by Evelyn Waugh
‘Crouchback, Crouchback, Crouchback, Crouchback,’ he said, turning over a sheaf of papers on his table. ‘Sergeant, what do we know of Mr Crouchback?’
The Sergeant was female and matronly.
‘Ritchie-Hook file,’ she said. ‘General Whale had it last.’
‘Go and get it, there’s a good girl.’
‘I daren’t.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I remember all about it now. You’ve been wished on us with your former Brigadier for “special duties”. What are your “special duties”?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Nor does anyone. You’ve come whistling down from a very high level. Do you know all about Commandos?’
‘Not much.’
‘You shouldn’t know anything. They’re supposed to be a secret, though from the security reports we get from Mugg, they’ve made themselves pretty conspicuous there. I’ve had a letter from someone whose signature I can’t read, complaining in strong terms that they’ve been shooting his deer with tommy-guns. Don’t see how they get near enough. Remarkably fine stalking if true. Anyway that’s where you’re going – temporary attachment for training purposes X Commando, Isle of Mugg. All right?’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Sergeant Trenchard here will make out your travel warrant. Have you got a batman with you?’
‘At the moment,’ said Guy, ‘I have a service car, a three-ton lorry, an RASC driver, a Halberdier servant and a full Colonel.’
‘Ah,’ said the Major who was fast founding the HOO HQ tradition of being surprised at nothing. ‘You ought to be all right, then. Report to Colonel Blackhouse at Mugg.’
‘Tommy Blackhouse?’
‘Friend of yours?’
‘Yes. He married my wife.’
‘Did he? Did he?I thought he was a bachelor.’
‘He is, now.’
‘Yes, I thought so. I was at the Staff College with him. Good chap; got some good chaps in his Commando too. Glad he’s a friend of yours.’
Guy saluted, turned about and departed only very slightly disconcerted. This was the classic pattern of army life as he had learned it, the vacuum, the spasm, the precipitation, and with it all the peculiar, impersonal, barely human geniality.
Jumbo was asleep in the morning-room when Guy reached him.
‘To horse, to horse,’ he said, when fully awake and aware of the long road ahead. ‘We ought to get clear of London before those bombs begin. Anything that puts the wind up Beano is better avoided. Besides, we’ve got your stores to think of.’
Their lorry when they reached it bore marks of promotion. An efficient guard had plastered it with printed notices: CIGS.
‘Shall I remove those, sir, before starting?’
‘Certainly not. They can do no harm and may do a lot of good.’
‘Shall I get one for the car too, sir?’
Jumbo paused. He was rather light-headed from his outing, breathing once more the bracing air of his youth when as an irresponsible subaltern he had participated in many wild extravagancies.
‘Why not?’ he said.
But he thought again. Reason regained its sway. He drew from the deep source of his military experience and knew to a finger’s breadth how far one could go.
‘No,’ he said regretfully. ‘That wouldn’t do.’
They drove away from the stricken city. At St Albans they turned on the dim little headlights and almost immediately the first sirens wailed around them.
‘No point in going much farther tonight,’ said Jumbo. ‘I know a place where we can put up about thirty miles north.’
6
THE Isle of Mugg has no fame in song or story. Perhaps because whenever they sought a rhyme for the place, they struck absurdity, it was neglected by those romantic early-Victorian English ladies who so prodigally enriched the balladry, folk-lore and costume of the Scottish Highlands. It has a laird, a fishing fleet, an hotel (erected just before the First World War in the unfulfilled hope of attracting tourists) and nothing more. It lies among other monosyllabic protuberances. There is seldom clear weather in those waters, but on certain rare occasions Mugg has been descried from the island of Rum in the form of two cones. The crofters of Muck know it as a single misty lump on their horizon. It has never been seen from Eigg.
It is served twice weekly by steamer from the mainland of Inverness. The passenger rash enough to stay on deck may watch it gradually take shape, first as two steep hills; later he can recognize the castle – granite 1860, indestructible and uninhabitable by anyone but a Scottish laird, the quay, cottages and cliffs, all of granite, and the unmellowed brick of the hotel.
