by Brian Aldiss
‘So the men refused duty as laid down. Have you anything to add to that, Sgt Mercer?’ He asked the question mildly, putting his head to one side like a family doctor prepared to listen to any description of any symptom, however revolting.
Mercer stood rigidly at attention as he spoke. ‘The men would not budge from their charpoys, sah. When not descending to the level of common abuse, such as telling Cpl Kyle to get knotted, sah, their argument ran that they saw no point in the proposed agricultural activity. Sah.’
Johnny loved to parody the military manner.
‘The whole point of the proposed agricultural activity, Sgt Mercer,’ said Jhamboo suavely, ‘is that we can become a little independent of the hostile local community by growing a vegetable crop for ourselves. Do you personally like fresh potatoes, Sgt Mercer?’
‘Sah. Particularly with a little butter, sah. But, begging your pardon, sah, my culinary tastes don’t enter the issue at hand. The gist of the argument as presented by the BORS, sah, in among their epithets to Cpl Kyle here, was that, supposing the field was dug and the potatoes planted, 26 Div would have evacuated Sumatra before the aforesaid root crop was ripe enough to benefit the military cuisine. In other words, sah, they claimed that digging that field would benefit the Indonesians and not the troops. Hard to produce a counter argument to that, sah.’
Jhamboo looked as if he agreed with every word that had been said, and was prepared to agree with many more; but he said, ‘Unfortunately orders are issued from GHQ as instructions to be carried out and not as arguments to be discussed. Similarly, your duty was to implement those instructions, and not play any socratic role.’
Kyle stuck his nose forward at this and said, ‘With respect, sir, I can’t think that remark really represents your private views. I’m sure you feel as I do that wrong orders have in this instance been issued. It is an injustice that the British Army should be here at all, suppressing the freedom of Indonesians, as you, sir, as an Indian, must be aware; so it must be unjust that we should dig fields which probably belong by rights to Indonesian farmers.’
‘I see.’ Jhamboo’s face betrayed nothing. He lit a De Reszke, never removing his gaze from Kyle. Then he said, softly, ‘I will not listen to criticism of the British Army from a conscript. In any case, such policies have nothing to do with us as soldiers. We are discussing an order that has been defied and what we should do about it.’ He stubbed out his newly lit cigarette.
‘The war is over, sir, we should be trying to build the peace.’
‘Corporal, 26 Indian Division is unfortunately on Active Service. For us, we have a war. It is difficult to command if nobody obeys … Impossible, to be frank.’
Kyle ignored these remarks.
‘If we went to the GOC, sir, and complained of flagrant injustice, all the lads would be behind you, believe me.’
That was too much for me. As Kyle spoke, I saw terrible anger flash in Jhamboo’s eye, then his countenance was again lamb-like. For one second some ghastly bloody-minded ancestor had been glimpsed, swinging a two-bladed battle-axe.
I said, ‘What Kyle is saying is beside the point, not to mention a right load of nonsense. An army exists by following orders even if it thinks them idiotic. That’s how we won the Great War and the war against the Japs and –’
Kyle interrupted. ‘And look at the millions who got killed obeying fool orders issued by stupid generals. It’s more courageous to defy an order you know is nonsense – like this rubbish about planting potatoes.’
‘Don’t you talk to me about courage, Cpl Kyle. What do you think these medals are? NAAFI fruitcake?’ I thumped my chest before turning to Jhamboo. ‘There’s no problem here, sir. The only problem is that you’re stuck with a corporal who can’t or won’t give orders. You heard what he said – he went into “O” Section billets and he asked the men reasonably to turn out. Of course they told him to piss off. I guarantee that if you give me the job, I’ll have ’em on parade and digging away, tomorrow at sunrise.’
Jhamboo gave me a straight look and said, ‘Tomorrow is Saturday, Sergeant. In any case, remember that you are excused all duties, as you were telling me.’
There was a sort of silence while we looked at each other. Jhamboo got up and paced a bit behind his desk. He took another cigarette from his silver case, selecting and lighting it with care.
Johnny said, ‘Permission to ask a question, sah. I gather that it is pukka that 26 Div will pull out of Sumatra and return to India in September?’
