Right of Reply

by John Harris

  With the possible exception of Ginger Bowen.

  Ginger had taken part in the practice shakedown at sea, bent like a peasant under his pack. His hat had been sideways, his hair over his eyes, his face hot and sweating, his eyes puzzled. There had been some grumbling, mostly of the old familiar type, consisting of slogans that had no real meaning:

  ‘Who called the brigadier a bastard?’

  ‘Who called the bastard a brigadier?’

  …but underneath the chaffing note there was genuine resentment. The pay cuts rankled deeply with the National Servicemen and every time one of the NCOs, most of whom were not National Servicemen, had chivvied them to their places, he had had the differences between them thrown in his face.

  The ships, which had been slow in loading, had anchored a few miles out at sea to give the men a chance to settle down. But the day had been desperately hot, with that unrelieved stuffiness that heralded the beginning of the rains, and on the destroyer Banff too recently freed from her mothball cocoon and hardly up to fighting trim, many of the radiators had rusted permanently in the ‘Open’ position, while most of the fans, by reason of the failure of an electrical circuit, were stuck in the ‘Off’ position.

  The men of the 17th/105th, loaded down with weapons, rations and extra equipment, had jammed into the crowded alleyways and messdecks, searching for what little air there was, huddled in mute resentment under the stacked gear and staring bitterly at each other through an atmosphere of stale sweat and fury.

  After weeks of crowded barracks, requisitioned buildings or the confusion of the tented camp, the unrest that had been apparent from the beginning, particularly among the Reservists, had grown swiftly, and morale had deteriorated just as fast. The plan had been too often changed in London and the loading had been utter confusion; and in Ginger’s mind there still remained the incredible picture of a red-faced senior artillery officer shouting furiously at an equally angry sapper officer because his guns had been withdrawn in favour of the Engineer’s pontoons.

  Although the Marines and Guards had got themselves aboard with a minimum of disorder, among the second-line troops the loading had flagged badly as staff officers had struggled to set straight a timetable that had been altered a dozen times. Nobody aboard Banff had been sorry to see the ship lay alongside again, and the troops had staggered ashore, dirty, exhausted and sweating, and anxious only that the experience should never be repeated.

  Ginger had half-hoped that his detention might not continue on his return, but he was no sooner back in camp than he was tipped off to report to the guardroom again, and the minute he had reappeared in the doorway, the fire bucket had been pushed in his direction by Sergeant O’Mara’s foot.

  ‘Nice and red, Ginger,’ O’Mara had said placidly. ‘Nice bright pillar-box red.’

  ‘I only just scraped it off,’ Ginger had complained. ‘Scraped it off and polished it.’

  The sergeant had stared at the gleaming bucket.

  ‘Did you?’ he had said with feigned surprise. ‘Who got you to do that?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Well, I never! Must have been a mistake. Better put it back on again. You’ll find the pot round the back.’

  Corporal Connell, the Military Policeman in charge of the guardroom, had been polishing his buttons and belt in the next room when Ginger had started work. Ginger knew him well. Until a fortnight before, he had shared Ginger’s barrack room, and for old time’s sake he had seen that Ginger had been supplied with a mug of tea. He had even lent Ginger his transistor radio so that he might have the pleasure of listening to it as he bent over the bucket.

  ‘Music while you work, Ginger,’ he had said gaily. ‘To keep you happy.’

  Now, however, much to Ginger’s disgust, the music to which he had been listening contentedly had been brutally interrupted with an announcement to the effect that the Leader of the Opposition had requested the right of reply to the Prime Minister’s speech of Tuesday night. The BBC, the announcement went on, had considered his demand carefully and had come to the conclusion that, since no emergency yet existed, he had that right and had granted him time to make his reply in the form of a party political broadcast which would not only be broadcast but, like the Prime Minister’s speech, would be televised on all channels, by agreement with the Independent Television Authority.

