Buster

by Alan Burns

“That’s why I’m looking for it.”

  “Bet someone nicked it. Well, be ’ung for a bleedin’ sheep. Come onto Parsons Field.”

  “What for?”

  “Apples. Lovely red ruddy apples.”

  Dan didn’t want apples.

  “Okay, I’ll come.”

  In the dark they climbed among fruit trees, pushing apples into all their pockets. Bert had brought his kitbag and they saw him heaving it on his shoulders, heard a loud whisper: “I’m off.”

  Ginger, Dan’s partner in latrine fatigues, was mooning about in the shadows. Dan was giving him a leg up a tree when a huge hand thudded on his shoulder. He fell back, Ginger on top of him. Sprawling on the ground they saw standing over them a giant with a shotgun.

  “Look at that shotgun,” whispered Dan; “he can keep his ruddy daughter.”

  “None o’ your lip.”

  He was enormous. Dan kept quiet. They were taken into a brightly lit kitchen and stood against the wall “to wait for the military”. Sergeant Lewis came:

  “You’ll be up before the CO* for this.”

  “Ya yah yah yah yah yah YAAAAAAAAA!” screamed Sergeant Bussel. “That’s the way. Yell as you charge. Scare him to death. Hands grip the butt, and UP into his guts. No slashing about the face. up into his guts. There’s no second chances with bayonets. It’s him or you. And those Ruskies know a thing or two, I can tell you. Right now. First man.”

  A man ran at the dummy and prodded it with his bayonet. “Yell!” yelled the Sergeant, “and HATE him! There’s no hate in you lads. You don’t last long with a bayonet without hating. Next man!”

  The dummy on the rope was still moving, and Dan went to steady it before the next man charged. He saw that someone had painted a moustache and spectacles on the face.

  Sergeant Bussel shouted like a madman: “What do you think you’re doing? Come back here! Now! At the double! Who’s in command of this exercise? Who’s been running this lot for twenty years? You or me? Who told you to touch the target before the charge? Want to get sliced up? And who’d carry the can back?”

  “I thought it should be straight, Sergeant.”

  “Who told you to think? Would Ivan sit ‘straight’ while you went up nice and polite and stuck a bayonet in his guts?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “Right then. Next man. And yell.”

  No rifle inspection. There was a God, after all.

  The bolt, wrapped in paper, lay on Dan’s bed. On the paper, a word: “Thanks”. Dan checked the number, rammed it home, sat on the bed, thinking about apples.

  “We’re on the board,” said Ginger. “CO’s Office, 1400 hours.”

  “Christ,” Dan said.

  Roaring at them, the Regimental Sergeant Major drove them into the office, marching them in treble-quick time. Bareheaded, they stood stiff at attention, rigid. Across the wide desk the Commanding Officer looked up from a file of papers. “Sergeant Lewis?”

  “Sir. At 1700 hours I relieved Sgt. Watkins as Orderly Sergeant—”

  The CO snapped: “Where did you find the accused?”

  “Sir. I proceeded to the premises, where I found the accused with apples in their possession, which they admitted were not their property. Sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. You, men, have you anything to say?”

  Ginger said: “I didn’t know they were private apples, sir. I just saw them and nipped over and nicked them. I thought it was all right, sir. Everybody—”

  “Yes, yes. Graveson?”

  “I only want to say I am very sorry indeed, sir, for all the trouble I have caused and—”

  “Very well. I have carefully considered the facts of this case… Far too much disregard for the property rights of neighbouring landowners… Fine of ten pounds.”

  “No CB and no fatigues!”* Dan was laughing. “He couldn’t wait to get back to his brandy!”

  “I’d rather fatigues. It’s a ruddy fortune,” said Ginger.

  “It’ll be stopped out of your pay. You’ll hardly notice it.”

  “I already send my mum a pound a week, and she keeps saying that’s not enough. She thinks I’m made of money.”

  “A pound a week!”

  “I gave her four in Civvy Street.* Now what can I tell her?”

  “Write and explain what’s happened.”

  “Tell her there’s a thief in the family? She’d never laugh that one off.”

  “Thief? Still, you can’t send her anything for the next ten weeks. Haven’t you an uncle who could help?”

