by Jack Tunney
“Yes, sir.”
“You need to straighten yourself out, lad. I’m going to have a word with ol’ Cruickshanks Grier.”
McTeague made a sour face. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have a problem with that, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m aware of the men’s nickname for Mr. Grier, Sergeant. I’m sure you are as well?”
“Yes, sir. The Mad Dwarf, sir.”
Kincaid smiled. “Duncan Grier served in this regiment before I let go of my mother’s apron strings, Sergeant. He might not wear the uniform any longer, but he’s a Royal Scot through and through. He knows what you’re dealing with, saw it during the last war, saw it many times before that. Old Cruickshanks will sort you out, and get you ready for the next match a month from now. I’ll put in a good word for you, make sure you can get into the ring again. If you’re going to fight, you might as well do it in a boxing ring, rather than an alehouse.”
“What about my normal duties, sir?”
“Consider this a...medical leave, Sergeant. We’ll make sure your lads are properly cared for while you’re gone.”
“I don’t suppose I have any choice in this, sir?” McTeague speculated.
Kincaid gave McTeague a thin-lipped smile. “None whatsoever, Sergeant.”
***
“Big bastard, ain’t ye?”
McTeague looked down at Duncan Cruickshanks Grier. Down was certainly appropriate. The bandy-legged old man was just over five feet tall, with a back bent through old age and decades of campaigning. Grier’s pate was bald, his face as worn and lined as old boot leather, but McTeague knew looks were deceiving. Grief had served as the color sergeant for the regiment during the Great War, and he’d taken more wounds than any man in the history of the Royal Scots.
But a few years after the last war, Grier had been put out to pasture, discharged due to age and injuries keeping him off the field. But Cruickshanks or, as the younger men called him, The Mad Dwarf, never wandered far from the only home he’d known for most of his life.
Part storyteller, part mentor, and part camp follower, Grier was always quick to tell a tall tale of the regiment’s exploits around the world, and was humbly accepting of a pint or dram if the men bought him one to keep his throat wet during the storytelling. Outside of the pubs, Grier would offer to polish shoes, mend uniforms, sharpen bayonets, and other sundry tasks, for which he reluctantly (but not too reluctantly) accepted payment.
Last year, as the regiment boarded a ship to take them to France as part of the British Expeditionary Force, Grier had been discovered hiding aboard one of the regiment’s Bedford lorries as it was being fixed to a crane arm in order to place it in the hold of a cargo transport. Grier was wearing his old kit, complete with a loaded and well-maintained Webley revolver. A pair of sergeants had kindly, but firmly, escorted Grier away, tears running down the old man’s cheeks as he muttered on about how, “the lads would be needing him once they were across the Channel”.
Months later, as the remnants of the regiment sailed back from the shattered beaches of Dunkirk aboard a half-dozen different ships, Old Cruickshanks stood on the docks, waiting for his lads, once more wearing his full kit. As soon as the first men descended the gangways Grier was there, helping the walking wounded, lending a hand to any man who looked to be struggling with his own kit, and otherwise pitching in any way he could. The men later learned Grier had rented a room near the waterfront, and spent every day pacing the docks, looking out across the water, and inquiring to any passerby if they’d heard anything from across the Channel.
Now Grier lived in Bradford, renting a flat above a cobbler’s shop. He’d followed the regiment there, and the old cobbler who rented him the flat paid Grier a few shillings a month to help around the shop, when the old sergeant wasn’t once more telling tales in any one of a dozen pubs frequented by the Royal Scots.
Since their return from Dunkirk, the young men of the regiment looked at Grier differently. They understood how much they meant to him, and although the moniker of The Old Dwarf was still used, the words were always touched with a measure of, if not affection, at least respect.
McTeague snapped a salute out of respect for the old man’s former rank, and Grier straightened up an inch, smartly returning the salute. He scowled up at McTeague, an old pipe clamped between his teeth, and he pushed his woolen cap back on his head.
