His voice sank to a scurrilous hum. We walked forward into the building, our eyes adjusting to the dimness. The stores was a small warehouse choked with shelves and lockers, and tiny rooms made out of lockers and shelves, where everything from bales of barbed wire to heavy winter woollen underpants unfit for tropical use were piled, in the type of order peculiar to the Army: that is, alphabetically, so that bags, kit, universal; blankets, barrack; blouses, battle-dress, serge; boots, ankle; bowls, washing, enamel; braces, trousers for, pairs of; buckets, fire, iron; buckets, assorted; and burgees, marking, large and small, were all to be seen piled in one grey corner, despite their natural antipathy for one another.

  In the middle of this three-dimensional excess of spelling, Corp Phil Norman, known as Norm, had his being; and the smell of his permanently burning fags could be traced to a Cubbyhole where, snug among masks, dust; masks, eye; and mats, fibre; on the one hand, and sheets, waterproof; and shirts, bush; in various sizes on the other, he lived, slept and entertained his friends.

  As Jock and I moved towards the front of the stores, picking our way along an aisle where an Indian orderly was arranging kit in lockers, we came upon Norm. He stood at the 'shun, his pale eyes looking meekly upwards at - none other than Captain Eric Gore-Blakeley himself.

  'Yes, sir, yes, sir!' he was saying smartly, interrupting himself to cry to the orderly, 'Ali, don't slack off, now, get all them vests bundled up proper-like!' Then again, 'Yes, sir, yes, sir!'

  To a certain extent horrified at the presence of any officer, and our platoon commander in particular, I turned to check on Jock's reaction. He was retreating fast, signalling to me, signalling to Norm over Gore-Blakeley's shoulder, contorting his face into extraordinary caricatures of warning (to me), hatred of officialdom (to Norm) and devotion to military discipline (to the Captain's back). At this moment, Gor-Blimey turned and saw us; the devotion-to-military-discipline expression became frozen on Jock's face while, in mid-step, he changed from a fugitive about to scram through the rear door to a soldier advancing to salute his superior officer.

  'Sony to interrupt, sir, I was just coming to see Corporal Norman about a bit of transport business, sir.' He marched past me and stood before Gor-Blimey, who surveyed him without pleasure - not that I had ever seen Gor-Blimey survey anyone with pleasure. I sprang to attention behind McGuffie, noting that his left hand was gesticulating to me behind his back.

  'I wanted to see you, McGuffie.'

  'Sir. I am here, sir.' He managed to contort his frame into an attitude of compliance while remaining at the 'shun.

  'So I notice. It's about the non-delivery of a desk to the detachment at Indore. Your pigeon, I believe.'

  'Desk, sir? Desk? Oh, yes, sir, the metal desk! Well, I can easily explain that, sir, you're quite right to complain about it - in fact I've been complaining about it myself, 'Sir, only this morning, as it happens—'

  Gor-Blimey's face looked as expressionless as those stone things on Easter Island. 'Right, well, I'll hear about that after tiffin, McGuffie. Report to my office before parade. Just now, I'm giving Corporal Norman instructions.'

  'Ay, I quite understand, sir. No offence, sir, but I'm a bit busy myself just now—'

  'Dismiss!'

  McGuffie saluted smartly and turned, giving me ferocious grimaces as he passed. I interpreted them as meaning I should retreat too - which was quick of me, since I was partly preoccupied with the way Jock, in addressing the captain, had anglicized his voice, using an expression like 'just now', where normally he would have said something sounding like 'th' noo'.

  As I was also turning to go, Captain Gore-Blakeley said, 'Stubbs, I want you!'

  'Sir!'

  'Stand at ease.' I stood there while he resumed his talk with Norm. It was a technical discussion to do with kit inventories and kit surpluses in which I took no interest, beyond noting that Norm had now relaxed so much that a lighted stump of fag appeared in his hand as he and the captain bent over their lists. The mention of Rear Baggage Party made me listen more closely. Norm was part of Kanchapur's permanent cadre; he would be responsible for seeing that our company moved forward with stores up to strength.

  '.. .We can leave that aspect to the sergeant-major,' Gore-Blimey was saying. 'And I want Stubbs in the rear detail. The GO thinks he should be given the chance to get his stripes back.'