  Ginger shrugged his shoulders.

  “Perhaps I could?…” Dan said.

  “Nah.”

  He walked off, hands in pockets.

  Dan wondered how he could pay his own fine. His father’s five pounds a month had all gone. He would ask Bryan. He composed a letter. It was difficult. He remembered Bryan’s return “after the war”. The special troop train. The first glimpse in the crowd of the white shirt, red tie, blue jacket worn by troops in hospital. Bryan had just been reclassified “walking sick”. “My biggest thrill in years.” The absolute change. Thinning hair, nervous glancing eyes, no concentration. “No wounds, no gallantry in action,” he said, “just dreary killing malaria.” Bryan sent the ten pounds in a registered envelope, without a message. But the fine was paid – that was the main thing.

  Queen’s Regulations,* War Office Orders, Army Orders, Standing Orders for Division, Regiment, Battalion. These were all transmitted down to Battalion level. Battalion headquarters was neck-deep in orders. More important, all orders were continually revised and amended. Important for Dan, because he was Orders Clerk. He had scissors and paste. He cut out the new revised version and pasted it over the old. The amendments were specially printed to cover entirely on the page the paragraph they were intended to replace. Dan was instructed to paste the slivers of paper by their edges, so that they could be lifted up and the old order consulted, because certain matters remained governed by the old orders. For example, stores purchased in 1946 would stay governed by the orders of that year; amendments to the Stores Purchasing Orders, therefore, must not be allowed completely to obscure the 1946 orders. Dan became skilled at amending amendments to previously amended orders. And, like all HQ personnel, he was allowed to wear shoes instead of boots and gaiters. He did not have to clean his boots or blanco* his gaiters.

  He was waving Queen’s Regulations over his desk, the latest amendments, flowing paper tails, looped the loop, flapped backwards and forwards. Captain Ames came in, with a young gunner. The Captain wanted all forms and regulations relating to signing-on in the regular army. “They will be sent to your office, sir.”

  “No, better do it now.”

  The Captain pulled two chairs up to Dan’s desk, motioning the Gunner forwards. They sat down, and the boy, hunched over his pen, filled in the forms slowly and carefully. His nails were bitten and dirty. Dan could read the black capitals. Donald MacAndrew. 18 years. He looked nearer fifteen, had spots on his chin. Crane driver’s assistant. Expresses a desire to join Her Majesty’s… Twelve years’ engagement. Typewriters clicked. The boy peered about the office, as if trying to find his way about. The Sergeant nodded and smiled. Captain Ames said:

  “Jolly good show.”

  The boy seemed pleased to have pleased everyone. Dan tried to catch his eye but did not manage to do so.

  * * *

  “Get up, you lazy bastard!” Bert hurled a pillow against the wall above Dan’s head, bringing a shower of plaster down on him.

  “You’re on the board.”

  “Not again!”

  “It’s all right, mate, you’re going to be a ruddy officer.”

  Twelve foot drop. Impossible. Better stay in the ranks for ever. Why did they need an assault course with a twelve-foot jump to distinguish between officer mate
rial and the other stuff? The Colonel had talked of “modern methods of officer selection”, but this was feudal.

  “Hurry along, gentlemen – only thirty-seven seconds to go.”

  “Gentlemen”! Dan strained for the New World. With a look straight down, he jumped.

  The selection-board psychiatrist dropped his handkerchief on the floor, looked up at Dan and said:

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Talk about what I have just done.”

  Dan talked, very rapidly: “You have just dropped your handkerchief on the floor. It’s a queer thing to do, just like that. It’s a dirtyish floor, but your handkerchief is fairly clean, so apparently you don’t drop it often. It was queer because it was disjointed it bore – or seemed to bear – no relation to what had gone before. That is unusual in a human action. The causal relationship between successive actions is usually apparent. Which sounds clever, but is, in fact, a platitude. No, it is profound and also untrue. My confusion results from my avoiding complex subjects like free will and determinism, which are the roots of the question. Things drop with varying velocities, depending on their weight. No, the velocity is constant. I think it called G2, but I don’t know what G2 is—”

  “That will do. You may go now. Thank you.”

