The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy

by Brian W Aldiss

  ‘You’re a good girl – good girl … Boht acha bib, malum?’ I was just about panting. So much for amphibious training!

  She stood where she was, saying nothing. She pulled her vest down, waiting by the window.

  ‘Don’t be afraid …’

  She put out her hand. ‘Five rupee, Johnny. Give five rupee!’

  The frenchie felt disgusting, I pulled it off and slung it under the bed. My prick I wiped on my handkerchief. As I was dragging my trousers on, I heard Jock calling me.

  ‘Coming, Jock!’

  ‘Five rupee! Give me!’

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I’m broke!’

  ‘You give five rupee, sweetheart! Two rupee!’

  On the landing, the little girl watched us as we went by. The old crone kept on stitching.

  ‘Goo’-night!’ I called to them grandly, feeling light-headed, no doubt because I’d got so much dirty water off my chest.

  As we stumbled down the wooden stairs, I said to Jock, ‘By Christ, I just about raped that fucking bibi!’

  ‘Balls, man, ye canna rape any woman ye find in a knocking-shop! It’s going against the laws of nature. Be your bloody age!’

  Directly, I woke next morning, the dread of syphilis was on me. To think I’d stuck my tongue into her dirty mouth! – That was what disgusted me most. ‘Never kiss a whore!’ I had often heard old Dave Feather say that. ‘Do you what you like with them, but never kiss their lips.’

  I knew that I was doomed to go through that routine of glancing at your prick every morning, scrutinizing it as it cowered in your palm, searching for spots, sores, pus, imagining the whole thing as diseased as the loathsome knobs on the posters the authorities stuck up in shithouses.

  Meanwhile, all my innocent mates were humping their packs on. It was 17th March, and at last the Mendips were leaving Kanchapur behind them.

  ‘Honey pears! I’ve had enough of square-bashing! Lead me to the Japs!’ Enoch cried.

  ‘Hope we see you again soon, mate,’ Geordie said, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the emotion he was never quite up to expressing.

  ‘Don’t worry, Stubby, me old mucker! You’ll be catching us up soon,’ Wally said, giving me one last affectionate bash on the biceps. ‘My slit-trench is the first on the right, next to the cookhouse. Cheerio, Ali, you old robber!’

  ‘Good-bye, sah’b! Come back to Kanchapur when you kill all the Japanese soldier, have some more tea for to drink!’ Ali managed to look genuinely sorry to see us go.

  Bamber, the old lag, clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Chin up, Stubbs, me lad. Remember – when you’re travelling, you ain’t doing anything worse!’ This was a sort of catchphrase of his, which we all enjoyed quoting.

  What a lot of good bods they were! We were all in the shit together and it was madness to try and escape it. Much better to die together, if necessary!

  Charley Cox came up with Dusty Miller. They would soon be manning the Bren gun together.

  ‘We’ll drop you a card when we get there, Stubby!’

  ‘Fuck off, we’ll only be four days behind you, doing all the dirty work as usual.’

  ‘That’s all right for you,’ Dusty said, ‘but we don’t even know where we’re going for sure, do we, Charley?’

  ‘We’re going to Calcutta, but we shan’t get much chance to stay there, worse luck. We might be sent to Chittagong – some of 2 Div is there. Or we might go north. Depends where they want us in Burma – in the Arakan or somewhere else. Who knows, perhaps they’ve found up a few LCTs for us that didn’t get sent to the Mediterranean! Seeing that the Japs are now closing in on Imphal, we might get sent there – or Kohima, which used to be quite a nice little peace-time station.’

  That was the first time I heard Kohima mentioned as a possible destination.

  Dusty Miller swung his kit-bag on to his shoulder and said, ‘Look, Stubby, here’s a precious item for you – the squad copy of Micheal Meatyard. Best book ever written after the Bible! I can’t get it in my kit, so you’d better hang on to it!’

  ‘The bastard will flog it,’ Carter the Farter said.

  ‘Oh, no, I won’t! Not on your Nelly!’

  Our kit-scale had been reduced. Without a qualm, I had got rid of a whole kit-bag full of kit and personal possessions, including my dress-hat in the Mendip colours, which I presented to Ali. Perhaps it is still being worn in some unheard-of Indian village, to this very day. But The Night Times of Micheal Meatyard was obviously too precious to be discarded.

