Sergeant Nelson of the Guards (24 page)

He said this almost to himself. Then he seemed to remember
something
, and his tone changed. He said: “You like me, don’t you? And I like you. I think you’re a nice little girl. You like holding on to my finger don’t you?”

She made a noncommittal noise: “Mm.”

“If I had anything to give you, I’d give it to you. But I ain’t got anything. No, after all these years I got nothing to show. But does that matter? You take it from me woman, having something to show don’t matter. Show yourself to yourself, at the end of everything, and if you can pat yourself on the back and shake hands with yourself and like yourself—like yourself like you might like a stranger—well, that’s all right. I’ve seen rough times. I’ve had field punishment. I’ve seen wars. Yes, woman, I’ve drunk my medicine. When they lay me out, there’ll be some marks for them to see. But that don’t matter. I was saying, if I had anything to give, I’d give it to you, or to your mum to hold for you. I had a matter of a hundred and eighty-two pounds that I saved up. But I ain’t got it any more. I give it away. Tell me, woman, am I crazy?”

Her voice said very firmly: “Yes.”

“Yes, says you, yes says everybody. So I don’t talk. A certain party comes to me and says: ‘Charlie, I’ve got to find a five-pound note.’ So I thinks. ‘A five-pound note,’ I says. ‘All right,’ I says, ‘I will’ give you a five-pound note.’ So I draws out a five-pound note to give him. And then I says: ‘What do you want with the dirty money? What have you saved it for?’ And I draws it all out, and I gives it away. I gives it to charity. Never mind what. It makes no difference, I give it away, woman, and I felt the better for being without it. I’m a soldier, see? And I travels light.

“There’s a young fella they calls Bearsbreath. A sort of a lance-corporal. A kid, a little kid, a kid of no more than thirty-six or seven. And yet, woman, I see that kid Bearsbreath, with these two eyes I see him give away everything he ever had. And do you know what it was? A belt. Do you understand?”

“’Course I understand.”

“’Course you understand. You’re a woman of the world and I’m a man of the world, and I’m talking to yer, because you got savvy. Me, I joined the Army—do you know why? Because I idolised my brother. He was in this mob. He was at Inkerman. That was in the Crimean War. Why,” said Old Charlie, with a kind of hushed amazement in his voice, “if he had lived Edward would be ninety-five. But he’s dead. Everybody’s dead. That was a battle, Inkerman, woman. The Coldstream Guards come over, and when their guns was empty they picked up stones off the field and beat the Russians’ ’eads in with ’em. Yes, we took that position with sticks and stones, that’s what we did. And we’d do it again, woman, we’d do it again, sticks, stones, boots, or just bare fists.

“But this kid Bearsbreath. What was I saying? Oh yes, his belt. Young Bearsbreath has been in this mob all his life, practically. He was a Barnado’s Boy. Do you understand what that is, woman? He didn’t ’ave nobody. He didn’t ’ave no mum, he didn’t ’ave nothing. I believe they found him in a basket outside a door. Soon as he was old enough
he went into the Army. Guards. Coalies. Got ’im nowhere. Regular old sweat like me. Never had nothing and never will ’ave nothing. Except what? Don’t laugh, a belt. Dirty old leather belt. You
understand
, woman? ’Course you understand. An old soldier has a belt. Wherever he goes and makes a friend he gets a badge. He swaps badges, with whatever pal he might make in another regiment. And he fixed this here badge on to his belt. Time comes when his belt is covered with badges, and that is a very nice pretty thing. This here young fool of a Bearsbreath, he had a belt.