Guy and his entourage arrived at the little port a few hours before this steamer was due to sail. The sky was dark and the wind blowing hard. Jumbo made a snap decision.
‘I shall remain here,’ he said. ‘Mustn’t on any account hazard our stores. You go ahead and make your number with your CO. I will follow when the weather clears.’
Guy set out alone to find X Commando.
When the exotic name, ‘Commando’, was at length made free to the press it rapidly extended its meaning to include curates on motor bicycles. In 1940 a Commando was a military unit, about the size of a battalion, composed of volunteers for special service. They kept the badges of their regiments; no flashes or green berets then, nothing to display in inns. They were a secret force whose only privilege was to find their own billets and victuals. Each unit took its character from its commander.
Tommy Blackhouse declared: ‘It’s going to be a long war. The great thing is to spend it among friends.’
Tommy’s friends inhabited his own ample world. Some were regular soldiers; others had spent a year or two of adolescence in the Brigade of Guards, to satisfy the whim of parents and trustees, before taking to other activities or to inactivity. To these he turned when at last his patiently awaited appointment was confirmed. Bellamy’s rallied to him. He sent his troop leaders on a recruiting tour of their regiments. Too soon for some the Commando came into existence and was dispatched to train at Mugg. There Guy found them. He was directed from the quay to the hotel.
At three o’clock he found it empty except for a Captain of the Blues who reclined upon a sofa, his head enveloped in a turban of lint, his feet shod in narrow velvet slippers embroidered in gold thread with his monogram. He was nursing a white pekinese; beside him stood a glass of white liqueur.
The sofa was upholstered in Turkey carpet. The table which held the glass and bottle was octagonal, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The pictorial effect was of a young prince of the Near East in his grand divan in the early years of the century.
He did not look up on Guy’s entry.
Guy recognized Ivor Claire, a young show-jumper of repute, the owner of a clever and beautiful horse named Thimble. Guy had seen them in Rome at the Concorso Ippico; Claire leaning slightly forward in the saddle with the intent face of a pianist, the horse precisely placing his feet in the tan, leaping easily, without scuffle or hesitation, completing a swift, faultless round, in dead silence which broke at last into a tumult of appreciation. Guy knew him, too, as a member of Bellamy’s. He should have known Guy for they had often sat opposite one another in the listless days of the preceding year and had stood together in the same group at the bar.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Guy.
Claire looked up, said, ‘Good afternoon,’ and wiped his dog’s face with a silk handkerchief. ‘The snow is very bad for Freda’s eyes. Perhaps you want Colonel Tommy. He’s out climbing.’ Then, after a pause, politely: ‘Have you seen last week’s paper?’
And he held out the Rum, Muck, Mugg and Eigg Times.
Guy gazed about him at the heads of deer, the fumed oak staircase, the vast extent of carpet woven in the local hunting tartan.
‘I think I’ve seen you about in Bellamy’s.’
‘How one longs for it.’
‘My name is Crouchback.’
‘Ah.’ Claire had
the air of having very shrewdly elicited this piece of information, of having made a move, early in a game of chess, which would later develop into mate. ‘I should have some Kümmel if I were you. We’ve unearthed a cache of Wolfschmidt. You just score it up on that piece of paper over there.’
There were glasses on the central table and bottles and a list of names, marked with their potations.
‘I’m here for training,’ Guy volunteered.
‘It’s a death-trap.’
‘Have you any idea where my quarters will be?’
‘Colonel Tommy lives here. So do most of us. But it’s full up now. Recent arrivals are at the coastguard station, I believe. I looked in once. It smells awfully of fish. I say, do you mind much if we don’t talk? I fell fifty feet on the ice the other morning.’
Guy studied last week’s Rum, Muck, Mugg and Eigg Times. Claire plucked Freda’s eyebrows.
Soon, as in an old-fashioned, well-constructed comedy, other characters began to enter Left: first a medical officer.
‘Is the boat in?’ he asked of both indiscriminately.
Claire shut his eyes, so Guy answered: ‘I came in her a few minutes ago.’
‘I must telephone the harbour-master and have her held. Anstruther-Kerr has had a fall. They’re bringing him down as fast as they can.’
