Читать книгу The Complete McAuslan - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 10

The duties of a regimental orderly officer cover pretty well everything from inspecting the little iced cakes in the canteen to examining the prisoners in the guard room cells to ensure that they are still breathing. In our battalion, the cells were seldom occupied; the discipline imposed on our volatile mixture of Aberdonians and Glaswegians was intelligent rather than tough, and more often than not trouble was dealt with before it got the length of a charge sheet.

So when I walked into the guard room for a late night look round and saw one of the cell doors closed and padlocked, and a noise issuing from behind it like the honking of a drowsy seal, I asked McGarry, the provost sergeant, who his guest for the night might be.

“It’s yon animal, Wee Wullie,” he said. “Sharrap, ye Glasgow heathen! He’s gey fu’ sir, an’ half-killed a redcap in the toon. They had to bring him here in a truck wi’ his hands tied and a man sittin’ on his heid. And afore I could get him in there I had to restrain him, mysel’.”

I realised that McGarry had a swelling bruise on one cheek and that his usually immaculate khaki shirt was crumpled; he was a big man, with forearms like a blacksmith, and the skin on his knuckles was broken. I was glad it wasn’t me he had had to restrain.

“He’s sleepin’ like a bairn noo, though,” he added, and he said it almost affectionately.

I looked through the grill of the cell. Wee Wullie was lying on the plank, snoring like an organ. Between his massively booted feet at one end, and the bonnet on his grizzled head at the other, there was about six and a half feet of muscular development that would have done credit to a mountain gorilla. One of his puttees was gone, his shirt was in rags, and there was a tear in his kilt; his face, which at the best of times was rugged, looked as though it had been freshly trampled on. On the palm of one outstretched hand still lay a trophy of his evening’s entertainment—a Military Police cap badge. In that enormous brown paw it looked about as big as a sixpence.

“You did well to get him inside,” I told McGarry.

“Ach, he’s no’ bad tae manage when he’s puggled,” said the provost. “A big, coorse loon, but the booze slows him doon.”

I had some idea of what McGarry called “no’ bad tae managed”. I recalled Hogmanay, when Wee Wullie had returned from some slight jollification in the Arab quarter having whetted his appetite for battle on the local hostelries, and erupted through the main gate intent on slaughter. It had been at that moment of the day which, for a soldier, is memorable above all others; the hour when the Last Post is sounded, and everything else is still while the notes float sadly away into the velvet dark; the guard stand stiffly to attention by the main gate with the orderly officer behind, and the guard room lanterns light up the odd little ceremony that has hardly changed in essentials since the Crimea. It is the end of the Army’s day, peaceful and rather beautiful.

Into this idyll had surged Wee Wullie, staggering drunk and bawling for McGarry to come out and fight. For a moment his voice had almost drowned the bugle, and then (because he was Wee Wullie with 30 years’ service behind him) he had slowly come to attention and waited, swaying like an oak in a storm, until the call was ended. As the last note died away he hurled aside his bonnet, reeled to the foot of the guard room steps, and roared:

“Coom oot, McGarry! Ah’m claimin’ ye! Ye’ve had it, ye big Hielan’ stirk! Ye neep! Ye teuchter, ye!”

McGarry came slowly out of the guard room, nipping his cigarette, and calmly regarded the Neanderthal figure waiting for him. It looked only a matter of time before Wee Wullie started drumming on his chest and pulling down twigs to eat, but McGarry simply said,

“Aye, Wullie, ye’re here again. Ye comin’ quiet, boy?”

Wullie’s reply was an inarticulate bellow and a furious fist-swinging charge, and five minutes later McGarry was kneeling over his prostrate form, patting his battered face, and summoning the guard to carry the body inside. They heaved the stricken giant up, and he came to himself just as they were manhandling him into the cooler. His bloodshot eyes rolled horribly and settled on McGarry, and he let out a great cry of baffled rage.

“Let me at ’im! Ah want at ’im!” He struggled furiously, and the four men of the guard clung to his limbs and wrestled him into the cell.

“Wheesht, Wullie,” said McGarry, locking the door. “Just you lie doon like a good lad. Ye’ll never learn; ye cannie fight McGarry when ye’re fu’. Now just wheesht, or I’ll come in tae ye.”

“You!” yelled Wullie through the bars. “Oh, see you! Your mither’s a Tory!”

McGarry laughed and left him to batter at the door until he was tired. It had become almost a ritual with the two of them, which would be concluded when Wullie had sobered up and told McGarry he was sorry. It was Wullie’s enduring problem that he liked McGarry, and would fight with him only when inflamed by drink; yet drunk, he could not hope to beat him as he would have done sober.

