Don't Cry For the Brave

by Gil Hogg

  Boyd elbowed me and made a gurgling noise. “Lovely little bimbo.”

  There was a heavy tread of marching outside. The men were arriving now that the officers had taken their pick of the seats.

  After a long wait, a slow hand clap and an apology from the manager about the audio equipment, the show began. I drifted along with a series of can-cans, solo songs, monologues, and stand-up comic jokes. I clapped feebly. The girl with the dark hair, introduced as Ann James, apparently one of the stars, wore a green silk off-the-shoulder dress split up to her thigh; the harsh colour jarred, but the material clung to every line of her voluptuous body. She sang a romantic song in a dry, graceless voice. I’m-in-love-with-you… The audience were enthusiastic, but probably not about her singing. Never-leave-me… The iced overtones cooled my blood. All-my-liiiife… The song ended in the discordant catterwaul of her voice and five musical instruments.

  *

  We were soon submerged in the crowd pressing to get out to the road. I steered away from Blake and Boyd. I felt bloated and wanted to walk before going back to the mess dinner. I walked slowly, not consciously heading anywhere in particular, and paused under the porch of a darkened hut.

  The sound of night creatures from the distant jungle was muted, a blurred screech. I sat on the steps of the porch and wiped the sweat off my face. Gail would be in her room in ‘Gon writing letters. The woman of the unjust war would be reduced to an arrangement of bones in heavy red soil. I sat still for a few minutes, half conscious. Then I heard footsteps. A man and a woman. At first I thought of them as an unwelcome interruption. I listened to their separate treads, the undertone of their talk, their sighs. I began to enjoy the thought that they would pass close to me without knowing I was there. The couple walked to the door of one of the concert party billets; they went inside. The lights came on. I was too far away to see through the bright square of window. After a minute the light went out.

  *

  I was late for the dinner and I turned back towards the mess. I could summon no more than a strolling gait. The heaviness of the night held me back and saturated my shirt when I tried to run. I burst into the light of the mess. The white-clothed tables were laid with silver. Even in a campaign there was space for the Regimental treasures. The officers were still clustered around the bar and some had become loud and expansive since the concert closed. Vaughan was amongst them, taller than most with bent shoulders and forward-swinging arms. When the meal was announced, Boyd and I had taken seats near the passage that led to the cookhouse, a good position to sample delicacies and wines at the beginning of their journey around the tables.

  Before the dinner service began, a procession approached the CO’s table, led by a braying bagpiper, followed by the cook bearing a platter aloft, and the mess sergeant behind, bearing another. Vaughan and the General were the first to sample the haggis soaked in Scotch whisky. As the delicacy was served, the equivocal noises from the other diners reflected a forced approval of the delight to come.

  In 1945, the 33rd Regiment had adopted, as a gesture of amity, this mess tradition of the 9th Infantry Regiment of the Black Watch, alongside whom they’d fought at Arnhem. Many of those partaking of the dainty, secretly recoiled from the taste of dried sheep’s blood and oatmeal broiled in a piece of gut. After a while there was a low call for more, and satisfaction that none was left.

  After the chastening effect of the haggis had passed, the conversation flamed again. I could catch the phrases from a dozen subjects around me but no mention of those who had died, including two commissioned officers, when our lines were overrun while I was on patrol. I had no appetite but I chose the curried beef as the simplest option. The walls and corners of the room were shadowed. Faces reflected the white of the tables. Silver and crystal flashed. Talk was subdued by food. The jungle breathed through the latticed shutters. I gulped a Chardonnay from the Napa Valley, juice of America. The lamps in the room fought to thrust away the darkness. The rain started again and hammered on the tin roof so fiercely at times that conversation was overcome. Voices were raised. Agitation showed on some faces remembering what was out there. The spread of food and wine had the appearance of being conjured out of darkness to confuse us. We pressed ourselves against that bright world without being able to enter it entirely. Although washed, combed and uniformed, there was a cramped, creased, unkempt, excluded look about us, like children from a boys’ home at a Christmas party.