Claire opened his eyes.
‘Poor Angus. Dead?’
‘Certainly not. But I must get him to the mainland at once.’
“That is your opportunity,’ Claire said to Guy. ‘Angus had a room here.’
The doctor went to the telephone, Guy to the reception office.
The manageress said: ‘Poor Sir Angus, and he a Scot too. He should know better than to go scrambling about the rocks at his age.’
As Guy returned, an enormous Grenadier Captain in the tradition of comedy hustled into the hall. He was dressed in damp dungarees and panting heavily.
“Thank God,’ he said. ‘Just made it. Angus’s fall has started a stampede. I was half-way up the cliff when we got the news and slid down fast.’
The medical officer returned.
‘They’ll hold the steamer another fifteen minutes. They say they can’t make port in the dark.’
‘Well,’ said the breathless Captain, ‘I’ll cut along and get his room.’
‘Too late, Bertie,’ said Claire. ‘It’s gone.’
‘Not possible.’ Then he noticed Guy. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Damn.’
The stretcher party arrived and a comatose figure, covered in great-coats, was gently laid on the tartan floor while the stretcher-bearers went up to pack his belongings.
Another gasping officer arrived.
‘Oh, God, Bertie,’ he said, seeing the Grenadier, ‘have you got his room?’
‘I have not, Eddie. You should be out with your troop.’
‘I just thought I should come and make arrangements for Angus.’
‘Don’t make such a noise,’ said the doctor.’ Can’t you see there’s a sick man here?’
‘Two sick men,’ said Claire.
‘Isn’t he dead?’
‘They say not.’
‘I was told he was.’
‘Perhaps you will allow me to know better,’ said the doctor.
As though to resolve the argument, a muffled voice from the stretcher said: ‘Itching, Eddie. Itching all over like hell.’
‘Formication,’ said the doctor. ‘Morphia often has that effect.’
‘How very odd,’ said Claire, showing real interest for the first time. ‘I’ve an aunt who takes quantities of it. I wonder if she itches.’
‘Well, if you haven’t got it, Bertie,’ said Eddie, ‘I think I’ll just cut along and get that room fixed up for myself.’
‘Too late. It’s gone.’
Eddie looked incredulously around the hall, saw Guy for the first time and like Bertie said: ‘Damn.’
It occurred to Guy that he had better make sure of his claim. He carried his valise and suitcase upstairs and before Anstruther-Kerr’s hair brushes were off the dressing-table, his were on it. He unpacked fully, waited until the stretcher-bearers had finished their work, then followed them, locking the door behind him.
More damp and snowy officers were gathered below, among them Tommy Blackhouse. No one took any notice of Guy, except Tommy, who said:
‘Hullo, Guy. What on earth brings you here?’
There was a very slight difference between the Tommy whom he had known for twelve years and Tommy the commanding officer, which made Guy say: ‘I’ve orders to report to you, Colonel.’
‘Well, it’s the first I’ve heard about it. I looked for you when we were forming, but that ass Job said you’d gone to Cornwall or somewhere. Anyway, we’re losing chaps so fast that there’s room for anyone. Bertie, have we had any bumf about this Applejack – Guy Crouchback?’
‘May be in the last bag, Colonel. I haven’t opened it yet.’
‘Well, for Christ’s sake do.’
He turned again to Guy. ‘Any idea what you’re supposed to be here for?’
‘Attached for training.’
‘For you to train us, or for us to train you?’
‘Oh, for you to train me.’
‘Thank God for that. The last little contribution from HOO HQ came to train us. And that reminds me, Bertie, Kong must go.’
‘Very good, Colonel.’
‘Can you get him on Angus’s boat?’
‘Too late.’
‘Everything always seems to be too late in this bloody island. Keep him away from my men anyhow, until we find somewhere to hide him. I’ll see you later, Guy, and sort you out. Very pleased you’re here. Come on, Bertie. We’ve got to open that bag and get some signals off.’
The melting men in dungarees began to fill their glasses.
Guy said to Eddie: ‘I take it Bertie is the Adjutant?’
‘In a sort of way.’
