That, as they say, did it. But for McCann, and the fact that our Colonel’s liver must have been undergoing one of its periodic spells of mutinous behaviour, he’d probably just have grunted agreement. As it was, he stopped short in the act of refuelling his pipe and asked the Fusilier Colonel what the devil he meant. The Fusilier Colonel said, nothing, really, but general knowledge quizzes ought to be about general knowledge. They’d had one in his battalion, and he’d been astonished at how much his chaps – quite ordinary chaps, he’d always thought – knew about all sorts of things.
Our Colonel did a brief, thoughtful quiver, looked across the mess with that chin-up, faraway stare that his older comrades associated with the Singapore siege, and said, was that so, indeed. He finished filling his pipe, and you could see him wondering whether the Fusilier Colonel had somehow managed to enlist the entire Fellowship of All Souls in his battalion. Then he looked round, and if ever a man was taking inventory of his own unit’s intellectual powers, he was doing it then. There was the Padre, with an M.A. (Aberdeen), and the M.O. with presumably some scientific knowledge – pretty well versed in fishing, anyway – and then his eye fell on me, and I knew what he was thinking. A few days before he’d heard me – out of that fund of my trivia – explaining to the Adjutant, who was wrestling futilely with a crossword, that the term ‘derrick’ derived from the name of an Elizabethan hangman. Eureka, he was thinking.
‘Tell you what,’ he said to the Fusilier Colonel. ‘How’d you like to have one of these quiz competitions – between our battalions? Just for interest, eh?’
‘All right,’ said the Fusilier Colonel. ‘A level fiver?’
‘Done,’ said our Colonel, promptly, and in that fine spirit of philosophic inquirers bent on the propagation of knowledge for its own sake they proceeded to hammer out the rules, conditions and penalties under which the contest would be conducted. It took them three double whiskies and about half a pint of gin, and the wheeling and dealing would have terrified Tammany Hall. But finally they agreed that the two teams, four men strong, should be drawn from all ranks of the respective battalions, that the questions should be devised independently by the area education officer, that the local Roman Catholic padre should act as umpire (our Colonel teetered apprehensively over that, and presumably concluded that the Old Religion was marginally closer to our cause – Jacobites, Glasgow Irish, and all that – than to the Fusiliers’), and that the contest should be held in a week’s time on neutral ground, namely the Uaddan Canteen. And when, with expressions of mutual good will, the Fusilier Colonel and his party had left, our Colonel called for another stiff one, mopped his balding brow, refilled his pipe, and took the operation in hand. He formed the Padre and myself into an O-Group, with the Adjutant co-opted as an adviser, told the rest of the mess to shut up or go to bed, announced: ‘Now, this is the form,’ and paced to and fro like Napoleon before Wagram, plotting his strategy. Dividing his discourse under the usual subheadings – object, information, personnel, communications, supply, and transport – he laid it all on the line.
‘These Fusiliers,’ he said, smoking thoughtfully. ‘Probably quite brainy. Never can tell, of course, but they put up a dam’ fine show at Anzio, and Colonel Fenwick is nobody’s fool. Don’t be discouraged by the fact that they’ve had one or two of their chaps through Staff College – the kind of idiot who can write p.s.c. after his name these days is, to my mind, quite unfit for brain-work of any kind and usually has to be excused boots.’ The Colonel had not been to Staff College. ‘However, we can’t afford to take ’em lightly. Their recruiting area is the north-east of England, which I grant you is much like the Australian outback with coal-mines added, but we can’t count too much on that. There’s a university thereabouts – which reminds me, Michael, we’ll have to check on where this area education officer hails from. The chap who’s setting the questions. Fenwick proposed him – bigod, I’ll bet he’s a Geordie – ’
‘He’s a Cornishman,’ said the Adjutant. ‘Pen-pal, or some such name.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said the Colonel. ‘You’re sure? Right, then, we come to our own team. You, Padre, and you, young Dand, will select as your team-mates the two most informed, alert and intelligent men in the battalion. Officers or other ranks, I don’t care which – but understand, I want a team who can answer the questions put to them clearly, fully, and accurately, and in a soldier-like manner. No dam’ shuffling and scratching heads. When a question’s asked – crack! straight in with the answer, like that.’
