Increasingly disillusioned by events and characters, Probyn was somewhat lacklustre in his response, merely divulging his name.
Mick in his usual amiable fashion, and encouraged by the Irish accent, sprang up and leaned over Probyn’s cot to introduce himself. ‘And what part of the old country are you from, sir?’
Faced with much heckling from his companions, Lennon’s leathery face creased in a grin and he advised Mick not to call him that.
‘He’s not sir, he’s Grandma,’ explained Private Oliver, his rough-looking face transformed by a smile. ‘’Cause he mollycoddles all the new recruits.’ He emitted another blast of wind at which Private Queen giggled, infecting others.
‘I beg yese don’t encourage him.’ Lennon picked up a boot and resumed the chore that had been interrupted earlier, as he did so answering Mick’s question. ‘I hail from Rathkeale in Limerick. And yourself?’
Even with ears keenly pricked, Probyn still found it hard to grasp the man’s speech and was forced to rely on Melody’s response as a means of enlightenment.
‘Galway city,’ said Mick. ‘And how long have you been with the regiment?’
‘My pontoon comes up next summer,’ replied Lennon, indicating the long service stripe on his cuff.
Not conversant with the term, the recruits were told it signified twenty-one years of service. Good gracious, thought Probyn contemptuously, still a private after almost a quarter of a century!
As if reading his expression, Lennon gave a wry smile, but said nothing, just spat on his boot and performed circular motions upon the leather with the bone handle of a knife. The recruits had begun to gather round him.
‘Twenty-one years!’ breathed Mick.
‘Well, aren’t you planning to stay that long?’ sniped Probyn, inordinately annoyed with everyone for ruining what should have been an auspicious occasion.
‘Jesus, I don’t know if I’ll even last the seven,’ answered Mick, embracing others in his friendly smile. ‘Sure, I don’t normally plan further than the morrow.’
‘Don’t have to do any planning at all now,’ offered Oliver, with another of his crude appellations. ‘Not even a trip to the bog. You go where you’re told.’
Lennon agreed, polishing stolidly at his boots. ‘And ’tis somewhere unpleasant you’ll be going if ye don’t get all that kit off the bed before Corporal Wedlock spies it.’ His seasoned head jerked towards the shelf over his bedspace where items of kit were neatly arranged, his only other storage area being three pegs. ‘Look and learn.’
‘Wedlock? Sure, that’s a funny name.’ Mick’s ruddy face creased in laughter as he tried to make sense of all the military paraphernalia spread on his mattress, the others doing likewise, aided by Jessop and Oliver.
‘Ah, he’s a very funny chap is our Corporal Wedlock,’ came the rapid reply.
‘Otherwise known as Out-of,’ provided Oliver.
‘Why’s that?’ Probyn frowned innocently, but was not to be enlightened, receiving only a cynical glance.
He sighed and took great care in stacking his kit on the shelf, he and his fellow recruits referring occasionally to Lennon’s methods and placing their own belongings in similar mode. During this period of absorption there was another burst from the bugler.
‘That’d be mail,’ Lennon anticipated the question whilst examining his gleaming boot. ‘Ye’ll soon get used to the different calls.’
Perhaps, came Probyn’s dismal thought, but will I ever get used to you and these other scoundrels? Glancing miserably round the barrack room he could find not one occupant to admire. But the mention of mail had reminded him; he must write home at the first opportunity to inform his father he was safe. Maintaining his diligent placement, he went on filling the shelves.
Lennon, Oliver and Jessop continued to answer a barrage of questions, none of which came from Private Kilmaster. Probyn would not lower himself to show ignorance before these disappointing specimens. However, he was most anxious to learn and, without seeming to, made careful note of the answers.
‘Eh, Gingernut!’
Probyn clenched his teeth. How often had this annoying sobriquet been hung on him. Now in the act of folding his blankets in the required manner, he half turned to address Jessop who had hailed him, though did not look him in the eye, averse to confrontation at this early stage. ‘My name’s Kilmaster, actually.’
‘Oh, Mr Double-barrel are we? Well, Kilmaster-Actually, get thy bloody arse down to the dry canteen and fetch me a can o’ button brass.’
