The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy

by Brian Aldiss

  Stubbs: Action! We aren’t likely to see any action in this man’s army. I thought we were supposed to be invading the Arakan, Sarge, not bashing these bloody stones!

  Aylmer: I expect Delhi have decided it’s better strategy for the Japs to come to us than for us to go and meet the Japs.

  Sgt M: You’d better hear the latest, then. All the landing-craft in this theatre of war have been withdrawn. Mountbatten did what he could, but the Mediterranean theatre had priority over us, and they’ve taken the lot.

  Stubbs: Poor old Fourteenth Army! Bottom of the list again.

  Aylmer: You mean all that training, like, down in Belgaum was for nothing?

  Sgt M: All amphibious vehicles have been withdrawn. That’s how I heard it.

  Stubbs: Jesus Fucking Christ! We might as well pack up and go home!

  Sgt M: You’ll be lucky! They’ll probably send us to Assam instead.

  Aylmer: Assam! That’s even worse than the Arakan! As you probably know, Charley, Assam is the wettest place on Earth. We can’t fight there.

  Sgt M: That’s up to the Japs, isn’t it? If they come in that way, someone’s got to stop ’em. Who better than 8 Bde?

  Aylmer: There’s a place in Assam called Sharapinji where they get over a thousand inches of rain per year. You can’t fight in a climate like that!

  Sgt M: They’ll issue us with umbrellas. Now, get on painting those stones. I want to see that whole lot done before tiffin.

  Painting stones, Aylmer and I were the first to get this official confirmation of a rumour that had been circulating ever since we returned to Kanchapur. We had carried out our amphibious training – and there were no longer any landing craft to land in!

  Unknown to us, horse-trading had been carried out on the highest level. Stalin, Roosevelt, Churchill, and Chiang Kaishek had all been involved, at a Teheran conference and after. Step-by-step, amphibious ops in South-East Asia were cancelled, and the fleets involved returned to England or the Mediterranean. The Fourteenth Army was left committed to an overland war. And the 1st Battalion was committed to a further time-defying seven weeks kicking its heels in Kanchapur, while the lists whirled and fluttered above our heads.

  Twice a week during this waiting period, we used to play football. We had some good games and while they were in progress there was a feeling that something was happening – or at least you forgot that nothing was happening. At right wing, I was one of our goal-scorers.

  When the British first invaded the East, they found to their disgust that the natives were slackers almost to a man and enjoyed no sport except pig-sticking. They introduced among themselves a regime of sport which went on even during a war in which the Japanese sat almost at the gates of India.

  No doubt part of the idea was to sublimate the sex urge; if so, it was unsuccessful.

  I was showering after one game. The usual horseplay was going on, with plenty of towel-flicking. I hated all the ox-like bodies, and bagged the shower at the end of the row, next to Di Jones, who played outside left. Di was his usual quiet self, even after a game of football; he soaped his armpits with an episcopalian air.

  Thrusting his head out of a miniature waterfall, Di asked, ‘You don’t feel like a bit of a bunk-up this evening, Stubby, by any chance?’

  ‘A bit of what?’

  ‘Dipping your wick, man!’

  This was unlike the staid, chapel-going Di I thought I knew. ‘I’m careful where I dip my wick, mate. Got a bit of respect for it.’

  ‘So have I for mine.’ To be honest, Di had only a tiny stub of dick, and very pale and pointed at that, sticking out like an inch of unlit candle from its mat of hair. ‘All the same, I thought I’d give it a bit of an airing like, this evening, along with another mate of mine. I wondered if you’d like to come along. I remember how you got done out of a bunk-up while we was on amphibious ops down in Belgaum.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got to do my blancoing this evening.’

  As I was drying myself, old Di came up again. There was not much point in getting yourself dry; the act of towelling was enough to bring you out in a muck sweat.

  ‘How about it, Horry, lad? You got to break out now and again.’

  ‘What was all that you were telling me about keeping away from Indian women?’

  ‘You got to break out now and again, bach, haven’t you, now? My mate and I’ll take you along and show you the ropes.’

  ‘Oh, you and Taff go on your own. I’ve got to do my blancoing or I’ll be on a thick’un again.’

