Ginger, You're Barmy

by David Lodge

  ‘You vile bastard,’ said Gorman. Then, curiosity winning over disgust: ‘What was it like?’

  For me Weston epitomized the paradox of military courage. This was the man we had decorated for valour; the man to whom we owed our freedom. And yet what had carried him through innumerable bloody campaigns was a fundamental barbarism, an utter disregard for human life and human decencies. He was not even proud of his military achievements. He was just a fighting, rutting animal in uniform, a true descendant of the mercenaries of the ancient world. He was rather a rare type in the modern Army, and I found him perversely fascinating.

  As the C.O.’s driver, Weston had considerable opportunities for overhearing conversations between the C.O. and other senior officers, and he was a mine of information on regimental matters. On the Friday morning of my first week in the Orderly Room he came into the office and, instead of taking out his Mirror, addressed himself to me.

  ‘Did you say this bloke Brady was a mate of yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Only that you won’t be seeing much of him for a few years,’ replied Weston, with a cruel grin.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Up for court-martial, isn’t he? For assaulting Baker?’

  ‘Yes. But he may get off.

  ‘Not now, he won’t.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked, more calmly than I felt. To show curiosity or anxiety would only incite Weston to delay giving me the information he obviously possessed.

  ‘Not that I blame him for belting Baker. He’s a big-headed bastard, that one. And he’s got fuggall to be proud of. Never seen any service. Any real service. I don’t call chasing a lot of bloody wogs in Kenya service.’

  I remained silent. Weston spoke to Gorman, indicating me with a jerk of his head.

  ‘Not very worried about his mate, is he?’

  ‘I’m just waiting to hear something new,’ I said patiently.

  ‘O.K., here it is: you remember that silly c——t who shot himself a few weeks back—what was his name?’

  ‘Higgins.’

  ‘That’s right, Higgins. Well, it seems your mate wrote a letter to Higgins’s old man.’

  ‘Guardian,’ I corrected mechanically. I knew what was coming. ‘His father’s dead.’

  ‘Well guardian then. Well Brady wrote a letter to this guardian bloke saying that Baker was responsible for Higgins’s shooting himself. And the old geezer has just sent it to the C.O.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Heard the C.O. say it himself this morning to the Adjutant. In the car.’

  I turned away and looked out of the window. A squad trotted past at the double on their way to the gym, cold and wretched in their thin P.T. clothes. There was no hope for Mike now.

  Weston was saying to Gorman: ‘Brady picked the wrong bloke to write to. The old geezer was a captain in the cavalry in the First World War!’ They laughed. I rounded on them.

  ‘It’s bloody funny isn’t it?’ I said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I can’t think of anything funnier than a bloke getting two years in the glasshouse.’

  They seemed to agree, for they laughed more loudly than ever.

  ‘You stupid, selfish bastards!’ I shouted against their mounting laughter. ‘“Fugg you Jack, I’m all right”—that’s it isn’t it? Well——’

  At that moment the door opened, and the R.S.M. poked his flushed, irritable face round the door.

  ‘What’s all this bloody racket? Weston!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re wanted by the C.O. Look lively.’

  ‘Sir.’ Weston went out quickly, straightening his tie. The R.S.M. came into the room, Glaring at me he said:

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Trooper Browne, sir.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sergeant Hamilton sent me here to help out, sir, while I’m waiting to be posted.’

  ‘Well, you’re not doing much helping by the look of it. And who said you could wear shoes?’

  ‘I thought all clerks could wear shoes, sir.’

  ‘You can when you’re on the permanent staff. Until then you wear boots. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He made to go out, then stopped.

  ‘Done a guard this week?’

  ‘No, sir.’ My heart sank.

  ‘Well you’re doing one tomorrow. We’re one man short. Main Guard Room, 2 p.m.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The R.S.M. went out. A twenty-four hour guard. And I had hoped to slip off for another forty-eight, with Sergeant Hamilton’s assistance.

  ‘Fugg the Army,’ I said. Gorman laughed heartlessly.

