Soldiers

by Tom Remiger

  At the edge of his collar were traces of whitewash; the field ambulance must have decided he was a mustard-gas casualty in one of the exercises. It was a bastard of a job to get the stuff off, Breen had been told, once they slathered it on your supposedly burnt skin. That would have been yesterday’s fun.

  ‘What a balls-up,’ Morrie said. He began to play with a pipe.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Breen.

  The other man was Bert Porter, the press correspondent, an old figure from the Sun. He was famous for his sententious prose, his yellow moustache and bilious eye. He wasn’t one of them. Porter tried to look appropriately eager. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘A court martial day before yesterday. Nothing big. You won’t be able to use it. One of old Bosky’s lads shot himself in the leg: the usual story. He’s engaged to be married next week to some English girl; he hears some rumours that we’re going overseas. So he pops one into his calf. He’d be no bloody good anyway, when it came down to it.’

  ‘Tavendale,’ said Breen. ‘We got him off. I argued for an accident. Mishandling his weapon. Morrie dug up an old bat of a Canadian. He was a beauty. The worst witness I’ve ever seen.’

  Now Breen’s blunt face shone out. The cynicism he could not quite accept seemed to be leaving him. He liked to imitate, and he liked the rough justice of courts martial. ‘A fair shake for every man,’ as the president of the court had said.

  ‘The prisoner might have done so deliberately,’ said Breen in imitation, ‘but if what he tells me about his practice in handling his weapon is true, as I see no reason to doubt, then all I can say is—some long-winded pap. The man loved an audience.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Another bloody rigmarole. Prisoner dismissed; see you all same time next week.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘I’m getting a beer. Or seven. You right?’

  ‘We’re right.’ Porter leaned back in his chair.

  ‘At least we got him off.’ Morrie drew a circle in some spilt beer with his finger.

  The beer was easy drinking. Breen could imagine jugs of it sitting on the bench after a summer harvest. There was even a slight smell of hay or cut grass to it. They drank it quickly, so that each jug was almost gone soon after it arrived. Then the dregs hung about until the barmaid cleared them away. She seemed each time to be about to ask them something.

  ‘It’ll be easier to get stuff for it, when we get into it,’ said Morrie. ‘That’s why.’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘The pipe. You must have wondered.’

  More people arrived. The level of Breen’s glass kept diminishing, the light catching the swaying meniscus.

  ‘You should write about promotions,’ he said to Porter.

  Morrie smiled. ‘A topic of universal interest.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You could do it in half an hour.’

  Breen adopted a radio voice. He had done one imitation and now he wanted to do another. ‘It was doubtless right that the initial officers of the expeditionary force be men who have seen war; but the duty of these old warhorses is done. Let them go proudly back to pasture—’

  ‘Or to the dog-food factory,’ said Morrie.

  ‘—they have done well at bringing the young men up to standard, but modern war—total war—is a young man’s game.’

  ‘No one wants to read that,’ said Porter.

  ‘Go on,’ said Morrie. ‘Stir up a bit of a fuss.’

  ‘The censors won’t want it and the readers won’t want it. The one bloody thing they’d agree on.’

  ‘Make your name, Bert.’

  ‘Bugger off. Why do you care, anyway?’

  ‘She’ll be different this time around.’

  ‘Calm yourself down.’ Breen tried to change the subject. ‘D’you know the barman here, he asked me if Pelorus Jack was still in operation?’

  Breen wasn’t sure how much he and Morrie were joking with Porter. It was easy to mock him.

  But both of them felt a nagging worry. Doubting oneself was one thing, but the Anzacs had grown old and fussy. Breen didn’t quite want to be under their command at the worst. And the exercises hadn’t been going well. A fumbling through hedges, little lost bundles of men from other battalions turning up in unexpected places. He was afraid.

  Drinking beer without food was going to his head. He felt momentarily disconnected, not dizzy but light, as he watched Morrie’s lips move and agreed with what he was saying. He looked around to see who else had arrived.

  Tiger saw him and came over. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Elaine.’

  ‘Who’s Elaine?’

  ‘You know. Elaine.’