  ‘It isn’t Taff. It’s a mucker of mine down in M/T. Jock McGuffie. He’s a real cure.’

  Nobody had ever accused Di of being a whoremonger; and there was his manner; he looked too quiet and pious, though he made a good forward. There was also his dick; in an obscure way, I felt it would be demeaning to go out fucking with a chap with a dick like his. Yet there was something in his confident unobtrusive manner, you had to admire: the sort of bod you were proud to associate with, even in a whorehouse.

  As I climbed into my trousers, I said, ‘The bloody bazaar’s swarming with Redcaps, Di. I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  ‘Oh, we shan’t be daft enough to go there! My mucker’s got other ideas. We’ll go off in his truck.’

  That made it sound more exciting. Besides, who knew when there would be another chance?

  ‘You know me, mate – I’m shit or bust! What about Taffy?’

  ‘He’s not coming. He’s afraid his old woman’d find out.’

  ‘What about your old woman, Di?’

  ‘She’ll never find out!’ He winked. ‘She’s too far away.’

  When I had dressed, I marched back to the barrack-room and took my kit down to the yard, to begin blanco operations instead of hitting my charpoy. Di and I agreed to meet down at the M/T office at seven-thirty.

  As I was lugging my harness downstairs, I met old Bamber coming up. He was clutching a wad of mail.

  ‘There’s a couple of letters for you, Horry – something to read while you’re down there bullshitting. I suppose you wouldn’t do my big pack for me while you’re in the mood?’

  ‘Get stuffed!’

  I opened my mail downstairs, after dumping the equipment on a trestle table. Both letters were from my mother.

  Mother wrote amusing letters. She was good at quoting things people said, or telling me stories about neighbours I hardly remembered. She had joined the WVS since I left home, and generally had something funny to tell me which had occurred to her in her canteen. When all else failed, she would fall back on a joke she had heard on a wireless programme, Workers’ Playtime, or Mapleleaf Matinee, or The Jack Benny Show. She told me that Ann had been to a party at the Cleavers’ (whoever they were). She had heard from Nelson in Italy, who had a streaming cold. About herself she only said that she was taking regular afternoon walks; yesterday, she had gone as far as the gravel-pits (I couldn’t visualize them).

  It all left a curious desolation in my breast. For I never wrote to her. I had sent an airgraph when we first arrived at Kanchapur, so that the family would know our convoy had not been sunk on its way to India; since then, I had not been able to write a line.

  At the time, I could not decide whether this was to be reckoned a sad failure or a sure sign of an evil nature. I began by being genuinely unable to convey my impressions about India, and the Army tradition encouraged my weaknesses, for youngsters who never wrote home were regarded as ‘dogs’, whereas lads like Jackie Tertis, who were forever writing home, were regarded as soft.

  So every letter from my mother made me feel bad. Sometimes she reproached me, and then I was full of grief and resentment; but when she wrote – as now – without a word of reproach, the effect was worse, for I had to suffer self-reproach.

  ‘Oh Christ, I mustn’t be such a bad bastard,’ I told myself as I bent over the blanco, in a sudden reversion to childhood patterns of thought induced by the letters I had rammed guiltily into my pocket. ‘Whatever would Mum think of m
e? I mustn’t go out on the bash tonight, I really mustn’t …’

  The dreaded Rusk slouched by, with his mate Locke, a villainous fellow with broken brown teeth, heading for the cookhouse.

  ‘Going to dish up some more soya-links, Rusk?’ I called.

  ‘Bull-shitting again, Stubbs? After getting them stripes back again, then? You want to get some service in first, don’t he, George?’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be down the cinema getting a basinful of Betty Grable tonight, Stubby?’ Locke called. They were still dragging towards the cookhouse, not looking back as they spoke.

  ‘You know what you can do with Betty Grable, Locke!’

  ‘After you with Betty Grable!’

  ‘You lads can have her. I’m off out on the nest myself, this evening.’

  That did make Rusk look back. ‘Dirty bastard!’ he called approvingly.

  Why did I, I asked myself, why did I have to try and impress horrible shits like the cooks? There was a weak and wicked streak in my nature. Supposing I caught a dose of the pox this evening? That meant the old Umbrella Treatment, terrifying accounts of which circulated in the Mendips. And they stamped the word ‘Syphilis’ on your discharge papers, so that all future employers were warned about you, or so Aylmer claimed. Still, I had a long while left to serve – I could not expect to hang on to my virginity for seven-and-five, could I?