‘Provided we know the answer,’ said the Padre, and the Colonel looked at him like a dyspeptic vulture.
‘This battalion,’ he said flatly, ‘knows all the answers. Understand ? What’s the shortest book in the Bible?’
‘Third John,’ said the Padre automatically.
‘There you are, you see,’ said the Colonel, shrugging in the grand manner. ‘It’s just a matter of alertness and concentration. And – training.’ He wagged his pipe impressively. ‘Some form of training is absolutely essential, to ensure that you and the rest of the team are at a highly-tuned pitch on the night of the contest. The questions are to fall under the headings of general knowledge; art and literature and music and what-not; politics; and sport. I suppose,’ he went on reflectively, ‘that you could read a bit . . . but don’t for God’s sake go swotting feverishly and upsetting yourselves. Some chaps at Wellington used to, I remember – absolutely hopeless on the day. I,’ he added firmly, ‘never swotted. Just stayed off alcohol for twenty-four hours in advance, went for a walk, had a bath and a good sleep, a light breakfast . . . well, here I am. So just keep your digestions regular, no late hours, and perhaps brush up a bit with . . . well, with some of those general knowledge questions in the Sunday Post. I don’t doubt the education officer will draw heavily on those. Anyway, they’ll get you into the feel of the thing. Apart from that – any suggestions?’
The Adjutant said he had a copy of Whitaker’s Almanack in the office, if that was any use.
‘Excellent,’ said the Colonel. ‘That’s the sort of practical approach we need. Very good, Michael. No doubt there’s some valuable stuff in the battalion library, too.’ (I knew of nothing, personally, unless one hoped to study social criminology through the medium of No Orchids for Miss Blandish or Slay-ride for Cutie.)
‘And that,’ said the Colonel, ordering up four more big ones, ‘is that. It’s just a question of preparation, and we’ll have this thing nicely wrapped up. I’ve every confidence, as usual – ’ he gave us his aquiline beam ‘ – and I feel sure that you have, too. We’ll show the Fusiliers where the brain-power lies.’
The trouble with the Colonel, you see, was that he’d been spoiled by success. Whether it was taking and holding a position in war, or thrashing all opposition at football, or looking better than anyone else on ceremonial parades, or even a question of the battalion’s children topping the prize-list at the garrison school, he expected no less than total triumph. And perhaps because he so trustingly expected it, he usually got it – and a trifle over. It was a subtle kind of blackmail, in a way, and that crafty old soldier knew just how to operate it. Leadership they call it.
I’ve seen it manifest itself in most curious ways, as when the seven-year-old daughter of Sergeant Allison was taking a ballet examination in Edinburgh – and there, just before it began, was the Colonel, in tweeds and walking-stick, just looking in, you understand, to see that all was in order, gallantly chatting up the young instructresses in their leotards, playing the genial old buffer and missing nothing, and then giving the small and tremulous Miss Allison a wink and a growling whisper before stalking off to his car. The fact was, the man was as nervous as her parents, because she was part of his regimental family. ‘He’ll be there at the Last Judgement,’ the M.O. once said, ‘cadging a light off St Peter so that he can whisper “This is one of my Jocks coming in, by the way . . .”’
It followed that the quiz against the Fusiliers assumed an importance tha
t it certainly didn’t deserve, and I actually found myself wondering if I ought to try to read right through the Britannica beforehand. Fortunately common sense reasserted itself, and I concentrated instead on selecting the remaining two members of the team – the Padre insisted that was my affair; he was going to be too busy praying.
Actually, it wasn’t difficult. The Padre and I had agreed that in the quiz he would deal with questions on what, in a moment of pure Celtic pessimism, he irritably described as ‘the infernal culture’ – that is, literature, music and the arts – while I would look after the general knowledge. So we needed a political expert and a sporting one. The political expert was easy, I said: it could only be Sergeant McCaw, Clydeside Communist and walking encyclopedia on the history of capitalist oppression and the emergence of the Working Man.
The Padre was horrified. ‘Ye daren’t risk it! The man’s a Bolshevik, and he’s cost me more members than Sunday opening. He’ll use the occasion for spouting red propaganda – man, Dandy, the Colonel’ll go berserk!’
