‘Yer think so?’ Archie shook his head. ‘Yer know, Bert, sometimes I can’t mek yo’ out. You must have been brought up different to me.’
‘Maybe I was, but not all that much.’ Herbert looked at the big white face of the clock, the same dictator in everybody’s life, and pressed the button to start his machine. ‘There are times, though, when I can’t mek myself out, I’ll tell you that.’
‘Well, that ’appens to all of us,’ Archie laughed.
Seven
In weapons training at White Down Camp Herbert had the Bren gun stripped and together again quicker than anybody else. It would have been too boring not to.
‘Have you done this before?’
There was a lot Herbert didn’t know, but this he did, and he was surprised at how much of the old cadet knowledge came back. ‘No, Sergeant.’
The bullshit was no bother, either, not difficult to be smart beyond the demands of reason. Part of himself that relished freedom slipped awhile into abeyance. The men belly-ached in the first week or two but Herbert supposed it was because they had never slept from home. Having nothing to envy them for, he could only feel contempt, and keep as much as possible to himself.
Nor was the usual larking around any bother to stay clear of. Smart bastards just one notch down from sadistic made apple-pie beds, tied bootlaces together, soaped a patch of billet floor so as to watch others go arse over tit as they came in from tea, nicked kit one day and put it back in place the next — or didn’t.
Barraclough from Merseyside was a past master, and Herbert wondered where he had picked up the facility. Maybe it came to him instinctively, as with someone born evil, until he heard him let on in a boastful voice that his brother was a regular and had put him wise to what went on in recruit training — or perhaps what ought to.
All in all, Herbert thought it just like early days at school but, seeing Barraclough about to half-inch his toothbrush, spun him around and pulled him close, to face the sort of black look Archie would have put on, but which came readily enough. ‘That’s mine, snot chops,’ Bert said.
‘Can’t you take a joke, then?’
All the venom in Herbert’s expression was brought out for use — and with interest — after the merciless torments rained on him at the age of seven. ‘When I want to, shag, I’ll let you know.’
Ashley Pemberton, a fearful and diffident youth, came from somewhere in Hampshire, and should never have found himself among such a rough lot. In spite of his grammar school background he hadn’t been considered as officer material, and Herbert could see he wasn’t fit to be a private soldier either. Probably his parents were glad to get rid of him, hoping the army would settle his ever-shifting expression and turn out a new man for them. He was knowledgeable and somewhere intelligent, but slow because he had to question the reason for everything. Herbert halfway pitied him, while smiling at his predicament.
Ashley was tormented more than anyone else because, unable to see the reason for it, he was helpless against bullying. Tall, though thin, he could have been a match for anyone, but didn’t have the spirit to resist or fight back. In the army it was the survival of the fittest, Herbert saw, sink or swim, no fucking nonsense, as he watched the lads punching Ashley against the billet wall because the imperfect layout of his kit for inspection had got them all a bollocking from the sergeant-major.
A belly blow sent him across the bed, and Barraclough jumped on him. ‘Let’s have his bags off, and blanco his knackers.’
A timid uncomprehending scream came from Ashley as the operation began. ‘Leave the poor bugger alone,’ Fraser called from up the billet, but went on reading his comic.
‘Let’s have the blanco, somebody,’ Barraclough shouted out of the scrum. Herbert paused in polishing his boots, to pick up the tin of Cherry Blossom from his locker and make a way slowly through the onlookers. They parted willingly enough, thinking he only wanted to see the fun, or do the plastering himself.
Using the whole force of his arm he pulled Barraclough upright in one swing. ‘You can’t do a thing like that.’
‘What?’ Barraclough saw the opened tin of black polish and laughed. ‘You mean you want to do it with that? I didn’t think of polish. That’ll make him look a right arse-hole.’
‘No, I’m asking you to stop all this.’
‘Oh, are you?’
‘He’s a soldier. You can’t do it to him.’
‘Can’t we? Well, you just fuck off, and mind your own business.’ He turned to the others, and made to get on with it. ‘We’ll do what we like, won’t we, lads?’
Barraclough was a tough bastard, but there was always a weak place in a bully. Thankful of his time in the factory, Herbert yanked him up again, unable to bear Ashley’s pleas to be left alone, which seemed to humiliate Herbert even more.
He pressed the full tin of black polish hard over Barraclough’s spud-like nose, ashamed at the enjoyment it gave him. Ashley gathered energy at last, and sprang from the crowd only interested in the fight that was bound to follow such a rash action. He fastened his trousers and walked calmly out of the door.
Herbert stood, on the other bank of the Rubicon, in the clear space of the billet, refusing to consider the fact that he was no doubt a soft head for having interfered. Barraclough came at too much of a rush to do himself much good, and Herbert’s experience at boxing helped to send him down with little damage to either. A horseshoe of spectators limited his advantage of manoeuvre, and a fist that was difficult to avoid drove at his stomach, such a deliberate foul that he got a blow in at Barraclough’s face, blood streaming through the black smear. After a while of dodging and ducking, Barraclough’s retreat ended, and he came back to aim a paralysing kick.
Herbert’s instinct, honed for unarmed combat, twisted the leg with all his strength and, ignoring the scream of pain and surprise, sent his opponent sliding along the polished floor, breaking through the group of onlookers as if they were a posse of skittles. When Barraclough tried to move he kicked him in the ribs. ‘I never fought like that in the ring, but if you come at me ever again, or do anything to Pemberton, I’ll break your back.’
Some shouted that grub was up and it was time for tea, and at the loss of interest in anything but that, Barraclough pulled himself up, and hobbled after them. Herbert felt more alive than he had since leaving the factory, and wanted to say something conciliatory, but because Barraclough might take it as a weakness, he turned instead to Ashley, who had come back in to thank him. ‘You’d better stick with me, though I don’t think they’ll bother you again.’
He didn’t mind that he was disliked, couldn’t or wouldn’t play such tricks, or even laugh when they were done to others. Stand-offish and unpredictable, too keen at his training, an untouchable know-all, even the NCOs looked at him warily. They couldn’t place him, unable to find enough fault to get him on jankers. He knew exactly what expression to assume on being sneered or shouted at. The only person to beware of was his platoon commander, Second Lieutenant Snell, who at nineteen had been in the army a year longer than the rest. Because the officer plainly came out of a public school Herbert had to play the roughneck factory worker in case he should be sniffed out as being in any way similar. Luckily Snell couldn’t care less about being in the army, and was forever shooting off towards the delights of some popsy in London, happy at the wheel of his little Morgan. The men sensed his incompetence from the start, and with few exceptions referred to him as a bag of shit, with which judgment Herbert silently agreed.