by David Lodge
Through the window on my right I saw two pretty shorthand typists making their mid-morning tea. Women look maddeningly desirable in an Army camp. Perhaps that is why they choose to work in such places: it must be exhilarating to know that you are being mentally raped a hundred times a day. It looked cosy in their office. The electric fire was glowing. One of the girls smoothed her skirt over her haunches as she sat down, like a cat licking itself contentedly. Standing on that narrow peninsula between the soft, well-cared-for typists, and the unfortunate soldier grubbing about in the dirt, I was struck by a sense of the injustices, the inequalities of life.
A few minutes later the prisoner was marched off, the policeman striding behind him rapping out the time at an absurd pace: ‘Leftrightleftrightleftrightleft,’ with the poor fellow straining grotesquely to keep in step. I found the whole business of Army discipline deeply shocking. Like the bad old penal code, it seemed to create crime in order to punish it. Crime and punishment, which were purely abstract ideas in civilian life, seemed to nudge me on every side in the Army. A small slip, a thoughtless action, the neglect of some trivial regulation, and you were suddenly a criminal, incarcerated, bullied, stigmatized. With sub-intelligent soldiers the thing tended to snowball. One night at the end of their leave they didn’t want to go back to camp, and so they sat by the fire until the last train had gone. The next morning, they were scared to return, they hid themselves. Soon they were deserters, hunted, there were footsteps in the street at night, loud knocks on the door, they were arrested, brought back to camp under escort, thrust into a cell.
Not only did the system degrade the prisoner; it degraded the policeman too. The regimental police at Amiens camp, in their black webbing, with the diagonal strap that distinguished them from ordinary soldiers, had an air of the Gestapo about them. Shouting and bullying was their trade, and yet most of them were National Servicemen like myself. The Army gave too many people too many opportunities of cultivating sadism.
At last Baker emerged, and walked away without a glance at us. The Coroner’s Clerk dealt more rapidly with the next three soldiers, but Mike was in quite a long time. Then it was my turn.
The Coroner’s Clerk had been loaned the 2 IC’s office. He was a heavily-built, middle-aged man, with greying hair and a relaxed manner. When I entered he was plugging his pipe with tobacco.
‘Close the door, will you? Thanks. Now you’re Trooper Browne, aren’t you? Sit down and make yourself comfortable. My name’s Adams. You know who I am, I suppose? And what this is all about?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He administered the oath, and asked me a few routine questions,—name, age, etc. Then:
‘Were you a friend of Trooper Higgins?’
‘In a way I suppose. I mean I saw quite a bit of him, but I wouldn’t describe him as a friend exactly.’
‘You didn’t like him particularly?’
‘Oh I liked him all right. It depends what you mean by “friend”. We hadn’t very much in common.’
‘I see.’ He exhaled a mouthful of smoke. ‘Now, suppose you tell me in your own words what happened yesterday afternoon, from the time Trooper Higgins prepared to fire. I may have to ask you to go slowly, because I shall be taking down your evidence in longhand.’
I gave him a brief, factual account of the incident. From time to time he interrupted me to ask a question.
‘Could you describe more exactly the position of the rifle, in relation to Higgins’s body?’
‘Yes, he was lying on the rifle, face downwards. Perhaps I could draw you a sketch?”
‘That would be very helpful. Thank you.’ He passed a pencil and paper over the desk. He studied my sketch and turned his mild, grey eyes on me.
‘The butt of the rifle then, projected from his right side?’
‘Yes. And as I said, his thumb seemed to be caught in the trigger guard.’
He nodded. ‘Just a few more questions: did Higgins appear to be in an unusual frame of mind on Tuesday?’
‘No, nothing that struck me.’
‘Not nervous or tense?’
‘He was always nervous and tense.’
‘Why was that d’you think?’
‘Well, he found life in the Army pretty unpleasant.’ I searched my mind for more explanations: we were approaching the ground I had agreed with Mike to avoid. ‘As you probably know he was going to be a priest before he came into the Army.’
‘Yes, so I believe. Tell me, how do you account for his possession of the bullet that killed him?’
I thought for a moment. ‘I suppose he didn’t fire his last round. As I said, Trooper Jones came up with the message just as they started to fire. Possibly Percy—Trooper Higgins—was slow to fire because he was specially anxious to get his last shot in the target. Presumably Corporal Baker thought he had fired and missed again, when he ordered him away.’
