Sergeant Nelson of the Guards (20 page)

*

The Hut. Evening. Sergeant Crowne sits, setting up a new S.D. cap. In order to achieve the rigid rectilinear front beloved of the Guards, men evolve arrangements of adhesive plaster and bachelor buttons that might have been worked out, in fun, by Heath Robinson. So Sergeant Crowne struggles, muttering.

I shall not forget that night. It was the death-night of my beloved friend Old Silence. The occasion fixed itself in my memory. It is
possible
that I may forget my name. But that time, that place, and that atmosphere I can never forget. I did not learn about Old Silence until later. He had got seven days’ leave, to be married. He had been a lonely man, like Larra in the legend, living like a shadow on a horizon beyond the ordinary cares of humanity. Just before he had been called into the Army, Old Silence had fallen in love with a woman, who fell in love with him. Life, thereafter, had a new and fine significance for him. He discovered new things, deep and high. And so he had left us for seven days, singing in the cracked, uncertain voice of a man
unaccustomed
to singing, after we had slapped his back, and yelled
encouragement
, and helped him to put on his webbing, which John
Johnson
, of all men, had helped him to blanco. Everybody loved Old Silence.
The lad from the Elephant stole a horseshoe and made ready to hang it over the vacant bed.

He was due back that night. He did not come. A week later, when conjecture had exhausted itself after every man had rejected the
possibility
of desertion, a letter came. Old Silence had been married. There was a breakfast. The letter stated it nakedly … a small breakfast for four guests. He was a man who loved everybody, and therefore loved nobody in particular. He had few friends, for he had a habit of silence, as his nickname implies. A raider dropped a bomb, and the remains of Old Silence were found with those of his bride. He had arched his back over her, trying to protect her. They were both dead in their first and last embrace. He died with his song unsung. There are few of us who would not have interposed ourselves between a bomb and him. Peace to Old Silence in the immensity! This is not the time to tell of the kindliness, the magnanimity, and the strength of that man. He was my friend. He died that night.

*

The radio was on. Because, at that moment, there was nothing
available
that was more to everybody’s taste, we tolerated a record of Caruso singing some
Ave
Maria.
The Sergeant In Waiting, who, that week, happened to be Sergeant Hands, pushed his head into the hut and said: “Well … Humphrey Bogart’s gone absent.”

Thurstan was called by the name of that distinguished actor of criminal roles, because of a certain hangdog trick of the head and his brusque manner of speech. Besides, Humphrey Bogart can look every inch a killer; and although there was no actual resemblance, Thurstan resembled him in his manner.

“Gone absent,” said Crowne. “That settles it.”

“Pore——” said Barker.

“Why pore—–?” asked Sergeant Crowne.

“’E’s crazy,” said Barker. “’E’s not right. There’s something wrong with ’im. ’E ought not to be in the Army at all.”

“Mug,” said Hands. “Where’ll it get him? But I’ve been expecting
this all along. He was working up towards it. I could see it. He’s been in trouble since he’s been here. Remember when he socked Tucker for touching his boots? He’s never been out of trouble from the first week. You could smell this coming. I despise a man that goes absent just like that. It’s a proof he’s got no guts. Even if he don’t like it, he ought to stand the racket.
I
didn’t like it. Nobody does, at first. No. Well …”

Sergeant Hands went away on his bicycle, about the complex and endless business of the Orderly Sergeant.

It was the Schoolmaster who said: “You ought to understand
Thurstan
. I could see this coming, too. I’m about the only person who ever talked with him.

“Thurstan is a wild animal. But I assure you that he’s all right. He’s had a rotten life. Don’t condemn him too quickly. He’s a decent
fellow
and a proper man. Don’t laugh at me when I say that. You don’t understand what the trouble is with Thurstan. Shall I tell you what? He can’t talk.”

“How d’you mean, can’t talk?” said Crowne. “’E’s got a tongue.”

“Sergeant Crowne! You’ve got a tongue. But tell me—can you
explain
exactly what you mean by the first pressure on a trigger?”

“Well, no, not if you want me to put it altogether in words. No, I can’t.”

“Can you explain what you mean by a corkscrew?”

“In actual words? No.”

“Can you describe what you see when you see a puff of
cigarette-smoke
?”

“No.”

