Private's Progress (8 page)

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.

H
ERBERT 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 couple 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.

“You wrote this,” said Denny, pulling a creased piece of paper from his pocket. “Read it, Ernie.”

The small gunner took the paper and read:

“To you, my darling, a brave soldier far over the sea. How I long to know what you are really like. Are you handsome? Strong? My arms are waiting for you, darling. Do hurry home to your sweetheart soon. Sincerely, Catherine Young.”

“That were in my Balaclava,” said Denny, taking the paper back.

“Good Lord,” said Herbert.

“The boys in the battery all said it’d be the right thing to come here and see you like,” said Denny. “They all talked about it. There’s not all that much to do in Reykjavik,” he added.

“That’s right,” said Ernie.

“Well, I hope it cheered you up,” said Catherine. “I thought it would be a nice idea.”

“You ’aven’t got another girl for me?” said Ernie. “I suppose not. Well, I’d best be goin’. You and Denny’ll want to be left alone. It did say it in my Balaclava as well, but I’ll give Denny best.”

“In yours too?” asked Herbert.

“Oh yes, all the battery,” said Ernie. “Only only Denny and me got leave.”

“Well, well, a budding Sweetheart of the Forces,” said Herbert.

“You’ll find Denny’s a good sort, miss,” said Ernie. “Used to do partner for all the big-name boxers, eh, Den?”

“See you at the Y.M., Ernie,” said Denny.

“Aren’t you off to the Y.M. too?” asked Catherine anxiously.

“Stayin’ there, like,” said Danny. “I thought we might ’ave a quiet evenin’ in, by the fire. This chap your hubby?”

“Er, yes,” said Catherine.

“Not in the Forces,” noted Denny. “On essential work, I suppose. Well, mister, your good lady’s the pride and joy of our battery, I can tell you. It’s nice of you letting ’er write these letters, mister, and I know you won’t object if I take ’er out to the pictures to say I ’ave, eh?”

“Well, as a matter of a fact,” began Herbert, “I’m …”

“Actually he’s very jealous,” said Catherine. “He doesn’t like me to go out at all.”

“Well, that’s not very nice, mister, is it?” said Denny. “I don’t think it’s right.”

He advanced ponderously and slowly waved a huge fist under Herbert’s nose. “My mate Ernie’s read bits from the papers to me about people like you,” he said. “Don’t you lay a ’and on ’er, or watch it!”

“Please don’t start anything,” said Catherine. “I couldn’t bear it. I’ll tell you what, I’ll take you round to the club tomorrow and you can thank them all for the Balaclavas and tell them all about Iceland. How about that?”

“Well,” said Denny, somewhat mollified, “I’ll come back in the morning, only if an ’air of ’er ’ead’s touched,” he added mildly to Herbert, “you’d better watch it, mister.”

Catherine wrote to Stanley.

“You want to ask for compassionate,” said Cox. “Why, a mate of mine once got seven days’
compassionate
because ’e told the comp’ny commander ’is missus was carrying on with the baker, and the padre said ’e ought to investigate and ’e’d made inquiries with the woman next door who’d wrote ’im a long letter about it. Well, my mate’d got this woman to write this letter so’s ’e could get this compassionate and ’e reckons ’e’ll surprise ’is missus on ’er birthday. ’E gets it all buttoned up and off ’e goes, ’appy as Larry, and when ’e gets down their street ’e sees this van
outside
and says ‘’Ullo’. Goes inside, and there’s ’is missus with the laundry bloke. ‘That’s your lot,’ ’e says to this bloke. ‘You got me in trouble now. I told the padre it was the baker.’ ’E pitches this laundryman out on ’is ear’ole straightaway, no messin’, and tips all ’is bundles of washin’ out over ’im as ’e lays in the gutter so’s ’e gets seven days for causin’ a disturbance, bein’ as ’is missus was only gettin’ a bitta grit outa this
laundry bloke’s eyeball ’e got while she was gettin’ the money.

“Well, as I say, you ask for compassionate.”

The next day, however, brought a solution to
Stanley
’s problem.

“As you were,”
said a postcard from Catherine.
“
Denny
broke
his
leg
today
coming
down the Y.M. steps in the blackout. The military hospital will send him back to Iceland later.”

This crossed in the post with one from Stanley to her.

“If you really want him put away for a long time,”
he had written after further consultation with Cox,
“make sure he sells his kit.”

They had been a fortnight with Cogswell now and had developed a flair for leisurely muck-spreading.

“Take the old barrer up the old farm, gessome of the old dung off the old ’eap, put it in the old barrer, come back, spread it on the old cabbages,” Cogswell would say.

Cox and Stanley had been delegated to this, the steadiest of the gardening tasks, by decrying the dryness of the manure brought back by other parties, and by ensuring the rich moistness of the dung they themselves had brought back, as soon as they had a chance to fetch some. Cox had paraded it conspicuously before Cogswell.

“Look at that, my old cocker,” he had said. “Does your ’eart good, stuff like that. You’d grow enough to get in the Grenadier Guards on that.”

Cogswell’s heart had been warmed, and they were on the barrow for a full week.

The barrow itself was a large iron half-cylinder with great waving iron wheels at its ends. A large handle was attached on which they pulled savagely to force it uphill, and hung grimly to stop its running amok on a down gradient. With the wheels wobbling furiously, they dragged it to the rudimentary farmyard of the camp, where they immediately fell out for a ten-minute smoke. After this they would watch the pigs, fill the barrow in a leisurely, careful fashion, trundle it
carefully
back and strew their precious burden among Cogswell’s cabbages.

The advantage of being on the barrow was that it took them out of Cogswell’s range of eagle-vision. Nothing would disturb him at his weeding or delving except the sight of his assistants having a furtive breather. Even this he only noticed when he had not so far
advanced
beyond them as to make their behaviour distant and unobservable. Once, Sergeant-Major Sparrow himself came bicycling up and stood for a full minute behind him, oi-ing for attention.

Cogswell continued the prodding with his dibber, but finally turned his head momentarily to snap:

“—— off.”

The sergeant-major leapt slightly and shouted:

“You listen to me!”

“I’m busy,” mumbled Cogswell, dibbing to illustrate.

“You’re not too bloody busy to listen to me!” shouted the sergeant-major.

“Yes I bloody am,” said Cogswell with a tone of finality.

Here the matter ended, and the sergeant-major cycled off.

“’Ear old Musclebound,” said Cox, in admiration at the gardener’s integrity. “Better than the ’alls. ’E’d let old Montgomery ’ave it like that, ’e would, no messin’. Why should England bleedin’ tremble?”

The gardening lasted a full fortnight. Then, one day, Stanley and Cox came back from muck-spreading to see their names on Depot Company detail under the heading:

“I’m goin’ Tom and Dick,” said Cox.