‘This “back-squadding” Corporal Baker threatened Higgins with. What does it mean exactly?’
I explained.
‘Is it a very serious thing?’
‘No … but it doesn’t happen very often I think.’
‘Did Higgins ever say or write anything about suicide to your knowledge?’
‘No. He certainly didn’t say anything. I didn’t see anything he wrote. In fact I don’t remember ever seeing him writing.’
‘Not even letters?’
‘Once or twice perhaps.’
‘Did he receive many letters?’
‘No, not many.’
‘Did he have a girl-friend.’
I almost smiled. ‘Percy? I should be very surprised if he had.’
Adams grunted, and tapped out the charred contents of his pipe.
‘What was the first explanation of Higgins’s death that occurred to you, Browne?’
‘That it was an accident,’ I replied. This was true. It was only when I realized what was in Mike’s mind as he muttered the Act of Contrition that suicide entered my mind, and proved difficult to dislodge. And yet Mike claimed that he had never thought it was suicide: the Act of Contrition was what he would urge on any dying Catholic.
‘Why did you think it was an accident?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I think it must have been because Percy was so clumsy, accident-prone I suppose you might say,—though it sounds rather flippant. He was always hurting himself unnecessarily. Why, he cut his hand just in trying to load his rifle.’
‘Ah yes, there was a cut on his hand I believe. Now I’d just like you to read through this summary of your evidence …’
In the afternoon the whole intake was addressed by the C.O. As his comrades, he said, we must all be deeply shocked by the tragic misadventure of Trooper Higgins. We would be glad to know that a telegram had been dispatched to his relatives on behalf of the regiment, expressing profound regret and sympathy for them in their bereavement. A Coroner’s inquest would be held in due course, and also a regimental inquiry, at both of which some of us would be required as witnesses. Meanwhile the incident should impress upon our minds for the rest of our service the great importance of exercising the utmost care when handling fire-arms and live ammunition. In the circumstances the passing-out parade scheduled for the following afternoon had been cancelled. He realized that this would come as a great disappointment to us and to our instructors after the hard work of the previous weeks, but he was afraid that it was unavoidable. We would therefore proceed on leave that afternoon, as soon as bedding and equipment had been handed in to the stores. A number of those soldiers who had been interviewed by the Coroner’s Clerk that morning, however, would be required as witnesses at the inquest, and would be confined to the Garrison until the inquest had been held, after which they would get their leave. Their names were …
But I knew before my name was called that I was among the unlucky ones. To be disappointed, at the last moment, of the long-awaited leave, and of the extra day (for I was sure we would not get the extra day afforded to the others by the cancellation of the pas
sing-out parade),—it completely overwhelmed any genuine grief I felt at Percy’s death. Mike was kept back too, of course, but part of the bitterness of my disappointment was in the knowledge that I would have to conceal my feelings from him out of piety to Percy’s memory. I could scarcely bring myself to speak to Mike, as we walked back to the hut, for fear of losing that status as Percy’s friend which was now inextricably involved with my claims on Mike’s friendship.
‘I should have thought the C.O.’s speech was out of order,’ he commented. ‘That bit about handling fire-arms for instance: it suggested that it was an open and shut case of death by misadventure. It’s pretty clear how they want the verdict to go. No nasty scandal in the Press, and questions asked in the House.’
‘Well, that suits you doesn’t it,’ I replied irritably.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose so.’
‘It’s a nuisance about this leave,’ I said, unable to hold my tongue any longer. But Mike appeared not to have heard.
There was a subdued elation in the hut. Mike and I sat on our beds and watched the other lads thrusting clothing into kitbags, to be deposited in the stores. I could just imagine how delighted I would be in the same position. Percy was more popular in his death than in his life. Someone began to whistle. Scouse Miller, a good-humoured and popular lad, called across to his mate.
‘Hey, Albert!’
‘Yeah?’
‘Bit of luck i’n it eh? I’ll be ’ome in time to take me tart to the pictures.’
‘Yeah. Where will you go? Regal? Me mum wrote there’s a good film on this week.’
‘Dunno. It’s no odds. I don’t take ’er to the pictures to watch the bloody film.’
There was a general laugh.
‘Shut up!’
