‘He can win the high jump and dance in your foursome, too, pipey,’ I said.
‘Aye, can he, and if he strains himself, with ruptures and torn ligaments, where are we?’ cried the pipey. ‘Which is the more important for a Highland Games, the fine dancing or . . . or yon abomination? Any clown can loup, sir, but the dear Adjutant is a dancer in ten thousand, see the grace of him. Ach, damn,’ he added petulantly, ‘they have spoiled all decent sport with their bluidy athletics!’
I left him lamenting, and spent half an hour with our juvenile entry, for the Games included children’s sports, and our regimental infants were toiling busily in preparation for the three-legged race, the bean bag, the bunny jump, and the under-10 eighty-yard dash. In this last we were strong, for we had the twin sons of Corporal Coupar, known locally as the Bullet-Headed Little Bandits. They were wicked, fearless, malevolent-looking little urchins of nine, infamous for their evil-doing and their language, which would have earned censure in a Tollcross pub. But they could run; years of evading the wrath of regimental cooks, their father, and those private soldiers who were sensitive to juvenile abuse had made them faster than chain lightning with a link snapped. Barring accidents, the eighty-yard dash was ours. I seized one twin as he shot by, and received a hair-curling rebuke.
‘Don’t use that disgusting word,’ I said. ‘Are you Davie or Donnie?’
‘Name o’ the wee man,’ said he. ‘Can ye no’ tell? Ah’m Donnie. Ah don’t look like that, surely?’ And he indicated his twin with distaste. Davie retorted, unmentionably.
‘David!’ I beckoned him, and he came defiantly. ‘Now, look, both of you. Do you want any more stories?’
The two small, ugly faces looked slightly concerned. They liked their stories.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Unless you cut out swearing, no more stories. You should be ashamed. What would your father say?’
Davie sniggered. ‘Ye should hear him.’
I slapped him on his trouser seat. ‘Don’t be impertinent. And what’s more, I won’t let you run in the sports. Yes, I thought that would worry you. Anyway, are you going to win?’
‘No kiddin’,’ said Donnie scornfully. ‘We’ll dawdle it.’
‘Ye mean Ah’ll dawdle it,’ said Davie.
‘You? You couldnae catch me in a bus.’
‘Could Ah no’? You couldnae run wi’ the cold.’
I rolled them on the ground briefly, which one should always do to small boys, and was preparing to go on my way when Davie picked himself up from the grass and called:
‘Hey, Mr MacNeill. Is it right McAuslan’s goin’ tae get the jail?’
This stopped me short. ‘What do you know about it?’
‘Ah heard my daddy sayin’ McAuslan had had it. Is that right?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Why are you interested?’
‘Och,’ said Davie. ‘Ah like McAuslan. He’s that —— dirty.’
‘Ah hate Corporal Baxter,’ said Donnie viciously. ‘He’s a ——.’
I despaired. You might as well have tried to stop an alcoholic tippling as purify the conversation of the Bullet-Headed Little Bandits. Oddly enough, though, I felt sympathy for both their views, and in the next few days, while the athletes trained and the pipers practised, and the wooden grandstands were erected and the tents pitched and all was made ready for the Games, I found McAuslan increasingly on my mind. The Games were Friday and Saturday, and McAuslan’s trial was fixed for the Friday afternoon. He looked like a dead duck, and I wondered how stiff a sentence he would get. Disobeying an order may be admonished at company level, but when it gets before a court-martial it can be a detention offence, quite easily, and McAuslan doing twenty-one days in the iron discipline of a glasshouse was a worrying thought. He wasn’t exactly cut out for doing everything at the double and in spotless order.
His defending officer, the ‘prisoner’s friend’, arrived on the Wednesday afternoon. He was a thin, nervous Cockney Jew, with a hard-worn captain’s uniform and enormous horn-rimmed spectacles. His other distinguishing characteristics were a huge Adam’s apple, a blue lantern jaw, a pendulous nose, and an unhappy expression.