  Breen didn’t have a clue, but the barmaid was already coming towards them. ‘You’re a sly one,’ he said.

  ‘She’s a nice girl. Her father only owns the place.’

  ‘I didn’t say she wasn’t a nice girl. But what would your mother say?’ Breen felt stupid as soon as he’d said it. He covered up his embarrassment with an attack. ‘And, come to that, Anne?’

  ‘She’s got nothing to do with Anne.’

  Tiger had all the scorn a few years difference in age could give him, and he moved to intercept the girl and steer her away.

  Breen muttered ‘Sorry’ as he went. He felt like a priest.

  ‘The lad’s all right,’ said Morrie. ‘I have a lot of time for him. Best not tell anyone, though.’

  ‘I’m not like that. Why shouldn’t he think he’s in love with a barmaid? On his own time. He really does, you know. He’s forgotten Anne just like that.’ He wanted to snap his fingers, but that would be too much.

  ‘I went to a school,’ said Morrie, ‘where all they taught you was how to eat your lunch. We were pretty isolated, you see, on the farm.’ There was regret in his words. It reminded Breen of the oily swirl of gin in tonic; of, oddly enough, the captain. ‘Come outside for a bit.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Breen, wanting to be out in the cooler air, sitting in one of the verandah’s sagging wicker chairs in the slight dew. There was a roar of sound from the dartboard as they went. Porter followed them; he offered both a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t actually like the pipe yet,’ said Morrie as he accepted. He shoved his pipe roughly into a pocket, bent over a flare of light from a match. His face, cast into light and shadow, seemed younger.

  ‘Thing is’—he stopped to watch the smoke coiling up into the dark—‘there was a teacher at my school. This was up the booay somewhere, doesn’t matter much where. He was pleasant. A good fellow, you know. St Kent’s, the works. He knew what he was about. And we all liked him. We were rough on him, like kids are. But he tried. He played up to the game. And then, after six months of it, he shot himself…Have a bit.’

  He offered the wine bottle. Breen took it.

  ‘He was always very well dressed. His skin shone in the mornings, he shaved so well. I remember that. Like Sinclair. Not like you, though.’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ Breen said, ‘trying to keep order jammed in among thirty or more men you don’t know from Adam.’ He paused, and drank deeply. ‘We’ve got to be kind to one another, I mean.’

  ‘It works both ways,’ said Morrie.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Breen. He was watching the smoke curl up as well. He had realised, a little bit later than he should have done, that Morrie was quite drunk.

  ‘Did you hear the bish’s sermon?’ asked Morrie. ‘No, of course you didn’t. He’s a strange one. Perhaps it’s our duty to give the Germans hell, but when the bayonet goes in we should say “May God have mercy on his soul.” Also, swearing is like firing blank ammunition: it fouls the barrel.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  There was a silence, a companionable one. Captain Sinclair was coming up the path to the pub; the sound of his boots was somehow sinister. He smiled at them like a politician. />
  Their cigarettes were finished and they turned to flank him through the door like bodyguards.

  Straight-backed and determined Tiger was walking up to the colonel.

  ‘Fuck watching this,’ said Breen, and went back outside again. The captain kept moving forward, slower now, as if he were turning into an old man. Granny was emerging from a knot of Englishmen to do the same. They would stand by their boy.

  3

  Tiger and Bluey and Breen were standing for a last durrie, out of the heat of the pub, before they would walk back under the bright stars to the farmhouse. Tiger was no longer ashamed. He had made his great declaration about Elaine; the colonel had kept quiet but planned to have a chat with him in the morning. The captain had steered the colonel into a corner where they huddled over a potted plant. No one knew their plans.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tiger.

  ‘Thanks?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have told the old man if you hadn’t driven me to it. Though it turns out he knew anyway. You wouldn’t credit it.’

  ‘Righto.’ This was drunken logic, perhaps showing more of Tiger’s character than his sober self did. In the morning, thought Breen, he won’t feel like that anymore. He wondered what Bluey made of it all. He had been a Monday-to-Friday schoolteacher, rugby on the weekends, but handling the fourth-formers was similar enough to handling a platoon to be just a little embarrassing.