  The General, as guest of honour, sat next to Colonel Vaughan at the head table, the indignant vertical lines of his face contradicting the benevolent nodding of his head. Colonel Vaughan, never a socialiser, sought to create conversation. He called to nearby officers by their first names, sometimes the wrong name. He blurted remarks and interjections to right and left without waiting for replies and guffawed loudly to cover the confusion. Although a spluttering of talk greeted Vaughan’s sallies, a silence began to settle over the gathering. We were outmatched by the enthusiastic wind and rain that slapped and racketed around the flimsy building.

  Near the conclusion of the meal, to the detriment of our eardrums, the pipe major played tunes inside the mess. His eyes popped and his ears swelled red with effort. Tradition required him at the conclusion of his repertoire to step to the table, utter a Gaelic oath, and quaff at one gulp a horn of whisky, now a glass, placed there for him. The diners were alert to see their piper display his manliness. He threw the draught down his throat and banged the stemmed glass back on the table with such violence that it broke. His belch brought a round of applause as he plunged toward the door, retching violently. Nerves snapped; we shouted with laughter. I would not have been surprised to see somebody leap up on a table and dance.

  *

  Later, a hush that may have been disappointment passed over the company when Vaughan announced that he would pass the blue bonnet, another inherited tradition. This meant that he would throw one of our dress Glengarries to an officer who would have to tell a story. The teller then had the opportunity to designate another unfortunate. Every young subaltern had searched his mind for something amusing and not too dirty in case the blue bonnet should find him. The mess rules on formal occasions were that work, women, religion and obscenity were taboo. The painful moment when the CO selected the first victim came. The bonnet was passed and some hesitant and incoherent anecdotes were received with forced hilarity and jibes that sometimes concealed irritation. As was likely, the bonnet came to Boyd who had a reputation as a raconteur. He rose slowly and looked around. He had drunk a lot and swayed, steadying himself on the table. He turned his red face to the roof and grimaced at the rain. We laughed. He placed the too-small hat on his untidy yellow hair. We laughed. He frowned at the audience. We laughed. It was assumed that this was the relaxed preparation of a man who was sure of himself and had something to say. But moments passed and nothing happened. The audience started to move questioningly in their seats.

  “Come on, Jack,” Vaughan shouted.

  Boyd stared at him in an affronted way. The General looked questioningly at Vaughan. Boyd mimed the General’s long face and nodding head. A burst of laughter was quickly stilled.

  Boyd was finally pulled down on to his chair by Blake and me. Vaughan appeared to be apologising to the General. The bonnet died out after one more humourless attempt by the Medical Officer.

  *

  The time had come for Vaughan to make his speech as CO and host. He must have thought that he had to do what he could to plead the cause of the soldiers before him, to redress the balance in favour of himself and the Regiment, but obviously he couldn’t whine excuses in the face of a man who had power over his own future. As I saw it, Vaughan looked frozen in his chair. He had to decide the moment, propel himself to his feet, bang a spoon on a glass for silence, and launch into the void with something that would energise the marionettes. He would see the doughy pallor of the faces confronting him, rows of eyes shining like cheap beads. He would know he would get only artfully concealed scorn a
nd derision, unless…

  Vaughan’s usually sound memory let him down. He had no notes. He hesitated, appearing to test various phrases. “Engines of discipline” was a phrase he kept repeating. His voice was hoarse and dry and pleading. His attention became concentrated high in the ceiling above the tables. He said he would be avoiding the issue if he regaled them with table talk.

  “If we’d fought and lost a battle even with such heavy losses, we might feel a sense of pride at least. But we were caught with our trousers down. It casts a reflection on me,” and here he turned to the General, without adding “And you too, General.”

  “And gentlemen, it casts a reflection on your competence too. Morale is low. It drifts low in war. We must impose the firmest discipline upon ourselves and our men. Let’s make a regiment we’re proud of!”

  The light patter of applause reflected relief. Nobody communicated with Vaughan when he sat down. Nobody complimented him. Nobody commented to him, not even the General. He sat icily alone.