‘Name of Einstein,’ he said, shaking hands limply. ‘Don’t make any mathematical jokes, for God’s sake, I couldn’t stand it. No kidding, I’m thinking of changing it to Shylock.’ He laid his battered brief-case on my desk and sank into a chair, massaging his forehead. ‘Honest, I’ve just about had it. Had to stand all the way from York. I’m bushed. Usual last-minute flap, of course. You think you’ve got it tough in the infantry, mate, you ought to see the Army’s bloody legal department. To give you an idea’ – he removed his glasses and stared at me with great spaniel eyes — ‘I still don’t know the first thing about this ruddy case; not a thing! Organisation! Oh, they did give me the documents, but I seem to have left ’em somewhere. I should cocoa. As my old man said, “Any lawyer that needs a brief needs a bloody nursemaid”. And he was no mug, my old man. What’s the charge?’
‘Disobeying an order,’ I said, and he looked surprised.
‘Bit of a come-down for your lot, isn’t it? I mean to say, last time I was mixed up with a Highland mob it was murder, arson, and making away with Government property in the face of the enemy. Disobedience, eh? Well, it’s a living. And as my old man so wisely said, bless his black heart, “Always be happy to do business with the Gentile Tribe, Frankie, you may need a free kilt some day.”’ His vulpine face assumed a friendly beam. ‘So just fill me in, old man, would you?’
I told him the McAuslan saga, pillow-fight, new C.O., objection to being called dirty, and all, and he sat sucking his teeth and twitching.
‘Well, some mothers do have them,’ he observed when I had finished. ‘Got a fag on you, old man?’
I lit him up and asked him how long he thought McAuslan would get.
‘Get?’ he said, staring at me through the smoke. ‘Whaddya mean, “get”?’
‘Well, he doesn’t seem to have much chance —’
‘Not much chance? Don’t make me laugh. He’s going to get acquitted, mate, don’t you worry about that. All my clients get acquitted. There’s more of my clients walking about free men than you’ve had hot dinners. “Get” forsooth! I like that.’
‘I’m sorry, I —’
‘What we’ve got to decide on,’ said Einstein, waving me to silence, ‘is a line of defence. Yers-ss. Let’s see . . . How about steady-responsible-hard-working-soldier-victimised-by-cruel-superior? Old, but sound.’
‘No, not with McAuslan . . . I don’t think . . .’
‘Just an idea,’ he shrugged. ‘Wait, I’ve got a good one. How about religious-fanatic-wounded-in-his-beliefs? That’s a beauty. Show a court a holy man and they get the willies every time.’
‘McAuslan isn’t holy,’ I said. ‘He’s probably an atheist.’
‘You’re not helping, you know,’ said Einstein severely. ‘Tell you what, is he deaf? No? It’s never much good, anyway. I don’t suppose he’s illegitimate, either?’
‘Illegitimate?’
‘A bastard, you know,’ he explained patiently. “Cos if he was, and this corporal called him one, it’d be a lovely extenuating circumstance. I used that one once, out in Port Sudan. Gift from the gods. President of the court turned out to be a bastard himself. Turned a certain two years for mutinous behaviour into a straight acquittal.’ He chuckled reminiscently. ‘Those were the days, mate, those were the days.’
‘Well, this is today,’ I said with some heat, for it seemed to me Captain Einstein was approaching things in a decidedly offhand manner. ‘And McAuslan . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ he flapped his hands at me. ‘I’m just exploring, see? Getting the feel of things, looking for a line.’ He meditated. ‘He isn’t normal and steady, he isn’t religious, he isn’t deaf, and he isn’t a bastard. What the hell is he, a cave-man?’
‘You said it, not me.’
‘Oh.’ He stared at me. ‘Well. In that case, maybe I’d
better have a little talk with him.’ He slapped his pockets. ‘I say, got another fag on you? I seem to have left mine . . . Ta. Yes, I’ll have to reorientate a bit, I can see. To quote my old man again, “If you can’t find a good line of defence, just stick to the truth.” Let’s go and interview the body.’
When he saw McAuslan, who was sitting on his bunk in the cells, looking foul and miserable, Einstein had a quick intake of breath, most of it cigarette smoke, and a coughing fit.
