Ginger, You're Barmy

by David Lodge

  I snorted at the recollection. Fotherby eyed me suspiciously before bringing us to attention.

  ‘‘A’ Squadron, dis … miss!’

  We dispersed to our various tasks in offices, stores, messes, stables. The unit was divided into two squadrons: ‘B’ Squadron was responsible for the cleaning and maintenance of vehicles used in training. The rest of the unit’s activities were controlled by ‘A’ Squadron, which included the Orderly Room staff. In fact the ‘A’ Squadron offices were in the same low, rambling building as the Orderly Room.

  Captain Pirie’s office had three doors: one connected with my office, another with Fotherby’s office, and the third with a corridor. Captain Pirie usually sat cowering in a corner of his room waiting for one of the doors to open: Fotherby urging him to inspect the huts, the Second-in-Command or the Adjutant complaining about sports equipment, or me, with ledgers to be balanced. He was usually least worried to see me, since I pencilled in all the figures, and he had only to ink them over.

  I shared my office with Mr Fry, a civilian. He was responsible for the pay and insurance of the civilians who worked on the camp, mainly as gardeners, groundsmen and storekeepers. There were quite a lot of them, but one rarely saw them except on Wednesday afternoons, when they crept out of their holes and crannies, and shuffled into the office to receive their pay, grinning and coughing and touching their forelocks like a gang of Hardy’s rustics. Mr Fry was a conscientious man, but, however slowly and meticulously he did his work, he could not stretch it over a forty-two-hour week. As usual, therefore, he had the Daily Express spread out over his desk when I entered.

  ‘Good morning, Corporal Browne.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Fry.’

  ‘Did you have a pleasant week-end?’

  ‘Yes thank you. Very pleasant. And you?’

  ‘Quiet you know, quiet.’ It would be sensational when Mr Fry had a noisy week-end. ‘Got some weeding done in the garden. Lovely weather.’

  ‘Lovely.’ I went to the window, and looked out over the playing-fields. A mechanical mower droned and circled in the middle distance, throwing up a fine spray of cut grass. I opened the window and the smell floated in.

  ‘Won’t be long now, eh, Corporal Browne?’

  ‘No, Mr Fry.’

  ‘Wednesday, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go, Corporal Browne.’

  ‘It’s very nice of you to say so, Mr Fry. I can’t honestly say I shall be sorry to go.’

  ‘Of course not. Of course not. The Army’s a waste of time for a young man like you. You’ll be going back to the university then?’

  ‘Not at once. I’m taking a holiday first.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. Stupid of me to forget. Spain, isn’t it?’

  ‘Majorca. An island off the coast of Spain.’

  ‘You’ll send us a post-card I hope?’

  ‘I’ll send you one, Mr Fry.’

  In the distance a door banged, and a pair of boots clumped thunderously up the corridor to the accompaniment of a pop-song, piercingly whistled. Mr Fry winced. The chief reason why he would be sorry to see me go was that he did not find my replacement, Trooper Ludlow, congenial. The door crashed open and Ludlow lurched into the room.

  ‘Ullo, Jonny-boy! Ullo, Mr Fry,’ he cried boisterously in the accent of Brum. ‘’Ave a good week-end?’ he asked me, and without waiting for an answer jerked his head in my direction and observed to Mr Fry: ‘Bloody ’ard man i’n ’e? Takin’ a forty-eight just before ‘e’s released.’

  Mr Fry forced a smile, but offered no comment.

  ‘How about you, Roy? Nice week-end?’ I inquired.

  ‘Fair. Got pissed on Saturday night,’ he replied. ‘Got a fag?’

  ‘Only cork-tipped.’ Filtered cigarettes were not popular, and I had adopted them as a partial protection against cadging. ‘Ask Boon, I heard him just come in.’

  ‘That bastard? ’E’s as tight as a crab’s arse-’ole. Give us one of your tipped ones then.’ He broke off the tip, lit the mutilated cigarette, and strode across to the window to throw out the match. To a soldier who was passing he called out ‘Git yer ’air cut, Connolly,’ imitating the grating timbre of Fotherby’s voice with considerable success. Connolly looked round apprehensively, grinned and made a V-sign. At that moment one of the typists from the Orderly Room passed with her nose in the air. Connolly hastily converted the gesture into a scratch behind his ear. Ludlow responded to this pantomime with ear-splitting laughter. Recovering his breath, he observed that the typist would make a good grind. ‘Maybe I can knock ’er off when I’ve got a stripe, eh, Jonny? When d’you think the Major’ll make me up?’

