The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy (28 page)

How could I relieve it except by wanking? Oh, Virginia! Oh, Christ! And there wasn't even anywhere in this wilderness where you could enjoy a decent sensuous wank – certainly not in the tent or the latrine. Nowhere.

There was the lake. Possessed by a sort of fury, I trotted along its bank until I was well-concealed from the camp. In the water, I could always pretend I was bathing – there was no law against that! I flung my clothes off and trotted into the water. It was muddy and unpleasant underfoot, so that for a moment I felt squeamish.

Looking down at my cock, I took heart – not that it didn't need more than I could give it. At least I could bash it fervently and privately under water.

The water was slimy but warm. Even when one is hell bent on ejaculation by the shortest possible means, water is not the ideal element for sensuous experiment; it conducts away the heat too fast. Fevered though the pictures were that I drove through my brain, it took a long while, as I lay with just my head above water, to work up any sensation at all. Slowly, slowly, persistence began to win the day.

‘That man!'

I looked round. The solid figure of Sergeant Meadows stood on the bank. Hastily, I took a stroke or two of a different kind to make believe I was swimming.

‘Hello, sergeant!'

‘Stubbs? What do you think you're doing in there, man? Come out here! That water is loaded with all kinds of filthy diseases!'

Instead of pointing out that we had swum through worse waters frequently since coming to Vadikhasundi, I said, feebly, ‘It's okay just here, Charley!'

‘Get out at once and come here!'

Was there an Army regulation against wanking in public lakes? Dismayed, I jumped up, standing in two feet of water. A hasty look down: swollen, yes, pretty gorged with blood, yes, but not erect. I splashed to dry land. Charley Meadows was not standing by my clothes, so I had no option but to parade naked before him, at the 'shun except for my hands over my cock instead of at my sides.

He scratched his head and looked baffled. ‘I can never make you out, Stubbs. You are bright enough. You were a sergeant once yourself. Yet you will keep on as if you were immature. What were you playing at in there? Were you trying to drown yourself?'

‘No, I was just having a bit of a swim. I didn't get any sleep last night, so I thought a swim might tone me up.'

‘Tone you up! In that filthy pond, up to the eyes in buffalo shit! You're a regular, Stubbs, you should know better than that! How do you reckon we're ever going to win this war if responsible blokes like you keep playing the fool?'

‘I wasn't playing the fool! I was having a swim. I didn't know I was doing anything wrong.'

He sighed. ‘Didn't know you was doing anything wrong! You're in trouble, my lad. I'm taking you up before Captain Gore-Blakeley, right away. Get yourself dressed!'

The captain was orderly officer. As I stood before him, he showered captain's questions at me – questions, Army-style, at once stupid and sarcastic. Not only what was I doing and what did I think I was doing, but had I ever seen anyone else swimming in that filthy pond, did I imagine I had been brought out to India at Army expense just to swim in a filthy pond, had I never heard of tropical diseases, did I know what bilharzia was, I didn't think it was the name of an Indian tradesman, did I, and so on?

When this catechism had reduced me to a red-faced silence, Gor-Blimey and Charley looked at each other.

‘Sar'nt!'

‘Sar?'

‘Put this man on picket duty every night until we leave Vadikhasundi.'

‘Sar!'

‘Signaller Stubbs, you must learn to have some respect for the dangers of an alien environment. We want to get you to Burma fit and well, not crippled with elephantiasis or something equally unpleasant. Understand?'

‘Wharr!' This syllable, only pronounceable with the body rigid, the chest fully extended and the throat firmly clamped down under the jaw, was uttered towards a point some two feet above Captain Gore-Blakeley's head.

I was marched out of the presence. Outside, Charley said, ‘You got off light, Stubby, as well you know. You'd better report to the MO in the morning and tell him I sent you.
Tell him you were swimming in the buffalo pool.' He eyed me hard and not unsympathetically. ‘There's a touch of the tarbrush about you, Stubbs.' Resuming a more formal manner, he drew himself up – a gesture I at once copied – and said, ‘Signaller Stubbs, di-hiss-miiiiiss!' Right turn, pause, smartly away, ep ri' ep ri' ep …

And to think that all of 1 Platoon had been having it in – and getting away with it!