‘Gawd,’ he said reverently, when he had recovered. ‘You don’t half pick ’em, don’t you? He looks like a distressed area. I can see I’m going to have to be at my talented smoothest to make him look good in court. Oh, well, never say die, all things are possible. I mean to say, if you’ve got a Church of England chaplain off on an embezzlement charge, you can do practically anything, can’t you? I’ve done that, too. Tell you what,’ he added, laying a hand on my shoulder, ‘why don’t you buzz off to the mess and get some drink set up while I have a word with old Private Piltdown here? See you in ten minutes.’ He winked. ‘And don’t look so worried, old cock. Your boy is in capable hands, believe me.’
I hoped sincerely that he was right, this voluble Einstein, but I’d have been happier if he had looked just a bit less of a villain. Frankly, when it came to appearances, I’d sooner have been represented by Blackbeard Teach.
Nor did he seem terribly energetic. Having spent only ten minutes with McAuslan, he came to the mess and drank me nearly bankrupt, ate a hearty dinner, and then took seven and six off the M.O. at snooker. The following day he passed in loafing about the barracks, having a word here and there, returning frequently to the mess to hit the Glenfiddich, and generally looking like a man without a care in the world. I didn’t know how legal men prepared for mortal combat, but I was pretty sure they spent more time poring over papers and hunting out surprise witnesses than swilling whisky and trying to lure people to the billiards table.
Then it was Friday morning, and I had the heats of the quarter-mile to worry about: I had modest hopes of getting into the final, and maybe picking up a point or two there. As it turned out, the thing was money for jam, thanks to Corporal Pudden and my own cleverly psychological running. I discovered as a lad that to succeed in the quarter-mile, against any but really good runners, all you have to do is to set off at top speed from the start. This discourages the mob, who think you must be good; they tend to take it easy in consequence, and by the time they realise their mistake, when you are wheezing and reeling through the last hundred yards, it is probably too late for them to make up lost ground.
So when my heat lined up – Pudden and I were the only representatives of our regiment – and the gun barked, I went off like the clappers. As far as the back straight I was doing fine, but by three-quarters of the way round my evil living – cigarettes, marshmallows, and the like – was taking its toll, and by the time I hit the straight I was giving a fair imitation of the last survivor staggering into the garrison, weak with loss of blood. However, unknown to me, Corporal Pudden, who couldn’t run particularly well, but was broad in the beam, had established himself in second place, and by judicious weaving across the track was preventing the opposition from getting past. This enabled me to get home by a comfortable margin, and Pudden, having body-checked a Seaforth who was trying to take the long way round him, just nosed out a Highland Light Infantryman for second place. So after that there was really nothing to do except put my tunic on over my strip and lounge about looking professional, watching the other heats, slapping my calves thoughtfully, and generally behaving like a man to whom both heats and finals are just formalities.
Friday morning, of course, was just the weeding out; the big stuff, finals and so on, was for next day. They were still putting up the last marquees and making a kind of royal box with red carpet when I went off to have lunch, change into my best uniform, and present myself at the opening of McAuslan’s court-martial.
It was held in a big, bare room somewhere in Redford Barracks, and such are memory’s tricks that I can remember nothing more of the background than that. There was a long plain table for the members of the court, the president of which was a sad-looking Sapper colonel with bags under his eyes. There was a square, tough-looking major in the Devons, and a very pink young man with chain epaulettes on his shoulders – a cavalryman of sorts. There was also a prosecutor, tall and lean and (to me) looking full of malevolence and brains; there was Einstein, nervous and rather untidy, muttering to himself and diving in and out of his brief-case; he saw me sitting on the chairs for witnesses and spectators, and came over confidentially.
‘Bit of a break gettin’ an engineer for president,’ he whispered. ‘They’re all barmy. Can’t say I like the look of that major from the Bloody Eleventh, though; he’ll be a martinet, no error. Dunno about the boy; that type you can never tell – might be soft-hearted, might be a sadist. Think we could risk a fag? No, better not. Bad impression.’ He removed his glasses, fidgeted, and drew my attention to Prosecution. ‘One of the worst, I’d say; you know, the Middle-Temple-if-it-please-your-ludship-my-pater-was-a-K. C. type. Creeps, the lot o’ them.’
‘How’s McAuslan?’ I asked.