Mike was on his feet, his face white and strained. ‘Don’t you know why you’re going home tonight? Because a boy died. Yesterday. One of us. A boy you’ve all been so very kind to, from the first night he arrived. The least you can do is to keep a decent silence, instead of rubbing your hands over the women you’re going to … Oh you make me sick.’
Miller flushed, and bridled.
‘I know Percy was a mate of yours, Ginger. I’m sorry for the poor bloke. But I didn’t kill ’im. There’s no need to bite my ’ead off.’
Just as Mike began to relax, someone said:
‘It’s all right, Scouse. Didn’t you know? Ginger’s ’ad ’is leave cancelled. Fuggin’ ’ard luck, i’n it?’
A premonitory shudder passed through me as I located the voice. It was Hardcastle, the Regular with whom Mike had clashed over Percy’s kneeling figure that first evening. Ever since then he had maintained an attitude of sneering indifference to Percy and Mike. What devil, what stupidity, had prompted him to make his move now?
He was a big, rugged fellow, a formidable brawler, one would have said. But Mike carried into the fight a crusader’s righteous indignation, and a ruthless intention to punish rather than conquer. He dominated the encounter, refusing to wrestle, and forcing Hardcastle to box, circling his victim, dodging the latter’s clumsy blows and methodically battering at his face. The fight took place in a curious, shamefaced silence. Shamefaced because everyone else present realized that they were being punished in the person of Hardcastle, punished for not loving Percy. Eventually a number of the spectators intervened, and Hardcastle sank down on the nearest bed, dazed and speechless with pain. Mike stalked out of the hut in an embarrassed silence.
It was just as well that Mike had the opportunity of releasing his pent-up feelings of rage and pity on Hardcastle, because it probably permitted him to bear stoically the undisguised jubilation of the rest of the intake. Each squad had little or no contact with the others, and Percy’s death touched ‘A’ and ‘B’ squads very little, except insofar as it had caused the passing-out parade to be cancelled, and the seventy-two to be extended. There was therefore much hilarity and joy in and around the huts as their occupants prepared to go on leave, and I was apprehensive that Mike would start another mêlée, in which I might feel obliged to go to his defence. But he appeared to ignore further provocations.
The others did not get away as quickly as they had expected. When we went to tea we saw them lining up outside the Squadron office to collect their leave passes, and it was a small satisfaction to know that Scouse Miller would not be taking his tart to the pictures that evening after all. But when we returned to the hut it was bleak and deserted: beds stripped of blankets and mattresses, doors hanging open on vacant lockers, dust and shreds of paper on the floor. We sat down on our beds and lit up.
‘Well, it’s nice to have a bit of privacy,’ I remarked, with hollow cheerfulness. My voice rang in the empty room. At the same moment Sergeant Box poked his head round the door.
‘Oh, ’ere you are. I’ve been chasing you two for the last hour. Where’ve you been?’
‘Only to tea.’
‘Well you’ve been a fuggin’ long time about it. Anyway, get your kit packed up and your bedding. You’re moving.’
‘Where to, Sarge?’
‘All witnesses are being moved to Waiting Wing until the inquest is over.’
‘What will we do there?’
He gave a sadistic grin. ‘Fatigues, I should think.’
Waiting Wing was a kind of Limbo, where soldiers who had finished their training were billeted while awaiting posting. As Sergeant Box had prophesied, we were kept occupied by fatigues, shovelling coal and coke. It was a dreary, depressing existence,—only slightly less disagreeable than Basic Training in that there was no bulling, and morning inspections were perfunctory.
On the Saturday we went into Richmond and tasted the heady pleasures of the two cinemas, the ‘& chips’ cafés, and the Naafi Club, where a dance was being held. The revolving doors spun round, feeding in a steady stream of unappetizing female flesh from Richmond and Darlington, to be snapped up by the soldiers who stooped like vultures along the walls of the vestibule. With a five-to-one majority of men, the women swiftly began to look like badly-mauled carrion.
The Naafi Club was scarcely a relaxing place. Women were not the only commodity in short supply. The TV Room overflowed. There was a queue for table tennis. There was a queue in the canteen. If you vacated a chair in the Quiet Room, somebody else was in it before you had straightened up; and a discarded newspaper scarcely reached the table before it was whisked away by another hand. But the Club was probably the warmest place in Catterick as an autumnal chill spread through the region, and we spent most evenings there. We discovered that there were baths (again only two between the thousands of troops), and from then onwards I ceased to use the draughty and erratic showers at Amiens camp.