  Ginger hadn’t paid much attention as the Leader of the Opposition had been introduced, and he hadn’t even listened as the sombre voice outlined the gravity of the situation in Africa and the opposition to the policies of the Government that was becoming apparent not only in Great Britain but in other capitals of the world.

  ‘In the circumstances,’ the slow voice went on, deliberately kept low and level so that its owner could not be accused of party political propaganda, ‘Her Majesty’s Opposition felt that it must demand the right of reply.

  ‘All men,’ it went on, ‘have the right of reply. If we were unable to protest against injustices there would be no hope for this world. We have already observed those countries where this right has disappeared, and we are aware of what can happen when freedom of speech is impaired. The right of reply is the right of all free men…’

  For the first time, Ginger looked up and his hand, holding the paint brush, slowed down.

  The fact that every human being had a right of reply hadn’t ever occurred to him before. He – Ginger Bowen – had the right of reply, he thought. He had had the right of reply when he was ordered to paint and scrape and polish fire buckets. He had almost started to his feet in protest when he realised that he had already exercised his right. When he’d been sentenced, he’d been asked if he’d anything to say. He’d said plenty but not much notice had been taken of it. So much for his right of reply, he thought disgustedly. His hand started moving again as he began once more to apply the red paint.

  ‘…the Prime Minister denied in his broadcast,’ the Leader of the Opposition was saying now, ‘that there is a danger of fighting breaking out. He has also stated that there is nothing he wishes more than to see the need for force disperse. On that we agree with him entirely. But we do not – we cannot – agree with the building up of a British force on the West African coast, which can only be regarded as a threat to another nation, and a danger to world peace.’

  Ginger was listening again, aware for the first time, perhaps, of why he was painting and scraping fire buckets in Pepul instead of in Aldershot or Salisbury or Pontefract. He had always vaguely known of the crisis over the base to the south but, in his disgust at the effect it had on him personally, he hadn’t bothered to think about it much. Now, however, his interest caught, he began to listen more carefully.

  ‘The country is not behind the Prime Minister,’ the Leader of the Opposition continued. ‘If the country were behind the Prime Minister there would not have been demonstrations in Whitehall last night. There would not be a sit-down strike in Piccadilly. Students would not have clashed with police in places as far afield as Manchester, London, Canterbury, Brighton and Cambridge. Workers in Portsmouth dockyard would not have refused to place aboard the freighter Lucia arms destined for the forces in West Africa. Engineers in Sheffield and Birmingham would not have downed tools rather than turn out more arms which might be used against the Khanzians. These people have insisted on their inalienable right to say they disagree. They are not concerned with the legal rights and wrongs of the dispute between Britain and Khanzi. They are concerned only with every man’s right to decide against aggression. And they have decided that the Prime Minister is wrong in contemplating the use of force. They are, by their actions, demonstrating they have an opinion and have a right to express it and if necessary to protest, even to the point of refusing to support the actions of the Prime Minister.’

  Abruptly, Ginger put down the brush across the top of the paint tin, switched off the transistor, and wiped the sweat from his face.

  He was not a quick thinker and the speech was interrupting the way his mind was
working.

  For a long time Ginger sat on his box, then, after a while, he heard the click of heels and the clash of rifles outside, and he realised that it was the guard seeing the general safely off the premises. The broadcast was over.

  There was the clump of feet as they returned, hot and sweating, and the clatter of rifles as they were replaced in the rack. The Military Policemen who had also taken the precaution of lining up outside for the departure returned to their quarters and, having eased their belts and hats, inevitably set about making themselves a mug of tea.

  Corporal Connell came in to make sure that Ginger had not absconded during his absence and leaned on the doorpost, regarding him with amused affection.

  ‘We’ll have to see if we can’t have you presented with that bucket, Ginger, when you’re demobbed,’ he said. ‘You could have it framed and hang it over the mantelpiece at home.’

  ‘Drop dead,’ Ginger said.