“Hah! Well, so there was a kid in the drums. Ginger kid. I don’t know his name but they called him Ginger. One day, so there’s a
rehearsal
for a pantomime or a concert, or something. Somebody or other says: ‘What’s the dateth today?’ and somebody else says: ‘The dateth today is the nineteenth.’ This kid Ginger—you wouldn’t cry, would you, woman?—this kid Ginger busts out crying. Well, young Bearsbreath says to young Ginger: ‘What’s the trouble?’ and young Ginger says: ‘Nuffink.’ This kid Ginger was a good drummer. It was a pleasure to hear him blow Defaulters. This kid Ginger says: ‘Nuffink’ and this kid Bearsbreath says to ’im: ‘Somebody been bullying you, Ginger?’ and Ginger says: ‘No.’ Then Bearsbreath says: ‘Why did you bust out crying when they told you the dateth?’ and this kid Ginger says: ‘I wasn’t crying.’ ‘I should bloody well think not,’ says Bearsbreath. ‘A big boy like you. ’Ow old are you?’ And this kid Ginger says: ‘Sixteen.’ ‘Oh,’ says Bearsbreath, ‘you’re a big boy for your size, and when was yer sixteen?’ This kid Ginger says: ‘I’m sixteen today.’ ‘Why,’ says Bearsbreath, ‘what’s that to cry about. You ought to be laughing. You should be thankful you’re alive, or something. Gord blimey,’ says Bearsbreath, ‘whether you’re thankful or sorry, God damn and blast it all, you should be ashamed of yourself for crying. Are you a man or are you a woman?’ ‘I’m a man,’ says Ginger. ‘No you’re not,’ says Bearsbreath, ‘you’re not a man, crying like that! Why,’ he says, ‘what’s the matter with you? Did you want your mummy to come and wish you many happy returns or something?’ The kid Ginger
says: ‘I ain’t got no mum.’ ‘Oh,’ says Bearsbreath, ‘you ain’t got no mum. And I suppose next thing you’ll tell me is that you ain’t got no dad.’ ‘Well, what if I ain’t,’ says Ginger. ‘Ain’t you?’ says Bearsbreath, and Ginger says: ‘Well, no, I ain’t.’ ‘Brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts?’ says Bearsbreath. ‘No,’ says Ginger. ‘Oh,’ says Bearsbreath. ‘A sort of orphan.’ Then Ginger says: ‘Sort of.’ ‘Well,’ says Bearsbreath, ‘then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ and he walks out. Well, about five minutes later he comes back into the hut with four tuppeny bars of chocolate, and he gives them to this kid Ginger and he says: ‘Oh well, many ’appy returns,’ and hands these bars of chocolate to young Ginger, and Ginger says: ‘Thanks.’”

“Nut-milk chocolate?”

“Yuh—that’s right, nut-milk chocolate. And then Bearsbreath sort of stands on his two legs wide apart, and he says: ‘I’m surprised at you. You and your birthdays. Blimey,’ he says, ‘what’s the younger
generation
coming to. Personally,’ he says: ‘I never had a birthday in me life,’ he says. ‘Only sissies have birthdays. Only effiminate young women ’ave birthdays. Why,’ he says, ‘personally, I’d be ashamed to own to ’aving a birthday,’ he said. ‘So,’ he says, ‘you ain’t got no mum and no dad and you ain’t got nobody, and you go around ’aving birthdays, do you? All right, young fella,’ he says, and this kid Bearsbreath shoves his hands under this here rubbish, this sloppy stuff they call
battledress
, and takes off his belt. Bearsbreath was proud of this belt. It was a good bit of cowhide with a big brass buckle, and this kid Bearsbreath had stuck on to it eleven or twelve regimental badges of all sorts, and in particular a silver stag’s head of the Seaforth Highlanders, and a Scots Guards warrant officer’s starred cross in some sort of silver metal. He was proud of that belt, because in a way, apart from a sort of a stiffness in the back and a sort of way of walking, this belt was all that young Bearsbreath had to show for about twenty years in the Guards, woman, twenty lousy years. Bearsbreath takes off this belt, and I thought for the moment that he was going to give Ginger a lamming with it. (In case you want to know, a belt of that sort is very handy if it comes
to a roughhouse.) Bearsbreath drops this belt into this kid Ginger’s lap and says: ‘Here you are, you little crybaby. Here’s a birthday present for you,’ and walks out. Young Ginger sat there sort of staring, and a couple of other drummers who had been pulling his leg about him piping his eye stood around and sort of went green with envy, and somebody says: ‘God blimey, I wonder what come over old
Bearsbreath
,’ because, you understand, woman, that that belt was much more than money to a man like Bearsbreath. Dammit, woman, that was his Army life. That was bits and pieces. That was all he had to show. That was all he’d ever have to show. A Lance-Jack, good for nothing but the lousy Army … but that belt, well, that belt was something.

“Me, I only gave away a bit of money. That was nothing. Money’s nothing.”

“Have you got a belt?”

“Yes, I’ve got a belt.”

“Can I see it?”

“Yes, but you mustn’t touch it.”

“I won’t touch it.”

“Honour bright?”

“Honour bright.”

*

I heard the snick of a buckle, and a little scream of admiration.

“Isn’t it lovely.”

“Yuh, isn’t it? There’s badges on that belt that you’ll never see the like of again. Do you see that one there? That dates back to 1855, and that’s pretty nigh a hundred years ago. There’s twenty-two badges on that belt, woman, and every one of them badges belonged to a good comrade of mine, a good friend. And every one of them men is dead and that’s all there is to show, so what do you think of that, woman?”

A silence.

Beyond the frail branches of the silver birch trees, the bird still sang. The ancient soldier had risen to his feet and was putting on his cap. I could see the little girl now, for she had risen too. Her forehead was
smooth. Her eyes were clear and wide open and the frown was gone from over them. For a moment they looked at each other.

