On the other hand, there was still no sign of the happy officer-man relationship by which the manual sets such store. We were still at a distance with each other, and so it continued. It didn’t matter whether I criticised or praised, the reception was as wary as ever.
Remembering the C.O.’s advice, I had reached the stage where I knew every man by name, and had picked up a few nicknames as well. Brown, a clueless, lanky Glaswegian, was Daft Bob; Forbes, the villainous-looking footballer, was Heinie (after Heinrich Himmler, it transpired); my own batman, McGilvray, was Chick; and Leishman was Soapy. But others I had not yet identified – Pudden, and Jeep, and Darkie, and Hi-Hi; one heard the names shouted along the company corridors and floating through the barrack-room doors-‘Jeep’s away for ile1 the day’, which signified that the mysterious Jeep was hors de combat, physically or spiritually; ‘Darkie’s got a rare hatchet on’, meaning that Darkie was in a bad temper; ‘yon Heinie’s a wee brammer’, which was the highest sort of compliment, and so on. It was interesting stuff, but it was still rather like studying the sounds of a strange species; I couldn’t claim to be with it.
My own batman, McGilvray, reflected the situation. He was a good worker, and my kit was always in excellent condition, but whereas with his mates he was a cheery, rather waggish soul, with me he was as solemn as a Free Kirk elder. He was a round, tousled lad with a happy pug face and a stream of ‘Glasgow patter’ which dried up at the door of my room and thereafter became a series of monosyllabic grunts.
Well, I thought, this is the way it’s going to be, and it could be worse. If I couldn’t like them, yet, I could at least respect them, for they were a good platoon; when Bennet-Bruce held his full-dress monthly inspection for the Colonel, the great man was pleased to say that Twelve platoon’s kit layout was the best in the battalion. It should have been; they had worked hard enough. Having been, for a time at least, in the Indian Army, I had my own ideas about how kit should be laid out; I had taken aside Fletcher, the platoon dandy, and shown him how I thought it should be presented for inspection – if you black the soles of your boots, for example, they look better, and a little square of red and white four-by-two cloth under an oil-bottle and pull-through is smarter than nothing at all. Fletcher had watched me stonily as I went over his kit, but afterwards he had supervised the whole room in laying out their stuff on the same pattern. Our one problem had been what to do with Private McAuslan, the dirtiest soldier in the world; I solved that by sending him into town for the day as guard on the company truck, which had nothing in it anyway. His kit was placed in an out-of-the-way cupboard, his associates affecting to be disgusted by the mere sight of it, and securely locked up.
Anyway, the Colonel limped through, inspecting and approving, and when he had gone and the quiet, involuntary sigh had sounded through the big, white-washed room, I said, ‘Nice show, sons’. But none of them made any comment, so I left them to it.
About two days later, which was shortly before Christmas, I fell from grace in the mess. There was a mess meeting called, and I forgot about it, and went into town to play snooker at the officers’ club. As a result I got a nasty dig next day from the Adjutant, and was told that I was orderly officer for the whole of next week; normally you do orderly officer only a day at a time.
This was a nuisance, since the orderly officer has to stay in barracks, but the worst of it was that I would miss the great Hogmanay party on New Year’s Eve. To Highlanders, of course, Christmas is a pagan festival which they are perfectly prepared to enjoy as long as no one sees them doing it, but Hogmanay is the night of the year. Then they sing and drink and eat and drink and reminisce and drink, and the New Year comes in in a tartan, whisky-flavoured haze. The regimental police shut up shop, haggis is prepared in quantity, black bun is baked, the padre preaches a sermon reminding everyone that New Year is a time for rededication (‘ye can say that again,. meenister,’ murmurs a voice at the back), and the sergeants extend their annual invitation to the officers.
This is the great event. The Colonel forms the officers up as a platoon, and marches them to the sergeants’ mess, where they are greeted with the singing of ‘We are Fred Karno’s Army’, or some other appropriate air, and the festivities go on until well into the next morning. The point was that the sergeants’ mess was outside barracks, so as orderly officer I would be unable to attend.
Not that I minded, particularly, but it would be a very silent, sober night in barracks all by myself, and even if you are not a convivial type, when you are in a Scottish regiment you feel very much out of it if you are on your own on Hogmanay. Anyway, there it was; I mounted my guards and inspected my cookhouses during that week, and on December 31 I had had about enough of it. The battalion was on holiday; the Jocks were preparing to invade the town en masse (‘there’ll be a rerr terr in the toon the night’, I heard McGilvray remarking to one of the other batmen), and promptly at seven o’clock the Colonel marched off the officers, every one dressed in his best, for the sergeants’ mess.
After they had gone, I strolled across the empty parade ground in the dusk, and mooched around the deserted company offices. I decided that the worst bit of it was that every Jock in the battalion knew that the new subaltern was on defaulters, and therefore an object of pity and derision. Having thought this, I promptly rebuked myself for self-pity, and whistled all the way back to my quarters.
I heard Last Post at ten o’clock, watched the first casualty of the night being helped into the cells, saw that the guard were reasonably sober, and returned to my room. There was nothing to do now until about 4 a.m., when I would inspect the picquets, so I climbed into my pyjamas and into bed, setting my alarm clock on the side table. I smoked a little, and read a little, and dozed a little, and from time to time very distant sounds of revelry drifted through the African night. The town would be swinging on its hinges, no doubt.
