A Soldier Erect: or Further Adventures of the Hand-Reared Boy. Brian Aldiss
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machines. I know you have courage already – our job is to see you leave for the front with fitness also on your side.
‘In that connection, I would advise you to drink very little alcohol and plenty of water. Drink your water with salt in, as much as you can take. Also, keep away from local women, all of whom have the pox. You may be offered women down in the bazaar. Refuse them. Don’t be misled. They will have the pox, so stay away from them. It’s a hot climate, so keep yourselves morally pure. That’s all.’
We dismissed.
Many of the bods wandered back to the barrack-room muttering to themselves, dazedly, ‘Morally fucking pure … What does he think we are …’
In the afternoon, we paraded at the quarter-master’s stores for new kit. All the kit with which we had been equipped before leaving Blighty had to be turned in. That included our KD, our respirators, and the hated solar topees. In exchange, we were fitted out with drab green jungle-dress, in sizes that fitted us to some extent. We also acquired steel helmets and bush hats. The latter made us look like Aussies; we swaggered about in them, calling each other ‘cobber’ and ‘me old darlin’’, but it was the CO’s speech of the morning which really preoccupied us.
‘Are there really a lot of women in the bazaar, corp?’ Wally Page asked the store corporal, as we collected mosquito nets.
The corporal paused and looked at Wally suspiciously. ‘What do you mean, are there a lot of women in the bazaar?’
‘What I say – are there a lot of women in the bazaar?’
The corporal was a thin, sandy, faded man, all rounded surfaces, as if he had spent his life in a pullover two sizes too small for him – a man designed by nature for the fusty darkness of the QM stores. We had heard him addressed as Norm. Removing a stub of cigarette from his mouth with thumb and forefinger, he looked Wally and me over contemptuously and said, ‘You young admis want to get a bit of service in! You’re fresh from the Blight, aren’t you?’
‘I was in France in 1940 – where were you?’ I asked.
‘I don’t want none of your lip! You want to get some Indian service in, that’s what counts. We don’t call them women out here, malum? We call them bibis, black bibis. That’s Urdu, that is. You lot want to bolo the bhat a thora, you do!’
We had already noticed the convention: as many Urdu words were to be crammed into the conversation as possible. It was as effective as a display of medals for dismaying young upstarts like us.
Sticking to his original point Wally gave me a blow on the upper arm and said, ‘The Corp ain’t going to let on about what these black bibis are like, Stubby, is he? P’raps he don’t know much about them!’
‘They’ll give you a fucking dose of VD, mate, that’s what they’ll do, if you go mucking about with them just like what the CO warned you about,’ Norm said, pointing his cigarette stub at us in order to emphasize the horror of it. ‘You want to stay away from bibis unless you want your old man dropping off!’
‘What are we supposed to do? They can’t all have VD, can they?’
‘You want to stay away from the lot of them! Stick to the old five-fingered widow! Stick to the old five-fingered widow and you won’t go far wrong.’ He banged a pair of trousers down on the counter for emphasis. ‘Now then, you young lads, who’s next? Jhaldi jao! I ain’t got all day!’
Wally and I loped into the blinding sunshine, carrying our kit, momentarily silenced by Norm’s arid philosophy. We soon found it to be the prevalent philosophy at Kanchapur: hardly surprisingly, for it was the only distortion of, rather than a departure from, the philosophy prevailing at home. There, too, the older tried to impose on the younger the idea that going with women was to court disaster, as my mother was living witness. Even the CO’s impossible idea about keeping ourselves morally pure struck me as less unpleasant than Norm’s advice about the five-fingered widow.
The awful thing was that Norm’s philosophy prevailed. The five-fingered widow was my own constant companion. Never a day went by but a marriage was arranged.
Even on the Ironsides … But it had been harder and taken longer to come your load on the boat. On the boat, bromide was put in the tea. So the rumour maintained, and so I believed. Something had to account for the acid flavour of the char. The bromide damped down desire – you really had to work to get a hard on, whereas before it always flipped up naturally. Now we were ashore again and back to undoctored tea, and all the lusts were free to caper once more.
At Kanchapur, everything caused lusts to caper madly. The giddiest dances were brought on by the climate: the heat of the day, the warmth of the night, the voluptuousness of the breezes, the energy stored in everything we touched, stone or tree. The mystery of all we saw in those first weeks in India was also aphrodisiac: the secrets of the swarming people of the Central provinces, the sense of being nearer than ever before to the basics of life – birth, death, fathering – and the attractions of the bibis in the bazaar, where smooth young smiling faces, gleaming raven hair, and perfect shining teeth gave the lie to the filth talked in the QM’s stores.
As the days went by, the original impression that India was beyond comprehension disappeared. It could be comprehended – by its own standards. You obviously had to yield to it, as to sex.
The shithouse at the barracks was cleaned and emptied by a group of Untouchables, who bent low to their sweeping and touched their foreheads as you entered. In there, behind the stable-like door of one compartment or another, I went to a regular evening rendezvous with my dry-mouthed widow.
The rumour was that the Untouchables would bring you a bibi if you asked. You just had to say, ‘Bibi hai?’, and one would become available. But the association with shit and disease was so marked here that I never dared ask. I fantasized instead. The mere image of lifting up a sari, exploring amid its dark forbidden areas – while those white teeth smiled! – and shafting the girl up against the whitewashed back wall of the bog – a knee-trembler in the sunset! – was always enough to send your hand into a frenzy of imitation matrimony.
Those desperate wanks! It was a case of remaining mortally sane, not morally pure. It was never enough merely to lower your trousers – they had to come off, and ankle-putees and all, so that you could crouch there naked but for your shirt, frantically rubbing your shaft, as if by this nakedness you got a little nearer to the real world and further from your own useless dream. And to see the spunk spattering down into the throat of that lime-odorous pit was never satisfaction enough. Again I would wrench at my prick, red and swollen, until it spat out some of my longings a second time.
Sometimes these sessions ended in disgust, sometimes in a blessed feeling of relief. It was hateful doing it in the shitter, but nowhere else was private enough, not even your creaking charpoy, the rope beds on which we slept. As you crossed the sandy distance between barracks and shithouse, with your intention working in your mind, you could see the empty country beyond, tawny by day, blue by evening, and, as dark moved in, lit furtively all round the horizon by flickers of lightning. That world of freedom out there! The hand was a poor but essential substitute for it.
Kanchapur was only a small town. Perhaps it thrived, although to a squaddie’s eyes it wilted. The highroad from the barracks led straight to it, so that a sermon on the contrast between military order and the disarray of Indian life was readily available. We walked down from an outpost of England and civilization into a world where grotesque trees and monster insects dominated poor streets; and on those streets, tumbledown houses and shops had been built over reeking ditches.
Everything was terrible to us because it was strange. We laughed and pointed in horror at anything you would find in different form in Exeter or Bradford. The bright posters for native films, ointments, or magazines; the amazing script which flowed over shops and placards like a renegade parasitic plant; the unlikely beobabs and deodars that shaded the road; and particularly the smells and foreign tongues and wailing musics – all so closely related that they might have poured