  Connell grinned. ‘Corporal,’ he reminded.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ginger said cheerfully. ‘Drop dead – corporal.’

  He poked disinterestedly at the bucket for a moment with his brush, then he indicated the transistor Connell had lent him.

  ‘I’ve been listening to that,’ he said. ‘The Leader of the Opposition or somebody was making a speech.’

  Connell nodded. ‘I heard some of it. On the sergeant’s set.’

  ‘He said’ – Ginger looked up – ‘he said that people had the right to object. He said people back in Blighty were objecting. It seems to me that if they could, so could we.’

  Connell grinned. ‘So you could get out of painting fire buckets?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ Ginger said, though in fact it had a great deal to do with it. ‘It’s this use of force. It might start a war, and that war might lead to a world war. That’s what he said. He said that people objected to us being here. He said they were refusing to help.’

  ‘It’s different with us,’ Connell pointed out cheerfully. ‘We don’t belong to a trade union.’

  ‘Look,’ Ginger said. ‘I don’t like being here. I don’t fancy setting about some country I’ve never heard of. I don’t fancy starting another world war, and I don’t fancy getting killed because some bloody politician back ’ome’s got a big ’ead. If they can object in England, I can object here, too.’

  He gestured as the idea caught at his imagination. ‘Especially as they expect us to do it on reduced pay,’ he ended.

  Connell’s expression changed at once. He was a pale young man, long and thin in the manner of many youthful Military Policemen, and like Ginger, he hadn’t particularly wished to find himself in Pepul. Unlike Ginger, however, he was a married man and the new rates of pay had hit him hard. Only that morning he had received a letter from his wife, threatening with more histrionics than truth – that, to keep a roof over her family’s head, she was going to have to go on the streets.

  Connell eyed Ginger without speaking, and Ginger took his silence for agreement.

  ‘If a bloke safe home in England can object,’ he insisted, ‘why can’t the bloke who’s going to be at the front when the shooting starts?’

  ‘You needn’t worry,’ Connell said sharply, suddenly irritated with Ginger. ‘If I know you, you’ll not be at the front. You’ll be in the guardroom.’ All the same, he thought uneasily, Ginger had a point. If the country were so divided that people at home were refusing to support Operation Stabledoor – even though, so far, it had not been finalised and no one would even mention it either in print or by word of mouth – it was a bit hard that the men who were going to do the dirty work couldn’t. He’d never known many Cabinet Ministers rush into uniform at times of crisis.

  ‘If they can object,’ Ginger was saying, ‘if the Leader of the Opposition can object, then why can’t we?’

  ‘Because we’re in the Army,’ Connell said doggedly, though it was beginning to seem unfair to him, too, by this time.

  ‘I think we’re a lot of nits,’ Ginger said, sensing that he had the initiative. ‘We don’t want to fight those bloody Khanzians any more than the Leader of the Opposition does, so if it’s good enough for him it’s good enough for me, too.’

  Warming to his theme, he began to outline his ideas until, in the end, Connell uneasily told him to put a sock in it.

  ‘You can get yourself into trouble, talking like that,’ he pointed out. ‘You can get me into trouble, too, for listening.’ He jerked his thumb uneasily. ‘Shove off,’ he said. ‘Put your paint away and hop it. We’ve had enough of you for one night.’

  When Ginger had gone, Corporal Connell went back into the guardroom and sat on the corner of the desk. There were two or three other Military Policemen there, wiping their moist faces, and one of them, Lance-Corporal Clark, pushed a mug of tea towards him.

  Clark was offering it as his opinion that the general’s visit was going to make work for everybody. He’d been to stir up the officers – the rumour had already reached the guardroom – and the officers would stir up the sergeants, and the sergeants would stir up the men, and it would be the duty of the Military Police to see that they were kept stirred up.