  Pornography of the foulest and most laughable kind was on sale everywhere in India. The Indians themselves seemed hardly to distinguish between sex and venereal disease; their bookshops had counters full of books on both subjects, as if they could not tell the difference between erotic and anti-erotic. Whenever I hear that the East is less muddled on the subject of sex than the West, I remember all those filthy books on VD.

  But Micheal Meatyard, with its liberating quota of misprints and schoolboy’s howler English, was more enjoyable, and had provoked the flow of laughter as well as semen in our barrack-block.

  Micheal’s twin eyes bruned like carbunkles as he bent down naked in his shower to pear through the partition that formed a dirision from his cousin Vera’s anotomical details. How monstrous the total curvaceousness of her ample breasts and her belly swelling down to that divine gully of her nether lips. It was all plainly revealed to Micheal’s scorching gazement, the huge organ of his manhood began slowly to rear towards its full length, when he felt at his rear a brutal thrust of the penetration behind. Turning, it was none other than his fate to view there Vera’s father, his eveil uncle Herbert. In a depraved state clad only in a towel, his unwanted digit thrust mercilessly at him.

  ‘If you want to lie with Vera,’ he hissed, ‘You must also lie with me.’

  Michael agrees to the deal, for by this point in his young life he has become accustomed to many outrageous couplings.

  Who wrote the immortal Micheal Meatyard? Where was it written? Meatyard’s antics must have delighted thousands of British troops. There was no clue to the author’s nationality. The setting of the book was Venice, which may have meant only that the writer had read his Casanova. No use was made of the Venetian setting, unless one counts the early scene in the book where Micheal attends a masked ball. There he dances with a buxom matron, masked as he is; they become excited by each other and go to a nearby bedroom. Only when the lady opens her legs does Micheal recognize – his mother!

  This is the first of a long series of incestuous encounters which become, step by step, more complicated and more unlikely. The climax of the story is a grand scene involving Micheal and thirteen of his relations, including Uncle Herbert and Cousin Vera, in which Grandma proves to be more insatiable than any of them except Micheal.

  What has happened to that masterpiece of nonsense? Is it lost to the world? The chances seem good that at least one copy was brought back to the UK before the British finally quit India. I lost our platoon copy in some forgotten rifle-pit in Assam.

  No bands were playing. The 1st Battalion of the Mendips climbed up into the fleet of lorries which was transporting it to the railway station at Indore. I stood in my denims watching them drive through the main gate, with Aylmer beside me.

  ‘It’s a brave sight,’ he said. ‘Now we’re leaving this dump, it seems no time since we arrived.’

  Soon the place was empty. We went and loaded equipment in the midst of an unexpected solitude. Rear detail would follow main party in four days, under Gor-Blimey. The cadre was still about, but they had a habit of fading away to their charpoys when there was work to be done, just as Norm faded into the obscurity of his stores. At night there was guard duty, and the nights were wider and wilder than they ever were in England. There was plenty of time to wonder what exactly was happening, and to come to no conclusion.

  It was best to stop feeling, as far as that was possible. Army training was something of a help towards this end. The working-class credo seemed also
to be aimed in the same direction; my mates generally gave an appearance of cheer. What I regarded as a middle-class sinking feeling was my monopoly – or was that a personal trait rather than a class property? The real hope for the time ahead seemed to be to become as rough and tough as possible and to live for the moment. That was it – never think one day ahead, forget consequences, travel blind, ignore VD warnings, be shit-or-bust! Choose sex rather than love, if offered either – sex was momentary; love endured, if only for a little time.

  Christ, if only I could work out such distinctions in practice! A knocking-shop is no place in which to grow up … so what would a battlefield be like?

  Indore railway junction again, spread flat under the rolling mills of mid-day heat, rails and engines and engine-sheds all made of incandescent dust, painted over with black lead. We climbed out of the lorries and the sight was familiar to us. Here we had climbed into lorries weeks before, fresh from Bombay and the boat, to head for the terrors of unknown Kanchapur. Then, in our solar topees, we had been no more than pink jelly in the hands of predatory porters; now, in our bush hats, we could repel the most persistent beggar with a stream of oaths and mangled Urdu.

