Читать книгу The Complete McAuslan - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 8

The life of the very young officer is full of surprises, and perhaps the most shaking is the moment when he comes face to face with his men for the first time. His new sergeant stamps to a halt in front of him, salutes, and barks: “Platoon-presnready-frinspeckshun-sah!”, and as he clears his throat and regards the thirty still figures, each looking to its front with frozen intensity, the young subaltern realises that this is it, at last; this is what he is drawing his meagre pay for.

In later years he may command armies or govern great territories, but he will never feel again the same power-drunk humility of the moment when he takes over his platoon. It is elating and terrifying—mostly terrifying. These thirty men are his responsibility, to look after, to supervise, to lead (whatever that means). Of course, they will do what he tells them—or he hopes they will, anyway. Suppose they don’t? Suppose that ugly one in the front rank suddenly says “No, I will not slope arms for you, or shave in the morning, or die for king and country”? The subaltern feels panic stealing over him, until he remembers that at his elbow there is a sergeant, who is wise in dealing with these matters, and he feels better.

There are young officers, of course, who seem to regard themselves as born to the job, and who cruise through their first platoon inspection with nonchalant interest, conversing airily with the sergeant as they go; possibly Hannibal and Napoleon were like that. But I doubt it. A man would have to be curiously insensitive not to realise that for the first time in his life thirty total strangers are regarding him with interest and suspicion and anxiety, wondering if he is a soft mark or a complete pig, or worse still, some kind of nut. When he realises this he feels like telling them that he is, really, all right and on their side, but of course he can’t. If he did, they would know for certain he was some kind of nut. They will just have to find out about each other gradually, and it can be a trying process.

I have only a hazy impression of inspecting my platoon for the first time. They were drawn up in the sunlight with their backs to the white barrack wall, against which an Arab tea-vendor was squatting, waiting for the ten-minute break. But all I can remember is the brown young faces staring earnestly to their front, with here and there a trickle of sweat or a limb shaking with the strain of standing still. I remember telling one that he was smartly turned-out, and he gave a controlled shudder, like a galvanised frog, and licked his lips nervously. I asked another whether he had volunteered for this particular regiment, and he stammered: “Nossir, I wanted to go intae the coal-mines.”

Perhaps I was over-sensitive because I had been more than two years in the ranks myself, and had stood sweating while pinkish young men with one painfully new pip on their shoulders had looked at me. I remembered what I had thought about them, and how we had discussed them afterwards. We had noted their peculiarities, and now I wondered what mine were—what foibles and mannerisms were being observed and docketed, and what they would say about me later.

I don’t know what I expected from that first inspection—a rapturous welcome, three cheers, or an outbreak of mutiny—but what I got was nothing at all. It was a bit damping; they didn’t seem to react to me one way or the other. Maybe I should have made a speech, or at least said a few introductory words, but all that I could think of was Charles Laughton’s address to the crew of the Bounty, which ran: “You don’t know wood from canvas, and you evidently don’t want to learn. Well, I’ll teach you.” It wouldn’t have gone over.

So eventually I watched them fall out, and turn from wooden images into noisy, raucous young men crowding round the tea-man, abusing him happily in Glasgow-Arabic. One or two glanced in my direction, briefly, but that was all. I walked back to the company office, suddenly lonely.

The trouble was, of course, that in the exultation of being commissioned at the end of a hectic training in India, and the excitement of journeying through the Middle East and seeing the wonderful sights, and arriving in this new battalion which was to be home, I had overlooked the fact that all these things were secondary. What it all added up to was those thirty people and me; that was why the king had made me “his trusty and well-beloved friend”. I wondered, not for the first time, if I was fit for it.

It had seemed to go well on the day of my arrival. The very sound of Scottish voices again, the air of friendly informality which you find in Highland regiments, the sound of pipe music, had all been reassuring. My initial discomfort—I had arrived with two other second-lieutenants, and while they had been correctly dressed in khaki drill I had still been wearing the jungle green of the Far East, which obviously no one in the battalion had seen before—had quickly blown over. The mess was friendly, a mixture of local Scots accents and Sandhurst drawls, and my first apprehensions on meeting the Colonel had been unfounded. He was tall and bald and moustached, with a face like a vulture and a handkerchief tucked in his cuff, and he shook hands as though he was really glad to see me.

