Alan Judd - A Breed of Heroes

Before he left that afternoon Charles was summoned by the CO. He assumed it had something to do with his move. They talked for a while about press reactions to the explosion and then the CO said, ‘When do you leave us?’

‘1700, sir. With the post.’

‘What?’ The misunderstanding was cleared up. The CO had been referring to Charles’s leaving the Army. He had not known about the move to the Factory and was not interested. ‘As long as it doesn’t prevent you from doing your job, which it shouldn’t. You must have got the hang of it well enough by now.’ Charles told him that he was due to leave the Army when the battalion returned to England. The CO nodded. ‘The important thing in life is always to make a positive contribution. You have done that. I’m very grateful.’ There was an embarrassing silence which the CO, who was staring out of the window, appeared not to notice. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t yet know, sir.’

‘Any ideas?’

‘No, sir, not really. Unless I go back to university and do research.’

The CO appeared not to take this as a serious suggestion. ‘You’ll have to do something. You can’t do nothing.’ There was another pause. It was impossible to tell whether the interview was at an end or whether the CO was collecting his thoughts, or had perhaps forgotten that Charles was there. He looked tired, drawn and remote. ‘I have to go to England myself for a few days,’ he said eventually. ‘Senior officers’ seminar, of all the daft things to have to do when you’re supposed to be operational. Daresay it’s a concealed way of making me take a break which I haven’t asked for. Also to talk about my next posting. I haven’t got long left with the battalion, you know. God, they’ve gone quickly, these last two years.’ He was silent again and Charles sensed that the interview was at last finished. He left feeling that he must have been summoned for an altogether different reason that had not been revealed, and that the failure was partially his.

He met Anthony Hamilton-Smith immediately afterwards. ‘CO in, is he? Awake? Good. Didn’t want to disturb his shut-eye. He’s been sleeping a lot recently. Tired, I daresay. What did he want you for?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing in particular, I think.’

‘Overdoing it, you see. Can’t afford to let that happen. We must look after our CO. Perhaps I’ll leave him be after all. He might want to drop off again. Very few things in life that can’t wait till the morrow. You’re changing accommodation, I hear? What d’you want to go there for? Dreadful place. Much better to stay here.’

This was an unexpected ally. ‘I don’t want to go at all but Mr Bone says there’s no more room now that mine has been condemned.’

‘Very likely.’

‘But I don’t believe him. I think he’s lying.’

Anthony nodded. ‘Almost certainly.’

‘I’d much prefer not to go.’

Anthony looked sympathetic. ‘Don’t blame you, old boy.’

‘Can’t something be done about it?’

Anthony patted Charles on the arm. ‘Awfully difficult just at the moment, Charles, with the CO here and not here, if you see what I mean. Best not to make a fuss about things. I should grin and bear it and don’t forget your ear-plugs.’

When Charles arrived in the Factory that day with all his kit he found that everything was different but that nothing was really changed. The ops room had been moved, there were more hardboard partitions, people slept on different areas of floor and there was a new subaltern in charge of Charles’s old platoon. Called Stuart Moore, he was thin, pale and quiet and looked far too young. Everyone else was pale except Edward, whose face was as red, mobile, foolish and good-natured as ever. Tiredness in Edward showed itself in bags under his eyes and an irritable nervousness that caused him to repeat himself so often that those around him, dulled by their own tiredness and his repetitions, hardly reacted at all. This made him even more exasperated. However, his basic good nature showed through. ‘Great to have you back, Charles, even if you’re not going to do anything for us except a spot of watchkeeping. Want some coffee? Two coffees, Green. You’re better off here, I tell you, than in that loony-bin you’ve just come from. Touch of reality will do you good. Is it true the CO won’t speak to anyone? Bloody Godsend if it is. We haven’t heard from him for ages. Has old Hamilton-Smith found himself a punkah-wallah yet? Jesus, what a case. Pity they didn’t blow up the whole building whilst they were about it, eh? Green, where’s that bloody coffee? People take sod-all notice of me these days. Might as well talk to yourself. D’you find that? Green — Where the hell is he? Corporal Lynch — go and find Private Green and shove something up his arse to get him moving, will you? He was here two seconds ago.’

‘He’s making your coffee, sir.’

‘He can’t be, the kettle’s here. Unless he’s looking for a bloody cow for the milk.’

‘No more milk till tomorrow, sir.’

‘Jesus Christ, what a dump this is. No milk. Have you ever heard anything like it? You were better off where you were, Thoroughgood. We’ve got no room here anyway. Moore’s got your old space. You’ll have to share with Chatsworth.’

‘Share what?’

‘His bed. Well, not literally. It’s a bunk arrangement, sort of. He made it himself. Pity about Colin, wasn’t it? Nice bloke like that. I can think of a few I’d put in his place. Nasty business, though.’ Edward then went on for some minutes about someone who had been killed in Aden, while Charles hoped that there was a mistake about his having to share a bunk with Chatsworth, and concluded gloomily that there almost certainly wasn’t. Edward was stopped by the appearance of another soldier. ‘Green — where the hell have you been?’

Green was plump and pasty-faced. He looked as though nothing in the world could interest, surprise or amuse him. ‘In the bog, sir,’ he said tonelessly.

‘What about our coffee?’

‘What coffee, sir?’

The very lifelessness of Green’s speech inhibited argument. Edward turned to Charles, his face wrinkled in exasperation. ‘See what I mean, Charles? It’s a bloody madhouse. Everyone walks around in a world of his own except me. No wonder I’m losing my fuzz.’

The noise in the Factory was undiminished. Charles had forgotten how much the building shook to the rhythm of the machines that made the bottles. He sought out the CSM and Sergeant Wheeler for company that evening. With them he found some of the down-to-earth sanity so often talked about by Edward but never by him attained.

‘You must’ve dropped a right bollock to be back here with the riff-raff, sir,’ the CSM said. Charles explained what had happened. The CSM laughed until his eyes watered. ‘He may be solid bone, the RSM, but he’s a cunning bastard, ain’t he? Trouble is, the CO don’t see him like that. The CO’s blind to a lot of people, I reckon. He gets a fixed idea about them and then that’s it like, he don’t notice them no more. Same way that Sarn’t Wheeler here don’t know he’s alive half the time. Just forgets to notice, like. Give hisself a real surprise one day, he will.’

Sergeant Wheeler squatted on an upturned ammunition box. He looked tired and did not smile. ‘I’ll notice I’m alive when I get home,’ he said, without looking up.

‘Yeah, but will anyone else? Don’t know when he’s well off, do he, sir, with blokes like you and me around to cheer him up? Best time of your life, this is. Think about that.’

‘If I did I’d bloody shoot meself.’

‘No need to be generous, we ain’t asking for no favours. Cheerful bugger you are. If you’re going to do it take someone with you for company, starting with old Bone-head. Mr Thoroughgood here will put a good word in for you in the next world then, so you might get your heavenly stripes back despite having done yourself in. He might even stand you a pint of nectar when he gets there, eh sir?’