  ‘After the next audit I should think. If the books balance you’ll get your stripe. If they don’t you’ll probably both be court-martialled.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Jonny-boy. I could do them books with me ’ands tied behind me back.’

  To do Ludlow justice, he was better at figures than I was, having been a bookie’s clerk in civilian life.

  ‘Here comes the Captain,’ said Mr Fry, folding up his newspaper. We gathered at the window. It was always worth watching Captain Pirie’s arrival, on the off-chance of his hitting something expensive. The green vintage Bentley swept into the camp in a fast four-wheel drift, passed behind a long row of buildings, and, after a strangely long interval, emerged at the other end going slowly, and disconcertingly, backwards.

  ‘Must’ve ’it an oil-patch,’ observed Ludlow knowledgeably.

  After much audible wrestling with the gears Captain Pirie pointed the car in our direction and drove furiously towards us, clinging to the great, string-bound steering wheel, and peering myopically through the yellowing windscreen. He swung into the parking bay outside the office, and drew up, missing the Adjutant’s Jaguar by inches. The great car seemed to go on shuddering and panting for several seconds after he had switched off the ignition. Captain Pirie prised his great bulk out of the cockpit and climbed down. Two cocker spaniels leapt out, and followed him as he puffed his way towards the office, apparently connected to his heels by invisible elastic threads which plucked them back whenever they roamed more than three yards from him. We heard the dogs snuffling in the corridor as he passed the door and entered his office. I gathered up a sheaf of bills and, knocking perfunctorily at the door, entered the office.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ I said, saluting.

  Captain Pirie was filling his pipe. ‘’Morning, Corporal Browne.’ He sketched a vague gesture in the air which was his approximation to a salute. Unfortunately he was still holding his tobacco pouch in his right hand, and some of the contents fell on to the floor. One of the spaniels sprawling under the desk instantly retrieved the tobacco, and offered it to his master, who took the soggy tangle from the dog’s mouth with a proud smile. Shreds of tobacco still adhered to the mouth of the animal, who licked his chops meditatively.

  ‘A few bills to be paid, sir,’ I said firmly, putting them on his desk.

  ‘Oh. Ah. Hmm,’ he muttered. ‘Couldn’t they wait? I think Sergeant-Major Fotherby…’

  ‘Two of them are over-due already, sir.’

  ‘Are they? Are they? Hmm. Oh well, we’d better pay them then, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now where’s that damned cheque-book?’

  ‘Top left-hand drawer, sir.’

  ‘What? Oh yes. Thank you.’

  As he was writing out the cheques, a knock sounded at the door leading to the Sergeant-Major’s office. Captain Pirie pretended not to have heard it, but Fotherby came in uninvited. He thudded over the lino in his heavy boots and saluted with precision.

  ‘Can I see you for a moment, sir?’

  ‘Got some urgent P.R.I. business on hand here. I’m afraid, Sergeant-Major. Haven’t we, Corporal?’ He gave me a sly, conspiratorial glance from under his bushy eye-brows.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, but added to Fotherby: ‘It won’t take very
long, sir.’ I was trying to soften up Fotherby, but he wasn’t responsive.

  ‘There are two men for orders, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Hmm. Remand to C.O.?’ asked the Captain hopefully.

  ‘I think you can deal with it yourself, sir.’

  The Captain looked glum. He was a kind-hearted man, and disliked administering punishments. No doubt this was one reason why, at forty-five, he had not yet been promoted to Major, and had few prospects of such promotion.

  ‘I’ll get the charge-sheets,’ said Fotherby, and left the room.

  ‘It should be ten shillings, sir, instead of ten pounds,’ I observed, pointing to the cheque the Captain was signing.

  ‘Oh. Ah. Yes.’ He panicked a little, and made a blot as he crossed out the figures.

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Put in the ten shillings and initial the correction, sir.’

  He put away the cheque-book with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Well, Corporal Browne, it won’t be long before you leave us.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘When do you go?’

  ‘Wednesday, sir.’

  ‘Wednesday. Is it really? Will Ludlow be all right? Have you shown him the ropes?’