  As Dan went to the door, the psychiatrist called after him: “What is that propelling pencil doing in your pocket?”

  “It is being a propelling pencil.”

  “Do those white bits, then, mean that you are a proper officer cadet?” his father asked for the third time.

  “Fully fledged. And I carry an officer’s stick. If I get through the course I’ll be Second Lieutenant Graveson in three months’ time.”

  “Well, Dan, I’m proud of you. You’ve done something at last. That uniform. Doesn’t he look smart, Bryan?”

  Bryan, from his armchair, said: “Thank God someone in this house looks smart. He looks healthy, too. Vitamin-packed. Killing must be good for you.”

  “I haven’t slaughtered any Japs, like you did.”

  “I’m sorry. I got it all wrong. It is training to be a killer that is so good for you. Instruction in annihilation stimulates the hormones. Do you suffer from spots or backache? Have you got a bad leg? Have three months’ fun with a bayonet and feel young again!”

  “Just because you took five years to reach Corporal—”

  “That’s enough!” their father said. “We’re going out to dinner. To celebrate. I’ve booked a table. So stop quarrelling, you two, while I go up and shave.”

  “Doesn’t he shave in the morning any more?” asked Dan, when he had gone.

  “It’s Saturday,” said Bryan.

  But he would not let go.

  “Yes, we’re proud of you, Dan. We’ll sit at home in the next war, being blown to atomic smithereens, happy in the knowledge that you’re at the front winning glory!”

  “You were mighty glad of the atom bomb when it stopped the war and brought you home.”

  Bryan stood up.

  “Glad? You bloody fool! You sodding bloody little baby!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Perhaps I was just nearer to it than you were. But since that bomb I’ve felt like I had leprosy – like bits of me were dropping off.”

  “It brought you home,” Dan insisted.

  “Half dead.”

  Dan said: “You used to be a scientific humanist.”

  “Labels going cheap! Scientific what? Tell it to the Japs. They’re still dying from an overdose of science. Have you heard the latest from the States? They say a cure for radiation sickness is theoretically possible. Spread the glad news in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Scientists may even now be tackling the theoretical problem of raising the one hundred and twenty-eight thousand Japanese dead.”

  “It’s not the scientists, it’s war, and the causes of war—”

  “General Graveson begins to think! Who ordered you to think?”

  Their father came in, in his dressing gown, soap frothing his face. A white blob fell on the carpet.

  “You’ll wear your uniform, Dan?”

  “Of course. I’ll have to press it, though. Have you got an iron?”

  Bryan said: “In the kitchen, by the bread bin. Sorry, Dad, I can’t come tonight – I don’t feel so good. Got the shivers. Perhaps I’ll join you later for a drink.”

  “Please come,” Dan said. “I want you to.”

  “Some other time. Sorry.”

  Dan went to press his uniform, his father to finish shaving. Bryan watched the soap bubbles sink into the carpet.

  Gilt and green nudes danced among flowers round the walls. Tablecloths and waiters’ shirtfronts glistened in the artificial gloom.

  “It’s very smart. Costs a fortune. But you don’t get made an officer every day,” his father said.

  “I’ve told you so many times. I’ve got a three-month course to get through yet.”

  “You’ll do it. You can get anything you really try for. I’ve always said you were the clever one.”

  “No. Bryan is.”

  “Why don’t you two get on these days? You used to.”

  “He’s so ratty. He blows up over nothing.”

  “You must give him time to settle down,” his father said. “I’m worried about him. He never sees anybody or wants to do anything. He doesn’t sleep, just walks about all night – we meet in the kitchen at two in the morning and eat cornflakes! If only he had some friends – especially a girlfriend. He needs one. Any man does.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Waiters handed them each a huge menu.

  “Have anything you like, Dan. Have the best. Do you like smoked salmon? And there’s a whole capon cooked in wine, with asparagus or mushrooms.”

  “I want something extraordinary and rare that I’ve never had before.”

  His father ordered oysters, lobster Newbourg, Bœuf Stroganoff. He studied the wine list.

  “We’ll have a good claret – Léoville Lascases ’28. You’ll have to learn about these things now, Dan.”