I thought of these things as I looked into the cell at Wee Wullie asleep. On that wild Hogmanay I should, of course, have used my authority to reprimand and restrain him, and so prevented the unseemly brawl with the provost sergeant, but you don’t reprimand a rogue elephant or a snapped wire hawser, either of which would be as open to sweet reason as Wee Wullie with a bucket in him. The fact that he would have been overwhelmed by remorse afterwards for plastering me all over the guard room wall would not really have been much consolation to either of us. So I had remained tactfully in the background while Sergeant McGarry had fulfilled his regimental duty of preserving order and repressing turbulence.

And now it had happened again, for the umpteenth time, but this time it was bad. From what McGarry had told me, Wee Wullie had laid violent hands on a military policeman, which meant that he might well be court-martialled—which, inevitably, for a man with a record like his, would mean a long stretch in the glasshouse at Cairo.

“He’ll no’ get away wi’ it this time, poor loon,” said McGarry. “It’ll be outwith the battalion, ye see. Aye, auld Wullie, he’ll be the forgotten man of Heliopolis nick if the redcaps get their way.” He added, apparently irrelevantly, “For a’ the Colonel can say.”

I left the guard room and walked across the starlit parade ground through the grove of tamarisks to the white-walled subalterns’ quarters, wondering if this was really the finish of Wee Wullie. If it was, well, the obvious thing to do would be to thank God we were rid of a knave, an even bigger battalion pest than the famous Private McAuslan, the dirtiest soldier in the world, an Ishmael, a menace, a horrible man. At the same time …

All that was really wrong with Wee Wullie was his predilection for strong drink and violent trouble. He was drunk the first time I ever saw him, on a desert convoy passing under Marble Arch, that towering monument to Mussolini’s vanity which bestrides the road on the Libyan border. I had noticed this huge man, first for his very size, secondly for his resemblance to the late William Bendix, and lastly for his condition, which was scandalous. He was patently tight, but still at the good-humoured stage, and was being helped aboard a truck by half a dozen well-wishers. They dropped him several times, and he lay in the sand roaring. I was a green subaltern, but just experienced enough to know when not to intervene, so I left them to it, and eventually they got him over the tailboard. (It is astonishing just how often an officer’s duty seems to consist of looking the other way, or maybe I was just a bad officer.)

In the battalion itself he was a curious mixture. As far as the small change of soldiering went, Wullie was reasonably efficient. His kit at inspections was faultless, his knowledge and deportment exact, so far as they went, which was just far enough for competence. In his early days he had been as high as sergeant before being busted (I once asked the Adjutant when this had been, and he said, “God knows, about the first Afghan War, I should think”), but in later years the authorities had despaired of promoting him to any rank consistent with his length of service. Occasionally they would make him a lance-corporal, just for variety, and then Wullie would pick a fight with the American Marines, or tip a truck over, or fall in alcoholic stupor into a river and have to be rescued, and off would come his stripe again. He had actual service chevrons literally as long as his arm, but badges of rank and good conduct he had none.

Yet he enjoyed a curiously privileged position. In drill, for example, it was understood that there were three ways of doing things: the right way, the wrong way, and Wee Wullie’s way. His movements were that much slower, more ponderous, than anyone else’s; when he saluted, his hand did not come up in a flashing arc, but jerked up so far, and then travelled slowly to his right eyebrow. On parade, there was some incongruity in the sight of a platoon of wee Gleska keelies and great-chested Aberdonians (who run to no spectacular height, as a rule) with Gargantua in their midst, his rifle like a popgun in his huge fist, and himself going through the motions with tremendous intensity, half a second behind everyone else. There was almost a challenge in the way he performed, as though he was conscious of being different, and yet there was about him a great dignity. Even the Regimental Sergeant Major recognised it, and excused much.

This was when he was sober and passive. Even then he was withdrawn and monosyllabic; only when he was slightly inebriated could he be described as sociable. Beyond that he was just outrageous, a dangerous, wickedly powerful ruffian whom only the redoubtable McGarry could manage single-handed.

Yet there was in the battalion a curiously protective instinct towards him. It seemed to emanate from the Colonel, who had ordered that Wullie was never to be brought before him for disciplinary action except when it was unavoidable. Thus his crimes and misdemeanours were usually dealt with at company level, and he got off fairly lightly. When the Colonel did have to deal with him he would consign Wullie to the cells and afterwards try to find him a quiet niche where he would be out of trouble, invariably without success. When he was made medical orderly he got at the M.O.’s medicinal brandy and wrecked the place; he lost the job of padre’s batman through his unceasing profanity; attached to the motor transport section he got tremendously high and put a three-ton truck through a brick wall (“I always said that particular experiment was sheer lunacy,” said the Adjutant. “I mean, a truck was all he needed, wasn’t it?”). An attempt was even made to get him into the band, and the little pipe-sergeant was scandalised. “He has no sense of time, colonel sir,” he protested. “Forbye, look at the size of his feet, and think of that clumph-clumph—clumphing on the great ceremonial parades.”

