by John Winton
‘Sounds quite a programme. Let’s have another drink. My shout this time.’
Caradoc Evans, who always tried not to reveal his irritation when McAllester called him Dai Bach, watched McAllester shouldering through the crush to the bar, holding their glasses above his head. With his native Welsh eye for English talent, Caradoc could see that McAllester was made for the Navy. He was, as Caradoc had heard him described by a girl in this very room, big and brainy, and beautiful. It was a remark which had sliced Caradoc Evans’s heart open with a jealous knife.
Caradoc turned his practised eye round the discotheque. It was as usual on Friday nights, with midshipmen from the College silently competing with the locals, each recognising the other at once for what they were, over their pints. The local young men, all standing round the walls, were garage mechanics in their weekend finery, and bank clerks on their holiday, builders’ mates and one or two apprentices. The girls, apart from a few Dartmouth and district shop assistants and typists, were campers and caravanners and landlady-lodgers and chalet-dwellers and flat-renters from Bromsgrove and Banbury and Billericay and Berkhamsted and Basingstoke and Bedford. Most of the girls were dancing with each other. They all hoped that the young man who eventually asked them to dance would be from the College. Naval officers had always been attractive, but mewed up there in their military monastery as they had been for years, they had always been something of a mystery. But now that they had come down into the town more in recent years, with more leave and very much more money, they were more popular than ever.
The discotheque had once been a ship’s chandler’s loft and it still had that appearance. There were some modern brass ship’s lanterns, and a group of plastic seagulls, and a fishing net, with large green glass balls rolling about in it, stretched over most of the dance floor.
‘Here we are.’ Caradoc had to admit that McAllester had got to the bar, got the barman’s attention and got the drinks much more quickly than he himself could have done.
‘Success to temperance, Dai. But tell me, feeling as you do about the Navy, why did you join at all?’
‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not against the Navy, not at all, especially when I remember the alternatives.’
‘And what were the alternatives?’
‘Well, that’s it, you see.’ For the first time, Caradoc looked disconcerted. ‘I looked around me one day at where I lived, the town and the houses and the little river and the streets and the people’s faces and I said to myself, you’re eighteen years old, boyo, and you’ve never been anywhere or seen anywhere or talked to anybody new. Is this what you want to do, is this where you want to be, for the next eighteen years and the eighteen years after that, until the local Rotary give a lunch in your honour? So I thought to myself I would really shake them all. I thought, what can I do that would be amazing and incredible enough here? So I joined the Navy.’
McAllester’s great bellow of laughter rose even above the beat of the music for a moment. ‘Dai, you’re talking like somebody out of a nineteenth-century novel! You’re a classical case history. With your Welshness, I should have known it!’
‘What do you mean, boyo?’ said Caradoc, suspiciously.
‘Well, you left your little grey home in Wales to run away to sea! You’re a romantic after all, Dai Bach! You tried to fool us all, you tried to make us believe that beneath that cold exterior there beat a heart of stone, and it’s all rubbish all the time! You’re as big a softie as any of us. None of us would be here if we had any sense, boyo. We’re all romantics. You’ve quite restored my faith in human nature, Dai Bach.’
‘To be honest, I wish it had been more romantic,’ said Caradoc ruefully, ‘it hurt me how little of a sensation it was. As I said, people didn’t react at all. I’d have been more pleased if there had been a great brouhaha about me joining the Navy. But it was a non-event.’ Caradoc Evans was not the man to stay on the defensive for long. ‘And since we’re now going down memory lane and asking where are they all now, what made you join the Navy, Hammy boy?’
McAllester winced at the diminutive of his name. ‘Exactly the same reason as you. I wanted to get away, make a change, make a point.’
‘And was your father in the Navy?’
‘No, he’s a schoolmaster.’ For the first time, McAllester too looked uncomfortable. Intuitively, Caradoc wondered whether it would be the fate of his generation of naval officers to look slightly ill at ease when their families were under discussion.
‘I wouldn’t call my father anti-Navy, exactly. But as far as I was concerned, you certainly couldn’t call him pro-Navy.’
‘Where does he teach?’
