Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  The prevailing accent was that of South Yorkshire, however, Probyn was surprised to find other parts of the country represented too; lads from Middlesex, Kent and Buckinghamshire who had enlisted in London, originally intending to join a cavalry regiment but these being up to strength they had been coaxed into joining the infantry. Others hailed from Lincolnshire and Derbyshire. All seemed to have made themselves at home here.

  Feeling the odd one out, he was compelled to ask, ‘What happens now, then?’

  ‘We’re waiting to see the doctor and get sworn in,’ said Mick. ‘Tell me, Probe, would ye be thinking of putting your name down for foreign service?’

  Probyn gave a keen nod. ‘Aye, it’s a few years since I’ve been anywhere interesting,’

  One of his fellow northerners scoffed. ‘Where was that, Leeds?’

  Probyn levelled a glittering eye at his detractor. ‘Spain as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Gosh, how come ye went there?’ Mick and others were instantly in awe.

  Probyn tried not to sound boastful. ‘Oh, me Aunty Kit wanted somebody to keep her company.’ He glanced away as the door opened and a fierce-looking man with three chevrons on his arm snapped an order.

  All jumped to their feet and lined up, Probyn inserting himself between Melody and the big one called Joe. In procession they accompanied the sergeant to another room as unadorned as the one they had left, save for an alphabetic chart on the wall, some scales and a device for measuring height. Here they were told to disrobe.

  One by one they shivered and shuffled across the bare floorboards to undergo physical examination. Surreptitiously inspecting the others’ unhealthy physiques, Probyn drew consolation from his own, what he lacked in height being compensated by muscularity. It was also encouraging to find that there were others shorter than himself, the youth currently being measured was only five foot four.

  Standing directly behind Melody’s undernourished frame, he listened alertly as the Irish youth’s statistics were shouted out. ‘Height, five foot seven and a half. Get on the scales. One hundred and twenty-eight pounds. Lift your arms, lad! Chest – don’t inflate it until I tell you to! Complexion, ruddy. Eyes, blue. Hair, light brown …’

  Then came Probyn’s turn. Just as the Irish youth had done before him he lied about his age, though with his eighteenth birthday only six months away it was not so blatant a fabrication as Melody’s. His details were subsequently entered on the service record. ‘Height, five foot six inches. Weight, one hundred and thirty-one pounds. Chest, thirty-four. Complexion, fresh. Eyes, blue-grey. Hair, auburn. Any scars or marks?’ After a few seconds’ thought, Probyn held out his left hand to reveal the distinctive blue coal scar between forefinger and thumb.

  With his heart and lungs pronounced sound, he gave a sigh of relief, for others had come to grief at this point, some of them even being found to have tuberculosis. Unfortunately Melody was not amongst those rejected and was now just ahead of Probyn in the queue for eyesight examination. Perhaps he might fall at this hurdle. The youth in front was certainly experiencing trouble.

  ‘It’s not War and Peace we’re asking you to read, laddy, come along, hurry!’ A heavy sigh from the examiner. ‘Oh, Lord give me strength, another failure.’

  ‘Aw, please don’t chuck me out, sir!’ begged the lumpish youth whom Mick had called Billy but his superiors called Ingham. ‘I can see t’words well enough, I just can’t read ’em.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising! They’re not meant to be words but a collection of letters. Ah, you mean you can’t read at all?’ The examiner’s pained expression was eased somewhat. ‘Then it’s a different matter, we’ve an excellent fellow who can remedy that. A few trips to the schoolroom and you’ll be up to scratch.’

  Mick turned and murmured to Probyn with a look half of pity, half scorn. ‘Chroist, and they accuse the Irish of being thick.’

  Probyn wished the other would stop using the Lord’s name in such a manner, and showed his displeasure by giving Melody a shove to indicate that it was his turn.

  The majority of the recruits having passed the obligatory standards, they put on their clothes and stood in a ragged line before the sergeant, who asked, ‘Would it be dangerous for me to assume that, apart from Ingham, the rest of you have got your school certificates?’

  All muttered that they had.