  It was not until the following morning, when I was bulling my boots in preparation for the guard, that it occurred to me that the duty might give me an opportunity of seeing Mike, even perhaps of talking to him. I did not hesitate long before deciding to tell him Weston’s gloomy news: he might as well be prepared to face the new evidence.

  There were only two other soldiers in the hut; everyone else was in the Naafi or on week-end leave. One, like me, was bulling his boots, spitting into the polish and rubbing the toe-cap in small circles, and the other was writing to his girl-friend, biting the end of his Biro and staining his lips with ink.

  ‘I can never think of a fuggin’ thing to say to my bird,’ he grunted at last.

  ‘Tell her if she’s going to chuck you up to do it when you’re on leave,’ said the other sombrely. ‘It’s fuggin’ awful when they tell you in a letter.’ It quickly came out that his girl had lately written such a letter to him. He took it out and read it aloud:

  ‘“Dear Alan, Thank you for your last letter which I received yesterday. I’m afraid what is in this letter is going to come as a shock to you Alan, but I have to say it. You have taken an awful lot for granted, Alan …”’

  She repeated this last remark several times, without explaining what she meant. Her overt reason for breaking off the relationship was: ‘“I don’t think we should be tied to each other for two years while you are in the Army”.’ But she twice suggested that they should continue to write as friends, and concluded by begging him to reply to her letter.

  ‘Are you going to?’ I asked.

  ‘No. But when I get my next forty-eight I’ll find out who she’s knocking about with, and then I’ll get my mates together and we’ll do ’im.’

  The other soldier told an anecdote about his elder brother who was in Malaya when his fiancée wrote to break off the engagement. He had handed the letter round to his mates and they had all (there were about thirty of them) written to the girl simultaneously and told her what they thought of her. Knowing the soldier’s capacity for abuse, I shuddered sympathetically.

  ‘Wasn’t that a bit hard on the girl?’ I asked. They looked at me uncomprehendingly.

  ‘If a girl can’t wait for you while you’re in the Army,’ said the one who had read the letter, spitting into his polish, ‘she’s no good. Nothing’s too hard.’

  I saw Mike as soon as I entered the guard-room. He was sweeping the floor and looked up and smiled at me. But the Provost Sergeant locked him into his cell at once, and so I had no opportunity to speak to him. There was only one other prisoner, a haggard-looking N.C.O. who, I learned, was awaiting court-martial on a charge of buggery, committed with a young recruit in his squad. Quite apart from my personal relationship with Mike, I found the proximity of these prisoners disturbing. A few of the younger soldiers on guard observed them with a sort of awed fascination, but the officer and N.C.O.s seemed to fall easily into the impersonal attitude of professional warders.

  I found my first twenty-four-hour guard even worse than I had anticipated. Time crawled with painful slowness through the Saturday afternoon and evening. The food was revolting, but one had to eat it: I couldn’t get the taste of slippery fried eggs, baked beans and sweet tea out of my mouth for days afterwards. As the guard wore on I became increasingly tired, and increasingly incapable of reli
eving my tiredness. I found it impossible to sleep in the four-hour breaks between stags. The bunks were hard and uncomfortable, the lights always blazing, the corporal’s portable radio always tuned relentlessly to Radio Luxemburg.

  I came off my third stag at 4 a.m. on Sunday, almost faint with exhaustion. Mercifully the guard-room was peaceful. The sergeant was snoring, and the rest of the guards asleep. The corporal was out, posting another guard. I went over to the stove and poured myself a cup of well-stewed tea. I heard a whisper from Mike’s cell.

  ‘Jon.’

  I walked over to the cell, keeping a nervous eye on the sergeant. It seemed impossible to prevent my hob-nailed boots from making a tremendous noise on the wooden floor. Mike’s pale face appeared at the bars of his cell. He clasped them in his hands, as all prisoners seem to do. We spoke in whispers.

  ‘Hallo, Jon. Got any cigarettes?’

  I gave him half of my packet.

  ‘Thanks. They only allow us three a day.’

  In the adjacent cell Mike’s neighbour groaned and muttered in his sleep. Mike’s use of the first person plural struck me. He seemed to have already acquired the convict’s sense of solidarity.