“But you’ve got a tongue. And a tongue isn’t always enough. It’s like saying: ‘You’ve got a pen. Write a book.’ I’m about the only person who has talked to Thurstan, and I’m telling you that the thing that has made that man ferocious is, that he’s never been able to say what he’s wanted to say. That sounds crazy. But I’ve had his story from him.

“His father was an animal. He used to beat his mother. She was a
silent woman. Thurstan never really learned to talk. Nobody talked to him. He came from a village in the wilds of the North. He hardly went to school at all. Do you remember how he’d always ask somebody to tell him what was on the detail: usually me? He couldn’t read or write. He’s ashamed of it. He was ill-treated by everybody except his mother, and she never talked to him, and he was unable to express his sympathy for her. As soon as he was old enough—and he was a strong kid—he went into a mine. I can’t get a clear idea of what he did,
because
I don’t know the circumstances. But he was in charge of pit ponies, or something of that sort. And it seems that he had reason to be scared of one of them.”

A Northern collier says: “Ah. They can be orkard.”

“It seems there was a black pit pony. It went mad and chased him. He saved himself by pushing a lamp into its mouth. But he hadn’t the nerve to go back. He was ashamed of that, too. When he went home his father beat him. He couldn’t explain himself. He got a terrible thrashing. He ran away from home. After that he lived as best he could. He never learned to say what it was necessary for him to say. You know how necessary it is for a man to talk a bit. Thurstan never did, never could. He married. His wife was afraid of him. She found
somebody
else. He couldn’t do anything except fight it out, and went to gaol for three months. When he came out, he fell in with a mob of dock rats. He went in for robbery. He was let down by his associates, and caught. He didn’t talk: he wouldn’t, and anyway, he couldn’t. He did another six months. He went to Liverpool, and fell in love with a girl there. But he couldn’t get around to talking to her. He not only had nothing to say, but he couldn’t even begin to say the things that he felt he
had
to say. He didn’t have confidence. He’d start a word, and end by grunting. You’ve heard him.

“Now everybody knows what it is to feel that he’d like to have a chat, and yet have nobody to talk to. Imagine poor Thurstan, poor old Thurstan. He comes of a race that loves to talk and tell stories. He felt he had a lot to say. But it was choked back in him. So he became silent.
The most dangerous thing in the world is, for a man to become silent. That’s what happened to Thurstan. There was only one way in which he could express himself; by using his hands. He knew only one
argument
: physical violence. He felt inferior to things, except when he could hit them. He has had terrible fights. He’s a fighter. But he’s always run away. To Thurstan, there has never been any use in explanation: there was nothing he could explain. It was all in his head, but he could never get it out. When things became too much for him, he simply left them. It wasn’t cowardice: it was that he didn’t know any other way of dealing with things. He ran away from the pit to somewhere else. From there, elsewhere. He’s horribly alone. Life was too much for him, and he welcomed the war. He ran away from life, as he knew it, into the Army. And then—poor fellow—the Army was too much. He felt he didn’t fit. And so he’s run away. And I am willing to bet on
something
.”

“What?” said Crowne.

“He’ll be back in two days,” said the Schoolmaster. “He’s never spoken, but he’s listened. He’ll go away from here, right into the teeth of everything he ever wanted to get away from. Here, he has men fighting with him, instead of against him. Here, people are willing to teach him things for nothing, even to read and write. Thurstan is silent, but only because he
can’t
talk. He’s no fool. He’ll think it out. I’ll bet a hundred cigarettes to twenty that he’ll be back in two days. Two days from tonight. A hundred cigarettes to twenty. Who takes me?”

Pause.

‘Well?” said the Schoolmaster.

“Taken,” said Hacket.

It happened quite dramatically. At that moment, Sergeant Hands came back. “He’s in,” he said. “Reported himself to Sarnt on Guard. Talking! Says: ‘Take me back. Here I am. Shove me inside. I’ll pay it off. I’m willing to be a soldier.’ And then he says it’s on account of Captain Scott. Nuts, I tell you, nuts, crazy, crackers!”

With a radiant face, the Schoolmaster said: “Give me that twenty cigarettes! I’m telling you that Thurstan is a good fellow.”

“Or the value thereof,” said Hacket, and laid down one shilling and one penny; the price of twenty Woodbines. “Fags are scarce.”