As I headed over the red desert to find myself a couple of beers at the canteen, I prepared my face and shuffled the facts of what had happened into a story that would help me to emerge creditably from the incident. As matters stood, they did not do me much of a favour. Failed fucker, failed wanker was an inglorious double billing. But, in the Army, everything can be arranged to suit the occasion; the pecking order is so steep, the pecks so frequent, that the truth is never as eagerly received as a story that shows one's superiors in a comic or ridiculous light. The discomfiture of friends has to take second preference to the discomfiture of officers and NCOs. Everyone feeds on fantasy, and my story could be arranged not too fancifully to make me show up better than Charley and Gor-Blimey.

There was still half-an-hour to sunset. Shadows of tall trees stretched across the old marquee tent that housed the BORs' canteen. The canteen had only just opened and there were comparatively few Mendips inside.

An old mate of mine, Di Jones, who had been with me at Prestatyn, was sitting drinking
char
with another Welshman from 1 Platoon, Taffy Evans. I bought myself a beer and went over to join them.

‘Wotcher, Di! Wotcher, Taff!'

‘You're looking proper brassed off, mucker, isn't he, Taffy?'

‘Proper
chokka
,' agreed Taffy. ‘How many more years you got to serve?'

‘Too fucking many. I've just been nicked by Charley Meadows.'

Both men were immediately sympathetic, and Di made a lot of clicking noises like a shorting Morse key. ‘Your sergeant's got more balls than brains, if you ask me. What did he nick you for, Stubby?'

‘Oh, it's a long story. You wouldn't want to hear it.'

‘Here, have a fag, Horry lad, and tell us the worst.' Di
brought out a tin of Indian ‘Players' and offered me one.

‘Thanks, Di, I don't mind if I do … Well, I suppose you know that there's a
bibi
down by the lake, charging five chips a time?'

As I spoke, I remembered what serious and chapel-going men these two were, and paused, burying my face in the beer glass.

Di Jones looked grave. ‘We heard all about that
bibi
from Ginger Gascadden. You want to stay away from Indian women, Horry, really you do. I know you're a lusty young lad with the fires of creation in your crutch, but you'd do best to stick to the old hand-shandy – wouldn't he, Taff?'

But they exchanged winks. Taffy was agreeing vigorously with Di, advising me to stay married to my fist. ‘What happened about the
bibi
anyhow?'

‘Oh, I just thought I'd go and have a
shufti
at what was going on – look, let me get another beer. Can I buy you two a round? That bloody
char
does you no good, you know!'

They agreed to drink some beer. While I was up at the counter waiting for it, and gazing round to see the day depart, in ambled Geordie. He always looked lost when he was on his own and the idea was growing in me that one day Geordie was going to be told to piss off and hang about someone else – but on this occasion I felt glad to see him.

I gave him a cheery hail, grabbed a fourth beer, and welcomed him over to our table.

‘I bet you've been over with that
bibi
, Geordie, haven't you?'

‘Me? No, I wouldn't fancy – you know me better than that, mucker! Anyroad, they've sort of got the Redcaps, like, down there, like, to send her packing before she gives the whole bloody unit a dose of the clap, like. So I was hearing – I don't know if it's true. Did you see her?'

‘Horry's just going to tell us,' Di said, almost simultaneously waving impatiently at me to continue and wiping the beer froth from his lips.

‘I thought I'd go and have a
shufti
at the
bibi
and, just as I was getting there, I glanced back – and who do I see but our Sergeant Fucking Meadows!'

‘Likely he was going to have a basinful himself, I shouldn't wonder,' Di said, grinning. ‘They're dead crafty, these sergeants.'

‘He was hanging about waiting to catch someone, that's
what I reckon. Spying on us! So I didn't let on I'd spotted him, but I thought, “Christ, now I'm in the shit, what do I do now?” I mean, if I'd turned back, I'd have walked right into him. So then I had this bright idea – I thought I'd have him on, just for a lark.'

We all sat there pulling at our fags and swigging beer. The canteen lights came on. Night had arrived. ‘Go on,' they said.