‘Oh, in the state system.’ McAllester looked even more uncomfortable.
‘What about your mother?’
Again, Caradoc became aware that he had McAllester on delicate ground. ‘She’s dead, I’m afraid. But she wasn’t against the Navy, she was all for it.’
‘So you too ran away to sea like a bad little boy, to make your fame and fortune.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ McAllester was staring at two girls who had just come in. ‘There’s a girl I used to know at university. The big dark one. I wonder what she’s doing down here?’
‘Why shouldn’t she be here?’
‘Lucy in a disco? That would have been about as likely as Chairwoman Mao in a disco. Decadent, fascist, elitist, revisionist, places of lewd entertainment. Lucy was always at the head of every demo. Into every kind of hippy scene. I shared a flat with her for a time.’
‘Oh, and did you ...?’
‘No, I didn’t, you coarse Celt. Keep your crude thoughts to yourself.’
‘I must say I rather fancy the blonde with her.’
McAllester had been forcefully pushing towards the girls as he was speaking. ‘Hi Lucy, how’s Amritsar, these days?’
‘Hamish, how unexpected to see you. Amritsar.’ Lucy grinned. ‘That was fun, wasn’t it?’
‘Fun for some. Like a dance?’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’
‘Odd to see you dancing.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘Times change.’
‘Do you miss me?’
‘Yes. We had good times, didn’t we? Unfortunately the whole scene went soon after you left. Everybody with any social commitment all seemed to drop it all at once.’
’Not surprised. They all woke up to the fact that they had degrees to get. Revolutions are all very well in your spare time, but meanwhile we all have our livings to earn. What brings you down to this reactionary, feudal, right-wing, not to say fascist part of the world? Were you hoping to see me?’
‘You’ve still got a high opinion of yourself, I see. No, I’m staying with my god-parents for a little while.’
‘Don’t tell me there’s a Mafia in south Devon! Who’s your god-father - the local red commissar of Dartmouth?’
‘Your sense of humour hasn’t changed, either. No, actually, my god-father’s Captain of the College.’
McAllester stopped short. ‘The Bodger’s your god-father?’
‘Yes. You so surprised?’
‘Well yes, I am. Somehow the thought of a Captain RN, and especially that Captain RN, being your god-father doesn’t kind of match the image.’
‘Well, you didn’t match the image when you were up.’
‘I told you I was in the Navy.’
‘Yes, but I somehow didn’t take it in properly. I know you used to have slightly shorter hair than most people, and you used to turn up to many more lectures than usual, but somehow I didn’t connect you with all this marching and countermarching and drilling and shouting that goes on here. Somehow that doesn’t seem to be your scene. You’re anything but a philistine. Do you really go for all this Britannia Royal Naval College kick?’
‘Funnily enough, I do. And I’ll tell you something else. I’m good at it. I’m bloody good at it. I’ve found out that much.’
‘You certainly look a bit more of the part. Most of the naval officers I’ve se
en here look more like bank managers. They don’t have quite that keen sea-dog sort of look you’d expect. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Funnily enough, I do. I know exactly what you mean. And you’re dead right. Well now that you’re here, what’s going to be the latest demo?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Come off it Lucy. Pull the other leg, it’s got bells on it. I can’t see you putting on a bikini and lying about in the Devon sun. We’re obviously going to see some sort of demonstration, even if it’s only on behalf of the Dartmoor ponies.’
Surprisingly, Lucy blushed. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘That’s Caradoc Evans, a Welshman. He’s in my division. Who’s your blonde friend he’s dancing with?’
‘That’s Ruth O’Malley, your medical officer’s daughter.’
‘Very nice, too. Things are looking up.’
‘Are you going to be around this weekend?’
‘No, not this one.’ McAllester grimaced. ‘We’ve got a Roughex up on Dartmoor, starting tomorrow morning and lasting until Sunday night.’
‘Oh yes, I think I heard about it.’
‘How did you hear about it?’
‘Oh, on the grapevine, somewhere.’