  The sergeant cocked his ear. ‘I didn’t catch that. Lift your chin up when you speak! You’re not talking to the floorboards.’

  The answer was repeated more smartly. Mick caught Probyn studying him as if he were lying, and adopted a defensive attitude. ‘So I have! ’Tis here in my pocket if ye want to see it.’ To the other’s astonishment he presented written proof of his intelligence.

  ‘Thank you, Melody,’ said the sergeant, with a long-suffering attitude, ‘you can put it away now, we can all recognize a superior brain when we see one.’

  The next few moments were spent with the recruits handing over details of their former occupation, religion and next of kin. Upon completion of this chore, the sergeant told them, ‘Right, fall in!’

  At the ensuing shambolic efforts he sighed. ‘I can see we’re going to have our work cut out with you lot.’ Separating those who had already been sworn in elsewhere, he told Probyn and the rest, ‘Just try to march in as straight a line as possible to the colonel’s office. By the left, quick march!’

  Probyn could hardly believe he was moments away from achieving his lifetime ambition. As if in a dream he marched as competently as he could with the other potential infantrymen, hoping that it would not be too long before he was clad in more appropriate garb. Please God, military apparel might improve the others’ behaviour too, came his annoyed thought, for at present they seemed not to be attempting any formation at all, their arms and legs swinging wildly at different rates, their ranks all higgledy-piggledy. A frown leapt to his brow as Melody, trying to get into step, performed an ungainly dance, causing others to laugh and the sergeant to glare. Idiot! If he wanted to play the fool why had he not gone on the stage instead of degrading such a serious occupation?

  Whilst they waited to go before the colonel, the sergeant told the recruits that upon attestation they would be split up and handed over to their different companies. At this news Probyn was struck by a bolt of joy. For one exquisite moment it appeared his future was about to turn rosy …

  Until Melody piped up. ‘Em, begging your pardon, Sergeant, but me and your man here are comrades from the same pit. It’d be absolutely great if we could stay together.’

  ‘Oh well, we don’t want to spoil any nice little friendships,’ came the lightly sarcastic riposte.

  Probyn was alarmed and embarrassed. ‘Don’t put yourself to any trouble, Sergeant!’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, son! Tell me, would you care for a pot of tea with your morning call?’ The sergeant made a violent gesture as a door opened and the regimental sergeant-major appeared. ‘Squad ’shun!’

  Deeply in awe of the occasion, the recruits were escorted into the colonel’s office. Seconds away from voicing his oath of allegiance, Probyn underwent terrible indecision. After all these years of waiting, was his chosen career about to be ruined by some Irish oaf with delusions of comradeship? Might it be more expedient to back out now and reapply to some other regiment?

  Too late! He found his lips chanting the words that would bind him, and a silver shilling pressed into his hand. He was no longer a civilian, but number 2893, Private Probyn Montague Kilmaster of the York and Lancaster Regiment.

  * * *

  Upon exit from the colonel’s sanctum, Probyn’s worst fears were confirmed: he was to be in the same platoon as Melody. However, things could have been worse for the haircut he duly received could not match Mick’s in severity, the barber seeming to take exception to such curly locks and shaving them to resemble a prison cut. Moreover his excitement was soon to be revitalized as he was marched off to be measured for his dress tunic, then supplied with undress uniform
with which he rapidly adorned himself.

  Unable to credit that he was really a soldier, he fastened the last brass button then grinned down at his metamorphosed figure, tugging the scarlet tunic across a chest that swelled with pride. The legs of the dark blue trousers were a shade too long, but his upper half felt perfect. He could feel his entire figure blooming in stature. With no mirror, he could only imagine how magnificent he must appear. He should have his photograph taken as soon as possible and send it to his family!

  ‘Jesus, that red coat don’t half clash with your hair.’ Melody’s casual utterance instantly exploded the myth.

  Jaw twitching, Probyn wondered what sentence might be incurred from killing a member of one’s own side, and quickly shielded the offending thatch with a glengarry. ‘At least I’ve still got hair! You look like a shorn old ewe.’ A plague on Melody for spoiling his moment!