  The rule that the officers could not leave their places until the CO did led some at the outer reaches of the room to slide beneath the tables and work their way out of sight to the kitchen, but otherwise the company waited uncomfortably for Vaughan to signal a close. After a few minutes I heard confused sounds from outside, at once hilarious and angry. The shouting became louder, many voices above the lessening rain. Vaughan looked uncertain. The General frowned. There was a staccato burst of fire from an automatic rifle. My scalp contracted.

  The Duty Officer came into the mess and spoke to Colonel Vaughan. The word spread quickly in the room. A riot in the drill hall. A riot? It seemed impossible. Vaughan was still. The diners were held to their seats by the thin string of discipline, waiting for his command.

  “We’ll adjourn the dinner for thirty minutes. There’s a disturbance of some kind at the drill hall. All platoon commanders report there,” Vaughan announced.

  12

  The officers crowded through the mess door; they buffeted each other in the dark outside, curious, enlivened, safe in the assumption that this wasn’t a Viet Cong attack. The drill hall was in sight. Soldiers were running out whooping and shouting. Broken chairs were scattered outside the door. A further burst of fire gushed in the air. A soldier brandished a rifle over his head. The men were like drunks leaving a saloon in a wild west movie.

  When some of the officers pressed into the hall it was nearly empty. The riot, if that is what it was, was over. The main lights were off, chairs overturned, the curtains torn from the stage, a spotlight flared into a corner. A soldier lay on the floor near the stage, his head bleeding profusely, broken glass sprayed around him. A medical orderly bent over him, dabbing at his head.

  Ann James crouched a few feet away, sobbing, US dollar notes on the floor around her. With one hand she was gathering the notes; the other held her torn dress together.

  “Hit with a bottle, sir,” the orderly said to Colonel Vaughan. The General stood behind him. We could all hear discordant sounds of singing from the road.

  It was only when Ann James was helped to her feet, that it became apparent that her reluctance to rise was not the result of injury. Her thin silk frock had nearly been torn off and she had to hold it cautiously around her. Generous parts of her thighs and breasts were visible and she did not appear to be wearing pants or bra. A circle of solicitous officers enclosed her, in no hurry to cure the riddle of her near nudity. Her real concern appeared to be less for her personal privacy than the greenbacks now wadded protectively in her hand.

  “They asked me to sing, and somebody grabbed me, tore my dress… ”

  “What was the money for?” Vaughan asked.

  “Singing. The boys had a whip-round.”

  “What about him?” Vaughan indicated the wounded man.

  “Somebody hit him,” she shrugged, unconcerned.

  “Who?” Vaughan asked.

  “I dunno.”

  “Why?” Vaughan asked.

  “The guys had a few drinks.”

  Boyd passed her his uniform jacket which she slipped into, letting her rag of a dress fall to the floor. She pushed the bundle of notes into a side pocket.

  “Oh, thank you.” She drew the jacket tight around her waist, swung her long bare legs and wiggled her hips, the garment an inch or two below her pudenda. “I feel good in this. I’m a major now, am I?”

  Blake and I were well back in the throng of at least a dozen.

  “This is the best part of the show,” Blake said.

  “Vaughan is incandescent,” I said.

  “Don’t blame him. It’s bad enough without a goddamn general looking over your shoulder. Mason must think that Vaughan has lost control of the unit.”

  The talk around us was more about the girl than the event. “Jeez… those tits!” After the injured man had been removed, I saw Vaughan staring at the strange geometry of the bloodstains on the floor.

  The Duty Officer had the task of organising a search for the culprit who had wounded the soldier, while the officers returned to the mess hut. We continued the tail of our meal with fruit, cheese, coffee, brandy and wine.

  Colonel Vaughan felt he should address us again. The General was on the point of leaving. When Vaughan rose, silence fell with awkward immediacy. I thought Vaughan was concealing his feverish temper, as the faint sheen on his reputation faded in the eyes of the General. Vaughan hesitated. Fragments of a declaration which seemed to be whirling through his mind came out but seemed meaningless. He talked of severe punishment. “In the heat of war,” he added, “you have to expect these outbursts.”

