A Soldier Erect Part 8

'Oooh, I ain't used to so much booze!' he groaned. Next moment, he was spewing all over the floor.

Hopping out of the way, I went to have a long pee, leaning my head wearily against the wall as I let it flow. Bed I wanted.

'Jesus f.u.c.king Christ! I can't take this sodding s.h.i.tting Wog beer!' Jackie said, after one last heave.

'Makes me spew my ring every time! I wish I was home, that's a fact!'

Tertis was only eighteen, the baby of the platoon.

'They say the first five years are the worst. Buck up, you'll feel better now you've got it off your kidneys!'

'I don't feel better^ Blimey, I feel f.u.c.king awful!' He looked awful, his face pale and glistening, his hair disordered, and with a fair spatter of sick all down his bush-jacket.

'Come on, let's get over to the barracks, get some kip.'

As we crossed the square, he said, recovering a little, 'I didn't used to drink, you know, Stubby. My dad's a teetotaller. He'd be that mad if he could see me now. Me old ma died a couple of years ago and things haven't been the same. I wish I was home!'

'You're better away from home getting your knees brown.'

He sniffed. I wondered if he was going to start weeping. 'It's all right for you - you're a regular. My life's been different from you lot. Shall I tell you something, Stubby?'

'Come on, Tertis, you're p.i.s.sed, I'm p.i.s.sed - let's get to f.u.c.king kip!'

But he stopped at the bottom of the steps to the barracks. I went up on to the stone verandah.

Draggingly, he followed and said, 'I wouldn't tell you this if I wasn't p.i.s.sed - for G.o.d's sake don't tell Page or the others, but I've never had a girl. Never f.u.c.ked one, I mean, not in my b.l.o.o.d.y fornicating life.'

'Ah, f.u.c.k off! What about that bird you said you f.u.c.ked up a lane when you were blackberrying?'

'I had to make something up. I didn't get to f.u.c.k her - I had a girl, I mean I've still got her, I think, because we talked about getting married and everything, but I mean we were in b.l.o.o.d.y love, and I never f.u.c.ked her. She did let me feel her t.i.ts once. I was longing to yark it up her but I didn't dare.'

We stood in the great shade of the building. Distantly, dogs were barking. There was never complete silence: the place was too big for that. The stone under my hand was cool.

'She's got really lovely t.i.ts,' Tertis said, with conviction. 'Very firm t.i.ts. Oh G.o.d, I wish she was f.u.c.king here now. I'd f.u.c.k her now, I wouldn't hesitate. I'd be right in there!'

'Why didn't you f.u.c.k her then?'

'It's different in f.u.c.king Blighty, isn't it? Blighty's full of restrictions. I wonder if I'm going to throw up again?'

'You want to stick to the old five-fingered widow.'

'Don't tell me nothing about that!'

'That's what they say/ The sun was gone and it would be back in strength next morning as sure as eggs were eggs. It sounded as if those f.u.c.king piyards had gone mad. It was just wonderful to be warm at ten o'clock at night and watch the lightning flicker pale about the horizon. I sat down on a step and lit up a Wog Player's, flipping one to Tertis. Tertis sat clumsily beside me and lit up too.

'You aren't going to spew again, are you?' I asked.

'Hope not.'

A jackal was doing its nut in the distance. That was what had started the dogs off. It had an irritating yip like an insane schoolgirl giggle. You hated b.a.s.t.a.r.ding jackals without ever seeing one. A sort of bis.e.xual thing, like a Hindu devil, laughing its d.i.c.k off at the edge of nowhere.

'Stubby, you've f.u.c.ked one of these bibis, haven't you? Wally said you had.'

I inhaled deeply and let the f.a.g smoke whistle out through my teeth.

'Have you ever seen a woman in the nude, Jackie? You know, stark b.o.l.l.o.c.k-naked?'

Leaning towards me in a drunken exaggerated fashion, he said, 'No. I wish I had. The next time you go to a brothel, perhaps I could come along with you - just to f.u.c.king see what it's like.'

'It's the most marvellous thing in the world to see a woman b.o.l.l.o.c.k-naked, to stare at it all and feel it and see her enjoying it.'

'Oh Christ, shut up!'

lrYour d.i.c.k up round your neck ... They're glad of it too, glad to be seen. They aren't just women, they're human. For all old Wally says, a f.u.c.k's hardly a f.u.c.k unless you can get 'em naked.'