“Not sure where I’ll find a place to put ye at night, lad. Me bed’s too short for the likes of ye, and me great-nephew’s already got a cot in the sitting room. Me niece’s out of her wits wi’ him. Poor lad’s been addle-brained ever since he was kicked in the pate by a mule as a wee bairn. Sweet lad, big as an ox, like yerself, but cannae tie his own shoelaces w’out help.”
McTeague looked around Grier’s flat. Although everything had the worn look of a long-inhabited dwelling, no doubt home to generations of renters, the space was as neat and tidy as a quartermaster’s dream. Small boxes and tins stood upon the kitchen counter, and a battered old teapot steamed upon the stove. There was a small wooden table with three chairs around it against a wall, next to a window overlooking the street in front of the cobbler’s shop. Half a loaf of coarse bread sat on wooden platter, accompanied by a small pot of butter and a plate with thin slices of bacon. Beyond the kitchen, McTeague saw the sitting room, where a couple of armchairs stood next to a couple of bookshelves, and a large radio took up the corner of the room, the faint voice of a man giving a news report reaching the kitchen.
McTeague reached behind him and produced a bedroll. “No matter, sir. I’ll be happy with any corner ye can find me.”
Grier scratched his chin, a thoughtful look on his face. “I’ll talk to the cobbler. Mayhap he’ll let ye bed in the storage room down in the back of the shop. Sit now, have yerself a spot of lunch, and there’s a pot of char on the stove. I’ll be back up right quick.”
McTeague helped himself to a modest repast while he waited for Grier’s return. The old man was back in a few minutes, at which time he took McTeague downstairs, showing him the space where he would keep his belongings and sleep at night.
McTeague thanked the cobbler, a tall, gaunt man with exceptionally long fingers who agreed to rent the space as long as McTeague kept it tidy and paid a modest weekly fee. McTeague was also introduced to Angus, Grier’s great-nephew, a tall, broad-shouldered, moon-faced young lad with a beaming smile always on his face.
Angus was nearly McTeague’s height, and looked to be strong as a country plow horse. He’d been helping the cobbler by sweeping the floor. Watching the lad at work, McTeague saw Angus was friendly and more than eager to help, however, his enthusiasm clearly outstripped his ability to actually be useful, as the lad repeatedly stepped in and kicked about the swept-up piles of leather shavings and bits of cut thread as soon as he made them.
Back upstairs, Grier poured McTeague and himself a steaming cup of char, and the two sat in the sitting room and talked of McTeague’s time in the Royal Scots. Grier seemed to know nearly everyone McTeague spoke of, and for every man named, there was a story to be told.
Despite the long-winding nature of the conversation, McTeague didn’t mind. The old soldier had a way of telling his tales that brought a smile to the lips, and the stories always ended worthy of a merry laugh. McTeague learned a thing or two about Lieutenant-Colonel Kincaid the straight-laced officer would no doubt prefer kept quiet, and McTeague made a mental note to keep those stories tucked away in his mind, ready in case a wee bit of good-natured blackmail was ever needed.
Their evening meal consisted of simple fare: slices of bread and a bowl of soup made from boiled potatoes, onions, carrots, and a few bits of mutton, seasoned with some salt and pepper. With the war rationing, McTeague knew even this humble meal was more than what some families had, and he suspected some of the lads were sneaking food to Grier to make sure the old pensioner didn’t go hungry.
Watching Angus eat twice Grier’s portion, and restr
aining his own appetite, McTeague promised himself he would contribute some of his wages and make sure he didn’t eat Grier and his great-nephew out of house and home.
After they’d eaten and Grier saw Angus settled down on his cot in the sitting room, the old man joined McTeague again in the kitchen. He dug about in the pantry for a moment and produced a half-empty bottle of Scotch.
“A wee dram before bed,” Greer said.
McTeague looked dubious. “I thought ye were supposed to sober me up, not get me pissed.”
Grier chuckled. “Lad, there be a world of difference ‘tween guzzling a barrel of suds in a pub and knocking skulls together, and having a quiet drink with an old war horse to keep the chill off yer bones before bed.”
He poured a modest measure of whiskey into a pair of glasses, and the two men raised their drinks and toasted the regiment before taking a sip of the golden liquid. The Scotch was good quality, and it burned going down McTeague’s throat, filling him with its heat.