Next morning in his office, before despatching me to a company, he gave me sound advice, much of which passed me by although I remembered it later.

“You’ve been in the ranks. Good. That”—and he pointed to my Burma ribbon—“will be a help. Your Jocks will know you’ve been around, so you may be spared some of the more elementary try-ons. I’m sending you to D Company—my old company, by the way.” He puffed at his pipe thoughtfully. “Good company. Their march is ‘The Black Bear’, which is dam’ difficult to march to, actually, but good fun. There’s a bit where the Jocks always stamp, one-two, and give a great yell. However, that’s by the way. What I want to tell you is: get to know their names; that’s essential, of course. After a bit you’ll get to know the nicknames, too, probably, including your own. But once you know their names and faces, you’ll be all right.”

He hummed on a bit, and I nodded obediently and then took myself across to D Company office, where the company commander, a tall, blond-moustached Old Etonian named Bennet-Bruce, fell on me with enthusiasm. Plainly D Company, and indeed the entire battalion, had just been waiting a couple of centuries for this moment; Bennet-Bruce was blessed above all other company commanders in that he had got the new subaltern.

“Splendid. Absolutely super. First-class.” He pumped me by the hand and shouted for the company clerk. “Cormack, could you find another cup for Mr MacNeill? This is Cormack, invaluable chap, has some illicit agreement with the Naafi manager about tea and excellent pink cakes. Mr MacNeill, who has joined our company. You do take sugar? First-class, good show.”

I had been in the army quite long enough not to mistake Bennet-Bruce for just a genial, carefree head-case, or to think that because he prattled inconsequentially he was therefore soft. I’d seen these caricature types before, and nine times out of ten there was a pretty hard man underneath. This one had the Medaille Militaire, I noticed, and the French don’t hand that out for nothing.

However, he was making me at home, and presently he wafted me round the company offices and barrack-rooms on a wave of running commentary.

“Company stores here, presided over by Quartermaster Cameron, otherwise known as Blind Sixty. Biggest rogue in the army, of course, but a first-class man. First-class. Magazine over there—that’s Private Macpherson, by the way, who refuses to wear socks. Why won’t you wear socks, Macpherson?”

“Ma feet hurt, sir.”

“Well, so do mine, occasionally. Still, you know best. Over yonder, now, trying to hide at the far end of the corridor, that’s McAuslan, the dirtiest soldier in the world. In your platoon, by the way. Don’t know what to do with McAuslan. Cremation’s probably the answer. Nothing else seems to work. Morning, Patterson, what did the M.O. say?”

“Gave me some gentian violent, sir, tae rub on.”

“Marvellous stuff,” said Bennet-Bruce, with enthusiasm. “Never travel without it myself. Now, let’s see, Ten platoon room over there, Eleven in there, and Twelve round there. Yours is Twelve. Good bunch. Good sergeant, chap called Telfer. Very steady. Meet him in a minute. No, Rafferty, not like that. Give it here.”

We were at a barrack-room door, and a dark, wiry soldier at the first bed was cleaning his rifle, hauling the pull-through along the barrel. “Not like that,” said Bennet-Bruce. “Pull it straight out, not at an angle, or you’ll wear away the muzzle and your bullets will fly off squint, missing the enemy, who will seize the opportunity to unseam you, from nave to chaps.” He tugged at the pull-through. “What the hell have you got on the end of this, the battalion colours?”

“Piece of four-by-two, sir,” said Rafferty. “An’ a bit o’ wire gauze.”

“Who authorised the gauze?”

“Eh, At got it fae the store,” said Rafferty uneasily.

“Take it back,” said Bennet-Bruce, “and never, never use it without the armourer’s permission. You know that, don’t you? Next time you’ll be in company office. Carry on. I really do despair, sometimes. Morning, Gray. Morning, Soutar. Now, let’s see.” He stopped at the company notice-board. “‘Team to play A Company’. Good God, you’ve got me on the right wing, Corporal Stevenson. That means that Forbes here will bully and upbraid me through the entire game. I don’t really think we’re the best thing since Matthews and Carter, do you, Forbes?”

“Just stay on yer wing,” said the saturnine Forbes. “Ah’ll pit the ba’ in front of you.”