In the end he was made the M.O.’s gardener, and he seemed to take to it. He did not do any actual gardening himself, but he could address the Arab gardeners in their own language, and got all the plants neatly arranged in columns of threes, dressed by the right, and in order of what he considered their seniority. For in his quiet moments there was a strong military sense in Wullie, as there should have been after 30 years in uniform. This was brought home to me in the only conversation of any duration I ever had with him, one day when I was orderly officer and was inspecting the whitewashed stones which Wullie’s Arabs were arranging in the headquarters plot. For some reason I mentioned to Wullie that I was not intending to stay in the Army when my number came up, and he said, with his direct, intent stare, “Then ye’re a fool, sir.” Only Wullie could have called an officer a fool, in a way which carried no disrespect, and only Wullie would have added “sir” to the rebuke.

And on another occasion he did me a great service. It was shortly after his Hogmanay escapade, and I was again orderly officer and was supervising the closing of the wet canteen. The joint was jumping and I hammered with my walking-stick on the bar and shouted, “Last drinks. Time, gentlemen, please,” which was always good for a laugh. Most of them drank and went, but there was one bunch, East End Glaswegians with their bonnets pulled down over their eyes, who stayed at their table. Each man had about three pints in front of him; they had been stocking up.

“Come on,” I said. “Get it down you.”

There were a few covert grins, and someone muttered about being entitled to finish their drinks—which strictly speaking they were. But there was no question they were trying it on: on the other hand, how does a subaltern move men who don’t want to be moved? I know, personality. Try it some time along the Springfield Road.

“You’ve got two minutes,” I said, and went to supervise the closing of the bar shutters. Two minutes later I looked across; they were still there, having a laugh and taking their time.

I hesitated; this was one of those moments when you can look very silly, or lose your reputation, or both. At that moment Wee Wullie, who had been finishing his pint in a corner, walked past and stopped to adjust his bonnet near me.

“Tak’ wan o’ them by the scruff o’ the neck and heave ’im oot,” he said, staring at me, and then went out of the canteen.

It was astonishing advice. About the most awful crime an officer can commit is to lay hands on another rank. Suppose one of them belted me? It could be one hell of a mess, and a scandal. Then one of them laughed again, loudly, and I strode across to the table, took the nearest man (the smallest one, incidentally) by the collar, and hauled him bodily to the door. He was too surprised to do anything; he was off balance all the way until I dropped him just outside the doorway.

He was coming up, spitting oaths and murder, when Wee Wullie said out of the shadows at one side of the door:

“Jist you stay down, boy, or ye’ll stay down for the night.”

I went into the canteen again. The rest were standing, staring. “Out,” I said, like Burt Lancaster in the movies, and they went, leaving their pints. When I left the canteen Wee Wullie had disappeared.

And now he was probably going to disappear for keeps, I thought that night after seeing him in the cell. How long would he get for assaulting a redcap? Two years? How old was he, and how would he last out two years on the hill, or the wells, or whatever diversions they were using now in the glasshouse? Of course, he was as strong as an ox. And what had McGarry meant, “For a’ the Colonel can say”?

What the Colonel did say emerged a few days later when the Adjutant, entering like Rumour painted full of tongues, recounted what had taken place at Battalion H.Q. when the town Provost Marshal had called. The P.M. had observed that the time had come when Wee Wullie could finally get his comeuppance, and had spoken of general court-martials and long terms of detention. The Colonel had said, uh-huh, indeed, and suggested that so much was hardly necessary: it could be dealt with inside the battalion. By no means, said the P.M., Wee Wullie had been an offence to the public weal too long; he was glasshouse-ripe; a turbulent, ungodly person whom he, the P.M., was going to see sent where he wouldn’t hear the dogs bark. The Colonel then asked, quietly, if the P.M., as a special favour to him, would leave the matter entirely in the Colonel’s hands.

Taken aback the P.M. protested at length, and whenever he paused for breath the Colonel would raise his great bald hawk head and gently repeat his request. This endured for about twenty minutes, after which the P.M. gave way under protest—under strong protest—and stumped off muttering about protecting pariahs and giving Capone a pound out of the poor box. He was an angry and bewildered man.