‘Who is Kong?’
‘Difficult to say. He looks like a gorilla. They caught him somewhere in HOO HQ and sent him here to teach us to climb. We call him King Kong.’
Presently the medical officer returned.
Everyone except Guy, who felt that his acquaintance was too small to justify solicitude, asked news of Angus.
‘Quite comfortable.’
‘Not itching?’ asked Claire.
‘He’s as comfortable as possible. I’ve arranged for his reception the other end.’
‘Well, in that case, doc, will you come and have a look at that chap of mine, Cramp, who took a toss today?’
‘And I wish you’d see Corporal Blake, the fellow you patched up yesterday.’
‘I’ll see them at sick parade tomorrow.’
‘Blake doesn’t look fit to walk. No, come on, doc, and I’ll stand you a drink. I don’t like the look of him.’
‘And Trooper Eyre,’ said another officer. ‘He’s either tight or delirius. He landed on his head yesterday.’
‘Probably tight,’ said Claire.
The doctor looked at him with loathing. ‘Rightho. You’ll have to show me their billets.’
Soon Guy and Claire were left alone once more.
‘I’m glad you beat Bertie and the rest to that room,’ said Claire. ‘Of course you can’t expect it to make you popular. But perhaps you won’t be here very long.’ He shut his eyes and for some minutes there was silence.
The final entry was a man in the kilt and uniform of a highland regiment. He carried a tall shepherd’s staff and said in a voice that had more of the Great West Road in it than of the Pass of Glencoe, ‘Sorry to hear about Angus.’
Claire looked at him. ‘Angus who?’ he asked with distaste that was near malevolence.
‘Kerr, of course.’
‘You are referring to Captain Sir Angus Anstruther-Kerr?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘I did not speculate.’
‘Well, how is he?’
‘He is said to be comfortable. If so, it must be the
first occasion for weeks.’
During this conversation Guy had been studying the newcomer with growing wonder. At length he said:
‘Trimmer.’
The figure, bonnet, sporran, staff and all, swung round.
‘ Why, if it isn’t my old uncle!’
Claire said to Guy, ‘Are you in fact related to this officer?’
‘No.’
‘On the occasions he has been here, we have known him as McTavish.’
‘Trimmer is a sort of nickname,’ said Trimmer.
‘Curious. I remember your lately asking me to call you “Ali”.’
‘That’s another nickname – short for Alistair, you know.’
‘So I supposed. I won’t ask you what “Trimmer” is short for. “Trimlestown” hardly seems probable. Well, I will leave you two old friends together. Good-bye, Trimmer.’’
‘So long, Ivor,’ said Trimmer unabashed.
When they were alone, Trimmer said:
‘You musn’t mind old Ivor. He and I are great pals and chaff each other a bit. Did you spot his M.C.? Do you know how he got it? At Dunkirk, for shooting three territorials who were trying to swamp his boat. Great chap old Ivor. Care to give me a drink, uncle? That was the object of the exercise.’
‘Why are you called McTavish?’
‘That’s rather a long story. My mother is a McTavish. Chaps often sign on under assumed names, you know. After I left the Halberdiers I didn’t want to hang about waiting to be called up. My firm had been bombed out and I was rather at a loose end. So I went to Glasgow and joined up, no questions asked. McTavish seemed the right sort of name. I fairly whizzed through OCTU. None of that pomp and ceremony of the Halberdiers. I get a good laugh when I remember those guest nights and the snuff and all that rot. So here I am with the Jocks.’ He had already helped himself to whisky. ‘One for you? I’ll sign Angus’s name for both. It is a good system they have here. I often drop in and if there isn’t a pal about, I sign another bloke’s name. Only chaps I know would give me a drink if they were in, of course. Chaps like Angus, who’s a Scot too.’
‘You can sign my name,’ said Guy.’ I belong here.’
‘Good for you, uncle. Cheers. I’ve sometimes thought of joining the Commando myself, but I am sitting pretty snug at the moment. The rest of my battalion went off to Iceland. We had a roughish farewell party and I got a wrist sprained, so they left me behind with the other odds and sods and then we got sent here on defence duties.’