  There followed an inspection, the first of many, by their platoon commander Lieutenant Fitzroy whose critical eye picked out the deficiencies in their regulation garb and ordered these to be amended.

  After drawing their kit and equipment, the recruits were instructed by their platoon sergeant to return to the hut where they had spent the night and collect their biscuits.

  ‘Kilmaster,’ Sergeant Faulkner was consulting a list, ‘you only arrived this morning so you won’t have had a biscuit. Get over to the quartermaster’s store and he’ll give you one. Fetch it back here and you’ll be shown where to go next.’

  With an expression of restrained delight at the prospect of this mid-morning refreshment, Probyn made his exit. ‘Biscuits? I didn’t expect such treats in t’army. I hardly ever get them at home.’

  But there was to be disappointment. The biscuit turned out to be a mattress. Added to this, upon his return, there was mockery from his companions. ‘Sure, ye’d be hard pressed to dip that in your tea,’ laughed Mick, almost splitting his sides at the sight of Probyn’s disgruntled face over the mound of bedding.

  Fortunately his discomfiture was soon curtailed as the recruits were sent along to another store where each was given a rifle. This gave rise to a lot of boyish horseplay, which was frowned upon by Probyn who, taking everything in deadly serious vein, set himself apart so as not to incur the wrath that would surely come. Whilst others were bawled to order he tried to familiarize himself with the numerous items of kit. But there was to be little chance of accumulating knowledge at the moment for they were on the move again.

  Laden with their respective burdens, he and Melody, the oafish Ingham and a host of others with whom he had yet to make proper acquaintance, were marched to another barrack block. This one was more populated and divided into sections, all of which buzzed with masculine voices. Deposited in another stark room with beds down either side, the recruits were left to their own devices and told that someone would be along in a while to give them instruction. Waiting until Melody had dumped his kit, Probyn selected the bed that was furthest away from this pest.

  A period of further introduction occurred between the recruits. Trying to remember their names Probyn seized on physical defects to aid his memory: Barnes had a face that was big and square and rather wooden, like a barn door; Bumby’s round cheeks were like a pair of buttocks; Chambers and Gover were both average-looking chaps with no obvious blemish, he would probably forget them; Havron … well that sounded a bit like chevron and as his forehead was perpetually striped in a frown it was a good enough aid; Queen had a London twang and London was where the queen lived, Rook was dark and watchful as his name would suggest …

  Throughout the swapping of yarns, it became clear that many of them had come here via a shared act of rebellion. Against tradition they had refused to follow their fathers down the coal mine. Yet, this was where the similarity ended for, unlike Probyn, they had joined the army not from love of Empire but simply as a means of escaping a wretched existence. Others like Ingham were quite obviously from much more deprived backgrounds. Worse, their dullard expressions were far from being skin deep.

  Whilst not highly-educated himself Probyn did not lack intelligence and he was dismayed as to the high proportion of inarticulacy and dim-wittedness, the majority of their stories being of gang fights and trouble with the police – not the sort with whom this well-brought up young man would have associated in civilian life. Still, they were friendly enough and he made an effort to get on with them.

  But after twenty minutes or so when still nobody had come to offer instruction, and concerned that certain members had started to act the fool again, Probyn addressed the squad. ‘Hadn’t one of us better go and ask what we’re supposed to be doing?’

  ‘Ah, you go if you’re bothered,’ yawned Melody, obviously happy to lie on his cot and do nothing.

  Annoyed at the lack of enthusiasm, Probyn wandered out into a corridor and followed the sound of voices to a room nearby, intending to seek guidance. However, it was doubtful he would find it here. Hovering in the doorway, presented with the men who were to be his comrades in arms, his heart sank lower still, for many of those before him were characteristic of the riff-raff portrayed by his father.

