Chris Cleave - Everyone Brave is Forgiven

Next they insulted the boot-makers who had made the boots they all wore, which were constructed entirely of hate and which kept the freezing water in but not out. These boots were to be shoved up the boot-makers’ arses.

Now the men expressed the hope that the designers of the Lee-Enfield MkIII rifle might experience, when urinating, defecating, or ejaculating, a blockage of the same unshiftable cussedness that the men had experienced when prone in the frozen mud of the firing range and trying with numb fingers to persuade the magazine to surrender a bullet to the breech. It was decided that all of the boot-makers (with the boots already in situ up their arses) should be put up Lee and Enfield’s arses: the left-boot-makers up Mr. Lee’s and the right-boot-makers up Mr. Enfield’s. Finally Lee and Enfield should be inserted headfirst up each other’s arses, since they were so very keen on breech loading.

There was nothing the military had that the men did not believe would be more properly stowed within the concavities of other personages, animals or objects. There in the budding warmth in the back of the truck, while their wet clothes steamed and a canteen of spirits was passed from hand to hand, the men squared away the whole Army, calibrating every one of its tyrannies and stowing it like a Russian doll up the arse of the next-smallest tyranny, until the whole great apparatus of war seemed certain to find its inevitable resting place, deep within the German Führer’s fundament.

In short, the men were happy. From the litany of their grievances only the sergeant major was absent, since it was his intervention that had gifted this sudden warmth and this freeing of tongues. Alistair had to hand it to the magnificent bastard: he was not without genius. Over two frightful weeks he had driven the company to the brink and then, sensing desertion or mutiny, he had sidestepped like a matador. Now, as the wind outside rose to gale force, the sergeant major sat aloof in the cab with the driver, letting the company vent, his power over them doubled by his act of magnanimity.

Alistair made himself comfortable on the bench and drank from the canteen when it was passed to him. The men were all right. They had been pushed to their limit, and if there had been nothing particularly exalting about how they had reacted, then his own behavior had been unexceptional too. They passed him the drink with no distinction. Maybe this was more than he had a right to expect.

As the warmth spread through him and they all waited for the truck to drive off, Alistair let himself relax. Now that the need for alertness was gone, he was drowsy. He hadn’t realized, until now, quite how exhausted he had become. His eyes closed. The cheerful complaining voices lost their distinctness. They merged with the idling note of the engine and the roar of the wind without.

He snapped awake when the tailgate of the truck banged open. From the startled expletives of the company, he understood that some of them had drifted off too. A cold blast blew in as a flap of canvas was drawn back. The sergeant major shone a torch. The men winced and screwed up their eyes as the beam danced over them and came to rest on Duggan.

“Out you hop, Duggan, there’s a good chap,” said the sergeant major.

“Excuh… cuse me?” said Duggan.

The only sound was the soft chugging of the truck’s engine.

“HARD OF HEARING? I SAY AGAIN, MR. DUGGAN: PAUSING ONLY TO GATHER UP THE KIT WITH WHICH HIS MAJESTY THE KING IN HIS GENEROSITY HAS SEEN FIT TO ISSUE YOU, MAKE LIKE A BUNNY RABBIT AND HOP HOP HOP OUT OF THIS LOVELY TRUCK!”

“Wuh… what?”

“YOU WILL MAKE YOUR WAY TO BARRACKS ON FOOT DUGGAN! NIGHT NAVIGATION EXERCISE, YOU LUCKY MAN! PULLED YOUR NAME OUT OF THE HAT AT RANDOM SO HELP ME GOD!”

Duggan did not move.

“WELL COME ON, DUGGAN! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? EVERY MINUTE YOU SIT THERE ON YOUR ARSE IS A MINUTE YOU ARE KEEPING THESE SOLDIERS FROM THEIR STEAK-AND-ALE PIES AND THEIR HOT BATHS AND THEIR BEDS!”

“Buh… but I don’t know how to get to buh… barracks.”

