by David Lodge
My growing uneasiness about my status as P.O. was exacerbated by Corporal Baker’s continual taunts. We had discovered the reason for his particular spite towards P.O.s: he himself had tried and failed to get a commission. In a way, much as I disliked him, I understood his grievance. He was a cruel, foul-mouthed individual, but he was considerably more intelligent than most N.C.O.s, and by the Army’s standards a ‘good soldier’. He had been rejected after getting as far as Mons. I could imagine him at Mons, a very different Baker, subdued, anxious, insecure, mixing uncomfortably with the other cadets, speaking as little as possible, and then very deliberately, to disguise his plebeian accent; excelling at drill, initiative tests and map-reading, but fluffing his five-minute talk, and using the wrong spoon for soup. I could understand why he resented us P.O.s who, by benefit of class or education, might soon obtain the commission that had eluded him. But, as I smarted under his insults, powerless to reply, I hated him. And I think that of all the P.O.s, he hated me most. Fallowfield and Peterson he treated with a kind of grudging deference, like the boxing pro. at a public school licking the young gentlemen into shape. His hostility to Mike was tempered by a certain respect for Mike’s physical and mental ruggedness. Percy he tormented as a cruel child torments a helpless animal. But in me he found a victim worthy of his spleen. I was from the same class as him, but boosted by educational advantages he had missed. I was bumptious and cocksure. I was physically unimpressive. I exerted myself in all departments of Basic Training to the bare minimum necessary to avoid serious trouble. I did not disguise my personal dislike of him, and I did not laugh at his jokes. And so he reserved his most spiteful abuse for me, usually centring on my pretensions to be a P.O.
All these considerations were accumulating throughout the first weeks of Basic Training, but they did not reach critical proportions until the fourth week when Mike compelled me into a decision. One afternoon that week, all the P.O.s were interviewed by the officer in charge of the Intake, Second Lieutenant Booth-Henderson. He was himself the worst possible advertisement for the desirability of a commission. He was pudgy, flabby, pimply, stupid, nervous and pompous. We discovered his history—how I’m not quite sure, but I think Baker, who shared our contempt for him, had leaked it to a few of his toadies in the squad. Booth-Henderson had tried unsuccessfully three times to get a National Service commission, and since he belonged to a social class where such failure was a slur, had in desperation signed on for a third year and had been rewarded with a Regular commission. When I marched into Booth-Henderson’s office I found that I simply could not make the effort to create the right impression.
‘Well, Browne,’ he began, ‘I suppose you think it’s going to be easy to become an officer?’
‘No, sir,’ I replied.
‘Well I can tell you it isn’t,’ he continued, undeterred. ‘It’s jolly difficult. Now I have Corporal Baker’s report on you here. I must tell you that it’s very unsatisfactory. Have you any explanation?’
‘The only one I can think of is that Corporal Baker happens to dislike me.’ His jaw sagged slightly.
‘You can’t say that, Browne. I mean, it’s ridiculous. It’s Corporal Baker’s job to, er, to … to knock you into shape’ (he fell upon the phrase with obvious relief), ‘to knock you into shape. There’s nothing personal about it. It’s all a part of, er, knocking you into shape. Now he says here that your brasses are usually dirty. Now that’s not good enough, Browne. It really isn’t. You must improve.’
‘It’s not just me, sir. It’s all the P.O.s. He seemed to have a grudge against us. He’s always trying to make us look fools in front of the other lads.’
‘Now that’s enough, Browne! I’m not here to discuss Corporal Baker. I’m here to … Now what about these brasses?’
‘They’re as clean as anyone else’s,’ I replied.
‘Ah!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘That’s just the point, Browne. As a P.O. we expect a higher standard of turn-out from you than from the others. Now next week you’ll be going before the C.O. for interview before you move over to the P.O. Wing at the end of your Basic Training. I advise you to pull your socks up and get your finger out if you want to have a chance of passing Uzbee. Now have you got any questions you would like to ask me?’
‘Yes, sir. Is it true that P.O.s have to report back to camp twelve hours before the others at the end of our seventy-two?’
I was referring to the three days’ leave which we were to get at the end of our basic training, and to which we looked forward with an eagerness that is difficult to describe. Booth-Henderson seemed somewhat taken aback by my question.
‘Yes, I believe that’s the form. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I think it’s rather unfair, sir. It means leaving home on Sunday morning. It cuts your leave down to a forty-eight.’
He paused portentously before delivering his reply.
‘Browne, I must say I don’t think you’re approaching this thing in the right spirit at all. Surely the loss of a few hours’ leave is a small thing compared to the honour of becoming an officer?’
I was silent, and as he could not apparently think of anything else to say, he dismissed me. In the corridor outside his room, Mike who had already been interviewed was waiting for me.
‘Well, how did you make out with the White Hope of the British Army?’
‘Pretty badly, I should think. I asked him about having our leave cut short. I think he took a dim view of it.’
‘The man’s a cretin. I could scarcely keep a straight face.’