“Well, I rely on you,” said Bennet-Bruce, passing on. “That chap Forbes is a marvellous footballer,” he went on to me. “Signed by Hearts, I understand. You play football? Good show. Of course, that’s the great game. The battalion team are district champions, really super team they are, too. Morning, Duff …”

And so on. Bennet-Bruce was at home. Finally, he introduced me to Sergeant Telfer, a sturdy, solid-looking man in his mid-thirties who said very little, and left us to get acquainted. This consisted of going over the nominal roll, meeting the corporals, and making polite remarks on my part; obviously if I didn’t make the running we would have long silences. However, it seemed to be going well enough for a start.

Next day came that first inspection, and after that the routine drills and exercises, and learning people’s names, and getting into the company routine. I worked rather cautiously, by the book, tried a joke or two without response, and told myself it was early days yet. They were a better platoon than I had expected; they were aged round about twenty, a year younger than I was, they were good on drill, did a fifteen-mile route march in five hours without any sign of distress, and on the rifle range were really impressive. But they were not what could be called forthcoming; off parade they were cheery enough with each other, but within my orbit they fell quiet, stolid and watchful.

As I say, I don’t know what I expected, but I began to feel depressed. There was something missing; they did what they were told smartly—well, fairly smartly; they took no liberties that I noticed. But if they didn’t dislike me they certainly didn’t seem to like me either. Perhaps it was my fault; they were happy enough with Bennet-Bruce and any other company officers who came into contact with them. I envied Macmillan, the subaltern of Ten platoon, who had been in the battalion about six months and abused his platoon good-naturedly one minute and tore strips off them the next; they seemed to get on with him. I wondered if I was the Tiberius type (“let them hate me so long as they fear me”), and concluded I wasn’t; it seemed more likely that the Selection Board who took me out of the ranks had just been wrong.

In the mess things went fairly well until one evening I knocked a pint glass accidentally off the arm of a chair, and a liverish major blasted my clumsiness and observed that there were only about half a dozen of those glasses left. I apologised, red-faced but faintly angry; we looked at each other with mutual dislike, and the trivial incident stuck in my mind. Other things were prickling vaguely, too; my service dress wasn’t a good fit, and I knew it. I suspected (wrongly) that this gave rise to covert amusement and once this tiny seed had taken root I was halfway to seeing myself as a laughing-stock.

This can be a dreadful thing to the young, and not only the young. In no time at all I was positive that my platoon found me faintly ridiculous; occasionally I caught what I thought was a glint of amusement in an eye on parade, or heard a stifled laugh. I would tell myself I just imagined these things, but then the doubts would return.

One morning there was a platoon rifle inspection, and I must have been on the down-swing, because I went on it half-conscious of a resolve to put somebody on a charge for something. This, of course, was a deplorable attitude. I had never charged anyone yet, and I may have felt that I ought to, pour encourager the platoon in general. Anyway, when I came to a rifle in the middle rank that seemed to have dirt in the grooves of the barrel, I nailed its owner.

He was a nondescript man called Leishman, rather older than the others, a quiet enough character. He seemed genuinely shocked when I told him his rifle was dirty, and then I turned to Sergeant Telfer and said, “Put him on a charge.” (Six months later I would have said, “Leishman, did you shave this morning?” And he, dumbfounded, knowing his chin was immaculate, would have said, “Yes, sir. I did, sir.” And I would have said, “Of course you did, and it’s all gone down the barrel of your gun. Clean the thing.” And that would have been that.)

I went off parade feeling vaguely discontented, and ten minutes later, in the company office, Cromack the clerk observed that I had shaken Leishman, no mistake. He said it deadpan, and added that Leishman was presently in the armoury, cleaning his rifle. Puzzled, for I wondered why Cormack should be telling me this, I went off to the armoury.

Sure enough, there was Leishman, pulling the cleaning-cloth through his rifle, and crying. He was literally weeping. I was shocked.

“What’s the matter?” I said, for this was a new one to me.

He snuffled a bit, and wiped his nose, and then it came out. He had been five years in the army, his discharge was coming up in a few weeks, he had never been on a charge in his life before. He was going to have his clean sheet marred almost on the eve of getting out.

“Well, for God’s sake,” I said, relieved more than anything else. “Look, don’t get into a state. It’s all right, we’ll scrub the charge.” I was quite glad to, because I felt a warning would have done. “I’m certainly not going to spoil your record,” I said.