  He turned abruptly to me and said, 'Stubbs, since we are to be moving into action pretty soon, your application for refresher course has been turned down by Brigade HQ. All courses are cancelled w.e.f. date, throughout the division.'

  'Sir.'

  'Will you be moving straight into action, sir, do you know?' Norm asked.

  'It is pretty common knowledge that 2 Div, which is at present spread all over the sub-continent, is moving eastwards towards the catchment areas.'

  'I suppose 2 Div will be heading for the Arakan, sir.' Norm said this in a tone implying that Gor-Blimey had a master plan in mind.

  'That is not for me to say.'

  'Oh, of course not, sir. It's a terrible country to fight in, is the Arakan, terrible country. The White Man's Grave.'

  'The Fourteenth Army is trained to fight anywhere,'

  'Of course it is, sir. Unfortunately, the Japs are too.'

  Gore-Blakeley, who had been showing off his inflexibility of mind by maintaining this side-conversation without removing his gaze from me, now said to me, as if Norm had vanished, 'If we all come out of Burma intact, I suggest you reapply for an operator's course then.'

  Directly he took his attention from Norm, the latter -

  having squeezed a precious drop of information for himself -did vanish, fading into the recesses of his drab emporium as if he had never been.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Don't get involved in any more fights, Stubbs. You'll be able to exercise your warlike spirit in Burma now.'

  'Sir, I don't believe I have a warlike spirit.'

  'Nonsense, man, don't argue! There's a touch of nonconformity in you, isn't there, Stubbs?'

  'Sir?'

  'I've seen those pictures above your bunk, those gruesome Hindu gods.'

  There wasn't much I could say to this. We let his statement lie between us, undisturbed apart from the shuffling movements of the Indian orderly, who was pushing boxes of badges, regimental, along shelves. Most of us had pictures above our beds, mainly girls, cut from the Daily Mirror or Lilliput or Razzle; they were standard wanking-pit equipment, as the phrase went. Among my nudes lurked the Monkey God and other evil deities which not all the platoon's jibes had induced me to take down.

  'Are you interested in Hindu gods, Stubbs?'

  'I s'pose I am, sort of, sir.' I was as adept in my way as McGuffie in adopting the current idiom.

  Gor-Blimey just stared at me, then said, 'I shall be in charge of rear detail when we move out of Kanchapur. A signaller might be needed. You'll come under Corporal Dutt. Okay? Your name will come up on Orders in a day or so.'

  'Very good, sir.' Christ!

  He was making to go. Norm emerged from the shadows, pinching put an inch of cigarette as he came.

  'If I might make a suggestion, sir, since I've seen many a rear detail leave here and sometimes kit getting lifted - you know how it is, sir. It might help to have a good reliable driver i/c the M/T move. Perhaps I might suggest Driver McGuffie, who's proved his worth.'

  'How reliable is he?'

  'Oh, he's very reliable, sir, and of course he knows everyone.'

  'Well, I'll be speaking to him this afternoon.'

  'Thank you, sir! I'll leave it in your hands, then.'

  Gor-Blimey left after the usual cascade of salutes. Norm nodded to me superciliously. 'It was touch-and-go there then!' By screwing his head round to one side, he managed to light up his inch of cigarette without burning his nose.

  'How do you mean?'

  'What I say - it was touch-and-go there for a minute! I thought the bugger was after your ring. I wouldn't trust him further than what I could throw him.'

  'Piss off!'

  'Don't you tell me to piss off, mate! You've been busted, and don't you forget it.'

  'I'll bust your fucking nose!'

  He pointed a yellowed finger to his stripes. 'What do you think these are, then? Scotch mist? Look, mate, I've got nothing against you but you want to get some service in. I thought Jock was a mate of yours?'

  'What if he is?'

  'Well, then, you want to speak up for your mates, don't you? The way I did. If you want to get on in this man's Army, you got to know who your mates are and stick by them, and never mind all the rest of-the shower.'

  'I'll remember what you say.'

  He had now sidled behind his counter and stood there with his hands resting on it, blowing smoke from his morsel of cigarette.