  And it was not just a good shag I needed. It was romance. It was, as I once heard an old soldier poetically express it, getting to know the heart of a country through the eye in your knob. ‘The unknown She’ – that was what I wanted; an insight into the whole strange alluring-repugnant charge of India.

  That face came back to me, staring at me through iron bars. The burning body, the twot like sucked marzipan, the dark melting eyes, the straight nose, the small mouth, the expression – of what? Of longing? Somewhere there must be a woman whose longings corresponded to mine. Perhaps she could be found, that unknown She, even within the confines of a knocking shop.

  With similar hopeful thoughts, accompanied by a slight stirring in the trousers in the region of my field-dressing pocket, I trooped down to the M/T section at 1930 hours.

  Di Jones was already there. The area was deserted, the offices and garages all closed, the five-tonners standing in an immaculate line, spaced equidistant apart on the concrete – except for one lorry, which had its engine running. A small sandy-haired Scot, whom I knew as Jock McGuffie, was angrily polishing up its headlights with a cloth and carrying on a monologue which my arrival did not deflect in any way.

  ‘Well, I see you’re all togged up, Stubby-lad!’ exclaimed Di, patting me jovially on the shoulder. ‘It’s really snazzy you look!’

  ‘—so anyhow, I said to him, “Look, Corporal Fucking Warren,” I said, “when I’m off duty, I’m off duty, whether you may happen to like it or not, and what I do when I’m off duty happens to be my own fucking business”, I told him. He looked at me as if he was fair fit to explode! “See these fucking tapes”, he says, pointing to his stripes, “What do you think they are, birdshit?” he says. “Any more lip from you,” he says, “and I’ll have you up at the company duftah so bloody fast your feet won’t touch,” he says. Aye, he was fair flaming mad! So I says to him, “Oh, we’ll see about that,” I says. “It’s no good you pulling your rank at me,” I says. “I’ve been on the mat more times than you’ve had NAAFI suppers, and if you think I’m whitewashing fucking stones at four-thirty in the afternoon for you,” I says, “then you’ve got another think coming!” I told him.’

  While this monologue and more was in progress, and the lights of the vehicle were gleaming ever more brightly, I was standing about with some embarrassment. Di was listening in a relaxed way. I grew impatient, wishing he would introduce me to McGuffie, to whom I had never spoken; but in the ranks all are reckoned to be buddies, and there are no introductions. The annoying thing was that this buddy seemed not to have noticed me.

  Eventually, Jock interrupted his own monologue, with a grudging ‘Och, we’d better be on the move if we’re going to move!’, and we climbed up into the cab with him.

  It appeared that he had had an extensive argument with the unlucky Corporal Fucking Warren, triumphing in point after conversational point. Between his verbatim reports on this, he informed us that we were going to Indore, officially to deliver something he called Furniture, office, desk one, clerks for the use of.

  ‘We’ll have a bit of a booze, Di, and then drop in on this knocking shop, okay? So this other bloke comes up and just stands there sort of looking like, so I puts my brush down and I says to him, “And what are you fucking staring at, mate?” I asks. “Have you no’ seen a man on fucking jankers before?” So he gets all nasty then. “I’ve done more jankers than you’ve seen pay-parades,” he says. “Then you can do my fucking jankers for me,” I tells him, “if you’re so fucking keen!” …’

  I rolled the window down and we moved through the barrier at the gate, where McGuffie had shown his pass without breaking the flow of his discourse. All about us was India, as ever tangible as a warm breath on the cheek, its electric forces such that the voluptuous evening sky flickered constantly. What a mystery! And somewhere ahead, in some filthy dodgey little building was a young girl – sold into prostitution by her impoverished parents – who would recognize me and come lovingly into my arms. If the eloquent McGuffie did this run regularly, I could visit her regularly. How much could I afford a week out of my beggarly pay?

  Di nudged me. ‘Wake up, Stubby! Jock’s asking you if you’re much of a boozer?’

  ‘I’m looking forward to getting at the bibis,’ I told him.