He mumped some more, and pulled his rifle through again.

“Let’s have a look at it,” I said. I looked down the barrel, and it still wasn’t all that good, but what would you? He was obviously badly upset, but he muttered something about thanks, which just made me uncomfortable. I suppose only born leaders don’t find authority embarrassing.

“Forget it,” I said. “Give it another few pulls-through, and keep your eye on it until your ticket comes through. Okay?”

I left him to it, and about ten minutes later I was passing the door of Twelve platoon barrack-room, and heard somebody laughing inside. I just glanced as I went by, and stopped short. It was Leishman, sitting on his bunk at the far end, laughing with a bunch of his mates.

I moved on a few steps. All right, he had made a quick recovery. He was relieved. There was nothing in that. But he had seemed really upset in the armoury, shaken, as Cormack said. Now he was roaring his head off—the quality of the laughter somehow caught the edge of my nerves. I stood undecided, and then wheeled round and shouted:

“Sergeant Telfer!”

He came out of his room. “Yessir?”

“Sergeant Telfer,” I said, “stop that man laughing.”

He gaped at me. “Laughing, sir?”

“Yes, laughing. Tell him to stop it—now.”

“But …” he looked bewildered. “But … he’s just laughin’, sir …”

“I know he’s just laughing. He’s braying his bloody head off. Tell him to stop it.”

“Right, sir.” He obviously thought the sun had got me, but he strode into the barrack-room. Abruptly, Leishman’s laughter stopped, then there was what might have been a smothered chuckle, then silence.

Feeling suicidal, I went back to my billet. Obviously Leishman had thought I was a mug; I should have let the charge stick. Let someone get away with it, even a good soldier, and you have taken some of his virtue away. On the other hand, maybe he had been laughing about something else entirely; in that case, I had been an idiot to give Sergeant Telfer that ridiculous order. Either way, I looked a fool. And my service dress didn’t fit. To hell with it, I would see the Adjutant tomorrow and ask for a posting.

I didn’t, of course. That night in the mess the liverish major, of all people, asked me to partner him in a ludo doubles against the Adjutant and the M.O. (In stations where diversion is limited games like ludo tend to get elevated above their usual status.) In spite of the M.O.’s constant gamesmanship, directed against my partner’s internal condition, we won by one counter in a grandstand finish, and thereafter it was a happy evening. We finished with a sing-song—“Massacre of Macpherson” and “The Lum Hat Wantin’ the Croon”, and other musical gems—and the result was that I went to bed thinking that the world could be worse, after all.

In the morning when I inspected my platoon, Sergeant Telfer did not roll on the ground, helpless with laughter, at the sight of me. If anything, the platoon was smarter and faster than usual; I inspected the rifles, and Leishman’s was gleaming as though he had used Brasso on the barrel, which he quite probably had. I said nothing; there was no hint that the incident of yesterday had ever happened.

On the other hand, there was still no sign of the happy officer-man relationship by which the manual sets such store. We were still at a distance with each other, and so it continued. It didn’t matter whether I criticised or praised, the reception was as wary as ever.

Remembering the C.O.’s advice, I had reached the stage where I knew every man by name, and had picked up a few nicknames as well. Brown, a clueless, lanky Glaswegian, was Daft Bob; Forbes, the villainous-looking footballer, was Heinie (after Heinrich Himmler, it transpired); my own batman, McClusky, was Chick; and Leishman was Soapy. But others I had not yet identified—Pudden, and Jeep, and Darkie, and Hi-Hi; one heard the names shouted along the company corridors and floating through the barrack-room doors—“Jeep’s away for ile^* the day”, which signified that the mysterious Jeep was hors de combat, physically or spiritually; “Darkie’s got a rare hatchet on”, meaning that Darkie was in a bad temper; “yon Heinie’s a wee bramar”, which was the highest sort of compliment, and so on. It was interesting stuff, but it was still rather like studying the sounds of a strange species; I couldn’t claim to be with it.

My own batman, McClusky, reflected the situation. He was a good worker, and my kit was always in excellent condition, but whereas with his mates he was a cheery, rather waggish soul, with me he was as solemn as a Free Kirk elder. He was a round, tousled lad with a happy pug face and a stream of “Glasgow patter” which dried up at the door of my room and thereafter became a series of monosyllabic grunts.

