Private's Progress (3 page)

“When do we have any leave, Corporal, please?”

“Not yet you don’t. Right. Cheero.”

“Ten minutes about training,” said Lance-Corporal Sutton, “then ready for into bed. Lights out blows in forty minutes, after which time no lights, no smokin’, no talkin’; everyone into bed until such time as it blows reveille. Right. Trainin’ you do ’ere’ll be rifle, Bren, and proficiency in the ’andling of these weapons under
all conditions, anti-gas trainin’ and a nice drop of P.T., to get you worked up to a proper standard of fitness in order to kill the enemy. Your first week’s is up on the door there with all the other bull. Now start askin’ questions.”

Ten-thirty. A bugle.

“All right?” asked Lance-Corporal Sutton at the light switch. “All in? Fag out, that man. Right.”

He took a last look round, lean nobbly legs under the tails of the drab khaki shirt.

“Remember, reveille blows six sharp. When it blows, feet on the floor, everyone, straight away. Right?”

A voice outside called authoritatively: “Giddat light out!”

“Barlux,” said Lance-Corporal Sutton, switching it out.

C
ATHERINE BRANDISHED A
postcard at Philip.

“They didn’t arrest Stanley, darling,” she
announced
. “They’re in some tiresome hut called
Sebastopol
—imagine! They seem to be all undergraduates, too. Extraordinary. Oh, and he’s just had tea. In a bucket—or, I imagine,
from
a bucket. Loathsome. They’d been there two hours when he wrote it and he was just going to make his bed down. I must say it sounds frightfully cushy. Still, I don’t think you would have liked it, heart or no heart. Never mind, darling. I’m sure a little hat like Stanley’s wouldn’t have suited you. Anyway, your heart’s nice enough for me.”

She kissed him.

“Are you listening?” she said, crashing her fist on his chest.

Philip was still asleep. He had been fire-watching with two bearded men at the college of art where he taught. The bearded men had been boring about Marxist heresies till four in the morning. The year before, the same two had been passionately not on speaking terms while an incendiary bomb spluttered on the far corner of their roof. Not until Philip had come up from his watch below had it been shoved off (and by him) into the street.

Philip awoke and clawed amorously at her.

“That’s enough,” said Catherine. “Remember Nita.”

Sarah brought the postcard in to Mr. Windrush in his study.

“Master Stanley,” she said, “he got there.”

Mr. Windrush read it and frowned.

“He didn’t arrive there till 4.10,” he remarked. “I distinctly remember organising a train that got in at 2.46.”

He got down a Bradshaw and a Southern Railway time-table and began checking.

When the bugle blew for reveille all Sebastopol was already awake. An insistent whistle from the radio loudspeaker in the hut had been gnawing at them for a full half-hour. As the bugle blew, the whistle stopped and a voice said: “This is the B.B.C. Forces Programme. Good morning, everybody.”

Corporal Miller and Lance-Corporal Sutton padded at once to the wash-basins with cries of: “Out of it! Both feet on the floor! That man! Sun’s scorchin’ yer eyeballs out!”

Stanley got up and queued at the wash-basins.

The radio was by now in full voice. A coloured group were intoning:

When Stanley came back from a cold-water shave it was playing a vigorous rumba.

After breakfast there were “room jobs”.

“Windrush. Don’t say ‘Hullo’, lad.
Corp’r’l
.”

“Corporal.”

“You’re on door-knobs. They must be clean. They must shine. Bags of shine. Git moving.”

“Corporal.”

Eight-twenty-five.

“Stand by yer beds. Come on, come on! Doncher know there’s a war on? Get them beds lined up. That one’s a bit longer? Boloney.
Gititinthere!
Get them boots right way up, lad. That respirator, bit more further over this way. Waters! Your knife-fork-and-spoon not showin’? Stand by yer beds! Romney, dress back a bit there. Watch it!
Room!
Room-SHUN! STILL! P’toon present and correct, Sarnt.”

Sergeant Morris looked briefly round, a large browned man with large, impeccable boots. His voice creaked like old rigging.

“Right. Outside in threes. Move.”

Outside they waited.

Sergeant Morris emerged.

“Pay attention. My name’s Sergeant Morris. Address me as ‘SERGEANT’ not ‘SARGE’. Got me? Follow me? Right. The room is a disgrace. I’m telling you. A disgrace. More like a shithouse. First day, of course. First day. Yerss. Now you go back in and get it pukka.”

Eight-thirty-five.