I laughed. ‘I had this bloody daft idea that I'd pretend I was going to have a swim in the lake.'

They all laughed. ‘Didn't I always say as you were round the fucking bend, Horry? Swim in that mucky pond, full of buffalo shit!'

‘It's not all that bad, mate – it's pretty clean, by Wog standards. Anyhow, I knew old Charley was watching, so I stripped off—'

‘You stripped off into the nude?'

‘You know me, Di – shit or bust! I stripped right off, ran along the bank, and dived straight into the fucking
pani!
'

They were incredulous, amused, horrified. They laughed and tried to make me admit I had done no such thing. Taffy Evans called another mate of his over to hear the tale.

‘I always said as you was fuckin'
puggle
, mate!' Geordie said, laughing. ‘What a right carry-on! I don't know … What did Meadows do?'

‘Well, what could he do? I mean, I was bloody daft in the first place, I admit that. You know me – anything for a laugh. And you should have seen his face! He came stomping along the edge – for a moment I thought he was going to dive in after me, boots and all!'

We were all laughing like drains now.

‘So he yells to me, “Is that you, Signaller Stubbs? What the fucking hell are you doing in there?” – as if he'd never seen a man take a swim before. I felt like saying to him, “I'm watching Arsenal play the Spurs”, but I just said, “I'm cooling my balls off, sarge” – and he had me out of there so fast my feet didn't touch! Straight up to the orderly room!'

They were all laughing and repeating ‘Cooling my balls off!', and more blokes were coming over to find what was so funny.

I told the story again, throwing in a comic imitation of Gore-Blakeley. ‘I suppose you think typhoid is a make of tea, Signaller Stubbs? Eh, what?'

Everyone was in cordial agreement: Meadows and Gor-Blimey
had no sense of humour; I, on the other hand, was a bit of a card who had been victimized. Most of us saw ourselves as cards and victims. More beer was ordered, and other victim-card stories told, amid general laughter. Soon someone was reminiscing gaily about the first time he was on jankers.

Mention of jankers reminded me of picket duty. It was almost time to be getting my kit together. Back to realities, I drained my glass and bid them all farewell. As I was going out of the tent, a pasty face in the corner caught my eye. It was Rusk, sitting with a mate and eating a chicken
butti
which was so firmly clasped in his great mitt that for a moment I thought he was tearing his fist apart with his teeth.

Rusk fixed his greasy eyes on me and made a sign, beckoning me with his whole arm. I gave him the Up Yours signal with two fingers and ducked out of the tent, but he called out and immediately began following me. Outside the circle of light thrown by the tent entrance, I turned and waited for him.

He came towards me truculently, the strands of chicken in the corners of his mouth waving for the last time. His sleeves were still rolled up to his elbows. ‘You're asking for trouble, Stubbs, sticking your fucking fingers up at me, you know that?'

‘Get your sleeves rolled down, Rusk! How long have you been in? Get some fucking service behind you!'

‘Don't you tell me to get some fucking service in, mate! You're going to get a bunch of fives if you don't belt up, know that? You're on a charge already, aren't you?'

I moved in closer and said, ‘You'll be on a charge if you don't get your sleeves down
ek dum
, you fat shit!'

‘Don't you order me about: I've been in too long. Don't you go calling me names! I know a thing or two about you, don't I?'

‘What do you know?'

‘Come on, you know what I know!'

‘What do you fucking know?'

‘You know!'

‘What?'

‘About that
bibi!
'

‘What about that
bibi?
'

‘Well, you spewed your fucking ring, didn't you?'

‘What do you mean?' I could see him grinning sickly in the dark.

‘You know what I mean, mate! How'd you like your mates to know that the great right-winger Stubbs chickened out of screwing a
bibi
at the last minute? I watched you! I saw you piss off in the other direction when you thought nobody was looking!'

With my right fist, I hit him hard in the left ribs; with my left fist, I hit him hard in the right. There was less blubber and more solid meat than I had imagined. He grunted hard, swiped at me and missed. When I stepped back, he did not come on.

‘Want any more, you fat bastard?' I asked.

‘You want to get some fucking service in,' he muttered. With that devastating shot, he turned and disappeared in the direction of the cookhouse.