Well, I thought, this is the way it’s going to be, and it could be worse. If I couldn’t like them, yet, I could at least respect them, for they were a good platoon; when Bennet-Bruce held his full-dress monthly inspection for the Colonel, the great man was pleased to say that Twelve platoon’s kit layout was the best in the battalion. It should have been; they had worked hard enough. Having been, for a time at least, in the Indian Army, I had my own ideas about how kit should be laid out; I had taken aside Fletcher, the platoon dandy, and shown him how I thought it should be presented for inspection—if you black the soles of your boots, for example, they look better, and a little square of red and white four-by-two cloth under an oil-bottle and pull-through is smarter than nothing at all. Fletcher had watched me stonily as I went over his kit, but afterwards he had supervised the whole room in laying out their stuff on the same pattern. Our one problem had been what to do with Private McAuslan, the dirtiest soldier in the world; I solved that by sending him into town for the day as guard on the company truck, which had nothing in it anyway. His kit was placed in an out-of-the-way cupboard, his associates affecting to be disgusted by the mere sight of it, and securely locked up.

Anyway, the Colonel limped through, inspecting and approving, and when he had gone and the quiet, involuntary sigh had sounded through the big, white-washed room, I said, “Nice show, sons”. But none of them made any comment, so I left them to it.

About two days later, which was shortly before Christmas, I fell from grace in the mess. There was a mess meeting called, and I forgot about it, and went into town to play snooker at the officers’ club. As a result I got a nasty dig next day from the Adjutant, and was told that I was orderly officer for the whole of next week; normally you do orderly officer only a day at a time.

This was a nuisance, since the orderly officer has to stay in barracks, but the worst of it was that I would miss the great Hogmanay party on New Year’s Eve. To Highlanders, of course, Christmas is a pagan festival which they are perfectly prepared to enjoy as long as no one sees them doing it, but Hogmanay is the night of the year. Then they sing and drink and eat and drink and reminisce and drink, and the New Year comes in in a tartan, whisky-flavoured haze. The regimental police shut up shop, haggis is prepared in quantity, black bun is baked, the padre preaches a sermon reminding everyone that New Year is a time for rededication (“ye can say that again, meenister”, murmurs a voice at the back), and the sergeants extend their annual invitation to the officers.

This is the great event. The Colonel forms the officers up as a platoon, and marches them to the sergeants’ mess, where they are greeted with the singing of “We are Fred Karno’s Army”, or some other appropriate air, and the festivities go on until well into the next morning. The point was that the sergeants’ mess was outside barracks, so as orderly officer I would be unable to attend.

Not that I minded, particularly, but it would be a very silent, sober night in barracks all by myself, and even if you are not a convivial type, when you are in a Scottish regiment you feel very much out of it if you are on your own on Hogmanay. Anyway, there it was; I mounted my guards and inspected my cookhouses during that week, and on December 31 I had had about enough of it. The battalion was on holiday; the Jocks were preparing to invade the town en masse (“there’ll be a rerr terr in the toon the night”, I heard McClusky remarking to one of the other batmen), and promptly at seven o’clock the Colonel marched off the officers, every one dressed in his best, for the sergeants’ mess.

After they had gone, I strolled across the empty parade ground in the dusk, and mooched around the deserted company offices. I decided that the worst bit of it was that every Jock in the battalion knew that the new subaltern was on defaulters, and therefore an object of pity and derision. Having thought this, I promptly rebuked myself for self-pity, and whistled all the way back to my quarters.

I heard Last Post at ten o’clock, watched the first casualty of the night being helped into the cells, saw that the guard were reasonably sober, and returned to my room. There was nothing to do now until about 4 a.m., when I would inspect the picquets, so I climbed into my pyjamas and into bed, setting my alarm clock on the side table. I smoked a little, and read a little, and dozed a little, and from time to time very distant sounds of revelry drifted through the African night. The town would be swinging on its hinges, no doubt.

It must have been about midnight that I heard feet on the gravel outside, and a muttering of voices in the dark. There was a clinking noise which indicated merry-makers, but they were surprisingly quiet considering the occasion. The footsteps came into the building, and up the corridor, and there was a knock on my door.