  There was a cabaret. A fat little man played a grand piano. He composed medleys from popular songs shouted at him by the diners. “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”, shouted his father. “That’s a grand old one. Your mother’s favourite.”

  A girl sang. The lights went low and she danced, chased by a white spotlight. Her shiny dress fell in a heap on the floor. Two chorus girls joined her, hiding her with long fluffy fans. She held a fan herself and moved around, followed by the two girls. For seconds at a time Dan could see the girl’s white-lit nude body as the fans hesitated. It was intentional. He glanced at his father.

  “Have a liqueur, Dan. For officers only. Green Chartreuse.”

  “I’m sozzled.”

  “There’s someone I would like you to meet, Dan.”

  “As long as it’s not Auntie Lulu. I can’t stand Auntie Lulu.”

  “I haven’t seen Lulu for a long time. We’ve been very alone, your brother and I.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s been too much. But you could help, Dan, if you wanted to.”

  “Me help you? That’s a new one!”

  “We’ll see. Let’s go now.”

  They drove through the West End. Dan sat in front next to his father. He felt warm and sleepy. The car pulled up outside a block of flats.

  “Let’s have a goodnight drink, Dan. And you can meet Helen.”

  In the self-operated lift there were six black studs with clear silver numbers. His father pressed “3”.

  “Darling! What a lovely surprise!” she said.

  She was thin. Red hair. Young.

  “And I know who this is. Come in, Daniel. Let me take your coat. What will you have?”

  “Nothing, thanks – had too much already.�
��

  “Don’t be silly; have a small gin.”

  “I’m not silly. No thanks.”

  His father said: “Helen’s only trying to—”

  “I know that. It’s very nice of you. But I just couldn’t take a drop more. ’Specially as I think I’ll have to drive Dad home!”

  “We’ll have coffee,” she said. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Dan sat in one deep armchair, and his father sat in another.

  “It’s a lovely room,” Dan said.

  “Yes. Dan, I’ve known Helen for some time. She’s been wonderful to me. I know you’ll get on well with her.”

  “Of course I will.”

  She poured the coffee:

  “It’s a wonderful machine, darling; it doesn’t clog up like the French one.”

  “I thought the chromium sieve plate would be an improvement.”

  “It makes very good coffee,” said Dan.

  She uncrossed her legs and got up to pour Dan a second cup. She leant over him.

  “My, you look swell in that uniform.”

  “Thank you. And that’s a very nice dress.”

  His father smiled.

  “I’ll take them in,” Dan said.

  He collected the coffee cups, put them on the tray, carried them into the kitchen. He washed them under the tap and placed them on the stainless-steel draining board. He looked for a drying-up cloth. He went back to the room to ask Helen. They were standing up and kissing hard in the well-lit centre of the room.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Come and kiss Helen goodnight, Dan,” his father said quite loudly.

  “No.”

  Dan could see he was holding her hand very tightly.

  His father said: “Well, we’ve had our goodnight kiss. So it’s time to go.”

  Dan picked up his army greatcoat from the back of a chair. “You stay. I can easily get home by Tube. It’s a direct line – no changes.”

  He had one arm through his coat sleeve.

  “Don’t be silly,” his father said.

  “Seems to be my silly night.”

  He was feeling vaguely for the other armhole.

  They drove home together, with the car radio playing dance music.

  He blobbed out the first big triangle. Two triangles left, eight oblongs, fifty-six circles. An infantry officer must excel the best of his men in anything he may order them to do. Assault course, route march, musketry, manoeuvres, rope-climbing, weapon training, swimming, fencing, rugger, drill. Drill. No time to think? It is intentional, you are going to be an officer, not a philosopher. Lectures on tactics, man-management, venereal diseases, regimental history, Russia, Korea, Malaysia, mess etiquette, signals, strategy, leadership. Cadets when dressed in civilian clothes will wear trilby hats. Cadets will not engage in conversation with other ranks. Dan stumbled from day to day, counting the days. On Sundays after church parade, when he walked in the town, he wore his officer-type raincoat, carried his officer’s cane and once or twice was saluted by young national servicemen.