Quartered Safe Out Here. George MacDonald Fraser
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sufficient to say that in a battalion of expert scroungers, Forster was gifted beyond the ordinary; there are Burmese villages which must be wondering still where their pigs and chickens went to in ’45.
Steele was a Carlisle boy, tough and combative and noisy, but something of a mate of mine, even if he did use the word “Scotch” to me with occasional undue emphasis; once he added “bastard” to it (there was no race relations legislation in those happy days), and I responded with a fist; we battered each other furiously until Corporal Little, who was half our size, flew at us with a savagery that took us aback; he knocked me down and half-strangled Steele before dragging us face to face. “Noo shek ’ands! Shek ’ands! By Christ, ye will! Barmy boogers, ye’ll ’ev enoof fightin’ wid Jap, nivver mind each other! Ga on – shek ’ands!” Confronted by that raging lightweight, we shook hands, with a fairly ill grace, which was not lost on him. Then, being a skilled man manager, he put us on guard, together.
Stanley was large and fair and quiet, and had the unusual ability of sleeping on his feet, which was a genuine torment to him when he had to stand stag.5 He had been a cinema projectionist, and for sheer cold courage I never saw his like, as I shall tell later. He might have had a decoration, but his heroism manifested itself in a lonely place, by night, and no one in authority ever knew about it.
Wedge was a Midlander, and said “Ace, king, quine,” among other vocal peculiarities, like “waiter” for “water”. Being used to carry saggars6 in the Potteries, he would bear his big pack and other impedimenta on his head when necessary, leaving his hands free for other burdens. When we were cut off in Meiktila he developed an obsession about the 5th Division, who were to be the “hammer” to our “anvil”. “Wheer’s 5th Div, then?” was his stock question at the section O-group (the little conference which took place each evening, when the corporal passed on news and orders from the platoon commander). No one could tell him, and he would lapse into gloomy silence. He was deeply religious, and eager for education because, he told me, “Ah want to improve meself. Ah want a trade efter t’war, not carryin’ bloody saggars. A reet trade, Jock – Ah dunno what, though; Ah’ll ’ave to see.” Once, I remember, when we were on stag together, he told me how much he had enjoyed the pirate movie, The Black Swan, and I told him something of Morgan’s buccaneers and their exploits; from that moment he seemed to regard me as a latter-day Macaulay and pestered me for historical information, and since I am God’s own history bore, he got plenty, and his gratitude was touching. I doubt if it helped him to get a trade, but you never know.
The Duke, whose surname I have forgotten, if I ever knew it, was so called from his refined public school accent. He was tall and lethargic and swarthy as a gypsy, with a slow smile and a manner which grew more supercilious in proportion to the rank of whomever he was addressing; he was almost humble to Corporal Little, but I have heard him talk – with studied courtesy, mind you – to a brigadier as though the man were the veriest trash. He got away with it, too. The rumour ran that he was related to the royal family, but informed opinion was against this: Grandarse had seen him in the shower at Ranchi and had detected no sign of a birthmark.
Parker I have left to the last because he was easily the most interesting, a dapper, barrel-chested Cockney who was that rare bird, a professional soldier of fortune. He was in his forties, and had been in one uniform or another since boyhood, having just got into the tail of the First World War before serving as a mercenary in China in the ’twenties, in what capacity I never discovered, and thereafter in South America, the Spanish Civil War (from a pungent comment on the International Brigade I deduced that he had been with the Nationalists), and China again in the late ’thirties. He re-enlisted in 1939, came out at Dunkirk, and had been with Eighth Army before being posted east. He was a brisk and leathery old soldier, as brash and opinionated as only a Londoner can be, but only rarely did you see the unusual man behind the Cockney banter.
I first noticed him on the dusty long haul by troop-train across India, when the rest of us slept on the floor or the cramped wooden seats, while Parker improvised himself a hammock with his groundsheet and lengths of signal cable. But I didn’t speak to him until the end of a marathon game of nine-card brag in which I had amassed the astonishing sum of 800 rupees (about £60, which was money then). I’m no card-player, let alone a gambler, but the priles7 kept coming for once, and I was just wondering how to quit in the face of the chagrined opposition, which included various blue chins and hairy chests of Australian, American, and mixed origin, when Parker, who had been watching but not playing, leaned over, picked up my winnings, and stuck them inside his shirt.
“That’s yer lot, gents,” he said cheerfully. “E’s out.”
There were menacing growls, and a large individual with a face like Ayers Rock rose and demanded who said so.
“I bleedin’ do,” said Parker. “I’m ’is uncle, an’ you’ve ’ad a fair shot, so you can brag yer bollocks off all the way to Cal8 – by yerselves. E’s out, see?” To me he simply said: “Better let me look arter it.” Which he did, all the way to Ranchi, where he escorted me to the paymaster to see it deposited. I won’t say I didn’t watch him with some anxiety during the last days of the journey, but I never even thought of asking for my money: some people are fit to look after a small fortune east of Suez, and some aren’t.
One result of his mother hen behaviour was that I learned something of his background. He was an orphan, and the proceeds of twenty years’ free lancing had put his younger brother through medicine; this emerged when I offered him a cut of my winnings for his good offices as banker; he didn’t need it, he said, and out came the photographs of his kid brother in his M.B. gown, and in hospital groups; Parker’s pride was something to see. “E’ll go in the R.A.M.C. shortly, I ’spect; ’e’ll be an officer then. An’ arterwards, ’e can put up his brass plate an’ settle dahn, get married ’an ’ave kids, make me a real uncle. ’E’s done bloody well for a Millwall sparrow, ’as Arthur. Mind you, he allus was bright, top o’ the class, not like me; I lef’ school when I was nine an’ never looked back. Yerss, I’m prahd of ’im, orlright.” He must have realised that he was running on, for he grinned sheepishly and put the photos away, remarking jauntily that a medico in the family allus came ’andy, didn’t it, case you got a dose o’ clap.
I said my parents had wanted me to be a doctor, and he gave me a hard stare.
“You didn’t make it? Why not?”
“Not clever enough, I suppose. Didn’t get into university.”
“Too bloody lazy, more like. Idle little sod.”
“Well, I didn’t want to be a doctor! I wanted to get into the Army, try for a commission.”
“Did you, now? Stupid git. Well, ’ave you applied?”
“Yep. Selection board turned me down. I’ve been busted from lance-jack a couple of times, too.”
“Christ, some mothers don’t ’alf ’ave ’em! An educated sod like you – I seen you doin’ bleedin’ crosswords.” He cackled and shook his head. “Well, I shall just ’ave to kick you up the arse, young Jock, I can see that. Ne’ mind – with my permish you’ll get a commish!” He liked the sound of that, and it became a private slogan whenever the going got uncomfortable: if I was sodden through, or was marching on my chinstrap, as the saying was, or bone-tired after digging or standing to all night, and even when we went in under the guns at Pyawbwe, Parker’s raucous cry would be heard: “Bash on, Jock – wiv my permish you’ll get a commish!” It was as regular as Nick’s “You’ll all get killed!” and just about as encouraging.
That was the section, and if they sound like a typical cast for a Gainsborough war movie, and I am suspected of having used clichés of character, I cannot help it. Every word about them is as true as I can make it. War is like that, full of clichés, and of many incidents and speeches that you couldn’t get away with in fiction. Later I shall describe how a comrade of mine, on being shot in the leg, rolled on the ground shouting: “They got me! The dirty rats, they got me!” I would not use it in a screenplay – and I know what the director and actor would say if I did. But it