  'I'll tell you summink else. You want to watch your step with me, or you'll be in trouble, see?'

  At that particular moment, my inclination was to get out of the stores and enjoy a breath of air unflavoured by old denims.

  'I'm not looking for trouble! I came in here perfectly friendly with Jock, didn't I? What are you getting so snooty for? You were sucking up to officers a couple of minutes ago.'

  'This place is out of bounds, you know that? Except to my mates. Another thing, you call me Corporal, get it? You want to watch your step with me, mate, 'cos I can be a bit dodgey at times, like. I've got a lot of friends round this camp, more than what you might think, see? What did Jock want, anyhow?'

  'Something about a mate of his at Div, I believe.'

  'What mate at Div?'

  'He didn't happen to tell me. All right if I go now?'

  He took the fag out of his mouth and rubbed his nose with a knuckle. 'What are you waiting for?'

  You could tell the real regular soldiers, I thought. They formed an army wittiin an army. People like McGuffie and the detestable Norm, and Rusk in the cookhouse were regulars by temperament. Conscripts like Wally Page and Enoch and Geordie were mere innocents by comparison. It was much like old lags versus first offenders in prison.

  The lists were coming home, like rooks in evening light. Our prison was altering shape, propelling us towards Burma and the fighting for which we had been trained. Ali confirmed it: 'You go Calcutta first, sah'b, then across the Bramaputra River to the Burma Land.' But Ali had been making similar noises for some weeks.

  The atmosphere in the barracks changed slightly. We could hear the jungle noises from the East. They made our last few days in Kanchapur unreal.

  I managed a letter home. I walked alone near Kanchapur, making one or two crude landscape sketches on a signals message pad - the relic of a craft I had learnt mainly for Veronica's sake. I played football, drank, laughed, swore, determined to have one last woman before we went into action and all got blown to bits.

  The nightly piss-ups grew more riotous, the morning runs more strenuous. On the last night but one before the main force moved out of Kanchapur, I was almost flat broke, and went down to the Vaudette with Aylmer and Geordie to Sit in the four anna seats and watch Humphrey Bogart in 'Casablanca', a Warner Brothers film; Warner Brothers were then my favourite studio, because they had Ida Lupino on the payroll.

  We came out afterwards into the vivid twilight, Geordie discordantly whistling the theme song of the film, which necessitated a lot of manoeuvring of his Adam's apple. I was trying to see if we could muster enough cash between us for three beers. And what was Aylmer singing? - Under his breath, his old fragment of unfinished song: 'Could I but see thee stand before me....'

  'What is that fucking thing you keep singing?' Geordie asked, breaching an unwritten Army law of privacy.

  'Just something my wife used to like, like,' Aylmer said dismissively.

  "You never told us you were married!' I said.

  'She died two and a-half years ago, in the Blitz. Get me pissed one night, and I'll tell you all about it.'

  We turned into our favourite cafe and found a corner table. I was marvelling inwardly to think of Aylmer married. Marriage in those days seemed so far beyond me. Although -how long ago that was - I had proposed marriage to my darling Virginia - I was unable to imagine what it would be like to sustain a long relationship with a woman. How enviable it sounded: but would I be up to it?

  The Blitz was a bugger/ said Geordie, as we ordered three beers on the strength of his last rupee. 'I don't reckon we ought to let up on the Germans until we've sort of flattened every one of their cities, the way they did London, like. It's just my personal opinion, of course.'

  'One good thing about Burma - at least neither the Japs nor us have got any bastarding planes worth speaking about.'

  'You're right there. What have we got? One lousy squadron of Spitfires!'

  'Isn't it two by now?'

  'You're in the Forgotten Army, mate, and don't you forget it!'

  'That's right, the Forgotten Army - Britain's bloody Foreign Legion.'

  That's it - Join the Army and See the World!'

  'I didn't bargain on having to march the fucker, too!'

  While Geordie and I thus pleasantly rolled the conversational ball back and forth, we were drinking up and Aylmer was not saying much. All three of us were smoking like troopers, the waiters were doubling, about the room, a fan was blowing warm air on us, and all told it was a pleasant evening. We were completely shut off from India, but by now I had begun to take that for granted.