  ‘How’s life?’ I asked.

  ‘Pretty bloody. I’ll be glad when the court-martial’s over.’

  ‘Mike. I’ve got some bad news for you.’ His grip tightened on the bars.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That letter you sent to Percy’s guardian. The old man sent it back to the C.O.’ Mike bit his lip.

  ‘Hell, that’s bad.’

  After a pause I said: ‘I thought I ought to tell you.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But don’t give up hope.’

  ‘No.’

  I heard the boots of the returning corporal and guard scrunching on the gravel path.

  ‘They’re coming back, Mike. I’ll have to go.’

  I got back to the stove just as they came in. I lay down on my bunk and closed my eyes, but could not sleep. I heard the rasp of a match from Mike’s cell. Then, to my surprise I felt a tug on my shoulder and a voice said :

  ‘Your stag, mate.’

  When I returned at ten, everyone was awake and it seemed that I would not have another opportunity to speak to Mike. But as I was filling my mug from the tea-pot on the stove I heard Mike’s voice say:

  ‘Can I have a cup of tea, Sarge?’

  ‘Give ’im a cup of tea,’ said the sergeant from behind his News of the World.

  I went over to Mike’s cell, and he handed me his mug.

  ‘Wash it out for me, mate,’ he said.

  I looked into the mug and saw at the bottom a folded envelope.

  ‘What d’you think this is, a bleeding ’otel?’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Sarge,’ said Mike. I sensed the anxiety beneath the humorous, placatory phrase. I carried the mug into the lavatory and took out the envelope, stuffing it at once into my pocket. Then I rinsed the mug in the wash-basin, although it was already clean. As I gave Mike his tea he said:

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  I didn’t look at the envelope until long after the guard was dismissed at two. I was sure it contained some message for me, and I wanted to read it in private. I took a bus into the Camp Centre and went to the Naafi Club for a bath. While the water was running I took the envelope from my pocket and unfolded it. It was not addressed to me but, mysteriously, to ‘Gordiano Bruno’ at an address in Camden Town. It puzzled me. I had never heard Mike mention an Italian friend. And why had he been at such pains to smuggle it out? As far as I knew he was allowed to write letters. After my bath I stamped and posted the letter. Then I went to the Quiet Room and wrote a letter to Pauline.

  Later I was eating in the canteen when Fallowfield, Peterson and Gordon Kemp came in. They were wearing civilian clothes, a privilege for Potential Officers who had passed Wozbee. Their clothes seemed curiously significant and revealing after the anonymity of khaki in which one had become accustomed to seeing them. Peterson wore a superbly tailored hacking-jacket and tapered cavalry-twill trousers, Fallowfield a navy-blue blazer and charcoal-grey trousers, and Gordon a Burton tweed sports-jacket and shiny light-grey flannels. I didn’t particularly want to talk to them, but Gordon, in his friendly way, led them, bearing trays of food, to my table.

  ‘Hallo,’ I said. ‘Wearing “mufti” I see?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fallowfield, oblivious to my sarcastic emphasis on the word, ‘It’s a jolly useful concession. Means you don’t mess up your best B.D. at week-ends. Particularly on leave.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say,’ I asked, ‘that you had any scruples about wearing civvies on leave before? Did you two?’

  Gordon, who was eating voraciously, shook his head. ‘Not me, old boy,’ said Peterson, ‘I can’t stand battle-dress. Makes me want to scratch all the time.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be long before you can wear that nice, smooth officers’ gaberdine,’ I observed.

  ‘It’s not a question of scruples,’ said Fallowfield, slightly nettled. ‘It’s a question of obeying an order when there’s no one to check up on you, just as you would if there were someone to check up on you.’

  ‘That’s what I call a scruple,’ I replied.

  After a pause, Fallowfield started a conversation with Peterson about a recent map-reading exercise. Gordon said to me:

  ‘How’s Mike, Jon? Have you seen him lately?’

  ‘I saw him last night as a matter of fact. On guard. It’s obviously a strain.’

  ‘It must be. I was very sorry when I heard about it. What are his chances, d’you think?’