“Your belt,” she said.

The old man said: “Keep it.”

He stuck out his little finger and she clutched it, and then they walked away.

P
IRBRIGHT
V
ILLAGE
: the pub called “Fat Fan’s.” Once upon a time the “White Hart” was owned by a plump lady. The wife of the present landlord is slender; but in the Army, tradition dies hard. Go to the Brigade Naffy in Pirbright Camp any day at noon, and you will see a little knot of old, old soldiers in the wet canteen, drinking a species of ale so weak that it falls flat as soon as it is poured out. The most ancient of these warriors is a Coldstreamer of about thirty-five years’ service—a veteran of every military vicissitude, old as the hills and as indestructible; wise as Gideon, in battle, though not so wise out of it; huge, uproarious, heavy-jawed and voracious; a drain through which half the beer in England has passed; a graveyard of Naffy pies; a
dictionary
of strange language; a mine of information about the other ranks. He has been in Pirbright since time immemorial, but has never heard of the “White Hart.” But “Fat Fan’s”—oh,
he
knows “Fat Fan’s.” Let outsiders call the place the “White Hart.” Coldstreamers and Scots Guards in every square of Mercator’s Projection know the place as “Fat Fan’s”; and “Fat Fan’s” it will be for ever.

I say: Pirbright Village; the pub called “Fat Fan’s.”

The carriage trade gets there now. Captain Hobdey, who took the place, dug down through strata of wallpaper and found, like a gem in a Christmas cracker, an ancient inn. Bits of the “White Hart” thus
discovered
strike old soldiers as new-fangled. The seventeenth century is all very well, but it is nothing like the good old days. Nevertheless, they drink there, because it is “Fat Fan’s.” If a cataclysm washed the
place out, the naked site would still bear the name … Fan’s, Good Old Fan’s, Old Fat Fan’s. There is nothing to be done about it.

Sergeant Nelson is down on a visit. He was entitled to seven days’ leave. He had nine pounds in credit, and has drawn the money. Beyond the Army, that one-eyed hero would be lonely. It is true that he has a relation here and there; but nothing that you might describe as a family. To him, Sergeant Crowne’s handclasp is the touch of a vanished hand, and the faded echoes of the Pirbright bugles the sound of a voice that is still. The Black Huts are home sweet home. The ranges are the lost horizons of sweet youth. “Fat Fan’s” is a tender memory of the springtime of things. Time is a swine that snuffles up everything; but some things Time can never swallow.

You can imagine with what grimly-suppressed eagerness he made the roundabout journey. But he comes into “Fat Fan’s” with perfect nonchalance. It might be his own mess. His heart bounds like a rabbit in a bag as he sees Crowne, Hands, and Dagwood, at the bar. But his face remains rigid. Only his eye celebrates. He says:

“Ah-ha, Crowney. Ah-ha, Hands. Yah, Dag. Drink?”

“Ole Lipstick,” says Sergeant Crowne.

“Whattaya mean, Lipstick?” says Nelson. “Tcha gonna drink?”

“Mild,” says Dagwood.

“Bitter,” says Crowne.

“Brown,” says Hands.

“Place changed hands? Lady! Two bitters, a mild and a brown. Big ’uns. Well?”

“Well?” says Crowne.

“Long time since we met,” says Nelson.

“1937,” says Hands.

“8,” says Dagwood.

“7,” says Hands.

“9,” says Crowne.

“7,” says Hands. “What d’you mean, 9, you Burke?”

“What year did war break out?” asks Crowne, patiently.

“I can tell you,” says Hands. “It was the year Big Arthur threatened the Drill Sergeant with a bayonet.”

“That was 8,” says Dagwood.

“1938?” says Crowne. “You sure? Well, all right. 1938. Big Arthur threatened the Drill Pig in 8. The year the war broke out was the year I got a Severe for sort of ’itting a feller that ’it me first. I know, I got this Severe, and then the war broke out. Yeamp, I got it: the war must of broke out round about September, 1939. Ye-amp, it sort of broke out then.”

“Definitely,” says Nelson.

“So what’s been happening since then?” asks Hands.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” says Nelson. “You?”

“Nothing,” says Crowne. “Sort of squads you gettin’?”

“Oh, just squads,” says Nelson. “I teach ’em: you skive with ’em.”

“I unlearn ’em all you learn ’em, and then I learn ’em proper,” says Crowne.

“
Phut!
” says Nelson.

Hands introduces a newcomer, a burly Sergeant with a blue scar on his nose: “Know Clark? Nobby, this is Nelson.”

“Stameetcha,” says Nelson.

“He was in the Foreign Legion,” says Hands.

“Well, have a drink. Have a short one. So you were one of these Foreign Legionaries, were you? Was it like on the pictures?”