‘The GOC wants the field dug this month, not in September,’ Jhamboo said curtly.
‘Would you like me to get up a petition among the lads, sir?’ asked Kyle. ‘They’ll all sign if I ask them to. We feel that you are being victimised, too, having to enforce such a silly order. This is a test case, as I see it.’
Jhamboo smoked rather heavily but said nothing, so I spoke.
‘Sir, with respect, would you like me to fetch RSM Payne? What we have here is a case of mutiny on our hands. Clear infraction of army regulations.’
Jhamboo gave me a tender smile, as of bride to groom.
‘When I require the presence of the RSM, I will summon him by my orderly.’ He thought for a moment, pacing, then went and sat down again. He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘All right. I do not wish this matter to go any further for the present. You three NCOS will not speak to anyone else about it. In particular, Cpl Kyle, you are not to discuss the matter with the men, you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Please do not simply say, “Yes, sir”. Also obey my order. There are still such things as orders, even in a peacetime army. Now you may dismiss. No digging parade tomorrow, being Saturday. I will have the weekend to consider the matter. I want you to keep silence until I speak to you again. What is it, Cpl Kyle?’
Kyle leant forward in his anxiety, resting one hand on Jhamboo’s desk. ‘If I might just make a general point about the overall situation, sir. I would like to offer my personal sympathy for your own particular predicament. As I see it, the British invasion of Sumatra and Java is a rank example of imperialism. This being a predominantly Muslim country, and you, sir, being also of the Muslim persuasion, it must place you in a painful conflict –’
Dropping his cigarette and clutching the edge of his desk until you waited for it to splinter, Jhamboo rose two inches off his chair. From his face, the lamb had fled; the butcher took over. The docile nose became a hawk’s bill. Those lambent eyes blazed like overflowing cesspits. Spirits of rapine and slaughter, which caused the Indian sub-continent to sink knee-deep in blood every century, came galloping out of that trim, tensed figure.
‘Cpl Kyle, you boned fathead, you may dismiss.’
‘Sir, I only –’ But even Kyle’s unctuous heart quailed at the spectacle before him. He clicked his heels and marched out with all the military precision of a pox doctor’s clerk. Johnny Mercer followed him. Jhamboo motioned me to stay behind. When the door slammed shut, we confronted each other.
Jhamboo came out from behind his desk and paced about a bit, still in a tremendous state.
‘What kind of a bloody fornicating pacifistical bugger is this foolish corporal?’ Jhamboo demanded, waving a fist above his head as he paraded. ‘How dare that turd-devouring cocksucker question me about my religion?’
To my astonishment, I found myself blushing. There was a faint insane hope that my deep tan would hide the colour, but my cheeks were bursting with heat. Never had I heard such language from Jhamboo or any other Indian Officer, before.
He was still on the march, smiting his skull with a clenched fist as he went. ‘I tell you, sergeant, if I was a cursing man I would bloody jolly soon say what I thought of such crawling arsehole-creeping vaginaphobes. Jesus Christ Almighty – excuse me – what sort of a pisspoor ninny is that man? Where did he crawl out from? Which arse-crack? More to the point …’ He steadied himself before me, still blazing away, so that I drew myself up to full attention, partly to avoid the rich a
romas of vindaloo and De Reszke cigarettes on his breath. ‘More to the point, how do such men come to serve in non-commissioned rank in a once-great army, answer me that if you will.’
‘I understand his family comes from Tonbridge Wells, sir.’
Jhamboo smote his palm with his fist. ‘That is not sufficient explanation. The British Empire is going to the matrimonial old hounds – no backbone any more! I was at Sandhurst, let me tell you, Sgt Stubbs, and in my day any little conjugal toffee-apple-nosed socialist bastards like Kyle would have had their scrotums removed with a blunt instrument. I weep. I weep.’ Indeed, real tears stood in his eyes.
‘What has happened in your country, who can tell it? My private theory is that the death of George V caused the setting-in of the rot. He was a fine man, soldier, fox-hunter, a real monarch, married to a proud queen. Since then, a decadent excrement, Edward VIII, running away with that poxed-up American bitch, Mrs Simpson – it clearly spelt the end of any stable system of fealty, and the loss of respect near and far.’ Overcome by emotion, he steadied himself by clutching the desk.