‘He’s about the only man in this battalion whose knowledge of Parliament goes beyond the label of an H.P. sauce bottle,’ I said. ‘It would be criminal not to pick him – he can even tell you what the Corn Laws were.’
‘Is that right?’ said the Padre, metaphorically pulling his shawl round his shoulders. ‘I fear the worst. Stop you till he starts calling Churchill a fascist bully gorged on the blood of the masses. What about sport?’
‘Forbes,’ I said. ‘From my platoon. He’s the man.’
‘Yon? He’s chust a troglodyte.’
‘Granted,’ I said, ‘but if you knew your Reasons Annexed as well as he knows his league tables, you’d be Moderator by now.’ And in the face of his doubts I summoned Private Forbes – small, dark, and sinful, and the neatest inside forward you ever saw.
‘Forbes,’ I said. ‘Who holds the record for goals scored in a first-class match?’
He didn’t even blink. ‘Petrie, Arbroath, got thirteen against Aberdeen Bon-Accord in 1889. He wis playin’ ootside right, an’ – ’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Who got most in a league game?’
‘Joe Payne, o’ Chelsea, got ten when he was playin’ fur – ’
‘What’s the highest individual score in first-class cricket?’
‘Bradman, the Australian, he got 452 in a State game – ’
‘How many Britons have held the world heavyweight title?’
‘None.’ He took a breath. ‘Bob – Fitzsimmons – wis – English – but – he – was – namerrican – citizen – when – he – beat – Corbett – an’ – Toamy – Burns – wis – a – Canadian – but – that – disnae – count – an’ – ’
‘Fall out, Forbes, and thank you,’ I said, and looked at the Padre, who was sitting slightly stunned. ‘Well?’
He sighed. ‘When you consider the power of the human brain, ye feel small,’ he began, and I could see that we were going to be off shortly on another fine philosophic Hebridean flight. So I left him, and went to find Sergeant McCaw and confirm his selection.
The next week was just ridiculous. You’d have thought the Jocks wouldn’t even be interested in such an arcane and contemptible business as an inter-regimental general knowledge competition, but they treated it like the World Cup. Scotsmen, of course, if they feel that national prestige is in any way at stake, tend to go out of their minds; tell them there was to be a knitting bee against England and they would be on the touch-line shouting ‘Purl, Wullie! See’s the chain-stitch, but!’ And as is the case with British regiments anywhere, they and the Fusiliers detested each other heartily. That, and the subtle influence which I’m sure the Colonel percolated through the unit by some magic of his own, was enough to make the quiz the burning topic of the hour.
I first realised this when, during a ten-minute halt on a short route march, Private Fletcher of the lantern visage and inventive mind mentioned the quiz to me, and observed artlessly, as he borrowed a light: ‘Would be a’ right if ye knew what the questions wis goin’ tae be, wouldnit?’ Once upon a time I’d have thought this just a silly remark, but I knew my Fletcher by now.
‘It would,’ I said. ‘But if somebody was to bust into the education officer’s premises at night, and start rifling his papers, that wouldn’t be all right. Know what I mean?’
‘Whit ye take me fur?’ He was all hurt surprise. ‘Ah wis just mentionin’. Passin’ the time.’ He paused. ‘They say the odds is five tae two against us.’
‘You mean there’s a book being made? And we’re not favourites? ’
‘No kiddin’, sur. The word’s got roond. See the Padre? He’s a wandered man, that; he disnae know what time it is. Ye cannae depend on him.’
‘He’s an intelleck-shul, but,’ observed Daft Bob Brown.
‘Intellectual yer granny. Hear him the ither Sunday? On aboot the Guid Samaritan, an’ the Levite passin’ by on the ither side, an’ whit a helluva shame it wis, tae leave some poor sowel lyin’ in the road? Well seen the Padre hasnae been doon Cumberland Street lately. Ah’d dam’ soon pass by on the ither side. Becos if Ah didnae, Ah ken fine whit I’d get — half a dozen Billy Boys fleein’ oot a close tae banjo me.’
This naturally led to a theological discussion in which I bore no part; I’d been lured into debate on the fundamentals with my platoon before. Nor was I surprised that they held a poor opinion of the Padre’s intellect — he did have a tendency to wander off into a kind of metaphysical trance in the pulpit. Skye man, of course. But I was intrigued to find that they were interesting themselves in the quiz; even Private McAuslan.