  We had been acclimatized. We had India in the bloodstream, with all its havoc and noise and age and decrepitude and beauty and decay – so thoroughly into the bloodstream, that in my case it lodged there like gravel in the kidney, playing me up from time to time.

  We spent two days at the junction, supervising the loading of stores into the military bogies of our train, shouting at the welter of porters – all fingers, bare feet and flashing teeth – who jostled for the honour of bearing our burdens. The train stood in a desolate siding, a hundred yards or more from the lane where the vehicles parked. We picked our way back and forth across the tracks, tracks that led to incredible places with bizarre names. What could life be like in Quetta, Amritsa, Kuttack, Seringapatam, Chittagong, Vizagapatnam and Barrackpore? The latter at least might soon become more than a name, because to Barrackpore the main party was going before the final move into action. Barrackpore was hundreds of miles away, beyond Calcutta. It looked as if Ali’s information was correct.

  Little tank-engines moved slowly back and forth in the sidings, careful to avoid our line of porters. The drivers waved cheerfully to us. They could not actually love us, could they?

  Evening. The sun went down behind a convenient engine shed. The great sleazy town stirred, lights came on, young fellows came out clutching newly washed dhotis to their crutches and spat betel-juice into the dust. The brothels would be opening – or did they ever close? Life and lights and terrible things began to feed on the night. We did spells of guard with fixed bayonets by the siding; when we were off guard, we kipped on one of the station platforms outside the RTO office, under our mozzy-nets.

  To sleep on a railway platform. If my poor dear parents could have seen me, with the char-wallahs and the three-legged pye-dogs prowling by! I took the ten-till-midnight and the four-till-six shifts on guard, so securing the privilege, during my second watch, of seeing the sky lighten with dawn, heavy birds begin to fly, and the armed ranks of railway lines glitter towards me like naked bayonets.

  Among the dozen or so of us on rear detail were Corporal Ernie Dutt, Jock McGuffie, Carter the Farter, Feather, Harding, Gillespie, and young Jackie Tertis. The station canteen opened at eight in the morning, and we all filed in for a breakfast of eggs-and-chips, bread and jam, cakes and tea.

  ‘If yon’s breakfast, roll on fucking dinner,’ Jock said, swigging down the last of his tea. ‘I see they’ve started us on half-rations already.’

  ‘Shit in it, Jock, you’re always bloody grumbling,’ Dutt said. ‘Let’s start as we mean to go on.’

  Jock put on his aggrieved-but-reasonable air. ‘Somebody’s got to complain round here, Ernie. May I remind you that they’ll twist us for the last fucking brass farthing if you let them get away with it.’ He began one of his stories of victimization in Glasgow from which, I knew, he would emerge victorious in the end.

  Lighting a fag, I strolled out on to the platform. Tertis followed me.

  ‘I’ll be glad to get into action, Stubby, won’t you? Better than hanging about. I’m not scared of a few Japs. Perhaps with a bit of action my cock’ll go down. It drives me bloody mad, it does – I’m just wanking myself silly. I’ve only got to move and I get a touch of the duke. It’s this bloody fucking heat, it’s bad for you!’

  ‘The Japs probably get the same trouble. When you get to Burma, you’ll find the jungle’s knee-deep in yellow semen.’

  ‘So you slip up in it, like, you mean?’ He burst into laughter. ‘Pity any Burmese girl goes in there – she’d be up the spout in no time!’ After a minute, he said, ‘Old Jock McGuffie reckons he’s not going to Burma, reckons he’s got some personal feud against Gor-Blimey, and says he’s got some tricks up his sleeve. What does he mean by that, do you think?’

  ‘You never know what old Jock’s up to.’ A chicko came and begged for baksheesh. I waved him on. ‘Jock’s pretty deep.’

  ‘So are you, Stubby, aren’t you? I mean, you’re pretty deep, aren’t you? I reckon you know a thing or two – I’ve always said so!’

  ‘Get your knees brown, young Tertis!’

  ‘Here, Stubby, you said you’d take me to a brothel one day, remember? Do you remember what you said that other night? You know I’m dying for a bloody bit. You never took me, did you?’