‘How can you capture – now, I ask you – how can you capture the loyalty of your Indian subjects if your king is intercoursing the orifice off some Yankee cow all the way about Europe? You may think inwardly that I am just one more picturesque Wog, Sergeant – you may, you may – but I have been on leave all round Europe, yes, all round it, even including the Black Forest, in Germany, and it is simply a despicable place, not so beautiful as Britain, and totally without respects for morals. I could tell you some hair-rousing anecdotes about what happened to me in Europe …’
He fished out his cigarette case, thrusting fags between my lips and his own. He lit them with his gold lighter, his hand trembling.
‘I speak as one who has uncontrollably good friends in Hampstead Heath, Sergeant. Well, well, that’s all over now. Good days are over. I have no optimism, none, none. The British Empire is finish, and I suppose it is for the best.’ He patted my arm clumsily. ‘You cannot know what a man of sensibilities like me feels, Sergeant. Split apart absolutely, top to stern. My life finish, and my career. What will India be, alone, after all? … Well, bugger that, and please excuse my outbreak of cursing, but really that familiar lick-spittle little left-wing mastorbationer of a corporal, to lecture me about my religion …’
‘Sir, if I might suggest it, despite the regrettable antics of Edward VIII, we have on our hands a case of mutiny. Cpl Kyle has refused to carry out an order. He should be placed immediately under close arrest, pending further proceedings. Otherwise his sort of attitude will spread, sir.’
Retreating behind his desk, Jhamboo looked out of the window at the weary plane trees, smoking furiously as he did so. Then he turned back to me, giving no sign of having heard what I said.
‘Sergeant, I have behaved disgracefully in front of you. Forgive me. Perhaps you are my enemy, I don’t know, but that is not what I wish. You see, I admire the British regular soldier to the highest degree, the very highest … Well, there is a saying, “A rotten fish stinks from the head.” Corruption spreads very quickly and the end of everything is in sight.’ He appeared wretched, and bowed his head.
‘Sah.’
‘Stubbs, man, make an effort, will you, to treat me just as another man, not as a bloody black officer simply.’
‘Kyle did that, sir, and it narked you a bit.’
He sat down and became very mild, going so far as to toy with a ruler.
‘I must explain so you will understand. India is about to achieve independence. When independence comes, and the Union Jack is hauled down and burnt, it will mean war between Muslim and Hindu populations and much blood will be spilled. Nevertheless, in policy we shall be pacifistical, and who knows what will become of the excellent British-trained army? I am trained only to be a soldier. Without an army, I am nobody …’ Suddenly, he brought a bottle of gin out of the cupboard in his desk, followed by two green-tinted tumblers. He filled them to the brim and pushed one of them towards me.
‘Drink it, drink it, and good health.’ He waved his hand, dismissing ceremony. ‘You see, I am a rotten Muslim also, to touch this alcohol …’
‘Your good health, sir, and best wishes for the future, sir, whatever it brings.’
‘Thank you, Stubbs, thank you!’ His eyes went misty as we raised glasses to each other and drank.
‘You see, what the future will bring is uncertain. The time is out of joint. But at least I stand a fighting chance. Very excellent phrase, that, “a fighting chance”. I can possibly survive in the forthcoming Free India if I am retired with a perfect military record. Now, Stubbs, if I have a case of mutiny under my command, then the military record is not perfect by a big chalk. So it is important that this matter of “O” Section and this nasty corporal is kept quiet. You understand?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’ The gin took a bit of getting down.
‘Excellent. You see how I would be obliged if you stepped outside this room and never mentioned it again. After all, you go back to Blighty next week, so why should you worry? But it is important to me that my perfect military record is not blotted in the few months left before everything breaks up.’
‘I see how you feel, sir, but discipline will go to pot if the blokes find they can defy orders and get away with it.’
He drained his glass. ‘Yes, yes, perfectly so. But between you and I, the GOC must have been pissed when he thought up the idea of the men planting potatoes. I don’t think British troops should have to do such menial things.’