“Not bad, eh?” Grier asked.
“Not bad at all, thank ye,” McTeague replied.
The two men sat in silence for a moment, each staring into their glasses. Finally McTeague looked up and met Grier’s eyes, the old man waiting for McTeague to speak first.
“I’m a bloody disgrace to the regiment,” he said finally.
Grier shook his head. “Yer no different than any other man, been through the hell wrought by those Nazi bastards. There be few things can claw at a man’s soul worse than seeing good lads in your charge killed and tore up by bullets and shells, and not be able to do anything to save them.”
McTeague sipped at his glass, then set it down. He held up a clenched fist the size of a beef brisket, scarred knuckles as hard as a bar top. “I killed my first man at the age of fifteen. An alley brawl, and he moved as I swung at his jaw. I punched him in the throat and he went down and turned blue and died right there at my feet.”
“Did he deserve it?” Grier asked.
“He’d beaten a whore,” McTeague replied. “Beat her face bloody, broke her nose. I’d only meant to do the same to him, but instead his foot slipped and I missed, and he died.”
“The whore, what was she to ye? Sweet on her?”
McTeague shook his head. “Me mother was a whore, died when I was young. The other whores, they looked after me when she was gone. I helped them with chores and errands, when I wasn’t running with the other lads in the neighborhood, causing mischief. They were the only family I knew.”
Grier nodded. “Then ye did the right thing. Even whores need someone to stand up for them.”
McTeague finished the whiskey in his glass. Grier did the same, then poured each of them another small measure. After they both took a sip, Grier looked at McTeague for a long moment.
“So then, why the brawling?” he asked.
McTeague shrugged his great shoulders. “Because I’m bloody helpless here, back in Blighty. Because we left so many lads behind, young men torn apart by shells and bombs, or cut down by rifles and machine guns. Because a rifle and a bayonet and a pair of fists cannae make no difference ‘gainst a panzer, or a Stuka screaming overhead, or a field gun five miles away raining death on ye. Because the only thing I did to make a difference over there was rest their heads in me lap and hold their hands and weep as they bled out.”
McTeague stopped then, and drew a shirtsleeve across his eyes, wiping away hot tears running down his cheeks. Looking up, he saw Grier was also weeping freely, his spotted hands shaking as he patted a threadbare kerchief against his leathery face. After a moment, Grier looked up and gave McTeague a wan smile.
“Lad, ye’ve learned the bitter truth of a sergeant’s duty. In peace ye train the lads, in battle ye lead them forward into the guns, and at the bloody end, ye comfort them and send them on as best ye can. Then ye do it all over again, because the lads are counting on ye, and ye cannae let them down.”
McTeague nodded. “It doesn’t get any easier, does it?”
Grier raised his glass. “If it did, lad, they wouldn’t need tough old warhounds like us.”
***
Over the next month, the two men formed a strong friendship. Although separated by nearly forty years, each understood the other – their sense of duty to the regiment, and more importantly, to the men they led in combat. McTeague’s time with Grier was a mixture of training and therapy. He spent his days performing calisthenics and working over an old Everlast bag, Grier overseeing his workouts and young Angus happily serving as sparring partner, taking McTeague’s punches with a ceaseless good nature, only understanding he was being useful and helping his great-uncle. After a hard day’s training, McTeague spent his nights sitting with the old sergeant, sharing a few glasses of whiskey, each man telling stories of their time in the regiment, of comrades lost, but not forgotten, of good times and bad.
Slowly, as the weeks passed, McTeague felt the anger leave him, replaced by a sense of duty and purpose. He knew Kincaid had been right when they’d talked in the jail cell. One day Britain would have to face the Nazi war machine on the ground, either here in England or over on the mainland. And when that time came, the young men charging into danger would be ill-served by a snarling, unthinking brute hell-bent on nothing more than revenge. McTeague knew if he went into combat without his duties as a sergeant foremost in his mind, more good men would die because of him, and he knew his heart couldn’t bear the weight of that shame.