  'You don't know what the Blitz was really like,' Aylmer said. 'I was stationed in Hyde Park - I saw it all. I could tell you some terrible tales. ... It's amazing what one lot of people will do to another. Like savages!'

  Geordie said, 'Sergeant Meadows's house got blown up in the Blitz. Too bad he wasn't in it.'

  That's nothing. I knew a bloke - I knew a bloke got circumcised from a bomb.'

  Geordie and I burst into laughter. We roared and shook and creased up over our beer. We went red in the face and wept. We sobered down, looked at each other, and burst into laughter again. It wasn't often Geordie laughed so much.

  "Don't be so fucking wet! I'm telling you the truth,' Aylmer said. 'He was circumcised by a bloody bomb. It was in a pub in Bermondsey, The Lamb. He was drinking in the public bar with his mates, see, and he thought he'd go and take a slash, like. This was near closing-time one evening. So he goes into the Gents and he's standing there having a pee and suddenly - boom! - the whole wall in front of him just caves in with nothing but blackness in front of him - still peeing, mind you!'

  At the thought of this, we all three burst into laughter, until Aylmer went on. 'Of course, he was pretty shattered because he never even heard the bomb coming down. And he looks down at his prick to find it's bleeding as well as peeing. See, a bit of flying glass from the window cut his foreskin off as neat as a whistle - otherwise, he was completely okay!'

  We were laughing, but I was not entirely comfortable; at this period I had not outgrown my resentment at my own circumcision. Every time I looked at that self-evident knob, I felt that some subtle quality had been lost.

  'I've never understood why they circumcised anyone,' I said.

  'Christ was circumcised,' Geordie said. 'They've still got his foreskin in the Vatican. I remember a bloke in the factory, like, told me that.'

  Tuck off! Still there all these years? It would have rotted away!'

  'Christ's foreskin doesn't rot. It's eternal, like him. Any road, the officials at the Vatican keep it in a silver jug, like. So this bloke at the factory told me. I'm sure that's what he said. Pilgrims make special journeys to see it - you ask one of the RCs. If you're Christian, you're supposed to be circumcised, just like the Jews.'

  'Jews aren't Christian.'

  'They're sort of Christian. Aren't they sort of Christian, Jack? I don't know.'

  'But even the Africans get circumcised, and they aren't Christians,' Aylmer said. He embarked on one of his histories, describing how the boys of African tribes were shut in special stockades for several months until the day of the ceremony, when the witch-doctor led them forth and did the deed. 'These are big lads - fifteen or sixteen, and their cocks bleed like pigs with slit throats. Some of them die after a day or two.'

  'Bloody hell!', we said, and ordered more beer rapidly, pooling the rest of our cash on the table.

  'The only real cure is to indulge in sexual intercourse at once with the women of the tribe. The juices of the vagina are healing, and if you're lucky you'll be okay after that. Else you bleed to death.'

  'Dirty buggers!' Geordie said. 'People do terrible things to each other, when you come to think....'

  Next morning was the last day before the main party moved out of Kanchapur. The advance party under Captain Hale had already left.

  As we returned from our pre-breakfast run, Geordie said, 'I thought like us were going to get Aylmer's story about how his wife was polished off by that bomb. You were a bit simple, weren't you, mucker, I mean? I thought we were going to get it again!'

  'I've never heard it!'

  'You want to get some service in, then, mate!'

  'What happened to his wife, anyway?'

  Geordie glared round the barrack-room, perhaps gathering his powers of narrative.

  As we were stripping off our denims, he said, 'Oh, him and his missus had gone back to their digs - or a flat I think he said it was. Anyroad, they were a bit plastered like on the night this happened - he was on leave or something - I forget the details - and anyroad they went to bed and fell asleep like, and when he woke up the ceilingwas coming in -falling down, I mean - and he fell asleep again or something because he was so pissed, and when he woke up in the morning, a bloody great beam had come down across the bed like, and his missus was dead beside him, squashed under the beam.'

  He laughed.

  'Poor sod! Enough to send anyone round the bend!'

  We were grabbing up our mess-tins and eating irons - in Kanchapur, you were allowed to go down to mess hall half-dressed for breakfast.

 

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