at all those dodgers,” said Cox, pointing to the stripes. “Twenty-eight years, they’re for, all on the taxpayers’ money. Morning, china,” he said louder, addressing Cogswell. “Dicky sent us up, permanently attached.”
Private Cogswell straightened up and pulled one of his ears a little nearer Cox.
“Bit louder, son,” he said. “What?”
“You gotcher ear’oles bunged up with straw,” said Cox cheerfully. “Dicky sent us.”
“Sarmajor?” said Cogswell. “Uh.”
He fell energetically to his digging once more.
“Take a look at Musclebound,” said Cox.
Cogswell said over his shoulder: “Coupla forks Work with them other blokes.”
In the distance they could now see a number of soldiers digging.
“Stone the crows,” said Cox. “Look where ’e’s got to.”
Cogswell’s dug strip was some seventy yards ahead of those of his companions down the slope.
When they joined the other diggers they saw that four of them, clearly the hard, permanent core of the group, were well advanced on the others. The others they recognised as part of the floating population of Depot Company.
“’Ow goes it?” asked Cox as they joined the laggards.
“All go today, tosh,” pronounced an old sweat on their left. He was leaning on his fork, smoking.
“Good mind to ask for me cards,” said another, sitting contemplatively on another man’s rolled-up blouse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HERBERT INHALED PLEASURABLY at one of Philip’s cigarettes.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” he said cheerily. “He’s only got the recurring kind of malaria. The other sort is the fatal one. Much more spectacular. He’ll just have bouts like this every few months or so.”
“Every few months?” said Catherine in alarm. “I knew these drugs wouldn’t be any good.”
“Oh, there’s no cure,” said Herbert. “It just works itself out in time. Why, I’ve had practically every fever under the sun. Take it easy, that’s the big thing.” He settled more comfortably in the armchair and put his feet up on the sofa.
“Not too much work,” he added luxuriously, stubbing the cigarette out and lighting another.
Philip lay perspiring in bed. Catherine’s ice-bag seemed hardly to bring any relief at all. As he tossed about, he muttered fragmentary incoherent opinions on art and sewers. His unfinished canvas stood grotesquely at the end of his bed.
“Oh yes,” Herbert was saying blithely. “I’ve had all sorts of fevers: yellow, black, scarlet and spotted. I’ve been through the entire spectrum. I had blackwater in Panama, something obscure the natives call white man’s sorrow in West Africa, and prickly heat that went septic in Malaya. I always found it responded in the end to rest and freedom from worry. Alcohol usually seemed a good bet for most things, too,” he went on, looking round hopefully. “It seemed to startle the parasites and throw them into confusion. They’d mostly been used to a clear run: all these doctors ban alcohol, on the whole, and I suppose these microbes got a bit of a shock when they came across it.”
“Oh, do stop drivelling, Herbert,” said Catherine dismally. “It’s quite evident you’re a special case. I don’t think Philip will ever be the same again.”
“Nonsense,” said Herbert cheerfully. “A wonderful cathartic experience for an artist.”
College Sid came in to interrupt them.
“Good evening,” he greeted brightly. “There’s a c
ouple of vases here I can’t palm off. Too distinctive, apparently. Would you care to have them for the drawing-room?”
“Not the drawing-room,” said Catherine hastily. “I wouldn’t want them admired too closely. I think the kitchen would probably be the best place, on the mantelpiece.”
“Pity,” said College Sid. “They are genuine, a chap tells me.”
“If anyone asks I’ll say I’m looking after them for you,” said Catherine.
“Oh, very well,” said College Sid a trifle huffily. “I had intended them for a gift in lieu of rent.”
“You know,” said Herbert when College Sid had left the room, “you must be careful not to hurt his feelings, or he gets just a wee bit peculiar. And whatever you do, never call him College Sid: just ‘Sid’ or ‘Sidney’. He likes to preserve his illusions—of anonymity, for instance.”
“A good job you told me,” said Catherine.
“His mother is still alive, you see,” explained Herbert. “She’s under the impression that he’s still on the Stock Exchange.”
*
The evening after Philip was removed to the research establishment for treatment with one of the experimental drugs Catherine sat playing poker with Herbert.
There was a ring at the bell.
Herbert went to answer it.
“There’s a large gunner to see you,” he announced. “He’s got another small one with him.”
Behind him in the doorway stood a monolithic figure, tremendous in a khaki greatcoat. He looked slowly around and advanced ponderously.
“My name’s Denny Harker,” he said in a halting countryman’s voice. “Aren’t that right, Ernie?”
“That’s right, Denny,” said the other artilleryman, coming into view round the corner of Denny.
“How do you do?” said Catherine pleasantly.
“And you are Miss Catherine Young,” said Denny.
“Yes,” said Catherine. “Mrs., actually.”
“She didn’t write anything about Misses, did she, Ernie?” said Denny.
“That’s right, she didn’t, Denny,” said the small gunner.