  ‘What about that girl of yours at home?’

  ‘Oh, don’t take the piss! When we get to Calcutta … Hey, the blokes say Calcutta’s got more whore-houses than it has shitters. How about it, Stubby, just you and me – I don’t want your mate Jock coming along, ’cos he’d just laugh at me, wu’n’t he, I mean, like?’

  Three chickos stood nearby, watching us. One sidled forward and said to us in a bashful voice, ‘You like gobble, Johnny? Nice sweet mouth opens only five rupee …’

  He stood looking up at us. We stood looking down at him. Cheeky little bugger, half-grinning, a likely-looking lad. He could do it without having to stoop.

  ‘Jackie,’ I said, ‘Now’s your chance! Let this chicko have a suck of it!’

  He was dithering and unhappy. Shall I? Shan’t I? I’d be too ashamed! It was such a disgusting thing to do, he had to do something, he could not afford five chips …

  ‘Four rupee, Johnny – both two men, seven rupee only, you pay me first, I no go away till job done proper, you like very much!’ The chicko waggled his fingers to illustrate his maths.

  ‘The lad’s keen, Jackie – have a bash, it’s your birthday!’

  ‘Christ, I couldn’t … Look, you come too, have one with me. I’ll stand you a gobble.’

  ‘Fuck off! I’d choke him! Knock him down to three rupees and it’s a bargain.’

  ‘Look, boy, you filthy little bastard, I’ll give you two-and-a-half rupees, no more. Malum? Two rupee eight anna, thik-hai? Oh God, I never ought to do it! If my old man could see me! Where do we go, anyway? Suppose the Redcaps pick us up? What if someone caught us doing it?’

  ‘Tell them you were having a pee and the chicko ran up and bit your knob in a fit of anti-British feeling!’

  The chicko knew a push-over when he saw one; by now, he probably owns the biggest brothel east of Bombay. He grabbed Tertis’s hand and started to pull him towards the back of the station, uttering words of reassurance and encouragement as they went. His pals acted as chorus in the background. Tertis looked despairingly at me.

  ‘At least come and keep guard, Stubbs, you rotten fucker!’

  I laughed and tapped my rifle. ‘Shall I put one up the spout?’

  But it was impossible not to feel sorry for him. He was so vulnerable. What the hell would he be like in action? Sheer Jap-fodder! At least he might as well enjoy a good gobble before getting killed.

  The chicko took him to a corner in an angle between sheds and undid his flies without a moment’s hesitation, darting his hand inside.


  Tertis moaned. ‘Don’t look!’ he said, his face forlorn and formless as it turned towards me. I had swung away instinctively. I kept watch while the chicko worked away and the chicko’s two friends stood and watched me, whispering and tittering to each other. No other figures were visible, except at a distance, ambling over waste ground. A screen of corrugated iron hid us from most of the junction.

  The noises Tertis made provided a running commentary on the state of affairs, from his initial inability to get a hard-on to when he came his load – followed by immediate demands for cash and buckshees from the chicko. I got what Tertis called a touch of the duke myself, just listening. This was cured by frightful throat-clearings and spittings by the chicko, as he cleared out his mouth on the ashy dust, harsh sounds full of hatred.

  ‘You’re lucky he didn’t munch the end off,’ I said, as Tertis rejoined me, pale and sweating. He did not answer.

  ‘Thik-hai?’

  ‘You won’t tell any fucker, will you? Not Jock nor nobody?’

  We went back to the others in silence.

  Throughout that day, the lorries came and went, and we supervised the loading of their contents into our train, gathering furnace-heat in its siding.

  The last thing to be loaded was a sackful of rations, our food for the journey – cans of bully beef, jam, marmalade, American oleomargarine, fruit and condensed milk, as well as tea, sugar and bread. We left a guard on the train and the rest of us plunged into town for a quick look round and a drink. By six, we were back at the train, cheerful and relaxed, entirely independent of anything that might happen next.

  Nothing happened for a long while. We talked about football matches. Harding played a mouth organ. We recovered from the amazement of finding that Captain Gore-Blakeley, installed in the next carriage, had a compartment all to himself, whereas there were twelve in our compartment. As Dutt sensibly pointed out, ‘We wouldn’t want him in here with us.’