“The uniform was,” says Sergeant Clark.

“There long?”

“Five years.”

“How d’you come to join that mob?”

“I was a kid. I saw
Beau
Geste
and got tight afterwards. When I come to, I’d joined the Foreign Legion.”

“That’s how I joined the Guards,” says Nelson. “Well, was it all right?”

“All right.”

“Tough?”

“I done tougher marches with our mob in Egypt.”

“Well, well, so we meet again,” says Sergeant Nelson.

“Um,” says Crowne. “Well? Drink? Same again please miss. So what’s goin’ on, Nelson?”

“Browned off,” says Nelson.

“’Angin’ on to you,” says Crowne. “Need instructors. Won’t let you go. Yah?”

“Definitely hanging bloody on to me,” says Nelson. “I’m browned off.”

“Me too,” says Hands.

“I’m thinking,” says Dagwood, “of getting myself bust. Then I might get abroad.”

“Me too,” says Crowne.

“And me,” says Nelson.

They have been talking like this for about seventeen years.

*

Nine-thirty.

Private lives have been discussed and disposed of in five minutes. Grievances have filled two hours. Reminiscence has scuttled in and out of everything; ubiquitous, irrepressible and unreliable as a pup. It all comes back to shop; soldiering. All roads lead to that.

“They’ll do all right,” says Nelson.

“Mmm-yeah, maybe,” says Crowne. “Some of ’em are steady. But on the whole, they’ll do. I ’ad some of your kids.”

“What kids were they?” asks Nelson.

“They came in the autumn. Sort of October, round about.”

“Oh yes. I remember. It was … no it wasn’t. Was there a kid from a place called Brighton that worked his ticket on account of asthma?”

“No. There was a bloke called Thurstan that kept on getting into trouble.”

“Glass House?” asks Nelson.

“No,” says Crowne. “Went absent once. Came back. Went straight. Bit mental, but ’e come to ’is senses.”

“Some people definitely do, and others definitely don’t,” says Nelson. “I remember the wallah you mean. I could see there was going to be trouble with that geezer. Definitely. So, he turned out all right, eh?”

“A nice kid,” says Dagwood. “Well, anyway, not so bad.”

“Wasn’t there a po-tential officer they used to call The Schoolmaster?”

“Yes,” says Dagwood. “A bookworm.”

“Kay?”

“Yes,” says Crowne. “Okay.”

“When he left,” says Dagwood, “he wrote a bit of poetry.”

“What, made it up?” asks Nelson.

“Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Dagwood rummages in a breast pocket and gets out a greasy little autograph album. “Look.”

Looking over his shoulder, Nelson reads:

“Now there you are,” says Nelson. “Dead we lie, and all that sort of bull and boloney. Life to be sure is nothing much to lose. Now where do they get that stuff? God blimey, where do they think that kind of tripe is going to get ’em? Education. There’s a man of education, and look at what he makes up. Before they do anything, they’ve got to write something on their own gravestones. They’ve got to make a song and a dance about it. Definitely, they’ve got to make a fuss. We were young! He
is
young! What’s the big idea, Dagwood? What’s the big idea? Crying over their own dead bodies before they’re killed! Here dead we lie. So what if here dead we lie? Eh, Crowney? A pack o’ tripe. I’d like to see anybody sort of encouraging a squad of rooks with that sort of slop. Me, I give ’em the old Hi-de-Hi! And I make ’em give me the old Ho-de-Ho! Dead we lie. Why, we been dead dozens of times. Haven’t we, Crowney? Or pretty near dead. As good as dead. But what did we say? We said: ‘Let’s give ’em rough stuff and bust
through.’ Didn’t we, Handsey? We did, Dag, didn’t we? Definitely we did. Where do they get that stuff? God blimey, I nearly did a Dead We Lie on the way along: I nearly went smacko on the line. I tripped over a sort of trunk on the platform. Why, Dagwood, old cock, we lie dead, more or less, every five minutes from the time the nurse smacks our backside, to the time they chuck dirt in our face. But do I write poetry about Dead We Lie? Did you ever catch me at it, Dagwood? Definitely not. Did he, Crowney? Well then. Tear that page out and—”

“Order your last drinks, please,” says the landlord.

“Last drinks?
Last
drinks? What d’you mean, last drinks?” asks Sergeant Nelson, ordering one more round. “Well, mud in your eye, old skivers! This time next week payday on the Field! It’ll be nice, ha? The dear old Active Service! Death? I spit in his eye!
Last
drinks. Not by a definitely very long chalk, my cocko! Here’s looking at you!”

“Time, gentlemen, please,” says the landlord.

“Yes, Time—that’s all we need—Time!” says Nelson.