We walked towards the huts to collect our eating-irons for tea. A fine drizzle was falling, and we slithered on the muddy paths. Groups of tired soldiers moved like shadows through the rain towards the cookhouse. Mike said :
‘Jon, d’you really want to be an officer?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Neither do I. All along I’ve felt in a false position, being a P.O. I detest the Army—the discipline, the snobbery, the idea of doing what you’re told and asking no questions. The rest of it doesn’t worry me so much, but some of the other lads,—I don’t mean the tough nuts, they’re all right; but the slightly dumb ones, the married ones, the nervous ones, the ones like Percy—they look so bloody miserable, as if they don’t know what’s hit them. It seems so unjust to me. And I feel that if I became an officer I’d be participating in that injustice. D’you know what I mean?’
‘Yes. I feel exactly the same.’
‘We’d have to pretend to be like that cretin Booth-Henderson. We’d have to cultivate a whole new set of attitudes: other ranks are animals; officers are gentlemen. Other ranks are dirty; officers have batmen. Other ranks must only have beer in the canteen, or they get drunk; officers can pig themselves with whisky. Other ranks are issued with French letters at the guardroom; officers pride themselves on getting an exclusive form of pox from Madame Marie’s.’
I laughed. Madame Marie, according to Mike, who had a curious fund of anecdote, was a lady who ran a select call-girl agency for officers on leave in London. A young R.A.S.C. officer of Mike’s acquaintance had telephoned the establishment and had been informed by a shocked voice: ‘We only cater for the best regiments.’
It’s all true, Trooper.’
‘Well I’ve decided to withdraw my application for a commission. How about you?’
‘Mmm. It’s a bit drastic’
I thought it over as we approached the hut. Mike’s altruistic scruples scarcely touched me. It came down to this as far as I was concerned: did I want a commission badly enough to take the considerable risk of failing to get it? Outside the hut we met Fallowfield.
‘Well?’ he said abruptly.
‘Well?’ Mike returned.
‘How did you two get on?’
‘Not very well. I pulled his hat over his eyes and beat him over the head with his swagger stick,’ replied Mike with a straight face. ‘How about you, Jon?’
‘Oh I just told him to stop picking at his pimples.’
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Fallowfield turned away with an irritable shrug. He threw back over his shoulder: ‘Full kit lay-out tomorrow.’
‘We know,’ retorted Mike, though we didn’t. ‘Why do people like Fallowfield take such a pleasure in spreading bad news?’ he muttered.
As we plodded over to the cookhouse, it occurred to me that if Mike withdrew his application for a commission, and I didn’t, we would be separated.
‘I’ve decided, Mike,’ I said. ‘I’ll withdraw my application, too. How do we set about it?’
With typical perversity the Army, having consistently impressed upon us the unlikelihood of our obtaining commissions, made it almost impossible for us to withdraw our applications. We were reluctantly obliged to approach Baker first.
‘Frightened you off have I?’ he said with a sneer. ‘Thought you had more guts in you, Brady.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with guts,’ replied Mike, reddening. ‘It’s just that we don’t want to be officers. What do we do?’
‘You’ll have to see Lieutenant Henderson,’ said Baker. He always deliberately shortened Booth-Henderson’s name.
‘Will you arrange an interview then?’ I asked.
He turned his head slowly towards me with exaggerated astonishment.
‘You’ve got a fugging nerve, Trooper. I’ve got more important things to do than run around arranging interviews for the likes of you. And another thing, I’m “Corporal” to you.’
‘Sorry, Corporal,’ I mumbled. I’d swallowed so much pride by then, another mouthful wouldn’t make any difference. But Baker didn’t help us any further.
When we caught Booth-Henderson a couple of days later he looked troubled. ‘I don’t advise you to do anything rash,’ he said. ‘Think it over.’
‘We’ve thought about it and we’re quite certain, sir,’ I said.
‘Well, I’ll look into it.’ He hurried off.
A few days later our names appeared, with those of the other P.O.s, on Squadron Orders, for the C.O.’s interview. I asked Baker what we should do.
‘You can read, can’t you?’
‘Yes, Corporal.’
‘Well, what does it say?’
‘It says that we’re to parade for interview on Friday afternoon outside the C.O.’s office.’
‘Well then, you fugging well parade. Jesus Christ! It couldn’t be any clearer.’
‘But we told you last week that we didn’t want to be P.O.s any longer,’ I explained patiently.
‘Did you see Lieutenant Henderson?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he’d see about it.’
‘Well I don’t know anything about it, and what’s more I don’t give a monkey’s fugg. You’ll have to explain it all to the C.O.’
The explanation of Baker’s and Booth-Henderson’s strangely evasive behaviour suddenly dawned on me. From their point of view it would not look good if two P.O.s in their charge withdrew their applications. Many are called but few are chosen, was the official attitude to a commission. Awkward questions might be asked if anyone proved indifferent to the call. Baker and Booth-Henderson were no doubt hoping that we would not have the nerve to announce our decision to the C.O. himself. In this they were wrong. We hadn’t been in the Army long enough to acquire that awe-struck reverence which is the usual attitude towards a Commanding Officer.