“So the matter need not go to the General Officer Commanding,” concluded the Adjutant mysteriously. “This time.” Pressed for details, he explained, in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe it himself, that the Colonel had been ready, if the P.M. had been obdurate, to go to the G.O.C. on Wee Wullie’s behalf.

“All the way, mark you,” said the Adjutant. “For that big idiot. Of course, if the G.O.C. happens to have been your fag at Rugby, I dare say it makes it easier, but I still don’t understand it.”

Nor did anyone else. Generals were big stuff, and Wullie was only one extremely bad hat of a private. The Colonel called him several other names as well, when the case came up at orderly room, and gave him 28 days, which was as much as he could award him without sending him to the military prison.

So Wullie did his time in the battalion cells, expressing repentance while he cleaned out the ablutions, and exactly twenty-four hours after his release he was back inside for drunkenness, insubordination, and assault, in that he, in the cookhouse, did wilfully overturn a cauldron of soup and, on being reprimanded by the cook-sergeant, did strike the cook-sergeant with his fist …

And so on. “I don’t know,” said the Adjutant in despair. “Short of shooting him, what can you do with him? What can you do?”

He asked the question at dinner, in the Colonel’s absence. It was not a mess night, and we were eating our spam informally. Most of the senior officers were out in their married quarters; only the second-in-command, a grizzled major who was also a bachelor, represented the old brigade. He sat chewing his cheroot absently while the Adjutant went on to say that it couldn’t last for ever; the Colonel’s curious—and misguided—protection of Wee Wullie would have to stop eventually. And when it did, Wee Wullie would be away, permanently.

The second-in-command took out his cheroot and inspected it. “Well, it won’t stop, I can tell you that,” he said.

The Adjutant demanded to know why, and the second-in-command explained.

“Wee Wullie may get his deserts one of these days; it’s a matter of luck. But I do know that it will be over the Colonel’s dead body. You expressed surprise that the Colonel would go to the G.O.C.; I’m perfectly certain he would go farther than that if he had to.”

“For heaven’s sake, why? What’s so special about Wee Wullie?”

“Well, he and the Colonel have served together a long time. Since the first war, in fact. Same battalion, war and peace, for most of the time—joined almost the same day, I believe. Wounded together at Passchendaele, that sort of thing.”

“We all know that,” said the Adjutant impatiently. “But even so, granted the Colonel feels responsible, I’d have said Wee Wullie has overstepped the mark too far and too often. He’s a dead loss.”

“Well,” said the second-in-command, “that’s as may be.” He sat for a moment rolling a new cheroot in his fingers. “But there are things you don’t know.” He lit the cheroot and took a big breath. Everyone was listening and watching.

“You know,” said the second-in-command, “that after the battalion came out of France in ’forty, it was sent to the Far East. Well, Wullie didn’t go with it. He was doing time in Sowerby Bridge glasshouse, for the usual offences—drunkenness, assault on a superior, and so on. When he came out the battalion had gone into the bag after Singapore, so Wullie was posted to one of our Terrier battalions in North Africa—it was Tom Crawford’s, in fact. I don’t suppose Tom was particularly happy to see the regiment’s Public Enemy Number One, but he had other things to think about. It was the time when the desert war was going to and fro like ping-pong—first Rommel on top, then us—and his battalion had taken a pretty fair hammering, one way and another.

“Anyway, when Rommel made his big breakthrough, and looked like going all the way to Shepheard’s Hotel, Tom’s chaps were being pushed back with the rest. There was some messy fighting, and in it they picked up a prisoner—a warrant officer in the German equivalent of the service corps. They learned from him about the existence of one of those petrol dumps that Rommel had put down on an earlier push—you know the sort of thing, we did it, too. When you’re on the run you bury all the fuel you can, and when you come back that way, there it is. How they got this chap to spill the beans I don’t know, but he did.

“Well, Tom saw at once that if they could scupper this buried dump it might be a telling blow to the Jerry advance, so he went after it. One of his company commanders, fellow called MacLennan, took off with a truck, a couple of Sappers, the German prisoner as a guide, a driver—and Wee Wullie. They took him along because he was big and rough, and just the chap to keep an eye on the Hun. And off they went into the blue to blow the dump sky-high.

“It was away out of the main run, down to the southward, and it was going to be a near thing for them to get there before Rommel’s crowd, so they went hell for leather. They didn’t make it. Somewhere along the way the truck went over a land-mine, the driver was killed, and MacLennan’s knee-cap was smashed. The Sappers and Wullie and the Hun were just shaken, but the truck was a complete write-off. And there they were, miles behind their own retreating brigade, stranded in the middle of God knows where, and no way of getting home but walking.”