The man’s expression brooked no argument. Probyn affected willingness to comply yet was bound to ask in astonished manner, ‘Do we have to buy our own? In that case I’d better go to the office and ask Corporal White for my money. He’s looking after it for me.’ Others echoed his intention.
Placing his boots in meticulous juxtaposition, Lennon gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Sure and ye won’t see that again, my boy.’
Upon interpretation, Probyn suffered renewed shock. ‘But there was nigh on half-a-crown! I’ve only got the bob they gimme when I signed!’
‘And they’ll have most o’ that back off ye too,’ warned Lennon, his jabbered reply punctuated by the usual obscenities.
Growing more disaffected by the second, Probyn had an awful thought. ‘We don’t have to pay for food, do we?’
‘Ye do if ye want any more than bread and meat.’ Lennon examined Probyn’s shelf and nodded approvingly at his effort. ‘Threepence a day for vegetables and other non-essentials. A ha’penny a day for your laundry.’
Aghast, Probyn determined to save money by taking his own washing home whenever possible. ,
‘Mother o’God, how will we afford all the polish for our kit and boots?’ wailed Mick, clamping a hand to his shorn scalp.
‘How much have you got?’ Jessop interjected.
‘Same as everybody else, no more than a shilling.’
‘Right chuck us it over here! Away, I’m not gonna diddle you. You two an’all.’
Reluctantly, Probyn and the lumbering Ingham handed over their coins to the older man who spread them on his palm in informative manner.
‘There we are! See what you can do with co-operation? You’ve got three shillings. That’s more than enough to buy brass polish, boot blacking, all the stuff you need for cleaning.’
‘Ah true enough!’ Mick grinned at his two pals. ‘Share and share alike.’
‘That’s very generous of you!’ Jessop handed the coins to Probyn. ‘So fuck off and get it then.’
* * *
If Probyn had thought things were grim enough, they were to grow steadily worse. He and the others had just nicely begun to achieve some semblance of order with their kit and equipment when a cry of, ‘Stand by your beds!’ went up and the infamous Corporal Wedlock finally appeared. Still unable to decipher the nickname, Out-of, Probyn was nevertheless made all too aware of the reason for the communal dislike for he strutted amongst them like a bantam cock intent on a fight, his grey eyes displaying an assertiveness that overcame any lack of stature. After ordering each man to recite his name, rank and number, Wedlock passed briskly between the two rows of beds, flicking and tossing each recruit’s carefully placed kit into disarray until the barrack room looked as if a hurricane had visited, his language no better than those in his charge.
‘A bloody disgrace! I send you three good swaddies to show you the way and do you follow their example? No! You’ve got ten minutes to get it picked up and into proper order!’ With this the aggressive bantam turned on his heel and marched out leaving the panicked recruits to sort out the mess and their disgruntled helpers with extra work.
‘Dlittleshoite,’ mumbled Lennon to Jessop and Oliver, then swiftly addressed the baffled youngsters, ‘Well, what did y’expect in the army? Your mother’s not here to make your bed now. Come on, get it done – and do it properly this time.’
Wedlock’s return proved not so violent, yet he was still unimpressed with their efforts. ‘Does this res
emble that?’ he demanded, pointing first to Melody’s shelf and then to Private Lennon’s. ‘Does it?’
Mick compared both shelves and could not see the difference. Neither could Probyn. The Irish youth might be idle but his attempt was quite neat. However, it was no good trying to argue with one who was obviously intent on finding a flaw.
‘Em, maybe not, Corporal,’ conceded Mick.
Wedlock thrust his snub nose into the other’s face and squawked, ‘Then make sure it does!’ Eyes like rivets, he stood over Melody whilst he brought his kit to order, then began to strut up and down the room, picking fault, imaginary or genuine.
‘Right, fall in for drill!’
At the confused reaction, Wedlock swore, ‘Bloody useless buggers!’ Then he turned to Lennon and his cohorts. ‘You three, show them how a swaddy gets fell in!’
With a short series of regimented movements, the trio carried out the order, coming together and standing smartly to attention at the corporal’s further command. Probyn was rather amazed at the metamorphosis in the men’s attitude.
‘In future, when I give you the order to fall in that is what you will do!’ Wedlock encompassed the recruits with a challenging scowl. ‘Now fall in!’
Probyn performed what he assumed was a close imitation of Lennon’s action, irritated that others had not paid such close attention. He was therefore mortified to be included in Corporal Wedlock’s scornful mockery.
‘What a bunch of tossers! Not a brain between them – I have not told you to stand easy, stand to attention when I’m talking to you!’ Again he turned to address the experienced soldier. ‘Private Lennon, show these lumpen louts how to march. At the double, left-right left-right left-right. See how it’s done, you useless cretins? Outside! That man, stop flapping, you’re not a bloody goose!’
Harried at the double to the square and re-united with their fellow recruits, all were to be further upbraided in the most offensive terms.
‘Right! While we’re waiting for Sergeant Lockwood to arrive and put you through your drill we’ll give you an intelligence test. You, what’s your name?’
‘Kilmaster, Corporal!’
‘Kilmaster! Give me another name for privates.’
Heart still thudding from his stressful treatment, desperate to impress, Probyn racked his brain but was forced to blurt a nonplussed reply. ‘I don’t know, Corporal.’
Wedlock assumed a childish mimic. ‘Don’t know, Corporal! Well, I’ll tell you. It’s genitalia! A bunch of pricks is what you are, and floppy ones at that.’
Immersed in the very depths of despair, Probyn lowered his gaze.
‘Eyes front, you piece of shit!’
From somewhere came a disgusted mutter. ‘Isn’t he the gentleman.’
Wedlock darted up to Melody and bawled at him. ‘Gentleman? What would you know about fucking gentlemen?’
There was a giggle from Queen on the back row, but under the corporal’s violent outburst this was soon quelled, Mick and the rest of the squad grimly standing to attention. ‘’Twasn’t me who said it, Corporal!’
‘Who was it then?’ Wedlock’s eyes were devoid of any humanity. ‘Come on, out with it!’
Standing close enough to attract a glob of the furious corporal’s spittle Probyn reminded himself to put others between him and Melody in future.
Unwilling to betray a comrade, Mick tried to endear himself with a smile, but it wavered round the edges.
‘Dumb insolence is it? Any more and I’ll have you on a charge! Take that look off your face!’
Amazed, Mick stammered, ‘Sure, I can’t help the cut of me face, Corporal, ’tis the way God made me.’
Derision from Wedlock, his bellowing mouth so close that Mick could see down his throat. ‘God wouldn’t waste His talents on the likes of you! You came out of somebody’s arse!’
Probyn closed his eyes, a gesture of abhorrence.
‘Oh, I seem to have offended Mr Namby-pamby ’ere!’ Wedlock shifted his focus to the shortest recruit, strutting up and down before him. ‘However can that be?’
Trying to keep his head and shoulders erect whilst at the same time avoiding the corporal’s challenging stare, Probyn thought it wiser to remain mute.
Another spray of spittle dotted the victim’s red tunic. ‘The captain’s going to be very busy isn’t he! What with all these charges of dumb insolence to attend to!’
Alarmed by the threat, Probyn attempted to explain. ‘It’s just that we don’t swear in our house, Corporal.’
Wedlock grew more melodramatic. ‘Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. Private Ingham, go fetch the carbolic and I’ll scrub my foul mouth out. Stay where you are, you stupid pillock!’ Ingham had seemed about to move.
‘God give me strength!’ Wedlock held supplicating hands to the wintry sky. ‘It’ll need a bleedin’ miracle to turn this bunch o’ fannies into soldiers.’ After a moment of theatrical sobbing, he caught sight of the drill sergeant approaching and gave a final address to the recruits, this time with an icy determination in his eye and threat in his voice. ‘But we are going to turn you into soldiers or see you bleed to sodding death.’
* * *
Sweating profusely despite the cold weather, in the two torturous hours that followed, Probyn feared this was no empty threat. He was used to hard labour, yet the word exhaustion took on a new meaning as he was drilled and harried, insulted and threatened. The lack of sleep last night had already begun to tell and there was still twelve hours to go before bed time. How would he survive? Joints and muscles that had seemed so adequate in normal life now began to fail him, screaming under the effort as his stamina was tested to breaking point. Stinging rivulets of salt ran into his eyes; barely could he find the power to raise his arm and dash it away. A tired glance showed that for a shirker like Melody this was inflicting even more hardship. Having taken instant dislike to the Irish youth, Corporal Wedlock had warned the drill sergeant of his predisposition, thus Lockwood drove him harder than any of the others until, finally, Mick collapsed in a panting heap, unable to go on, unable even to speak. Only the aroma of cooking on the air forced the tyrant to curtail his sadistic proceedings, with the vow that there would be more of the same this afternoon.
Supporting Mick between them, Probyn and an equally exhausted Ingham limped back to their barrack room with the rest of the squad, faces as red as their sweat-drenched tunics, and after dropping him on his cot, fell onto their respective mattresses, thoroughly sapped of energy.
About to slide into unconsciousness, Probyn was roused by the bugler sounding the arrival of dinner. Dragging his feet to the dining hall, he sat there with heavy-lidded eyes, passing a grateful nod to Lennon who had, unceremoniously, slammed the meal before him. The other recruits joined the assembly, then, like automata, proceeded to shovel the meagre helping of mashed potato and sinewy meat into their mouths. No word was shared between them, though an occasional impolite comment passed amongst the old soldiers amidst their piggish slurping and chomping.
Hampered as he was by weariness and disrelish, many of the others finished long before Probyn. Having finally taken his fill, and mechanically following example, he rinsed his mug, knife and fork in an iron bath placed by the door. The water had grown cold and had a layer of greasy scum that adhered to his utensils, coating them not only with his own mess but other people’s too. Without drying facilities he shook off the moisture as best he could, returned to his barrack room and put the implements back on his shelf, then tried to relax on his bed.
Alas, before the meal could be digested there came another shrill command from Corporal Wedlock who ordered the recruits outside for a further two hours of drilling under the indefatigable Sergeant Lockwood.
Thence, amid more vile threats, followed more marching, about-turning, left-righting, saluting and incessant abasement.
Other than the fact that punishment stopped for tea, there was nothing further to inspire joy. Probyn had always been well fed at home, his father’s allotment p
roviding fresh vegetables, an abundance of brambles and elderberries for home-made jam, and plenty of rhubarb. Here it was bread, the attitude being take it or leave it.
Probyn ate the scanty meal in the customary daze – though now it had grown from a dream to a veritable nightmare. This was only his first day; how would he endure seven years of this treatment? For he had quickly dismissed the idea of staying for the full twelve – and the thought of twenty-one was preposterous!
After this, the last meal of the day, whilst he and the other recruits lay on their cots attempting to recover their strength, the old hands prepared for an evening in the wet canteen. Best boots were dug out, tunics pressed, moustaches tweaked and waxed.
Attending to his toilet, braces dangling, Private Lennon warned the new boys not to fall asleep before they prepared their kit for morning, and offered to show them what to do.
‘Stuff that,’ griped Mick, his thin limbs draped misshapenly over his bed like a swatted cranefly.
‘Ah, come on now, play de game,’ insisted Lennon, standing over him. ‘Ye don’t want to get on the wrong side of the corporal.’
‘You’re not trying to cod me he has a right side?’ Summoning great effort, Mick rolled off the bed.
Ingham complied too, falling easily into barrack vernacular. ‘He’s such a twat that Corporal Wedlock.’
Probyn winced at the language.
‘Ah that’s true enough.’ Lennon was sick of the corporal too. ‘He just got his second stripe last week and wants to make sure everybody knows it. So don’t give him any more cause for complaint than ye have to.’
Resentfully, the recruits set about doing as the experienced soldiers taught them. Whilst the likes of Melody and Ingham showed hesitance over the chore, Probyn launched straight in with an air of confidence, paying scant heed to what Lennon was saying, for there seemed little to be learned from one who had never earned promotion in twenty-one years.
Family of the Empire Page 7