  ‘He’ll be all right, sir. You needn’t worry. I’m handing over the inventory and the petty cash to him today.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  He rummaged through the paper slum that covered his desk, and produced a pink booklet. It was my release book.

  ‘I’ve written your testimonial, Corporal Browne,’ he said, handing me the document with a shy smile. ‘I hope it’s all right.’

  He seemed to want me to read it, so I did.

  ‘An honest, Trustworthy and efficient N.C.O. who is very much above the Average in Intelligence. He is a good Organizer and very thorough at Clerking and accounts. He likes Games, plays a good game of Hockey and gets on well with Others in the Squadron.’

  Captain Pirie’s weakness for capitals gave his writing an oddly archaic air. It was nevertheless the most coherent piece of prose he had ever composed, and it must have cost him a great effort. I was touched. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that I loathed games and had never played hockey in my life.

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s very nice …’ As I gave the booklet back to him, Fotherby re-entered the office. I saluted and left.

  While orders were in progress I handed over the contents of the cupboard behind my desk to Ludlow: 137 jars of blanco. 23 assorted regimental lapel-badges. 961 Badmore Christmas cards (tank and holly motif). 8 paper hats. 1 Father Christmas beard. 1 camera (broken). 15 books of cloakroom tickets. 1 egg-poacher.…

  ‘One what?’ exclaimed Ludlow.

  ‘One egg-poacher.’

  ‘What the fugg’s that for?’

  ‘For poaching eggs.’

  ‘I know its for poaching eggs you funny bastard. What’s it doing in the P.R.I. cupboard?’

  ‘Look, if you’re going to start asking why things are in the P.R.I. cupboard I’m not going to get out on Wednesday. If you look at the inventory you’ll see that that egg-poacher has been handed on to P.R.I, clerk after P.R.I. clerk. Surely you don’t want to break a splendid old tradition like that?’

  ‘I dunno what the fugg you’re talking about. All right, let’s get on.’

  After we had finished I went into Fotherby’s office. He was writing out Squadron Orders.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘I see that I’m down for a guard tonight.’

  He looked up for the first time. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, sir, you may remember that on Friday I got the Captain’s permission to leave early because——’

  ‘You scived off at twelve. I know that much. Well?’

  ‘Well, sir, I didn’t see Orders. So I didn’t know I was on guard till this morning.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I was wondering whether in view of the circumstances I could be excused guard.’

  ‘You’ve got a bleeding nerve, Corporal Browne. What bleeding circumstances?’

  ‘Well, sir, I haven’t had time to get my kit ready.’

  ‘You’ve got the lunch hour.’ He added with heavy sarcasm: ‘And if you’re so worried about the state of your kit, I’ll ask the Captain if you can dismiss early this afternoon.’ There was a brief silence.

  ‘Anything else, Corporal?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  I left the room seething with rage. It was a defeat, such as I had rarely received at Badmore. Tubby Hughes from the Pay Office was chatting with Ludlow when I returned to my office.

  ‘Another guard to push then?’ he greeted me.

  ‘Oh fugg off.’

  Ludlow chortled. ‘You didn’t get out of it then?’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ I snapped sourly.

  ‘Corporal Browne!’

  Captain Pirie’s voice was muffled by the door, but there was a note of urgency in it. I didn’t feel like coping with him.

  ‘You go,’ I said to Ludlow. ‘Get some practice. Tell him I’m not here.’

  Ludlow came back looking red and baffled.

  ‘His bloody dog has been sick. He wants me to wipe it up.’

  Now Hughes and I laughed together at Ludlow’s expense. Unsympathetic laughter was always circulating in this way, making new alliances and dissolving the old ones.

  ‘It must be the tobacco,’ I gasped.

  ‘What bloody tobacco?’

  ‘The dog was eating his tobacco.’

  ‘Then he can clean up the shit himself.’

  ‘You’ll have to do it, Roy, if you want that stripe,’ I said, taking my beret off a hook. ‘Coming over to the Naafi, Tubby?’

  Roy’s misfortune, and a belated breakfast of hot sausage rolls and coffee, made it easier to resign myself to the guard. I saw Jock Gordonstone in the canteen and told him to go ahead and bull my boots.

  ‘Only a few more days to push then?’ said Tubby, stirring his coffee.