  ‘As usual,’ Clark was saying, ‘the general thinks up an idea in his bath and tells his colonels. They sit back in their chairs and tell their majors and captains to see to it, and the majors and captains sit back in their chairs and tell the sergeants to see to it. And the sergeants click their blooming heels and chuck up their salutes and tell everybody else to get on with it. The result? The general’s still sitting in his bath. The colonels are sitting in their chairs. The majors and captains are sitting in their chairs. The sergeants are busy saying “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” and “Three bags full, sir,” and everybody else is out getting on with it, working their guts out, getting shot and getting blamed – and all for a quid or so less money a week than they had three months ago.’

  He looked up, expecting Connell to put in his threepenny-worth, too, but the corporal, to his surprise, wasn’t even listening.

  ‘Well, my Christ,’ he said in disgust. ‘I just made the longest speech of me life, and you weren’t even switched on.’

  Connell turned his pale eyes on Clark. ‘You could object,’ he said abruptly.

  Clark grinned. He was a square solid young man who was never troubled for long by anything. ‘Oh, yes,’ he jeered. ‘I could. Next thing I knew, I’d be in there polishing fire buckets with Ginger Bowen.’

  ‘They’re objecting back in Blighty,’ Connell said slowly.

  ‘Who are? And what about?’

  ‘About us. About why we’re here.’

  ‘Well, go on. Why are we here?’

  Connell gestured angrily. ‘Christ, man, you know as well as I do that if those black bastards in Khanzi don’t hand back King Boffa Port to us, we’re going to go in and take it from ’em.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well,’ Connell jerked a hand, ‘you want to?’

  The other men in the room had stopped what they were doing now and were listening to the argument. Clark stared round at them, suddenly feeling as though he’d been put on a spot.

  ‘I don’t give a bugger about King Boffa Port,’ he said bluntly. ‘Far as I’m concerned, they can stick it where the monkey stuck its nuts.’

  Connell slammed his mug down angrily. ‘But you’re here, though, aren’t you?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘You’re here to make’em give it back if they won’t.’

  Clark gazed at him, frowning. ‘What the hell’s bitten you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Look,’ Connell leaned forward and began to use his fingers to tick off points, ‘we’re here in Malala. None of us wants to be. We’d all rather be home. I would, anyway, with my missis.’

  ‘So would anybody else,’ Clark agreed with a grin. ‘Especially when orders say no “Here-we-go-round-the-Mulberry-Bush” with the black bints.’

  ‘You got a point there,’ one of the men at the other side of the room interjected.


  Connell’s face remained unchanged. He was a serious young man and he was suddenly swept away by his own logic. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘First of all they reduce our pay. Not because they don’t think we don’t do enough, but because every other outfit whose pay they suggest reducing has a trade union and can object, and we haven’t.’ His voice rose as his indignation grew. ‘Then they scrape a few of us together and dump us out here and say “Right, lads, get in there and do them Khanzians.”’

  ‘And while we’re getting shot up the tarara to please some bloody politician back in London,’ Clark said cheerfully, ‘everybody back home’s objecting, eh?’

  Connell’s eyes blazed. ‘They’re refusing to load arms,’ he pointed out earnestly. ‘They’re refusing to make rifles. They’re making television broadcasts about how wrong it all is. But we’re still here, aren’t we? God…’ He thought once more about his wife and two children in South Wales, trying to manage on the reduced rates of pay the Government had introduced, and he suddenly felt nostalgic and bitter. ‘They’re objecting! Why don’t we?’

  Clark eyed him for a moment, suddenly uneasy. What Connell was saying made sense. Like Connell, he was a National Serviceman, too, without much tie to tradition, and like Connell again, he also had had his pay reduced and wasn’t particularly keen on being shot at for some principle to which everybody else in the world but him seemed to have the right to object.

  ‘You go on like that,’ he said uneasily, echoing Connell’s words to Ginger Bowen a little while before, ‘and you’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘It’s right, though, isn’t it?’ Connell said doggedly.