Evening was coming down. The sun bobbed along a line of distant palm trees on the far side of the disputed potato field; it had lost all power to wound, and mosquitoes were already a-wing. An Indian sweeper was sweeping the road, bent double with his little bundle of twigs. In the office behind me, a clerk was singing. His song floated through the open window.
We don’t know what’s coming tomorrow,
Maybe it’s trouble and sorrow –
But we travel along
Singing a song,
Side by side …
I took a couple of minutes off to light a fag and stroll about under the plane trees. The gin had made me feel squiffy.
‘Vaginaphobe,’ I said, wonderingly.
Poor old Jhamboo was in a bad way. He had almost broken down in front of me. He was going to return to what would be a new nation, and I could not muck up his chances, not when he had made a direct appeal to me. Sontrop was in as bad a position – it really hit me when he referred to Sumatra as home; but home for him was going to be a stormy place for a long while, if he didn’t get killed first.
The fag tasted good. I rolled down my sleeves as the sun ploughed behind the palms; dusk fell almost at once. After the day’s abortive performance, better not to think of Margey’s future: nobody knew what was happening in her home of Tsingtao. India, Sumatra, China – from that point of view, England was preferable.
As for all my muckers, crying aloud to get back to Civvy Street, there I reckoned I showed more sense than they. I could not see anything wrong with Sumatra, apart from the fact that we were also in the army. After seven years in the army, three and a half of them abroad, home was an unknown quality … War had changed the whole bloody world.
‘Cushy for some,’ said a deep voice, and the clerk from the orderly room, a little stunted chap called Wallace, went by. He had been out from the Blight about five minutes. With his terrible low hairy brow, his glistening nostrils, his blubber lips and stooped gait, one shufti at him would have saved Charles Darwin ten years of intensive research. His greeting – a shorthand way of saying ‘Good evening, Sgt Stubbs, you bronzed veteran of the toughest campaign of war’ – was an envious comment on my prospective return home. Yet what could Britain offer that ape which he could not get more of here?
Ah, Margey …
If only every screw could have taken place on a broken altar among orchids before a great grinning prostrate idol in marble – that would have b
een perfect.
I knew she felt something of the same thing about me as I did about her. She loved and wanted me because I was the wrong colour and had funny-shaped eyes and came from England where my father was a bank manager and Winston Churchill a famous old warlord. When we got together, two exotic miscegenies thrashed about in harmony.
As I ground my cigarette-end under my boot, Jackie Tertis came along, moving among the billets, whistling. I knew what he had been doing.
‘Stubbs. You eating?’
‘Good idea. I’m bloody starving. I’ve had nothing but a cheese sandwich all day.’
We walked along in step together. His face worked in a peculiar way which I tried not to notice.
Again I recalled Tertis as a young innocent private back in India, breaking out in a muck sweat at the thought of his first gobble-wallah. Now he had three stripes on his arm and belonged to PEA Force, a dodgy action column which worked in liaison with the piratical Dutchman, ‘Turk’ Eastermann. Tertis was a freckled man with wiry hair; he had supplemented his uniform with brown Yankee ankle-boots, a band of yellow chiffon round his bush-hat in place of a pugharee, and Dutch flashes on his shoulder – all highly contra regulations, of course. At his waist dangled a big Gurkha kukri. He really fancied himself these days, did Tertis.
He slapped me on the shoulder and walked along with his hand still resting there. ‘We’ve got a right bloke in clink today, a bugger called Luat, a captain in the TRI.’ The TRI was the Indonesian Republican Army.
‘I don’t want to know, Jackie.’
Tertis cackled. ‘Do you know what he was saying, in his bloody krab English? He was appealing to the Atlantic Charter that Churchill and Roosevelt invented back in ’41 or some time. We told him that the Atlantic Charter had nothing to do with black bastards like him.’
He pointed out some blood, drying on the leg of his uniform. ‘I was practising my golf on him. Very good shots with a mashie-niblick.’ More cackling. ‘And there was a cow and another bloke – we half-drowned him in one of those Dutch bath-things. I mean, really … Wwrrrrr, he bobbed up with the water streaming off him all purple in the face, then down, you bastard, down, drown, drown!’