  Even down the pit he had never heard such language as was bandied here, the majority of their words beginning with f and b and c. Riven by disgust, the young idealist wondered how the wearers of so dashing a uniform could bring themselves to sully it thus. The content of their discourse was even more vile, centring on the local womenfolk and what sexual favours they had granted at the weekend, most of which Probyn could not believe even the lowest type of woman would contemplate. To make matters worse a couple of the redcoats appeared nearly as old as his father – more than old enough to know better. Many were in stockinged feet and shirt sleeves, their braces dangling in a slovenly manner. To compound everything, one of them was openly farting. The room reeked like a sewer.

  Unsure of his reception, the youngster stood there aghast, wanting to turn his back on the whole degraded crew but pinned to the spot by fascinated horror. In the centre of the lofty whitewashed barrack room were a number of tables and wooden forms where men variously sat cleaning kit and other chores, all performed in an unenthusiastic method. Others warmed their hands at a fuel stove, apparently doing nothing.

  As yet, no one in the room had spared so much as a nod for the newcomer. Uncertain what to do, Probyn cast a forlorn glance around the walls, the sight of a withered sprig of holly making him even more demoralized.

  ‘Do you want something, shit-stick?’

  Shocked and insulted, Probyn shot to attention. ‘We were told somebody’d come and show us what to do but nobody’s come.’

  Twisting his words, the man who had made the enquiry voiced an obscene comment which Probyn felt it better to ignore, though his cheeks flamed red under the coarse laughter.

  ‘Oilbederwhenoivedonedesefecknboots!’ A wiry, middle-aged twig of a man, in the act of blacking his footwear, paused to direct this comment at the new boy but spoke so rapidly that Probyn failed to comprehend.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  It was delivered more coherently, though with exaggerated patience. ‘I said, I’ll be along to help yese in a while.’

  Dismayed by the Irish accent, Probyn hurried away to inform the others what they could expect.

  In a short matter of time, true to his promise, the old soldier came to assist. The stringy-looking man was accompanied by two others, both of whom had caught Probyn’s eye earlier and both earning his contempt. One, who introduced himself as Jessop, was no more than twenty but was the possessor of a luxuriant moustache and a cocksure, swaggering manner; the other, Oliver, was a florid-cheeked man, somewhat older, stocky, confident, and despite being the possessor of a foul mouth, much more amiable than Jessop who was now standing over Melody in threatening pose.

  ‘Shift your arse off my cot.’ He was carrying a mattress, as were the others.

  Melody’s lips parted in silent protest as he glanced enquiringly at other unoccupied beds in the room. />
  ‘If I’m stuck in here helping you babbies learn the ropes,’ growled Jessop, ‘I’m having a decent cot, now shift!’

  With all eyes keen for his reaction, a good-natured Mick treated it as a joke and, clumsily folding up his mattress and belongings, vacated the bed by the window for one in shadow. ‘Ah well, I’m sure this one’ll be fine enough.’ He dumped his equipment on the cot beside Probyn’s.

  The eldest soldier appeared not to be so selective, throwing his mattress onto the bedstead to Probyn’s left flank. Oliver took the bed that was furthest away, which was a relief to Probyn for the man appeared to be suffering from unremitting flatulence, making this room smell as rank as the one he had just left.

  For a time, no more exchange was made between new and old. The recruits, completely in awe of the three experienced soldiers, merely watched them on their several journeys back and forth, transferring their kit from the other room, the two Yorkshiremen occasionally throwing a question at the Irishman who would reply with a bout of rapid fire. Probyn was amazed at their powers of interpretation for the entire speech was unintelligible to him. It was as if all the words were joined together, though amid the swift delivery he did detect the liberal use of the word fuck which seemed to be employed as a means of punctuation.

  After his final journey, the weather-beaten private, aware of Probyn’s close interest as he stacked his items of kit on the shelf above his cot, addressed him again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ replied Probyn. ‘I didn’t catch what you said.’

  The Irishman sighed and rattled off a further incomprehensible speech before repeating in more measured terms. ‘I said, we’d better acquaint ourselves if we’re to be cot mates. What the divil’s up with yese can’t y’understand the Queen’s English for Christ’s sake?’ His skull resembled an ancient sea shell, gnarled and discoloured by the tide of life. ‘I’m Felix Lennon.’