The days passed slowly. The cancellation of our leave seemed totally unnecessary, as we were not interviewed again until after the rest of the intake had returned. This second interview was very brief. We were simply asked whether Percy was left-handed or right-handed. Even then we didn’t catch on.
The Coroner cleared his throat and began his summing-up.
‘Gentlemen of the jury: the death into which we are inquiring today presents many problems. The evidence you have heard is extremely complex, and it is my duty to try and reduce this evidence to order, and to help you to reach your verdict.
‘First of all, I think you can rule out the possibility of homicide. The bullet that killed Higgins was fired from his own rifle at point-blank range. There is no evidence that anyone else was near him at the time. Neither, I think, need you consider for very long a verdict of manslaughter. There is no doubt that, whatever the reason for Higgins’s death, it would not have occurred if he had not been allowed to leave the firing point with a live bullet. There are strict military regulations which have been described to you, to prevent such an eventuality. Clearly Corporal Baker, who was in charge of the firing at the time, was seriously negligent here; and you may feel that in other ways his conduct was not beyond reproach. He seems to have lost his temper with Higgins,
though there was the extenuating circumstance that on this particular day Corporal Baker was suffering from toothache. However, the important point I wish to make is that in order to reach a verdict of manslaughter you must be convinced that the death was caused by someone’s criminal negligence, wanton, deliberate disregard for human life; and if you did reach such a verdict the person concerned would face a very serious charge indeed. There has been negligence in this case, gentlemen, and no doubt the military authorities will conduct their own inquiries into the matter, and take appropriate disciplinary measures. But I do not think you can say there has been criminal negligence.
‘The alternative explanations which suggest themselves in this case are that Higgins’s rifle went off accidentally, or that he took his own life deliberately.
‘Some of the evidence that you have heard would seem to support the first explanation,—that the rifle went off accidentally. The deceased himself is reported to have uttered the word “Accident” just before he died. Higgins has also been described as a person of poor physical co-ordination,—“accident-prone” is how one witness described him. On the other hand, it would be dangerous to place too much weight on the last words of the deceased. He might have a motive for wishing his death to appear accidental,—to conceal the fact that he had tried to kill himself, for instance. And you have heard Inspector Jordan explain and demonstrate that it would be extremely difficult to inflict this kind of wound on oneself accidentally while carrying a rifle in the way Higgins was last seen carrying it, or, indeed, while carrying it in any normal way.
‘You must consider, then, the possibility of suicide. Higgins was a shy, sensitive boy, thrown into the rough-and-tumble of Army life, after a sheltered life at home and at school. The hardships of a raw recruit’s training, which more robust young men take in their stride, might have acted on such a temperament in such a way as to drive him to suicide. But in this case you may feel that there is not very much concrete evidence to support such a conclusion, nothing but the general impressions, partly conflicting, of his comrades, N.C.O.s and officers. Second Lieutenant Booth-Henderson has said that he did not detect signs of undue stress in Higgins at any time. But recruits are rarely open with their officers, and Higgins’s comrades have left me, at least, with little doubt that he was deeply depressed and unhappy in the Army. There is however, no concrete evidence that this depression and unhappiness had reached the point where he would seek escape in this terrible and tragic way. He left no note, no reference in any letter to such an idea, nor did he speak of it to anyone. The most weighty piece of evidence which suggests suicide is the fact that he was found with his thumb in the trigger-guard of his rifle; for a person aiming a rifle at his own body would find it easier to operate the trigger with his thumb than with his finger. Against the supposition of suicide you must weigh two further pieces of evidence. Firstly, Higgins was a devout Roman Catholic, to whom suicide would be a serious sin, perhaps the most serious of all. This in itself is not conclusive, but it deserves to be considered. You may be inclined to give more weight to the second piece of evidence: Higgins, as I said, was found with his thumb caught in the trigger-guard of the rifle—but it was the thumb of his right hand. And Higgins was left-handed. You may think that a left-handed person, about to shoot himself, would naturally use his left hand. What possible reason could Higgins have for pulling the trigger with the thumb of his right hand? The only explanation that I can think of is one that has no doubt occurred to you as you listened to the evidence: that Higgins intended to shoot his left hand, to shoot off his trigger finger.