  ‘Not too bright.’

  ‘What really happened that night, Jon? You were on guard with him weren’t you?’

  Fallowfield and Peterson stopped talking and pricked up their ears.

  ‘I’d rather not go into it now, Gordon, if you don’t mind. After all, it is sub judice and so on.’

  ‘Who’s having scruples now?’ said Fallowfield.

  ‘All right. Put it another way. I don’t particularly want to give other people an opportunity of gloating over Mike’s troubles.’

  ‘I wouldn’t gloat,’ said Gordon.

  ‘I know you wouldn’t, Gordon,’ I replied, pushing back my chair. ‘Well I must be going. I’d hate to interrupt a fascinating conversation about map-reading. So long.’

  At the door Gordon caught up with me.

  ‘Jon … I was wondering whether there was anything we could do for Mike.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘I was wondering … perhaps the Prof, would write a letter on his behalf.…’

  ‘My dear Gordon, you know Mike wasn’t exactly the Prof.’s blue-eyed boy. This will only confirm his opinion.’

  ‘Yes … well … I suppose we must just hope for the best.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a brief, awkward silence between us. Then Gordon said:

  ‘You know, Jon, I reckon you made the right choice. I mean about refusing a commission.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite as grand as that, Gordon. I refused to go in for a commission.’

  ‘Yes… well… anyway, I’m getting pretty sick of it in the P.O. Wing. They’re a frightfully snobbish lot. And half of them are queer. When I came in late the other night, two of them were in bed together.’

  ‘Not Fallowfield!’ I exclaimed. ‘Surely nobody of either sex would get into bed with Fallowfield.’

  ‘No, not Fallowfield,’ said Gordon grinning. ‘He’s all right really, you know.’

  ‘Yes, he’s all right; he’s just a pig-headed, pompous idiot, that’s all. If it’s all so ghastly, why don’t you chuck it?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. Now I’ve got this far … and my parents wouldn’t understand. Though I’ll probably be thrown out of Mons anyway.’

  I patted him on the arm. ‘You’ll be all right, Gordon. They won’t chuck you out. Whe
n do you go?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Well, the best of luck.’

  ‘Yes. Same to you.’

  We parted. I was beginning to feel the effects of the guard, and looked forward to an early night. Outside the Club I saw the red M.G. in which Peterson had brought Fallowfield and Gordon. Gordon was a decent chap. Why had he gone out of his way to tell me that I had ‘made the right choice’? Did he think I envied him?

  On the following Thursday morning Weston came into the Records Office with that smug expression on his face which denoted that he had another morsel of news. As he opened his mouth to speak I forestalled him.

  ‘Yes, we know. He escaped last night.’

  That evening I made a trunk call to Pauline. A woman, probably the landlady, answered the phone, and went to fetch Pauline. There was a long pause. Then, very faintly, I heard Pauline’s voice. It broke in the middle of ‘Hallo’, and she repeated the word.

  ‘Hallo, Pauline?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Jonathan.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jonathan. Jonathan Browne.’

  ‘Oh.’ A nervous, almost hysterical laugh followed. The receiver clattered on to a table. I caught a mutter of voices. Men’s voices. What the hell was going on? Then a gruff voice spoke to me.

  ‘Hallo, this is the Military Police here. Who is speaking please.’

  ‘My name’s Browne. I——’

  ‘I understand you are a soldier. Rank and number please.’

  ‘53174979 Trooper Jonathan Browne. With an “e”.’

  ‘Five three …?’

  ‘Five three, one seven——’

  ‘One seven …’

  ‘Four nine, seven nine. Look——’

  ‘Four nine seven nine. Trooper Browne. With an “e”. Regiment?’

  ‘Twenty-first R.T.R. Look this call is costing me money. I want to speak to Miss Vickers.’

  At that moment the pips sounded.

  ‘All right. Just a minute. Operator!’

  After a long wrangle the M.P. managed to get the operator to extend the call, and charge it to the Army. Then he came back to me.

  ‘Are you acquainted with Trooper Michael Brady?’

  ‘Yes I am. That’s what I want to speak to Miss Vickers about.’