Opinions in the College varied about the severity, and even the necessity, of Rough country exercises, known as Roughexes. There were as many who looked on them as unseemly relics of a barbaric past as there were who thought them only a shadow of their former rigorousness, typical of a College syllabus which was altogether too airy-fairy and academic. For the officers under training who underwent them, and who were never consulted, Roughexes demonstrated that whatever they might have thought about the rest of the College training syllabus, there were still depths of despair and exhaustion to be plumbed. Various terms and entry schemes underwent a Roughex at various times in their training. Some unfortunates endured it more than once. Nobody knew when a Roughex was coming, what form it would take, or which term would be undergoing it, until it happened.
There was only one common factor for Roughexes. They all began very early in the morning. It was five o’clock on another perfect summer morning, of pearl and rose-coloured sky, of lark and blackbird song, of promise and peace, when McAllester and the other Roughexers fell in by teams on the parade ground, eight men to each team. The Roughexers wore battle dress, boots and gaiters, and each carried a haversack with a ground sheet, a knife, a tin mug, a plate, a blanket and a packet of sandwiches. Each team was also equipped with a compass, a copy of the Roughex plan, a map of Dartmoor showing the exercise area, first aid equipment, a box of matches, a hundred foot rope and a grapnel.
Most of the divisional officers had also got up early for the Roughex start, and were walking around the parade ground, hands clasped behind their backs. Occasionally one would come up to a team from his own division and stare at them, as though he could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes. ‘Bags of go, Jellicoe,’ Charlie Charleshaughton was saying, from force of habit rather than conviction.
The divisional teams could scarcely believe it was all happening either. Lurking behind their disjointed sensations of having been jerked awake even earlier than usual was the dread of the unknown, or rather, the not quite unknown. Rumours of the rigours of past Roughexes had percolated into the common College mythology.
The Hon. John came up to McAllester, apologetically, as though he wished his manner to make it clear that these barbarities were not his doing.
‘All fit?’ he said, weakly. He was conscious, even at that hour, that being a divisional officer at Dartmouth gave one the licence to make remarks of an astounding fatuousness without the risk of personal retaliation by physical assault.
‘All fit, sir,’ said McAllester.
‘Good oh,’ said the Hon. John and wandered off to another team.
McAllester had been taking careful note of the other members of his team. He had heard about these Roughexes. Not to beat about the bush, they were bloody. But there were degrees of bloodiness and which degree one endured depended, of course, upon the time of year and the weather, but also to a large extent upon one’s companions. The weather looked perfect. McAllester wished he could say the same about his team. Dai Bach was sound enough, if talkative. Bingley was a solid citizen and any team ought to be glad to have him. Jas Persimmons was probably reliable, although he gave McAllester the impression that his heart was not in his training. Adrianovitch and the Malay Chung Toi, McAllester knew nothing of. As for Bombulada and Syllabub, time alone would show, but McAllester was not optimistic.
The Roughex was divided into many parts, each part being given a serial number. Members of each team took it in turn to be team leader for a given number of serials. To be leader of the team for the initial serials, the lot had fallen upon Bombulada. Looking as though greatness had not only been thrust upon him but had almost brought him to his knees, Bombulada prepared for the pre-exercise briefing which was given, unexpectedly, by the Captain’s Secretary. Looking uncommonly warlike, in beret, battledress and boots, the Captain’s Secretary went from team to team, clip-board and pencil in hand, to tick off the points as he elucidated them.
‘Briefing I’ he barked at Bombulada.
‘Sah!’ said Bombulada, saluting.
‘For the purposes of this Roughex you are designated Purple Platoon. Got it? Purple Platoon.’
‘Sah!’ said Bombulada, saluting.
‘No need to salute every time.’
‘Sah.’
‘Purple Platoon embus oh five one fife, debus on the northern slope of Tamar Tor at oh six four fife. Transit on foot across Dartmoor, making good a mean course of one-nine-fife and a speed of three point fife knots for seven point fife miles to position Bravo, map co-ordinates given in the Roughex plan. Landmarks en route to be logged and timed. Proper deployment of the team in single file to be preserved at all times during this transit. Understand?’
‘Sah.’