*

Fourteen weeks have eaten themselves up. Our Company
Sergeant-Major
, the Iron Duke, wily old soldier, case-hardened roughneck veteran, has warned us. The Detail confirms it. We are for the Holding Battalion. This is a sieve through which all Guardsmen must pass; a clearing-house; a pack from which one is dealt. Companies go there, stay a while to mount guards in London, and so depart to rougher and dirtier work. This parting, now, fills us with no such sense of
amputation
as we experienced when we left the Depot. We have almost lost—though we never could quite lose—our tendency to thrust out roots wherever we rest. We have forgotten what it means to have any but portable property. All that we need to eat with, march with, sleep with, and defend ourselves with, is contained within the ninety pounds or so of our equipment. We have the habit of mobility. We have become soldiers.

As we hammer down the stuff in our big packs—(with what hopping anxiety did we assemble our first Change Of Quarters Order in the prehistoric period before we came here!)—Sergeant Dagwood looks at us and smiles. He has an ugly, lumpy face, every wrinkle and pore of which is a secondary masculine sexual characteristic, like hair on the chest; this powerful, gentle Sergeant. It breaks into a smile of
remarkable
charm. Years of command have hardened it: you cannot shout an order and look pleasant at the same time. But when he smiles,
friendliness
shines through his countenance like sunlight through a
bomb-battered
wall.

“You’re off,” he says.

“Yes,” says Bates, “we are, yow know, Sergeant!”

“Yump,” says Dagwood. “It’s a long time since I was at the Holding Battalion. I’ll never forget my first Buckingham Palace Guard. As soon
as we were took off, I was run into the cooler. I’d lowered my butt an inch in turning.
I
didn’t know. What was it I got? I forget. I think it was seven days. I can’t remember. It’s nice to be going to the Holding Battalion for the first time. It’s nice to be young. Look: do your best on guard at Buck or Jimmy. It’s not nice to let the mob down. So do the best you can.

“You can be good to look at, and a good soldier at the same time. No, honest to God: the better you are, the better you look. It’s true. It’s a fact. There’s no argument. Do your best: be good pals and do your best, eh? All the old regulars, all the old sweats, tough guys, were particular about putting on a good show when they just had to be
show-soldiers
. Harry Wyatt of the Third Battalion—Number 5854—he did a good guard, and he got the V.C. That goes for the Lance-Jack, Bill Dobson, too. And Brooks, and Tom Whitman, and Norman Jackson: V.C.s too, all Last War. It’s not all bull and boloney.
I
tell you it’s not.

“Last War. People used to say: ‘We can sleep tonight: the Guards are in front of us.’ Well, keep that up. As a personal favour to me, keep that up. The Last War was only a war, a sort of ordinary war, compared to this one. It starts slow, but it doesn’t finish, you know, till one or other of us goes down. There’s going to be rough stuff. There’s going to be hell. Well, that’s all right. You know me. I’m a Sergeant. It’s been my duty to tell you what to do. You know that if I’ve opened my mouth and bit your heads off on parade I was always one of you, and your pal, off parade. Man to man—keep it up, for Christ’s sake keep it up. After all these hundreds of years … no, it’d look bad,
bad!

“Anybody got a light …?

“The proper fighting hasn’t come yet. It’s coming. Now, in Civvy Street, old geezers of eighty are heroes. You can’t do less than them. You won’t. It’s not possible. This isn’t a lecture. I’m not demonstrating something out of the book. Just talking to you. You’re Guardsmen now. You know the whole story. Well, fight good! Keep it up! It might be that any one of you finds himself alone, right in a ditch. Still keep
it up! And keep it up in proper order. Go to heaven or go to hell, but wherever you go, go clean!

“But what am I talking about?
You’re
all right. Good luck to you. The best of luck. In this mob your best pal never writes to you. It doesn’t matter. He’s still your pal: you know him and he knows you. I’ll never hear of any of you again, unless you get a V.C., or something. That’s all right, quite all right. Only: keep it up! Do you get me?
Keep
it
up
!”

At this point there comes into the hut a razor-lipped man with
immense
shoulders and the icy eyes of a killer, no less a person than Ack-Ack Ackerman. He looks down his beaked nose at Bullock, and says: