‘Don’t go darting your pipeclay in too thick else you’ll be here till Tattoo – oh, what an atrocious mess!’
Shrugging off all attempts of help, Probyn continued doggedly applying the pipeclay to leather, but only accomplished a greater bungle, even managing to get the stuff in his hair.
Glancing round to see how everyone was coping, Jessop cackled. ‘Eh, Kilmaster-Actually, are you a plasterer by trade?’
Probyn was offended at being made fun of, and hoped this appellation would not stick.
Turning to see what the laughter was about, Lennon gave a sigh at Probyn’s lack of skill and peppered him with abuse. ‘Ye won’t be told, will ye?’ Arms akimbo, he stood over the culprit. ‘Think ye can’t learn anything from the likes of me, is that it?’
Probyn blushed and didn’t know what to say.
‘All right you’re so wise, consider this:’ Lennon presented the bedevilled recruit with an anecdote. ‘You’re in a cell, the walls of which are twelve inches thick. There’s a window but it has iron bars on it. The only items in the room are a stone slab for a bed and a bucket to piss in. How do ye get out?’
Trying to rid his fingers of pipeclay, Probyn struggled to contain his irritation. ‘They’d feed me wouldn’t they? I’d use the knife or fork to scrape the cement away from the bars, so’s I could remove one and squeeze through.’
‘Take a long time,’ mused the old soldier. ‘Why don’t ye just use the door? Didn’t say it was locked, did I?’
Made to appear foolish, Probyn groaned under subsequent taunts.
‘Always look for the easy way first, son, and pay heed to them as’ll take the time to show ye.’
‘Sorry.’ Probyn looked suitably ashamed.
‘Here now, let Felix sort it out.’
Conceding that there was much to learn, Probyn gratefully observed Lennon’s advice, even venturing a question as he laboured. ‘Does your wife live near by, Private Lennon?’
‘Never married,’ said Felix, adding some unintelligible remark that Probyn decided not to question, for he did not want to irritate the man by his constant demands for repetition. Merely nodding, he threw himself into his task and, after a series of short cuts, had cleaned enough of his kit to stand him in good stead for morning.
Itching to go out, Jessop showed a sudden disinclination to help the recruits any longer and abandoned them in favour of the wet canteen.
‘Away, Grandma, that’s enough, you’ll be breastfeeding them in a minute.’
Lennon hooked his arm through his braces and donned his scarlet tunic, his lips rattling out a final burst of advice. ‘Mind you boys have all that kit cleaned and put away before ye get your heads down.’ With this he and the two others departed.
Absorbed in their tasks, the recruits continued to polish and clean and iron for some hours afterwards, but eventually exhaustion began to claim them. Mick was first to succumb, making down his bed, flopping onto his back and groaning that he needed a rest before continuing. Within moments he was asleep. Havron and Ingham proceeded for a while longer, complaining throughout of their hunger, then they too surrendered to weariness. Fearful of Corporal Wedlock’s wrath, Barnes and Bumby, Queen, Rook and the others stuck at their chores, though their eyelids were heavy and their muscles ached.
The rest of the barrack block appeared to have joined Private Lennon at the wet canteen for there was not the usual row in the corridor. In the comparative silence, Probyn glanced up occasionally to check on Melody. Worried that the bane of his life seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep, he cleared his throat noisily in an attempt to wake him, but to no effect. With so much else to concern him he decided to let him lie, and continued beavering until everything was spotless and in its place, ready for morning.
Only then did he allow himself to get ready for bed, others following suit. At home there would be cocoa at bedtime and perhaps a slice of bread. Here there was just a parched mouth and an empty belly.
It seemed like only a moment ago that Lennon and his pals had gone out yet here they were back again, some of them the worse for drink and making enough din to wake even a sloth like Melody.
Face creased and bewildered, Mick sat bolt upright at the soldiers’ noisy entrance.
‘I told you they’d be slacking,’ Oliver told Lennon, examining the scene.
Dressed only in his shirt, about to get into bed, Probyn looked offended and indicated his neatly placed kit. ‘I can’t see owt wrong with mine.’
‘And what’re dese strides doing here?’ Felix Lennon directed an arthritic digit at the pair of trousers draped over the foot of Probyn’s bed. ‘And dem and dose.’ One after another he pointed to similarly placed garments. ‘Come on now, get your arses up.’
A bleary-eyed Melody conformed with the others.
Probyn followed Lennon’s instructions too, applying soap to the creases of his trousers, though not without a mutinous grumble to his cot mate. ‘If he doesn’t shut up with his dis, dat and de udder I’m going to stick them up his—’
‘Em! Would you be making fun of my accent, Private Kilmaster?’ came the Irishman’s narrow-eyed query.
‘Not me.’ Aching for sleep, his face grim, Probyn carefully arranged the trousers under his mattress and, finally, climbed in on top of them.
It transpired that they were not to gain respite from Corporal Wedlock even now, for as the bugler sounded Tattoo in he pranced, surveying the cowed recruits with a baleful eye and ordering one or two of them out of bed to complete an unfinished task, before finally taking to his cot in the warmest corner of the room.
Ill-at-ease, his mouth as dry as a bone, Probyn closed his eyes. Normally before getting into bed he would have said his prayers, but tonight he offered only the silent hope that tomorrow would see an improvement in his situation. Even before the lights had all gone out he yielded to exhaustion, the last thought on his mind one of utter disillusionment.
3
Probyn was roused early, though not by yesterday’s thrill. Reveille was accompanied by the same sense of pessimism with which he had finally dropped off to sleep, seemingly minutes ago. Exhausted and hollow, aching to his very bones, he rolled into a sitting position on the edge of his mattress. For a second, as he experienced the bare floorboards under his feet, he imagined himself at home, but the impression was soon dashed.
The dark room stirred with animal grunts and the other bodily noises he had come to expect of its occupants. Spending a gloomy interlude kneading his face, he finally stood, retrieved his trousers from under the mattress and shoved his legs into them. Others were doing likewise. Now, only Melody was still a-bed.
The last note of reveille faded away. Over in the corner Corporal Wedlock sat bolt upright, reached onto his shelf for an object, took aim and let the missile fly.
With an agonized yelp Mick propped himself up in bed, dazed not just with sleep but by the wooden club that had skimmed his head. Had it been any more accurate, thought a horrified Probyn, it would have killed the youth. As it was, the side of his scalp had been laid open.
Wedlock leapt smartly out of bed and without further preamble charged up to Mick’s cot, grabbed the edge of the mattress and tipped its bleeding occupant onto the floor. Whilst others went about making their beds, terrified of similar retribution, Probyn hovered to watch. The man was an outright hooligan!
Wedlock had started to kick his victim, shouting at him to get up. Bare feet or no, Probyn could not allow this to go on. He stepped forth to intervene, but was immediately rewarded with an upraised fist.
‘Want to find yourself on a charge, Kilmaster?’ came the threatening hiss.
‘No, Corporal!’ Reluctantly, Probyn stood down.
‘Then make up your bed!’
Probyn hurriedly complied. Always looked after by his sisters, he had never made a bed in his life until shown how to yesterday and now could not recall what to do. Snatching frequent glances at the old soldiers for reference, he dragged every item from the cot then
attempted to fold each in the required manner, bringing the edges of the sheets together, tugging and smoothing, until they were of a precise size and displaying them neatly on his mattress. During the time this took he was relieved to see Mick clamber to his feet, and whilst not exactly upright he was at least living.
‘Right!’ Wedlock was saying, ‘Me-lody, Mel-ody or whatever way you bloody pronounce it
‘You can say it whichever way ye like, Corp,’ offered the dazed Mick, a trickle of blood running down his neck.
The snub nose adopted an arrogant tilt. ‘So if it takes my fancy to pronounce it turd you wouldn’t object?’
‘Not at all, Corp.’
‘Good! And when you hear reveille tomorrow morning, what are you going to do, turd?’
‘I’m going to get up, Corp.’
‘Correct. Now make your frigging bed and get this floor scrubbed!’
Smoothing the last wrinkle out of his folded blanket and placing his pillow just so, Probyn joined others in sweeping and scrubbing the floorboards. Then it was off to ablutions. Normally, he would shave only every three days, but not wishing to appear childish, he took up his razor and scraped at imaginary whiskers, though it was an extremely unpleasant task with only cold water at his disposal. Trying to staunch his nicked chin, he glanced at Melody who had just staggered in, the bloody wound on his head beginning to congeal.
In passing, Lennon undertook brief examination and pronounced in his speedy brogue, ‘Dat’s a nasty scratch, an’ all, son, here, let me see to it for yese.’
‘Oh, leave it be.’ Lacking his normally ruddiness, a pain-faced Mick extricated himself. ‘I’ve no wish to invite more injury from Corporal Wedlock if he comes in and catches me doing naught. Sure, the man’s a raving lunatic.’ He had a swift if delicate wash and, with only a downy growth on his cheeks he had no need of a razor and was soon able to catch up. When the others were dressed in their red serge and polished boots and mustered for inspection, he was amongst them, though looking none too happy.
As on the day before, there was a period of bullying from Wedlock who picked fault with everyone’s appearance and made them do things again and again before finally handing the recruits over to a different corporal who took them to the gymnasium. Here they exchanged their tunics and caps for canvas shoes and belts. After inspection by a sergeant, they were ordered to complete twenty laps of the gym, then it was on to dumbbells and parallel bars, during which period of exertion Mick collapsed in a faint.
‘How did he get that cut to his head?’ demanded Staff Sergeant Milner, testing Melody for consciousness with a few prods of his foot.
Probyn exchanged a glance with Rook who seemed equally unwilling to make a worse enemy of Wedlock. ‘I think he fell out of bed, Staff Sergeant.’
The flicker of one stony eye told Probyn that Milner did not believe him, but thankfully there was to be no repercussion. An order was given to Ingham and Havron. ‘Right, you two, carry him to hospital!’ And the injured party was removed from the scene.
Far from being sympathetic, Probyn was vastly relieved to have this burden removed, and hoped Melody’s sojourn might be extended so as to allow others to keep a lower profile.
An hour or so later, proud of himself for surviving the latest ordeal, he and an equally exhausted squad went to eat breakfast. After washing a chunk of his daily bread ration down with some foul tasting coffee, he stored the remainder on his shelf. In no time at all, it was back to work.
There were tables to scrub and equipment to clean, then, with the coming of light, they were driven by Milner around a muddy field with press-ups along the way until everyone was the colour of chocolate. After a change of clothing came a lecture, then rifle exercise, and more drill until noon, and after another unpalatable dinner there followed another two hours of exertion. With hardly a moment to draw breath or even to visit the latrine, the day seemed more arduous than the one before.
To Probyn’s annoyance, Melody rejoined the platoon at tea-time, though he was gratified to note that the latter was rather more subdued than normal and paid much more care to the cleaning of his equipment than he had yesterday. Hopefully his efforts would pay dividends for all with Corporal Wedlock.
Adhering to his own scruples, Probyn passed the hours as on the foregoing evening by vigilantly polishing, folding and ironing, wondering whether tonight he would get time to write that letter of explanation to his father.
But no, Privates Lennon, Jessop and Oliver were already returning from their night out at the wet canteen signifying that it was time for lights out. The letter would have to wait yet again.
Once more an exhausted Private Kilmaster found himself shrouded in a musty blanket, trying desperately not to think of the horrible future that lay ahead.
* * *
Within seconds, it seemed, of Tattoo being played the bugler was sounding reveille. It was immediately obvious to Probyn that he had never moved his leaden limbs all night for they were still in the same position in which he had fallen asleep and were excruciatingly painful. The barrack room hummed with its usual malodorous stench. Grimacing, he hauled himself into a sitting position, then forced his eyes open and peered through sandy lashes to gauge others’ movements. Whilst many were already up Melody was still fast asleep. Anxious to avoid a replay of yesterday’s episode, not only for Melody’s sake but because it reflected on him too, Probyn breached the eighteen inches between their cots and dealt the Irish youth a sharp jab in the back that had him up in seconds, gibbering and dancing into his trousers before he realized who it was that had awoken him. This time when the last note of reveille died out the cudgel remained harmlessly on Wedlock’s shelf.
Not that this indicated any weakening on his part though, nor that of the physical training instructor either who drove them as mercilessly as ever around the gymnasium, likewise the drill sergeant who persistently yelled and abused them for one misdemeanour after another and, oh, the constant marching! Probyn was used to walking long distances but not in such ill-fitting boots as these. It was obvious without looking that the continual rubbing had caused dreadful damage to his heels and toes. When, with the utmost relief, he tugged off his boots at noon he found that his feet resembled items on a butcher’s slab.
Blisters had burst and disintegrated, exposing raw flesh. Following an all too short interlude during dinner when he left his feet bare, he took the rags normally used as handkerchiefs and tore them into bandages. Alas, any relief these might have given was quickly undone the moment he donned the offending footwear. He could hardly endure the weight of stockings, let alone boots. Angered by the callousness of Jessop’s mocking laughter, he limped stiff-legged towards another gruelling afternoon of drill, each step sheer agony.
Between then and tea-time the shreds of linen worked their way into his lacerated flesh, becoming so firmly embedded that, when came the merciful return to his barrack room, he discovered it was impossible to dislodge them without soaking. Even then, the pain of removal brought him close to tears.
And the worst thing of all as he climbed into bed at night was the knowledge that in the morning it would all begin again.
* * *
The hours between dawn and dusk melted into a blur of pain, the recruits undergoing various forms of torture, rewarded only by the smallest amounts of food, and robbed of their precious spare time by old sweats who bullied them into running errands. Forced to show outwards deference or take the violent consequences, Probyn was nevertheless inwardly contemptuous, not least of their smutty talk and activities. He was not putting himself through all this just to emerge like them. Should he survive the training he was determined to rise above their rank and make something of himself, though just what that would be he was at a loss to say, for there was not one here to admire.
Notwithstanding this, Felix Lennon had emerged as a kind enough soul, lending him ointment that worked wonders on his feet and helping him make his boots more supple, also taking the time to interpret the vari
ous bugle calls, another army ritual of which Probyn was becoming heartily sick; it was bugle to breakfast, bugle to bed, and countless other bugles in between. At times he wanted to ram the wretched thing up the bugler’s fundament. Now, though, towards the end of his first week that felt more like a month he was at least able to distinguish the calls which were relevant to him, and to ignore the others. He had also begun to be acclimatized to his surroundings, now familiar with the location of the dry canteen, though he had neither the time nor the money to go there very often. Even if granted the funds he would not be visiting the wet canteen which seemed to be the haunt of every other soldier in the block, save for the recruits who were too exhausted to go anywhere.
However, on Saturday evening it appeared there was to be a different venue. Private Lennon and his friends were venturing beyond the garrison walls and into town. Moreover, the recruits were invited to accompany them.
‘Who’s coming for a jar of neck-oil with us?’
There came a roar of mass approval from the young soldiers, Melody being the first to leap to his feet despite his exhaustion.
‘Ye’ll have to clean your kit first though,’ warned Lennon.
‘Aw, in God’s name why?’ demanded Mick, amid the unified groan. ‘Is it not Sunday tomorrow?’
‘Sunday might be a day of rest in your house,’ rattled Lennon. ‘But in the army … ?’ He shook his head with an exaggerated tutting noise. ‘I don’t think. Ye’ve got Church Parade for a start—’
‘Oh, Mother wouldn’t like me to attend anything other than the real church,’ butted in Mick.
‘Don’t bother trying to wriggle out of it, son,’ advised Lennon. ‘They’ve got churches to suit every one of yese, real or no. Come on now, get those buttons polished, the sooner we can be on our way.’
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