'Oh Christ, shut up or I'll have to go and w.a.n.k my f.u.c.king self off again. It's this f.u.c.king climate. I can't stop myself doing it.'

'You want to keep yourself morally pure, Tertis, like the CO said.'

'Come on, don't s.h.i.t me, Stubby! I have to keep on bashing my bishop - it makes me feel awful. It's twitching in my pants if I just mention its name!'

I stubbed my cigarette against the stone and climbed to my feet. It was an unwritten breach of Army code to air this sort of confidence. We all had troubles - the same troubles.

'You want to sleep with f.u.c.king boxing gloves on, mate,' I said, and went in in search of my charpoy.

Directly I was under the mosquito net, I was asleep, beer-sodden and careless if not entirely carefree.

The next tiling I heard was Ernie Dutt bellowing in the morning, in the time-approved manner, 'Wakey-wakey, you lads, out of those stinking w.a.n.king-pits at the double!'

That's you, Tertis, you t.u.r.d, I thought. Sluggishly, I joined in the bunfight that went on before morning parade and inspection.

Book Two

The Old Five-fingered Widow

SCENE: Kanchapur Barracks. Dazzling sunlight. Private Aylmer and Signaller Stubbs, whitewash brushes in hand, are on fatigues. Sergeant Meadows arrives to see how they are progressing.

Sgt M: Come on, come on, you two! Let's see a bit of action!

Stubbs: Action! We aren't likely to see any action in this man's army. I thought we were supposed to be invading the Arakan, Sarge, not bashing these b.l.o.o.d.y stones!

Aylmer: I expect Delhi have decided it's better strategy for the j.a.ps to come to us than for us to go and meet the j.a.ps.

Sgt M: You'd better hear the latest, then. All the landing-craft in this theatre of war have been withdrawn. Mount-batten did what he could, but the Mediterranean theatre had priority over us, and they've taken the lot.

Stubbs: Poor old Fourteenth Army! Bottom of the list again.

Aylmer: You mean all that training, like, down in Belgaum was for nothing?

Sgt M: All amphibious vehicles have been withdrawn. That's how I heard it.

Stubbs: Jesus f.u.c.king Christ! We might as well pack up and go home!

Sgt M: You'll be lucky! They'll probably send us to a.s.sam instead.

Aylmer: a.s.sam! That's even worse than the Arakan! As you probably know, Charley, a.s.sam is the wettest place on Earth. We can't fight there.

Sgt M: That's up to the j.a.ps, isn't it? If they come in that way, someone's got to stop 'em. Who better than 8 Bde?

Aylmer: There's a place in a.s.sam called Sharapinji where they get over a thousand inches of rain per year. You can't fight in a climate like that!

Sgt M: They'll issue us with umbrellas. Now, get on painting those stones. I want to see that whole lot done before tiffin.

Painting stones, Aylmer and I were the first to get this official confirmation of a rumour that had been circulating ever since we returned to Kanchapur. We had carried out our amphibious training - and there were no longer any landing craft to land in!

Unknown to us, horse-trading had been carried out on the highest level. Stalin, Roosevelt, Churchill, and Chiang Kai-shek had all been involved, at a Teheran conference and after. Step-by-step, amphibious ops in South-East Asia were cancelled, and the fleets involved returned to England or the Mediterranean.

The Fourteenth Army was left committed to an overland war. And the 1st Battalion was committed to a further time-defying seven weeks kicking its heels in Kanchapur, while the lists whirled and fluttered above our heads.

Twice a week during this waiting period, we used to play football. We had some good games and while they were in progress there was a feeling that something was happening -or at least you forgot that nothing was happening. At right wing, I was one of our goal-scorers.

When the British first invaded the East, they found to their disgust that the natives were slackers almost to a man and enjoyed no sport except pig-sticking. They introduced among themselves a regime of sport which went on even during a war in which the j.a.panese sat almost at the gates of India.

No doubt part of the idea was to sublimate the s.e.x urge; if so, it was unsuccessful.

I was showering after one game. The usual horseplay was going on, with plenty of towel-flicking. I hated all the ox-like bodies, and bagged the shower at the end of the row, next to Di Jones, who played outside left. Di was his usual quiet self, even after a game of football; he soaped his armpits with an episcopalian air.