I switched on the light and opened up. There were five of them, dressed in the best tartans they had put on for Hogmanay. There was McClusky, my batman, Daft Bob Brown, Fletcher of the wooden countenance, Forbes, and Leishman. Brown carried a paper bag which obviously contained bottles, and Forbes had a carton of beer under his arm. For a moment we looked at each other.

“Well,” I said at last. “Hullo.”

Then we looked at each other some more, in silence, while I wondered what this was in aid of, and then I searched for something further to say—the situation was fairly unusual. Finally I said,

“Won’t you come in?”

They filed in, Daft Bob almost dropping the bottles and being rebuked in hideous terms by Fletcher. I closed the door, and said wouldn’t they sit down, and Leishman and Daft Bob sat on my room-mate’s empty bed, Fletcher placed himself on the only chair, and Forbes and McClusky sat on the floor. They looked sidelong at each other.

“Well,” I said. “This is nice.”

There was a pause, and then Fletcher said,

“Uh-huh”.

I thought furiously for something to say. “Er, I thought you were going into the town, McClusky?”

He looked sheepish. “Ach, the toon. Naethin’ doin’. Deid quiet.”

“Wisnae bad, though, at the Blue Heaven,” said Daft Bob. “Some no’ bad jiggin’.” (Dancing, that is.)

“Ach, jiggin’,” said Fletcher contemptuously. “Nae talent in this toon.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, conscious that in these unusual circumstances I was nevertheless the host. “I don’t have anything …”

“… in the hoose,” said Leishman unexpectedly, and we laughed.

“No’ tae worry,” said Fletcher. He slapped Daft Bob sharply on the knee. “C’mon, you. Gie the man a drink.”

“Comin’ up,” said Daft Bob, and produced a bottle of beer from his bag. He held it out to me.

“In the name o’ the wee man,” said Fletcher. “Where the hell were you brought up? Gie ’im a glass, ya mug.”

Daft Bob said, “Ach!” and rummaged for tumblers, McClusky came to his assistance, and Fletcher abused them both, striking them sharply about the knees and wrists. Finally we were all provided for, and Fletcher said,

“Aye, weel, here’s tae us.”

“Wha’s like us?” said McClusky.

“Dam’ few,” said Forbes.

“And they’re a’ deid,” I said, completing the ritual.

“Aw-haw-hey,” said Daft Bob and we drank.

Conversationally, I asked: “What brought you over this way?”

They grinned at each other, and Forbes whistled the bugle call “You can be a defaulter as long as you like as long as you answer your na-a-a-me”. They all chuckled and shook their heads.

I understood. In my own way, I was on defaulters.

“Fill them up, ye creature ye,” said Fletcher to Daft Bob, and this time Daft Bob, producing more glasses from his bag, gave us whisky as well. It occurred to me that the penalty for an officer drinking in his own billet with enlisted men was probably death, or the equivalent, but frankly, if Montgomery himself had appeared in the doorway I couldn’t have cared less.

“They’re fair gaun it up at the sergeants’ mess,” said Forbes. “Ah heard the Adjutant singing ‘Roll me over’.”

“Sair heids the morn,” said McClusky primly.

“The Jeep’ll be away for ile again,” said Leishman.

“The Jeep?” I said.

“Captain Bennet-Bruce,” said Fletcher. “Your mate.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Stoap cuddlin’ that bottle tae yerself as if it wis Wee Willie, the collier’s dyin’ child,” said Fletcher to Daft Bob.

“Ye’d think you’d paid for it,” said Daft Bob, indignantly. “Honest, sir, d’ye hear him? Ah hate him. I do.”

They snarled at each other, happily, and the quiet Forbes shook his head at me as over wayward children. We refilled the glasses, and I handed round cigarettes, and a few minutes later we were refilling them again, and Leishman, tapping his foot on the floor, was starting to hum gently. McClusky, after an anxious glance at me, took it up, and they sang “The Muckin’ o’ Geordie’s Byre”—for Leishman was an Aberdonian, and skilled in that strange tongue.

“That’s a right teuchter song,” said Fletcher, and gave tongue:

As I gaed doon tae Wilson Toon

Ah met wee Geordie Scobie,

Says he tae me “Could ye gang a hauf?”