  ‘Yes. I hope you’re working on my demob pay.’

  ‘It’ll be ready lad, don’t worry. What does it feel like?’

  ‘What? Only having a few days to push? Sort of an anti-climax.’

  That wasn’t true, but how could you answer such a question, without telling the questioner the story of your life?

  ‘What the fugg’s that?’

  ‘You know, when you feel let down. I’ve waited too long.’

  ‘You’re an educated bastard, aren’t you, Jonny. Why didn’t they make you an officer?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to be one, Tubby. Would you want to be one?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind getting pissed in the Officers’ Mess instead of pushing the stags.’

  ‘That reminds me. Who’s Orderly Officer tonight?’

  ‘The Adjutant.’

  ‘Christ,’ I groaned. ‘Just my luck.’ The Adjutant was a keen young careerist who could be relied upon to be a nuisance on guard. He occasionally came round in the middle of the night to see that everything was in order. Such conduct was considered rather unsporting at Badmore.

  I lingered on in the canteen after Tubby had gone, smoking and musing contentedly. I reflected with satisfaction that I had no reason to regret not having been made an officer.

  THE ARMY, IT soon became clear to Mike and myself at Catterick, was the last surviving relic of feudalism in English society. The Sovereign was the nominal head of a hierarchy which descended in carefully differentiated grades of privilege to the serf,—the ordinary private soldier. Lip-service was paid to the Divine Right of the Sovereign (on the Queen’s birthday we lifted our hats by numbers and gave three compulsory cheers in the general direction of a Union Jack fluttering above the barrack square). The upper ranks of the hierarchy were riddled with jealous intrigue and administrative inefficiency, though corporately they regarded their right to authority and power as natural and unchallengable. They preserved their position by a farcically unjust sy
stem of discipline which they called Military Law. The serfs had no rights and did all the work.

  Mike and I were now among the serfs, and agreed in finding it unpleasant. But the opportunity offered to us, as Potential Officers, of rising in the hierarchy, did not arouse our enthusiasm. There were advantages in being a P.O. during Basic Training in that we were occasionally released from drill to attend some special lecture or interview. But these activities, though welcome as a relief from square-bashing, produced in us a growing uneasiness.

  In my own case this uneasiness was compounded of several different intuitions and responses. I did not like the officers I encountered at Catterick, and my subsequent experience did little to modify my opinion that the officer class was on the whole arrogant, stupid and snobbish, with a grotesquely inflated sense of its own importance. To get a Regular commission in the R.A.C. was no great personal achievement,—any mediocrity with the right background could do it. Yet the officers strutting about Catterick, with their noses fastidiously averted from the more noisome aspects of serf-life, plainly regarded themselves as an élite.

  Somehow this superstition, that to be an officer was to belong to an élite, was conveyed to the majority of the P.O.s, amongst whom an oppressive competitiveness developed, as to who could manifest the most keenness and enthusiasm. When we went over to the P.O. Wing they pestered the N.C.O.s there with questions about their prospective training as officers. The descriptions of the latter filled me with gloom. It sounded like a more prolonged and intensive version of Basic Training. Was it worth it? I began to ask myself. Even if one succeeded, one would be at the very bottom of a higher section of the hierarchy: a Second Lieutenant with a National Service Commission. And would I succeed in any case?

  This was the crucial question. All through my life I had succeeded in every competition for which I had chosen to enter, because I had restricted my entries to the field of academic study, in which I had some ability. I did not want to experience failure, and I did not want to give the Army the satisfaction of failing me. This competition was one for which I was ill-equipped: intelligence, critical judgment, culture—all the benefits of a liberal education, were of course liabilities rather than assets in applying for a commission. What exactly was required in order to pass the successive hurdles of Uzbee, Wozbee and Mons (the cadet school) I never really discovered. It seemed to be enshrined in the mystique of ‘leadership’. ‘You don’t have to be particularly brainy to be an officer,’ the Captain in charge of the P.O. Wing would tell us proudly. ‘We don’t need long-haired geniuses in the Army. (Ha! ha!) But there’s one thing you must have. And that’s leadership.’ Whatever this mysterious quality might be, I was fairly certain that I did not possess it. At Wozbee it was apparently assessed by one’s ability to handle a knife and fork and to cross a seven-foot ditch with two three-foot planks. I did not see myself excelling in either of these tests.