The second-in-command’s cheroot had gone out. He chewed it out of the side of his mouth, staring at the table-cloth.

“You know what the desert’s like. If you haven’t got transport, you die. Unless someone finds you. And MacLennan knew the only people who might find them were the Germans, and that was a thin chance at best. If they’d made it to the dump it would have been different. As it was, they would have to shift for themselves—with about two days’ water and upwards of forty miles to go before they had even a reasonable chance of being picked up.

“MacLennan couldn’t go, of course, with his leg smashed. He got them to make him comfortable in the lee of the wrecked truck, kept one water bottle himself, and ordered the four of them to clear out. One of the Sappers wanted to stay with him, but MacLennan knew there was no point to it. Barring miracles, he was done for. He just laid down the law to them, told them to head north, and wished them luck. Wee Wullie never said anything, apparently—not that that was unusual, since he was sober.

“MacLennan watched them set off, into that hellish burning waste, and then settled down to die. He supposed his water might last him through the next day, and decided that whatever happened, he wouldn’t shoot himself. Cool boy, that one. He’s at Staff College now, I believe. But it didn’t come to that; his miracle happened. Up north, although he didn’t know it, Rommel was just coming to a halt near Alamein, and by sheer chance on the second day one of our long-range group patrols came on him just as he was drinking the last of his water.”

The second-in-command paused to relight his cheroot, and I noticed the Adjutant’s hand stray towards his glass, and stop half-way.

“Well, they took MacLennan in,” said the second-in-command, “and of course he got them on the hunt right away for the other four. It took them some time. They found one body about twenty miles north of where MacLennan had been, and another a little farther on. And when they were on the point of giving up, they found Wee Wullie. He was walking north, or rather, he was staggering north, and he was carrying the fourth chap in a fireman’s lift.

“He was in a fearful state. His face was black, his tongue and mouth were horribly dried up, all his gear was gone, of course, and he must have been on the very edge of collapse. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t speak—but he could march. God knows how long he’d been without water, or how long he’d been carrying the other fellow; he was so done that when they found him they had to stop him, physically, in his tracks, because they couldn’t make him understand. One of them said afterwards”—the second-in-command hesitated and drew on his cheroot—“that he believed Wee Wullie would just have gone on for ever.”

Knowing Wee Wullie, I could have believed it too. After a moment the Adjutant said: “That was pretty good. Didn’t he—well, he hasn’t any decorations, has he? You’d have thought, seeing he saved a comrade’s life—”

“It wasn’t a comrade,” said the second-in-command. “He was carrying the German. And it didn’t save his life. He died soon after.”

“Even so,” said the Adjutant. “It was pretty bloody heroic.”

“I’d say so,” said the second-in-command. “But Wee Wullie’s his own worst enemy. When he was taken back to base and the hospital, he made a splendid recovery. Managed to get hold of drink, somehow, terrified the nursing staff, climbed out on the roof and sang ‘The Ball of Kirriemuir’ at the top of his voice—all seventy-odd verses, they tell me. They tried to drag him in, and he broke a military policeman’s jaw. Then he fell off the roof and got concussion. It isn’t easy to hang gongs on a man like that. Although I dare say if it had been, say, MacLennan that he’d been carrying, and not the German, that might have made a difference.”

“Well,” said the Adjutant, “it would have made our Colonel’s attitude … well, easier to understand.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” said the second-in-command. “Wee Wullie tried to save an enemy. The German to him was really a nuisance—a dead loss. But he was prepared to risk his own life for him, to go all the way. I don’t know. Anyway,” he added, looking as near embarrassment as was possible for him, “that may explain some of the things you haven’t understood about him. Why, as far as the Colonel is concerned, he can set fire to the barracks and murder half the redcaps in the garrison, but the Colonel will still be bound to go all along the line for him. So will I, if it means the G.O.C., and the High Command, the whole lot. And so will the battalion. It’s an odd situation. Oh, perhaps Wullie understands it and plays on it. So what? I know the Provost Marshal’s right: he’s a drunken, dangerous, disgraceful, useless ruffian. But whenever I see him at his worst, I can’t help thinking of him going through that desert, marching, and not falling. Just marching. Now, where’s the ludo set? There isn’t a subaltern can live with me on the board tonight.”

I have my own view of Wee Wullie, which is naturally coloured by my own experience of him. When I finally left the battalion, he was still there, pottering about the M.O.’s garden and fighting with the guard; they were still protecting him, rightly or wrongly. What is worth protecting? Anyway, his story is as I saw it, and as the second-in-command told it to me. Only the times have changed.