‘Clean,’ said Einstein, ‘thanks to the efforts of a couple of lads who’ve been scrubbing him half the morning. I told the brute straight, I said, ‘You may be guilty, but by God, at least you’re going to look innocent.’ They just took him to the showers and went at him with brushes; shifted a power of dirt, they did. Hallo, curtain up.’ There was a thump of marching boots outside. Einstein slid out of his seat. ‘Well, into thy hands, Blind Justice, and may God defend the right, or something,’ he muttered, and went back to his table.
There was a roar of commands, a stamping on the polished boards, and in came prisoner and escort, marching like crazy. McAuslan was in somebody’s best tunic and tartan – certainly not his own – and for the first time in my experience his face was pink, not grey. Whoever had washed him had done a terrific job; he looked like a normal human being – well, nearly normal, for his habit of swinging leg and arm together was still apparent, and when he halted he crouched at attention rather than stood. But his hair appeared to have been stuck down with glue, and when he sat, trembling violently, in the accused’s chair, he looked much as any other court-martial candidate looks – scared and lonely, but not scruffy.
There is something frighteningly simple about a court-martial. It is justice stripped to the bare essentials. Usually only prosecutor and prisoner’s friend have any legal knowledge; for the rest it is common sense backed by King’s Regulations and the Army Act. There is a minimum of ceremony, and for that matter a minimum of talk. But it is probably the fairest shake in the world.
The charge was read, and Einstein pleaded not guilty. The president nodded mournfully to Prosecution, who got up and began to deliver himself, outlining the case against the accused in a languid, matter-of-fact Oxford accent.
The impression he gave was that Corporal Baxter, an n.c.o. of sterling character and charming disposition, had approached McAuslan and suggested that he enter for the inter-regimental pillow-fight. McAuslan, laughing such a laugh as the pious might conceive on the lips of Satan, had refused in the most savage terms. Corporal Baxter, disappointed rather than annoyed, had pleaded with him winningly; McAuslan had repeated his refusal and added the foulest abuse. In spite of this, Corporal Baxter had persevered with forbearing firmness, but the hardened scoundrel would not be moved, and eventually, with great reluctance, Baxter had put him on a charge. Thereupon McAuslan had offered him the vilest of threats, which might well have been taken as the prelude to an assault. No assault had taken place, admittedly, but Prosecution obviously thought it had been a close thing. He then called Corporal Baxter.
Hearing it the way Prosecution had told it, I could see McAuslan already on the rockpile; there seemed no possible defence, and I was surprised to see Einstein looking bored and inattentive. I knew very little about courts.
&n
bsp; Corporal Baxter strode masterfully in, looking slightly pale and young, with his stripes gleaming whitely, and took the oath. In more formal language he repeated what Prosecution had said.
‘Let us be quite clear, Corporal,’ said Prosecution suavely, when Baxter had finished. ‘You ordered the accused to enter for this event, the pillow-fight. What words did you use, so well as you can recall?’
‘I remember exactly, sir,’ said Baxter confidently. ‘I said. “You’ll put your name down for the pillow-fight, McAuslan”.’
‘I see. And he said?’
‘He said he bloody well wouldn’t, sir.’
‘Very good. And after you had repeated the order, and again he refused, you charged him, and he became abusive?’
‘Yessir.’
‘What did he say?’
Baxter hesitated. ‘He called me a shilpit wee nyaff, sir.’
The president stirred. ‘He called you what?’
Baxter coloured slightly. ‘A shilpit wee nyaff.’
The president looked at Prosecution. ‘Perhaps you can translate? ’
Prosecution, hand it to him, didn’t even blink. He selected a paper from his table, held it up at arm’s length, and said gravely:
‘Shilpit, I am informed, sir, signifies stunted, undergrown. As to “wee”, that is, of course, current in English as well as in . . .’ he paused for a second ‘. . . the Northern dialects. Nyaff, an insignificant person, a pip-squeak.’
‘Remarkable,’ said the president. ‘Nyaff. Ny-ahff.’ He tried it round his tongue. ‘Expressive. Synonymous with the Norse “niddering”.’ ‘Sir?’ said Prosecution.
‘Niddering,’ said the president. ‘A worthless person, a nonentity. Possibly a connection there. So many of these Norse pejoratives begin with “n”.’
Einstein coughed slightly. ‘Hebrew, too, sir. “Nebbish” means much the same thing.’