Peter Pišťanek - The End of Freddy

“Where’s the mess?” asks Kubeš.

“When you leave this building, then just opposite, across the parade ground,” says Vacula, “on the ground floor is the mess. That’s where we’ll meet. Don’t forget, at seven!”

Kubeš parks as instructed, takes his bag from the boot and sets off to find the officers’ quarters. As he walks, he studies this leaflet:

List of Ranks in the Czech Naval Fleet

Navy Army Equivalent

Admiral of the Fleet Full General

Vice Admiral Colonel General

Rear Admiral Lieutenant General

Commodore Major General

Corvette Captain Colonel

First Captain Lieutenant Colonel

Captain Major

Commander Captain

Lieutenant Commander First Lieutenant

Lieutenant Lieutenant

Second Lieutenant Second Lieutenant

Warrant Officer Sergeant Major

Petty Officer Sergeant

Leading Rating Corporal

Seaman Private

All the barracks in a row were flat-roofed, single-storey buildings, just renovated and painted green. On the other side of the street was another row of identical buildings. There must have been a big military presence here in the past. Kubeš enters the last of the green barracks. He is met by cool air and the smell of paint, disinfectant and boot polish. He can hear the sound of running water in the washroom.

Well, here I go, he thinks as he puts his things into a tin locker. Luckily, the room is not full of bunks. It reminds him more of a hospital room than of military accommodation. There’s no one in the room, but personal objects strewn on the beds suggest that the owners are not very far away. He can hear the sound of voices and a ball bouncing. Somebody is playing volleyball behind the barracks.

Kubeš gets up and, after all, goes to take a look at the museum. He wants to be alone for a while and think things over.

* * *

The officers’ welcoming party deteriorates into an unbridled drinking binge. Kubeš remembers standing in the middle of the square-bashing ground with Skopšík, Libáň and Mikuš until three in the morning and shouting confused orders at the moon. They’d finally realised they were in the army and behaved accordingly.

Had they known what was awaiting them in the days to come, they’d have been more careful and have retired at ten.

Reveille is unusually rough. Vice Admiral Sosna — who merely dipped his lips in bourbon the night before, and left before midnight — goes in person from room to room, mercilessly shoving the future naval officers and their sleeping bags off the beds.

“Move it, move it, gentlemen!” roars a warrant officer with big veins on his neck. “Get into your track suits and form ranks for a warm-up! Let’s get going! Let’s get moving!”

Kubeš is so disoriented by it all that he obeys blindly. He wakes up properly only when he is on a third run with the others round the barracks. Everywhere around him he sees white and green faces and droplets of terminal sweat spraying everywhere; nobody can get his breath back, and some are kneeling by a ditch, vomiting.

“What the fuck have we got into?” says Libáň, shocked and gasping for breath. “I’m not doing this shit!”

“For the money they give us,” Kubeš gasps, “I’ll do one more run…”

The run is over.

“Attention, men!” orders a tall young man in a tracksuit, a whistle on a string round his neck. “Follow me in rows of two! One! Two!”

Muttering, all twenty future navy officers obey. It takes time for them to mingle and calm down.

The young man faces the trainees.

“First row, take four steps forward!” he orders. “One! Two! Spread out at arms length!”

He parades in front of the trainees. Some are still out of breath.

“Gentlemen, my name’s Buzina!” he says sternly. “First Lieutenant Buzina.” (His surname sounds like buzík , queer.)

He waits with stony calm for the odd suppressed giggle to stop. Not many giggle, since most trainees are still fighting oxygen deficiency.

“Just so as you know, I’m heterosexual and married,” adds Buzina.

“That means nothing,” Skopšík whispers in Kubeš’s ear. “I know queers with two children.”

“And I have two children,” says Buzina. “But what should interest you is that I’m in charge of physical training for this touring circus. And it’s my task to instil in you in the next two months at least a semblance of physical readiness. Naturally, I count on your cooperation. Before we get into gymnastics, I’d like you to note that you began to earn your pay fifteen minutes ago. So try to do something for the money.”

After another fifteen minutes of torture, Buzina dismisses them to their rooms. This is followed by personal hygiene, then putting on uniform, and afterwards they muster for breakfast.

The breakfast is substantial, though not very appetising. A military meal. Of course, Kubeš shows a good appetite. He’s firmly committed to succeeding. After all, he has no option. They’ve all signed contracts and are subject to military law.

The situation in which he now finds himself still seems like a dream from which he can wake up at any time. He remembers coming back from the military many years ago — as a student abroad he had to do two years — and having constant nightmares of being forced back to his military unit. In his dreams he had never finished basic military service and had to put in extra time. He had to go as he was, wrenched from civilian life. Now the dream had come true.

After breakfast the novices have to change into camouflage and a captain takes them over for drill, marching them round the parade ground for two hours. It’s bearable because, although boring, it’s a lot of fun doing it. And even captain Macháček has some sense of the absurdity of human life, so the two hours pass quickly.

They gradually get into it. Their bodies recollect, way back from basic military service, reflexes they’ve pushed to the back of their minds for only a few years. A reservist needs less time than a novice to get the hang of military drill.

Sosna joins them at the end of drill. He musters them into two rows, tells them to stand at ease, and briefly explains the daily routine of their intense training. Above all, he stresses the need for secrecy and the banning of any leave outside the area, namely Krhanice village.

“I’d hate more than anything to see you in Prague,” says Sosna. “I’d like to have a man-to-man talk with you about making Prague a taboo subject for all of us for the next two months. I do have to go to the ministry from time to time, but I promise not to abuse this. During your training I’ll live here, at headquarters, and will eat what you eat. We can do it together. You must realise that you will have to learn in two months what cadets in naval officer training in advanced naval powers take years to achieve. I’d also recommend that, when you do eventually get leave, you move about in small groups. I’d suggest that no more than four people should go out together. Look, there are a lot of pubs nearby. I’d ask you to spread yourself out among them, if you have to go. No large group pub crawls. As far as the public’s concerned, you’re civilian museum employees. That is why you will wear civvies and nobody will touch your over-long hair. For the time being.”

Sosna smiles.

“You’ll go through tough training here,” he continues. “None of it is unnecessary or senseless hassling. Everything has deep significance. Keep in mind that nobody wants to humiliate you or insult your dignity. You’re well-paid professionals: take it like that. I’d also like to note one important thing: I want you to address each other formally not just as serving officers, but also when you’re off duty. I realise it’s an unusual request, but perhaps you won’t find it so hard. Even Holmes and Watson knew each other for years but addressed each other formally.”