  There was a spill of light from the door behind them. A figure emerged, a big man. Breen had only an impression of his clothes, his body, and his stance. He was a hulking shadow against the light.

  ‘Corporal,’ said Tiger without much enthusiasm, and the man came over.

  Breen waited for him to speak: one of Tiger’s. Dan Cousins.

  ‘Sir,’ said Cousins, clear and proud.

  ‘Having a good night? Good man.’ Tiger didn’t know how to respond any further.

  The other two had stopped while Tiger talked. Now Tiger returned to them.

  ‘I don’t see why other ranks were invited.’ He didn’t seem disdainful and he didn’t mean to be overheard, but he had to let his emotion out somehow.

  ‘He’s from Winton as well, isn’t he?’ One of Breen’s fascinations was tracking all the intricate ways the battalion’s soldiers were linked to one another. The South Island; males aged twenty-one to thirty-five, unless they’d fudged the ages a bit. In his own platoon, one of the privates had been the most popular boy in his primary school. His unflappable sergeant Gibson had leased the farm down the road from his uncle.

  ‘He grew up in Winton, at least,’ said Tiger. ‘I think he enlisted from the railways.’

  ‘So Granny will have known him before the war.’

  ‘We’ve got a position to keep up, that’s all.’

  ‘Mate,’ said Bluey, ‘you’re sounding like your man the colonel.’

  ‘I suppose I am. The man’s a nuisance to me, that’s all.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s not that he’s disobedient. And he’s no more of a rule breaker than anyone else. It’s just…he doesn’t take things seriously. He’ll tell me his section’s somewhere it’s not on an exercise, just for a lark. He’ll aim badly on the range, then when I pull him up on it shoot as clean as you like. I know we’re only pretending, but—I wish he’d pretend better, that’s all. Doubtless he’ll come right when we get into it.’

  There was a muffled sound of voices behind them, then the sound of a loud and stinging slap.

  They turned together.

  Elaine and Cousins were standing like figures in a tableau, two shadows in the half-dark. Tiger kept himself under control. You could see his emotion only in the way he leaned forward slightly; normally he stood painfully straight, so that he looked even more like a soldier.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ said Elaine to Tiger, ignoring everyone else. ‘So I thought I would follow you.’ Bluey and Breen hung back. They could see Cousins’ pale face looking at them, wondering what was about to happen.

  ‘She’s right,’ said Tiger, soothingly. There was the glint of something in his eye. Breen realised that his fears had been misplaced. Tiger looked like he was about to laugh.

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ said Cousins.

  ‘Get out of here,’ said Tiger, not unkindly. There was a silence.

  ‘Why should I do that, now?’

  Breen felt Bluey tense beside him.

  ‘Because I said so.’ Tiger’s voice had gone a little higher. You forgot that he was only a boy.

  ‘That’s not much of a reason,’ said Cousins slowly. His arms were no longer as loosely by his sides.

  ‘Tiger,’ said Bluey. ‘That drink’s waiting for us. Cousins. You’ve had a few. Let’s forget it all.’

  Tiger and Cousins both looked like they were about to say something. Breen stood still. Bluey was glancing towards the doorway of the pub.

  Elaine said, ‘For Christ’s sake.’ She walked past Tiger, away from Cousins, to where Breen and Bluey were standing. Cousins shambled away into the night.

  ‘You’re all right?’ Elaine was well in control of herself, it seemed to Breen, but it was as well to ask.

  ‘Nothing I haven’t had to deal with before,’ she said. ‘A fine lot you are.’

  ‘Not all of us,’ said Breen.

  ‘Surely,’ she said.

  The laugh that had been bubbling within Tiger emerged, loud enough to perhaps be heard by Cousins’ retreating back. ‘Do you see what I mean?’

  Bluey and Breen looked at each other with a studied blankness. They had to be tolerant of one another’s strange reactions. Breen felt like he had stolen someone else’s uniform. A reproving sergeant’s voice continued to sound from his training days: when other ranks salute you, sir, they salute the uniform and not the man. No one knew what it all meant.

  ‘If he has to try his luck with a girl,’ said Tiger, ‘he tries his luck on the lieutenant’s girl. The man’s a menace.’