‘On reaching the river Torriton at Point X-ray, map coordinates given in the Roughex plan, a light bridge to be constructed using available bridging materials in situ. Time penalties will be applied for this evolution which will be carried out under the supervision of an exercise umpire. Bridge to be dismantled after use and gear stowed away. After crossing at Point X-ray, a simulated nuclear explosion of thirty megatons will take place in the region of Exeter. Team will carry out long- range evasion and decontamination routines, and provide sitrep on possible long-term effects of fall-out on local flora and fauna, assuming normal prevailing winds in the area. Understand?’
‘Sah.’
‘After decontamination routines have been completed, carry out second orienteering transit to Sheep Crag cliff face. Each team to make unassisted ascent of Sheep Crag. At summit, survey, prepare, and mark out helicopter landing pad. Expect helicopter drop of supplies, tents and fuel for overnight bivouac. Commander (Training) will arrive by helicopter to carry out briefing for the following day’s exercises. Find own overnight accommodation as feasible. Where’s your communications number?’
‘Here, sah.’ Syllabub staggered some paces forward. He was quite bowed down under the weight of an enormous radio transceiver strapped to his back. Its long aerial curved over his head like a Mikado’s feather plume.
‘Communications all tickety-boo?’
‘Sah.’
‘Quite happy about authentication routines?’
‘Sah.’
‘Got your proper voice procedures all taped?’
‘Sah.’
‘Right then.’ Syllabub staggered back again into Purple Platoon’s ranks.
‘One last point. Most important. No litter. You are to bring back every last match-stick from the moor. We’ve got enough people ready to object to our exercises on the moor. We don’t want to give them the slightest cause for complaint. Right?’
‘Sah.’
‘Carry on, Purple Platoon.’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Purple Platoon
, when Bombulada got back to them.
‘I don’t know.’
’For God’s sake Bombulada,’ said McAllester wrathfully, ‘why didn’t you sing out and tell him when he got to a bit you didn’t understand?’
‘I didn’t understand any of it.’
‘Ye Gods. Well, we’ll just have to do what we can with the exercise plan. Have you got that, with all the map coordinates on it?’
‘Sah... I mean, yes I have.’
‘Let’s get off then.’
A line of lorries was drawn up by the flagstaff, and to faraway cries of ‘Bags of go, Jellicoe’ Purple Platoon and the other Roughex teams embussed. Syllabub was shivering as he climbed over the tail board.
‘Much colder where you’re going, mate,’ said the Royal Marine driver. ‘Come on then, ‘op in, let’s be ‘aving yer!’
McAllester sat in front with the driver whose name, he found, was Baines.
‘Bit early for this sort of carry on,’ Baines remarked, as his lorry ground up the hill away from the College.
McAllester rubbed his eyelids, still suffering from the disembodied feeling of having been yanked out of sleep too early. At that hour the town was absolutely deserted, the houses and gardens still asleep. There was not even a cat, let alone a milkman or a paper boy in sight. The empty roads reinforced McAllester’s sense of chilled melancholy. They really were a lorry-load of outsiders, transiting from one strange existence into another.
‘Got yer first aid kit?’ said Baines, conversationally. ‘You’ll need it. Last term one poor chap got frost-bite. Lorst three toes on his right foot. Poor fellow, he’ll never play football again. This time last year one bloke got sunstroke. Went all purple and choking in the face. Like an overripe plum. Terrible sight.’
‘Must have been,’ said McAllester.
‘Darky, too. Should have been used to the ‘eat, you’d have thought.’
They were climbing higher, Baines using ever lower gears, passing cultivated fields and friendly villages, until they were leaving all signs of human habitation and civilisation, all hope of warmth and succour, far behind. A wind began to buffet the windscreen. A light mist closed in. Peering out, McAllester could see nothing but wide wastes of heather and reeds and space and mist, stretching out for ever on either side. The air temperature had plummeted. Baines had his wipers and his headlights going. The mist thickened. The sun finally went behind clouds, as though it would never appear again. A rain began to fall, lightly at first, and then more steadily, and then very hard indeed, so that the lorry’s windscreen wipers could barely clear it.