“Right. Good deal better. Outside in threes, now,
move. Now what we’re going on with now is see round the barracks, see where everything is, in an orderly fashion. March round in threes. Before we go any further, first thing at the beginning. Remember. You play ball with me, do as you’re told, always on time, which is to say five minutes early, work well, and I’ll play ball with you. Only, play any funny business and—watch it. Your feet won’t touch the floor. Straight in you’ll be. Straight in the nick. Do I have to tell you this? Do I? You’re supposed to be
potential
officers. You have to set an example. Don’t you? Don’t you, Number Three, Rear Rank? Windrush, is it? Pace to the rear, do up that fly button—this isn’t a circus. Well, see you do. After this, draw rifles. Naafi break ten to ten-fifteen. C.O.’s lecture
ten-twenty
. M.O.’s lecture eleven-twenty to dinner. Any questions? Right.”

They were lined up in threes on the asphalt path outside Sebastopol, and the three ranks completely filled its width. Sergeant Morris stood for his address three inches in front of the front rank. His chest
suddenly
filled.

“Squad!” he breathed. “Squad-SHAH! Move … to … the-right-in-threes, RAHOIT TAH. By-the-left, QUICKMARCH.”

Immediately there was no peace. Every inch of the journey was accompanied by voices of stern
encouragement
. The least pause in Sergeant Morris’s commentary was seized on by the attendant corporals, who filled in with: “Eft, ite, eft, ite, eft.”

“Chin up, chest out, look yer own ’eight. Eft, ite, eft. Cover down front to rear. Dressing, dressing by the
left. Look up! Watch them arms—up, back, up, back—look up! Dressing! Eft, ite, eft. Change-direction-left, LEHEFT WEEUL. Eft, ite, eft. Cover down, now. Arms! Arms! Leave that ’ydrant alone, lad; trippin’ over it. It’s been ’ere longer than you ’ave. Eft, ite, eft. Bags of swank!”

With such tumult they reached the gymnasium.

“Squad … ALT. Stand-at ease. On your left the new gym-er-nasium, where you will do your physical
training
. You are not permitted to wear boots in the gym-
er-nasium
. Straight ahead of you, middle distance, the thirty-yard range. Squad … SHAH. Byderleft, QUICKMARCH.”

Again the shouting and the tumult.

“Squad … ALT. On your right, the Naafi, not now open, for tea and wads, write your letters ’ome, buy beer. No alcoholic liquor will be brought into
barrack-rooms
; keep it in the Naafi and you’ll be laughing, bring it in the barrack-room and you’ll be on a fizzer. All right? Byderleft, QUICKMARCH.… Squad … ALT. In front of you, ‘B’ Company Office, Comp’ny Commander Major ’Arkness. Half left, ‘A’ Company Office, Comp’ny Commander Captain Redfern. Left again, ‘H.Q.’ Company Office, Comp’ny Commander Major Simpson. ‘B’ Company Stores behind the office, M.I. Room to the right. Depot Company Office, right of that, Comp’ny Commander Major Hitchcock. Behind Depot Company Office, the A.T.S. Quarters, out of bounds to all ranks. It is also an offence to
fra’ernise
with the A.T.S. Do I make myself clear? In any shape or form. Any shape or form of fra’ernising, I mean, not A.T.S. Okeydoke? All clear? Right? Right.
Squad … SHAH … Squad … ALT. On your left, ‘F’ Block. Squad … SHAH.…”

“What is the object of all weapon training? The Object Of All Weapon Training. I’ll tell you what is The Object Of All Weapon Training. The Object Of All Weapon Training is to teach the soldier the correct ’andling of his weapons at all times in order to kill the enemy. What is The Object Of All Weapon Training—Travers? Smartly-to-attention, then.”

“Sergeant?”

“What is The Object Of All Weapon Training?”

“Killing the enemy, Sergeant.”

“You horrible man. Oh, you horrible man. The Object Of All Weapon Training is to teach the soldier the correct ’andling of his weapons at all times in order to kill the enemy.
What
is The Object Of All Weapon Training?”

“What we’re going on with now is the Bren L.M.G. Lesson Two, Loading and Unloading. Recapitulation of Lesson One, Naming of Parts. Point out the
magazine
catch—Windrush. Correct. The flash eliminator—Flash ’Any—I mean, Reeves. All right, all right. Joke over.”

“Hullo, Stanley. So you
are
here. Enjoying life?”

“Hullo, Arthur. Well … I’m in Number Nine Platoon. How are you?”

“Right as rain. Well, have you been into the town much?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been out. I’ve been reading a bit.”

“In four days? Come out with me, if you like, this evening. Plenty of places. Just a friendly tip, though. That cap-badge. What polish do you use?”

“It says Soldiers’ Friend on the tin. You have to spit with it.”

“I’ll get you fixed up with some good stuff. See you half-past seven.”

He went off briskly, soldierlike.

Egan was happy.

That evening they met by arrangement outside the gate. Egan, it seemed, had not wished to prejudice his chances by perhaps being sent back to clean up if he had appeared with Stanley at the Guard-Room.

However, all went well, and they walked down into the town.

“How about a canteen?” asked Egan. “There’s the Y.M., Church Army or the Congo.”

“Congo?” asked Stanley.

“Congregational Church canteen. That’s open till half-past ten. Or a pub. Would you care for a cider? My treat?”

“Well, all right.”

They turned into a public-house in a yard off the main street. Egan ordered two ciders at the bar, while Stanley sat awkwardly with his back to a dark-brown
partition and his feet under a circular iron table, embarrassed at being seen in public in his strange, lumpy anti-gas battledress.

“Ciders,” announced Egan, dumping them on the table with an air of concealed bravado. “Cheers.”

It was a rough cider, raw and potent.

“Don’t you think,” said Stanley hesitantly, “it’s all rather fantastic? I mean all the bugles, bullshit and so on. Do you know, yesterday when we had a lecture we were told:
Sit
to attention? And polishing. I’ve been twice ticked off by Sergeant Morris for mine.”

“All very essential, you know,” said Egan seriously. “It tones you up no end. When you come to think of it, we’ll probably be just in time for the Second Front.” He said it with a certain anticipation as if it had been the second house at a cinema.

“I don’t think it’s really doing me any good,” said Stanley. “That P.T. corporal with the extraordinary squeaky voice has his knife into me, I’m quite sure.”

Raised voices beside them intervened.

“No,” a seedy little man in a cap was saying. “No, straight up. These soldiers will—wonchoo, lads? They’re sports, eh, lads? My old regiment, too. You’ll put names and addresses on the backs, wonchoo? Eh? Any old name,” he added in a low tone.

He flourished little printed slips at them.

“Er——?” said Stanley.

“Tomorrow’s races, Jack,” said the man. “Spot of runnin’ I’m doin’ ’ere,” he went on, lowering his voice again. “Go on, lads, sign here, please. These blokes at the bar, mates of mine, dead windy. Any name’ll do, Jack. Pen?”

He thrust a fountain-pen into Stanley’s right hand.

“I write with my left,” said Stanley.

“Up to you, Jack,” said the little man, pointing a wavering finger at the right place.

Stanley confected an address and handed it back.

“I don’t quite understand——”

“Not a word, my old mate,” said the little man, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Careless talk.”

He thrust the pen and a slip at Egan.

“Good lads,” he cried warmly. “Sid, Sid. Coupla bitters ’ere for the lads of my old regiment. It was bitters you was ’avin’, wasn’t it? Yer, bitters, Sid, ta.”

He stood genially over them while they drank his health.

“Let’s go on to this Congo,” said Stanley.

“Leaving?” asked the little man brightly. “’Ere, I got a sideline, no coupons. If you or your mate ’ere …”

When they arrived at the Congo there were egg-
and-bean
suppers being served to a blast from a radio
loudspeaker
.

“It looks quite wholesome,” said Stanley.

“And yours was?” asked the girl.

“I think we’ll have two, please,” said Stanley.

moaned the radio.

“The Y.M. has concerts sometimes,” said Egan. “Let’s pop in and see.”

There was no concert, but there was a queue for a sudden arrival of off-ration chocolate. They joined it, shouting to each other above the loudspeaker.

“Doesn’t this training make you terribly hungry?” shouted Stanley.

howled the loudspeaker.

“Rise and shine,” roared the orderly corporal. “Out of it! What a lot of lazy people.
Gitoutofit!”

“Corporal,” asked Stanley, “how do you go and get some medicine?”

“Going Tom and Dick?” asked the corporal, whipping out a form. “Name’n nummer?”

“Can’t one just go and get something?”

“Eh?
Eh?
Now, son,
son
. I ask you.
Is
this
the
bleeding
Ritz?
Tell me that. Ooze goin’ to run after you?”

“Well,” said Stanley, “I thought if I did the
running
, up to the what d’you call it—M.I. Room—and asked. Would that be all right?”