Our determination gave great pleasure to Percy who, not long before, had been demoted from the status of P.O. on Baker’s recommendation. At one point, indeed, it had seemed not impossible that he might be discharged from the Army altogether. This was not unknown. A mentally deficient in ‘B’ Squad, who had inexplicably been called up, was discharged after a couple of weeks. Mike and I met him one afternoon shambling down the road towards the camp entrance, dressed in civilian clothes and carrying a suitcase.
‘Compassionate leave?’ I asked.
‘Naw. Got m’ discharge. No more fugging Army for me.’
We tactfully refrained from asking him why he had been discharged, though I doubt if he understood himself. I doubt if he had understood anything that had happened to him in the Army, except that for two long weeks he had been harassed and bullied and laughed at and shouted at through some dreadful mistake which had now happily been rectified. We watched him depart with an ironical envy of his feeble, stunted mind.
Percy, however, despite his eccentricities and lack of coordination, was not mentally deficient. There were no grounds on which he could be discharged from the Army. After a second interview with the Personnel Officer he ceased to be a P.O., and this was obviously a pathetic disappointment to him. ‘Something to do with his family,’ Mike explained to me. He was therefore pleased when Mike (particularly) and I told him that we were going to withdraw our applications.
By this time, however, Percy had already degenerated. A furtive, haunted look had come to fill the vacuum of innocent wonder in his eyes. The ribbing of the other soldiers was much milder than in his first days, but he was much more sensitive to it, often flying into childish fits of rage or lapsing into deep sulks. This of course only re-awakened in the others a desire to tease which might otherwise have remained dormant. I have a picture of Percy, white-faced and writhing with impotent anger, while Norman held him effortlessly at arm’s length by his lapel. Sometimes Mike would intervene, but even he seemed to appreciate that Percy must not be too much protected if he were to survive. Sooner or later they would be separated.
Once Percy broke down and cried on the square. We had been sweating hard all the morning under a strong sun, striving to master the turn on the march, Baker was in a vile temper, and his venomous tongue flickered over the squad, leaving its poison to linger and bite under the skin. But, as usual, Percy came in for most of the abuse. Finally, at a particularly grotesque display on Percy’s part, in which he tripped himself up and actually fell to the ground, Baker clapped his hand dramatically to his forehead and swore loud and long.
‘Fugging Christ, Higgins,’ he concluded. ‘You march like a WRAC walking through these barracks—with her legs crossed!’
The rest of the squad guffawed mechanically. But when Percy slowly picked himself off the ground, he was crying. The squad looked at him with curiosity or pity.
‘Eyes front!’ snapped Baker.
We stared ahead listening to Percy’s muffled sobs. Mike was directly in front of me, and I saw his neck glowing red.
‘Higgins, I always knew you were a fool,’ said Baker. ‘But I didn’t know you were a coward. Crying like a big baby, because the rude man shouted at you! Or did you hurt your tootsies when you fell over?’
Gasping for breath Percy replied:
‘It’s not—that at all. It’s—because you—keep saying fugging—Christ.’
Even Baker was momentarily disconcerted. There was a breathless silence, abruptly and incongruously punctured by the chimes of a mobile ice-cream van which drove up to the side of the square.
‘Smoke-break,’ said Baker.
We broke up gratefully. Some drifted over to the van to buy ice-lollies. Mike and I loosened our webbing, and threw ourselves on to the grass which bordered the square. Mike tossed me a cigarette, and we smoked in silence for a while, inhaling hungrily. I was smoking quite heavily now. Mike glanced over at Percy, sitting alone and at some distance from everyone else. Guessing his thoughts I said:
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have told him.’
‘Perhaps not.’
We were both remembering the previous evening. The three of us had been sitting round a table in the Y.M.C.A. Canteen, delaying the moment when we would have to return to the hut and get on with our bulling. The canteen was a small, poorly furnished shack, but we preferred it to the institutional hygiene of the Naafi; and besides, the coffee was better. I was working on a poem—it was more of a gesture, a cultural nose-snook at the Army, than a serious attempt to write anything,—Mike was smoking and reading a tattered newspaper and Percy was brooding with his hand
s cupped round his beaker of coffee. Suddenly he broke the silence.
‘What does “fugg” mean?’
The question startled us. I tittered nervously and looked round to see if anyone had heard. The word which had become as common to our ears as the definite article, sounded suddenly shocking on Percy’s lips. Mike told him.
‘And “c——t”?’
He went methodically through the list of Army obscenities, with Mike explaining as tactfully as possible. Then he said:
‘How disgusting. How absolutely damnable.’
I believe ‘damnable’ was the strongest word I ever heard Percy use.
‘Don’t let it worry you, Percy,’ said Mike gently. ‘They don’t really mean what they say.’
‘Oh yes they do,’ Percy replied quickly. ‘They’ve got filthy, filthy minds.’
I felt relaxed, and almost light-hearted as I lined up with the other P.O.s on the veranda outside the C.O.’s office. The others fiddled nervously with their uniforms, rubbing their belt-brasses with handkerchiefs, and polishing their toe-caps on the inside of their trouser-legs. Fallowfield asked Mike if his cap-badge was in the middle of his forehead. ‘Like Cyclops eye,’ he assured him. Fallowfield seemed dubious, and checked his appearance in a nearby window-pane.