‘Whit’s an intelleck-shul?’ he inquired.
‘A clever b—’, explained Fletcher, which is not such a bad definition, when you come to think of it. ‘Don’t you worry, dozey,’ he went on. ‘It disnae affect you. An intellectual’s a fella that can think.’
‘Ah can think,’ said McAuslan, aggrieved, and the platoon took him up on it, naturally.
‘What wi’?’
‘Your brains are in your bum, kid.’
‘Hey, sir, why don’t ye hiv McAuslan in yer quiz team?’
‘Aye, he’s the wee boy wi’ the brains.’
‘Professor McAuslan, N.B.G., Y.M.C.A. and bar.’
‘Right — fall in!’ I said, for McAuslan’s expression had turned from persecuted to murderous. He shuffled into the ranks, informing Fletcher raucously that he could think, him, he wisnae so bluidy dumb, and Fletcher wis awfy clever, wasn’t he, etc., etc.
But I hadn’t realised quite how gripped they were by quiz fever until I became aware, midway through the week, that I was being taken care of, solicitously, like a heavy-weight in training. I was conscious, in my leisure moments, of being watched; outside my window I heard my orderly say: ‘It’s a’ right; he’s readin’ a book,’ and on two other occasions he asked pointedly if he could get me anything from the library — a thing he’d never done before. My platoon behaved like Little Lord Fauntleroys, obviously determined to do nothing to disturb the equilibrium of the Great Brain; the Padre complained that he could get no work done for Jocks coming into his office to ask if he was all right, and could they get him anything. Sergeant McCaw, whose feeling for the proletariat did not prevent his being an oppressively efficient martinet with his own platoon, and consequently unpopular, reported that he had actually been brought tea in the morning; he was suspicious, and plainly apprehensive that the jacquerie were about to rise.
It reached a peak on the Thursday, when I was playing in a company football match, and was brought down by one of the opposition. Before I could move he was helping me up — ‘awfy sorry, sir, ye a’right? It was an accident, honest.’ And this from a half-back whose normal conduct on the field was that of a maddened clog-dancer.
By the Saturday afternoon I was convinced that if this kind of consideration didn’t stop soon, I would go out of my mind. The Padre was feeling it, too — I found him in the mess, muttering nervously, dunking egg-sandw
iches in his tea and trying to eat them with a cigarette in his mouth. I believe if I had said anything nice to him or asked him who wrote The Tenant of Wildfell Hall he would have burst into tears. The Colonel stalked in, full of fight, shot anxious glances at us, and decided that for once breezy encouragement would be out of place. The Adjutant said hopefully that he’d heard there was a touch of dysentery going round the Fusilier barracks, but on the other hand, he’d also heard that they had a full set of The Children’s Encyclopedia, so there wasn’t much in it, either way, really. You could feel the tension building up as we sat, munching scones; I was getting into a nervous state, and showed it by quoting to the Padre, ‘I would it were bedtime, Hal, and all well,’ and he started like a convulsed impala and cried: ‘Henry the Fourth, Part One! Or is it Part Two? No — Part One! — I think . . . Oh, dear, dear!’ and sank back, rubbing his brow.
It was a relief finally to get to the Uaddan Canteen, already filled with a light fog of smoke from the troops who packed the big concert hall. The rival factions of supporters had arranged themselves on either side of the centre aisle, so that on one hand the sea of khaki was dotted with the cockades on the caps which the Fusiliers had folded and thrust through their epaulettes, and on the other by dark green tartan shoulder flashes. There were even redcaps at the back of the hall; I found myself wondering whether there had ever been a general knowledge contest in history where they had called in the police even before the start.
In the centre of the front row sat the area commander, a portly, jovial brigadier with his complexion well seasoned by sun and booze, and on either side of him the Colonels, talking across him with a smiling jocularity you could have sliced bread on. Officers of both regiments, plus a few of the usual commissioned strays, made up the first two rows, and immediately behind them on the Highland side I saw the serried ranks of Twelve Platoon, with Private McAuslan to the fore eating chips from a huge, steaming bag with cannibal-like gusto. You could almost smell them on the platform.