Says I, “Man, that’s my hobby.”

We came in quietly on the chorus, which is “We’re no awa’ to bide awa’, we’ll aye come back and see ye,” which Scottish soldiers invariably sing after the first two or three drinks, and which the remnants of the regiment had sung as they waited for the end at St Valery. Then we refilled them again, and while Fletcher and Daft Bob wrangled over the distribution, Forbes asked me with casual unconcern how I was liking the battalion. I said I liked it very well, and we talked of this and that, of platoon business and how the Rangers were doing, and the Glasgow police force and the North African weather. And after a few more drinks, in strict sobriety, Fletcher said:

“We’ll have tae be gettin’ along.”

“Not a bit of it,” I said. “It’s not late.”

“Aye, weel,” said Fletcher, “mebbe it’s no’.”

“Aw-haw-hey,” said Daft Bob.

So another half hour passed, and I wondered how I would find out the answers to the questions which could not be asked. Probably I wouldn’t, but it didn’t matter, anyway. Next day, on parade, Fletcher would be looking to his front as stonily as ever, Leishman would have given several extra minutes’ attention to his rifle, I would be addressing Daft Bob severely, and all would be as it had been—except that for some reason they had thought it worth while to come and see me on Hogmanay. Some things you don’t ponder over; you are just glad they happened.

“You gaunae sit boozin’ a’ night?” Fletcher snapped at Daft Bob. “Sup, sup, sup, takin’ it in like a sponge, I’m ashamed o’ ye.”

“Ah’ll no’ be rollin’ in your gutter, Fletcher,” said Daft Bob. “So ye neednae worry. It’s no’ me Mr MacNeill’ll be peggin’ in the mornin’ for no’ bein’ able tae staun up on parade.”

“Peg the baith o’ ye,” said Forbes. “Ye’re aye greetin’ at each other.”

“Sharrup,” said Fletcher. “C’mon, get the bottles packed up. Let the man get tae his bed.”

Daft Bob and McClusky collected the empties, while Fletcher bossed them, and they all straightened their bonnets, and looked at each other again.

“Aye, weel,” said Forbes.

“Well,” I said, and stopped. Some things are impossible to put into words. “Well,” I said again. “It was great to see you. Thank you for coming.”

“Ye’ll be seein’ us again,” said Fletcher.

“Aw-haw-hey,” said Daft Bob.

“Every mornin’, numbered aff by the right, eh, Heinie?” said McClusky.

“That’s the way,” said Forbes.

“Tallest on the right, shortest on the left.”

“Clean, bright, and slightly oiled.”

“We’re the wee boys.”

“Gi’ the ba’ tae the man wi’ glasses.”

“Here’s tae us, wha’s like us?”

“Aw-haw-hey.”

“Ye gaunae staun’ there a’ night, then?” demanded Fletcher.

“Ah’m gaun. Ah’m gaun,” said Daft Bob. “Night, sir. Guid New Year.” They jostled out, saying good-night and a good New Year, and exchanging their incredible slogans.

“Good night,” I said. “Thanks again. Good night, Fletcher. Good night, Forbes. Good night, D— er, Brown. Good night.”

They clattered off up the corridor, and I closed the door. The room was full of cigarette smoke and bar-room smell, the ash-trays were overflowing, and there was a quarter-full bottle of whisky still on the sidetable, forgotten in the packing. I sat on the edge of my bed feeling about twenty feet tall.

Their feet sounded on the gravel, and I heard Daft Bob muttering, and being rebuked, as usual, by Fletcher.

“Sharrup, ye animal.”

“Ah’ll no’ sharrup. Ah’ll better go back an’ get it; it was near half-full.”

“Ach, Chick’ll get it in the mornin’.”

There was a doubt-laden pause, and then Daft Bob: “D’ye think it’ll be there in the mornin’?”

“Ach, for the love o’ the wee wheel!” exclaimed Fletcher. “Are ye worried aboot yer wee bottle? Yer ain, wee totty bottle? Ye boozy bum, ye! D’ye think Darkie’s gaun tae lie there a’ night sookin’ at yer miserable bottle? C’mon, let’s get tae wir kips.”

The sound of their footsteps faded away, and I climbed back into bed. In addition to everything else, I had found out who Darkie was.

^* ile = oil (castor oil).