  Vaughan’s remarks drizzled away in confusion. He had hardly resumed his seat when there was a shout from outside. The door blasted open. A subaltern riding a black goat charged in. The goat knocked two mess boys out of the way and galloped round the perimeter of the tables; it slipped over, rolling on the floor, smearing its rider with soft green turd from its dirty backside. A mess boy held the door open for the animal to escape, while the rider eased himself up from the floor, smelly and triumphant. Amusement and applause rippled the company, and led, in conversations afterwards, to memories of other after-dinner japes while we waited for the Colonel to depart. When he had gone, we left in ones and twos, drawing an aura of cigarette smoke with us into the humid air.

  *

  I stood outside the mess in the bars of light cast by the slats in the shutters, listening to the pock-pock of diesel compressors, the grinding of trucks hauling supplies, and the whirr of air conditioners. The jungle had receded, the insects were stilled. I felt awake now and stifled. I decided to go back to my quarters via my platoon’s huts to see whether the hunt had been abandoned. As I approached the huts I could see interior lights, and Sergeant Lucas standing outside. There were signs of activity down the entire line of huts beyond those that housed my platoon; a few lights, the yellow pencil lines of flashlights, the shine on a face or a hand. The search went on.

  “Found anything, Sergeant?” I asked.

  “See for yourself,” Lucas said, leading me inside.

  As I entered, a chorus of moans greeted me.

  “These shitbirds are more drunk than awake, Lieutenant.”

  Lucas used a flashlight to supplement the dim light bulbs and indicate a man in the corner who grinned when the beam was held on his face.

  “What are you doing, Trask?” I asked.

  “Waiting.”

  “Get into bed,” I said, feeling I was addressing a child. “It’s long past lights out.”

  “No, sir,” Lucas said. He said to Trask, “Get your boots on.” His torch fixed on a bloodstained shirt on the floor by the bed. He shone the flashlight on Trask’s cheek, revealing scratches and bloodstains.

  “Just a moment, Sergeant,” I said, signalling that we two should go outside.

  I had more or less settled in my own mind that there should be no reprisals for tonight if I could help it. I didn’t want to feed Vaughan’s flame. Lucas faced me sq
uarely outside, his protuberant eyeballs reflecting the light from the porch. I could hear his breathing.

  “If you want to leave him until tomorrow morning, sir, it’s alright by me. He’ll have had a shower by then and soaked his shirt. What do you think he’s waiting for now? He’s expecting to be arrested. He’s guilty and he’ll confess. But he’ll be harder to nail tomorrow. And we won’t have any witnesses out of this lot.”

  “Why are you turning him in, Sergeant?”

  “Because he’s an asswipe. A screw-up in the squad, and out there he’s a fucking menace.”

  I considered. Trask was truly useless, manifestly in revolt. I didn’t want to cross Lucas, the disciplinarian of the platoon. I couldn’t afford to ignore his advice. Lucas would be loyal to me only up to the point where his own reputation and efficiency could come into question.

  “OK,” I said reluctantly and waited while Lucas fetched Trask and a two-man detail to march him.

  Trask, looking resigned, was marched into the darkness.

  13

  I walked back towards my quarters. The sky had cleared. The breeze had dropped. Stars prickled through the cushion of heat. I stopped outside the QM Store where Blake and Boyd were still talking, passing a bottle of whiskey.

  Boyd had uncovered the authorised version of the evening’s events and was explaining them. “She wasn’t singing, Bob, well, not a lot,” he said, passing me the bottle.

  Boyd honed his story in the retelling. “What happened is quite simple. She was persuaded to do a strip act. The boys put a few bucks in the hat. There was about thirty of them. They were loaded. They went into the hall and took over. On with audio and spotlights, off with the roof lights and with Lady James’ clothes. I guess they were having a good time until she put her muff too close to one of the tigers. The rest you know. They never hurt the girl. An unlucky asshole got whacked with a bottle. Good clean fun.”