Thrusting his head out of a miniature waterfall, Di asked, You don't feel like a bit of a bunk-up this evening, Stubby,; by any chance?'

'A bit of what?'

'Dipping your wick, man!'

This was unlike the staid, chapel-going Di I thought I knew. 'I'm careful where I dip my wick, mate. Got a bit of respect for it.*

'So have I for mine.' To be Honest, Di Had only a tiny stub of d.i.c.k, and very pale and pointed at that, sticking out like an inch of unlit candle from its mat of hair. 'All the same, I thought I'd give it a bit of an airing like, this evening, along with another mate of mine. I wondered if you'd like to come along. I remember how you got done out of a bunk-up while we was on amphibious ops down in Belgaum.'

'Yeah, well, I've got to do my blancoing this evening.'

As I was drying myself, old Di came up again. There was not much point in getting yourself dry; the act of towelling was enough to bring you out in a muck sweat.

'How about it, Horry, lad? You got to break out now and again.'

'What was all that you were telling me about keeping away from Indian women?'

'You got to break out now and again, bach, haven't you, now? My mate and I'll take you along and show you the ropes.'

'Oh, you and Taff go on your own. I've got to do my blancoing or I'll be on a thick'un again.'

'It isn't Taff. It's a mucker of mine down in M/T. Jock McGuffie. He's a real cure.'

n.o.body had ever accused Di of being a wh.o.r.emonger; and there was his manner; he looked too quiet and pious, though he made a good forward. There was also his d.i.c.k; in an obscure way, I felt it would be demeaning to go out f.u.c.king with a chap with a d.i.c.k like his. Yet there was something in his confident un.o.btrusive manner, you had to admire: the sort of bod you were proud to a.s.sociate with, even in a wh.o.r.ehouse.

As I climbed into my trousers, I said, 'The b.l.o.o.d.y bazaar's swarming with Redcaps, Di. I'll tell you that for nothing.'

'Oh, we shan't be daft enough to go there! My mucker's got other ideas. We'll go off in his truck.'

That made it sound more exciting. Besides, who knew when there would be another chance?

'You know me, mate - I'm s.h.i.t or bust! What about Taffy?'

'He's not coming. He's afraid his old woman'd find out'

'What about your old woman, Di ?'

'She'll never find out!' He winked. 'She's too far away.'

When I had dressed, I marched back to the barrack-room and took my kit down to the yard, to begin bianco operations instead of hitting my charpoy. Di and I agreed to meet down at the M/T office at seven-thirty.

As I was lugging my harness downstairs, I met old Bamber coming up. He was clutching a wad of mail.

'There's a couple of letters for you, Horry - something to read while you're down there bulls.h.i.tting., I suppose you wouldn't do my big pack for me while you're in the mood?'

'Get stuffed!'

I opened my mail downstairs, after dumping the equipment on a trestle table. Both letters were from my mother.

Mother wrote amusing letters. She was good at quoting things people said, or telling me stories about neighbours I hardly remembered. She had joined the WVS since I left home, and generally had something funny to tell me which had occurred to her in her canteen. When all else failed, she would fall back on a joke she had heard on a wireless programme, Workers' Playtime, or Mapleleaf Matinee, or The Jack Benny Show. She told me that Ann had been to a party at the Cleavers' (whoever they were).

She had heard from Nelson in Italy, who had a streaming cold. About herself she only said that she was taking regular afternoon walks; yesterday, she had gone as far as the gravel-pits (I couldn't visualize them).

It all left a curious desolation in my breast. For I never wrote to her. I had sent an airgraph when we first arrived at Kanchapur, so that the family would know our convoy had not been sunk on its way to India; since then, I had not been able to write a line.

At the time, I could not decide whether this was to be reckoned a sad failure or a sure sign of an evil nature. I began by being genuinely unable to convey my impressions about India, and the Army tradition encouraged my weaknesses, for youngsters who never wrote home were regarded as 'dogs', whereas lads like Jackie Tertis, who were forever writing home, were regarded as soft.

So every letter from my mother made me feel bad. Sometimes she reproached me, and then I was full of grief and resentment; but when she wrote - as now - without a word of reproach, the effect was worse, for I had to suffer self-reproach.