The last night spent in Grier’s home, the two men shared a final drink. Sitting at the kitchen table and enjoying the warmth of good whiskey in their bellies, Grier stood up and disappeared into his bedroom for a moment, returning with an object wrapped in a scrap of old army blanket. Grier set the bundle on the table between them and unwrapped the blanket, revealing an old Webley MK VI revolver, battered and scarred with use, but without a spot of rust – its parts well-oiled.
“Wasn’t ever officially issued to me,” Grier said. “I took it from an officer who didn’t need it any longer, on account o’ a Fritz bullet in his belly. I put it to good use down in those bloody trenches for two years. The old Lee-Enfield’s a lovely rifle, but with that great big sword-bayonet she’s no good when the Huns’re so close yer smellin’ the sausage on their breath.”
McTeague gestured to the revolver. “May I pick it up?”
Grier nodded, and McTeague carefully lifted the Webley, feeling the weight and balance of the weapon in his hand. “Bloody massive hunk o’ iron, isn’t it?”
“A half pound heavier’n the Enfield carried by the lads these days. Going to want that extra weight when ye try to crack some bloody Jerry’s skull with it.”
McTeague looked at Grier, brows furrowed. “I’ll want it?”
Grier gave the younger man a broad smile. “Pride says otherwise, but me time on the front lines is long past. That’s a damn good weapon, and it does no one any good sitting in me wardrobe. I want you to have it.”
Pressing the top-break catch with his thumb, McTeague opened the Webley’s action. The six cartridge chambers were empty, and a flick of a finger sent the well-oiled cylinder spinning. He snapped the weapon together, then thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger, letting it drop with a sharp click. The action broke clean and crisp.
McTeague glanced over and saw Grier dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Ah now, don’t be goin’ soft on me, old timer.”
Grier smiled and shook his head. “It’s good to see it in the hands of someone who can it use again, use it to defend young men who’re fightin’ for king and country.”
Looking down at the Webley, large and formidable-looking in even his huge fist, McTeague nodded. “Aye, Sergeant Grier. Ye can be sure I’ll do my duty. Or die tryin’.”
***
The following evening, McTeague and Grier stepped into a large warehouse belonging to the Royal Scots. Great stacks of crates were pushed away from the center of the warehouse floor and arranged like seats, ascending back in rows reaching
up toward the lights hanging from the rafters. McTeague saw hundreds of men in attendance, and the smell of cigarettes and sweat and liquor hung in the air along with the haze of cigarette smoke. In the center of the warehouse a makeshift boxing ring was marked out with ropes and wooden stakes nailed into the floorboards. In the ring, a pair of men stripped to the waist and wearing leather boxing gloves battered at each other ceaselessly. The roar of the spectators was a physical force, vibrating the air around them.
The two men made their way through the crowds, moving deeper into the warehouse. An area near the ring was set aside for the boxers and their trainers, and as he approached, McTeague noticed one of the boxers – a tall, broad-shouldered fellow nearly as big as he was – staring at him with a baleful expression. It took McTeague several seconds to realize the man was Stuart, the sergeant he’d fought in the tap room of The Fighting Cock.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Stuart asked, walking up and confronting McTeague.
“Here to fight, same as ye,” he answered.
“I’ve been there once before, remember?” Stuart replied. “You don’t box proper, you’re a bloody wild animal.”
Grier stepped between the two men, like a terrier between two mastiffs. “Alright, lads, that’s enough. If there’s to be any fighting, it’ll take place in the ring.”
Stuart’s lip drew back in a sneer. “Well, drunkard? Care to fight a man when he’s good and ready, without kicking or throwing your foe into a bloody table?”
McTeague felt his temper rising to the surface, but instead of giving in to Stuart’s baiting and lashing out, he merely nodded and stuck out his hand. “Alright, Stuart. If ye want a rematch, I’ll fight ye.”
Stuart hesitated for a moment, but finally he reached out and shook McTeague’s hand. Just then, the crowd let out a tremendous roar, and both men turned to see one of the boxers in the ring laying on the ground, unmoving. The referee gave the count, and when the man didn’t rise, the referee grabbed the standing boxer’s arm, raising it in victory.