  Elaine smiled weakly.

  ‘We should be going,’ said Bluey, then, in an undertone, ‘The lieutenant’s other girl.’

  ‘I’ll catch you up,’ said Tiger. He and Elaine were looking at one another now.

  Tiger caught up to them ten minutes later, breathing hard. The stars were bright, sometimes obscured by wispy cloud. ‘There’s a rumour going around my platoon,’ Tiger said, ‘that we’re lying to them about using live ammunition for the exercise tomorrow. It’ll only be blanks for safety’s sake.’

  ‘It’s funny the way they choose to believe whatever makes them comfortable,’ said Breen. ‘The way we choose whatever makes us feel more comfortable, I should say. They’ve got enough to worry about. Let them believe they’re blanks if it helps.’

  ‘So long as some daft bugger doesn’t stick his head up to check,’ said Bluey.

  ‘We’ll just be sure to remind them beforehand,’ said Tiger. ‘She’ll be right.’

  The door of the stables was bolted, but there was a candle shining, in defiance of the blackout, on an uncurtained windowsill.

  Bluey hit at the door with surprising passion. ‘Open up! ARP.’

  ‘Sounding like God’s own? Bugger off and come back at an hour for decent men.’ Not for the first time, Breen recognised something Presbyterian in Baxter’s diction.

  ‘You might want to open the door,’ said Tiger in his distinctive voice. He sounded sober, and amused with it.

  There was a sound of whispering.

  ‘Best come in,’ said Moohan, Breen’s batman.

  ‘Gidday,’ said Tiger.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Corporal Newman in the corner.

  The mental wall was showing in all their faces. God knew how you dealt with this sort of thing.

  ‘Well,’ said Breen. ‘Don’t let us keep you. On with your game.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a drink,’ said Newman.

  ‘We’ve had a bit already.’

  ‘We’ll have a go at the bottle,’ said Bluey.

&nbs
p; ‘Granny’s do any good?’

  ‘Seen worse.’

  They were round the table, Moohan, Baxter and Howe, their three batmen. Newman was always about when there was a drink going. This time, it was Canadian whisky. Baxter was fussing about with some dirty glasses.

  There was a contrast between the slender-backed chairs, the solid table, the rough stone floor. There was the sugary smell of alcohol. Cards were laid down in hands across the table. Lieutenant Breen tipped his head back. The room spun around him. It felt good. He wanted to tell everyone else to try it. It was like skipping forward in the evening’s drinking. When he lifted his head again it was as if he was coming out of deep water into sober air.

  ‘What’s the game?’ asked Tiger.

  ‘Five hundred, and we were losing. Give it a burl?’

  ‘I was on my way out,’ said Baxter. ‘I’ve never been much of a card player.’

  ‘I’ve to sleep,’ said Tiger.

  ‘Go on, then.’ Bluey looked relaxed.

  ‘Do you mind waiting it out, sir?’

  Breen didn’t mind. The world was swaying. He remembered the nickname that attached itself to him for a few months at varsity: Bosky Breen. God knew how Morrie had picked it up, but now the whole company used it. Somehow everyone knew you. Parkinson had been at school with him, so Breen had to make him one of his corporals.

  ‘Have a sit down. You look done in.’ Newman’s solicitude seemed mocking. He was speaking like Breen’s mother. Breen pulled at a chair. Howe pushed a glass into his hand. He accepted all this in silence.

  The cards on the table were swept into a greasy pack. Newman started to shuffle it with disconcerting skill. Moohan stayed silent and Howe smiled. Newman began to lay the cards out. The order echoed in Breen’s mind: three and one to kitty and four and one to kitty and three and one to kitty. He remembered huts and university, a girl scowling across a table.

  ‘Six, no trumps.’

  ‘Seven spades.’

  ‘Seven diamonds.’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Only when you lose the trick, I say.’

  ‘Have it, then.’

  He was drunk, but there was more to it than that. It was a cold night. There was an itch of sex inside him, a tremor in his fingers he couldn’t shake and a muscle beneath his eye moving like a worm. ‘I’m going for a piss,’ he said.