  ‘Are you now? Well, we’re going to have a wee drink first, if it’s all the same to you, seeing as this is my excursion!’

  ‘Good.’ I had to make myself agreeable. ‘I could do with a beer.’

  ‘Could you now? You’ll no’ be buying the first round, I suppose?’

  ‘Thik-hai. I don’t mind buying the first round.’

  ‘Och, well, you may have t’ buy all the fucking rounds, laddie, for I haven’ an anna till pay-day!’ Struck by the humour of this, McGuffie roared with laughter and we nearly ran down a couple of Wogs by the roadside. Fortunately, they were young and agile. Di also was laughing, which seemed unnecessary.

  ‘How are you going to pay for your bibi, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, they’ll let old Jock McGuffie in for free – he’s only got a wee one!’ He and Di Jones bellowed with laughter again. This time I joined in too; any man who could make jokes about the smallness of his tool was obviously a real humourist.

  ‘Indeed, the terrible fellow has a weapon on him like a cucumber,’ Di said, still laughing.

  ‘How much do you reckon they’ll charge, Di?’ I asked. ‘Will it be more than five chips?’

  ‘Will you stop worrying, sonny? Och, with the three of us going in together, they’ll let us have it wholesale!’ More laughter.

  Through the window, the lights of Indore shone ahead: dull, sullen, guttering lights, just as I had hoped. We bumped through the ghastly outskirts, where a small market was being held. Figures were everywhere, adults interwoven with fast-moving lads; faces with bright eyes, lit by solitary oil-lamps, to be distinguished behind counters or piles of fruit. As always, there was music and stink – the basic senses were never segregated in United Provinces. I hung out of the window, intoxicated by it all. There were cows ambling about the paths or jostling between stalls, ancestral motorcars trundling beside us, and men in topees, though starlight was upon us. We passed an enormous factory – ‘Cotton,’ Di Jones said, wisely – and I glimpsed dozens of men parading under a corrugated-iron roof, picked out by floodlights. Then we were moving between blocks of flats, and could see how they teemed with life on every storey. What sort of incredible life could go on in there?! As if asking themselves the same question, huge pink faces of film stars glared down at us from above a cinema, their features picked out in green and mauv
e. With a shock, I recognized they were intended to be Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake, viewed through the distorting waters of Hindu culture.

  It was impossible to decide where the centre of an Indian town was. There was no centre. We stopped at a non-centre and were instantly surrounded by beggars. Jock McGuffie jumped to the ground.

  ‘Fuck off out of here, you ragged-arsed heathens! Get fucking weaving the lot o’ ye, before I get a machine-gun to you and do for you once for all!’

  We climbed down, and I asked (Oh God, we were nearly there!) nervously, ‘Are you going to deliver the office desk, Jock?’

  ‘Deliver the office desk? Eh, Di, you’ve got a right one here and no mistake! Deliver the office desk, is it? Look, sonny, I’m no’ delivering any fucking desk for you nor anybody in my free time, I’m telling you! I stop work at four, sharp, I do, war or no war, sonny boy, and that’s your lot—’

  ‘Okay, okay, I just thought that’s why we came to Indore—’

  ‘Did you, now? Well, it wasna what I came to Indore for, I can tell you that for free, eh, Di?’

  ‘I came for a beer,’ Di said, adding, ‘Stubby’s a good old boy-o, it’s just he didn’t grasp like that the desk was what you might call an official pretext.’

  ‘That bloody desk stays in my gharri until I say otherwise,’ Jock said savagely. He grabbed one of the Indians standing about and told him to guard the lorry until we returned. The chap was very dark and shining, with yellow eyes, and sores all down one leg. He smiled tolerantly.

  ‘How much you give me, sahib?’

  ‘We’ll give you five rupees between us, Johnny, thik-hai? Five rupees, paunch rupee. Malum? You guard it proper, Johnny. What’s your name?’

  ‘Ali, sahib.’

  ‘Och, you’re all called fucking Ali! No’ a fucking Donald among you! Can’t you think of any other bastarding name to call yourselves but Ali? What’s your other name? Tumhara nahm kia hai?’

  ‘Baraf, sahib.’ The man giggled, and the crowd giggled in sympathy. Jock silenced them with a look.