“BARRACKS IS IN WARMINSTER, DUGGAN, EXACTLY WHERE WE LEFT IT!”

“I know where buh… barracks is. I don’t know whu… where we are.”

The sergeant major leered. The loose flap of canvas set up a volley of sudden claps as a gust caught the truck, rocking it on its springs.

“DO YOU OR DO YOU NOT MR. DUGGAN HAVE IN YOUR POSSESSION ONE BRACKETS ONE COPY OF THE MAP WITH WHICH YOU WERE ALL ISSUED MR. DUGGAN HIS MAJESTY’S ORDNANCE SURVEY SIX INCH TO ONE MILE ENGLAND DASH WILTSHIRE COLON ZERO FIVE TWO?”

“Yes buh… but I don’t know whu… where we are on it.”

“DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT MR. DUGGAN WHEN I WARNED YOU THAT THE MIST WAS CLOSING IN USE THE LAST VISIBILITY TO TAKE BEARINGS WITH YOUR MARK TWO HAND-BEARING COMPASS AND LANYARD THEN TRANSFER THOSE BEARINGS ONTO THE AFOREMENTIONED MAP AS PER YOUR TRAINING MR. DUGGAN IN ORDER TO TRIANGULATE YOUR POSITION?”

“Nuh… no, Sergeant Major.”

“Oh,” said the sergeant major reflectively. “Could be a long night for you, then. Never mind, lesson learned. Come along now, out you hop.”

Duggan’s face blanched in the hard disc of torchlight the sergeant major kept him pinned in. His eyes were red. “You can’t duh… do this.”

The sergeant major said nothing and kept the torch trained. Duggan, dazzled by the light, appealed blindly to the company.

“He can’t duh… do this. He can’t suh… single me out!”

Alistair could not watch Duggan’s face, urgent with expectation, falling when nothing came back from the other men. There was only a soft scraping of boots on the wooden floor of the truck as positions were adjusted.

“Duggan,” said the sergeant major, “I can understand that you may not wish to do this alone, so let me give you a choice. If you are not out of this vehicle in thirty seconds, then everyone will get out and the whole company will march back to barracks with you. Is that what you want, Mr. Duggan?”

Duggan was brittle in the torchlight. “I… I…”

There was silence for five seconds, then ten. Then, somewhere outside the cold disc of torchlight, a man coughed, and stretched it into a muttering. The hard guttural of the cough disguised the initial consonant: “ *et out! ”

A pause, then more coughing from the men in their darkness. “ *et out! *et the hell out of here! *et the bloody hell out Duggan you useless *astard! ” The men coughed their judgment into the dark, each damnation blent with a paroxysm of the diaphragm so that the men spoke not only with their tongues but also with their tired bodies that were scourged and sleepy and did not want to go back out into the storm.

Alistair did not join in, but though he wished they would stop he did nothing. Duggan turned to him — or almost to him. Blinded in his small circle of light, he addressed a place slightly to Alistair’s right. In a small voice on the edge of cracking he said, “Huh… Heath?” And then, when no answer came, “Alistair?”

Alistair clutched his arms tight around himself. He heard the roaring of the gale and felt the fragile warmth within him. He would be so quickly struck back to numbness if he went out into it all again.

He made himself look at Duggan. The man had a strangely flat face in the torchlight, almost concave. It was a weak face — Alistair saw this now, and wondered why he hadn’t noticed before. It would not be a difficult one to take aversion to. If I had a face like that , Alistair thought, I should probably have learned by his age to be more careful whom I was rude to .

Alistair looked at the weak, beseeching face and felt a surge of anger. This was a man he had spoken with for only a few minutes, and who therefore had no claim to fraternity. They had exchanged a few witticisms, that was all. They had sat out of the wind for a moment, enjoying a solidarity that, now he came to think of it, had been rather smug and based on the understanding that they were cut from finer cloth than the other men. And now here he was, warmed by those other men’s whisky.