It must have been about midnight that I heard feet on the gravel outside, and a muttering of voices in the dark. There was a clinking noise which indicated merry-makers, but they were surprisingly quiet considering the occasion. The footsteps came into the building, and up the corridor, and there was a knock on my door.
I switched on the light and opened up. There were five of them, dressed in the best tartans they had put on for Hogmanay. There was McGilvray, my batman, Daft Bob Brown, Fletcher of the wooden countenance, Forbes, and Leishman. Brown carried a paper bag which obviously contained bottles, and Forbes had a carton of beer under his arm. For a moment we looked at each other.
‘Well,’ I said at last. ‘Hullo.’
Then we looked at each other some more, in silence, while I wondered what this was in aid of, and then I searched for something further to say – the situation was fairly unusual. Finally I said,
‘Won’t you come in?’
They filed in, Daft Bob almost dropping the bottles and being rebuked in hideous terms by Fletcher. I closed the door, and said wouldn’t they sit down, and Leishman and Daft Bob sat on my room-mate’s empty bed, Fletcher placed himself on the only chair, and Forbes and McGilvray sat on the floor. They looked sidelong at each other.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘This is nice.’
There was a pause, and then Fletcher said,
‘Uh-huh’.
I thought furiously for something to say. ‘Er, I thought you were going into the town, McGilvray?’
He looked sheepish. ‘Ach, the toon. Naethin’ doin’. Deid quiet.’
‘Wisnae bad, though, at the Blue Heaven,’ said Daft Bob. ‘Some no’ bad jiggin’.’ (Dancing, that is.)
‘Ach, jiggin’,’ said Fletcher contemptuously. ‘Nae talent in this toon.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, conscious that in these unusual circumstances I was nevertheless the host. ‘I don’t have anything. . .’
‘. . . in the hoose,’ said Leishman unexpectedly, and we laughed.
‘No’ tae worry,’ said Fletcher. He slapped Daft Bob sharply on the knee. ‘C’mon, you. Gie the man a drink.?
??
‘Comin’ up,’ said Daft Bob, and produced a bottle of beer from his bag. He held it out to me.
‘In the name o’ the wee man,’ said Fletcher. ‘Where the hell were you brought up? Gie ‘im a glass, ya mug.’
Daft Bob said, ‘Ach!’ and rummaged for tumblers, McGilvray came to his assistance, and Fletcher abused them both, striking them sharply about the knees and wrists. Finally we were all provided for, and Fletcher said,
‘Aye, weel, here’s tae us.’
‘Wha’s like us?’ said McGilvray.
‘Dam’ few,’ said Forbes.
‘And they’re a’ deid,’ I said, completing the ritual.
‘Aw-haw-hey,’ said Daft Bob and we drank.
Conversationally, I asked: ‘What brought you over this way?’
They grinned at each other, and Forbes whistled the bugle call ‘You can be a defaulter as long as you like as long as you answer your na-a-a-me’. They all chuckled and shook their heads.
I understood. In my own way, I was on defaulters.
‘Fill them up, ye creature ye,’ said Fletcher to Daft Bob, and this time Daft Bob, producing more glasses from his bag, gave us whisky as well. It occurred to me that the penalty for an officer drinking in his own billet with enlisted men was probably death, or the equivalent, but frankly, if Montgomery himself had appeared in the doorway I couldn’t have cared less.
‘They’re fair gaun it up at the sergeants’ mess,’ said Forbes. ‘Ah heard the Adjutant singing “Roll me over”.’
‘Sair heids the morn,” said McGilvray primly.
‘The Jeep’ll be away for ile again,’ said Leishman.
‘The Jeep?’ I said.
‘Captain Bennet-Bruce,’ said Fletcher. ‘Your mate.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Stoap cuddlin’ that bottle tae yerself as if it wis Wee Willie, the collier’s dyin’ child,’ said Fletcher to Daft Bob.
‘Ye’d think you’d paid for it,’ said Daft Bob, indignantly. ‘Honest, sir, d‘ye hear him? Ah hate him. I do.’
They snarled at each other, happily, and the quiet Forbes shook his head at me as over wayward children. We refilled the glasses, and I handed round cigarettes, and a few minutes later we were refilling them again, and Leishman, tapping his foot on the floor, was starting to hum gently. McGilvray, after an anxious glance at me, took it up, and they sang ‘The Muckin’ o’ Geordie’s Byre’ — for Leishman was an Aberdonian, and skilled in that strange tongue.
‘That’s a right teuchter song,’ said Fletcher, and gave tongue:
As I gaed doon tae Wilson Toon
Ah met wee Geordie Scobie,
Says he tae me ‘Could ye gang a hauf?’
Says I, ‘Man, that’s my hobby.’
We came in quietly on the chorus, which is ‘We’re no awa’ to bide awa’, we’ll aye come back and see ye,’ which Scottish soldiers invariably sing after the first two or three drinks, and which the remnants of the regiment had sung as they waited for the end at St Valery. Then we refilled them again, and while Fletcher and Daft Bob wrangled over the distribution, Forbes asked me with casual unconcern how I was liking the battalion. I said I liked it very well, and we talked of this and that, of platoon business and how the Rangers were doing, and the Glasgow police force and the North African weather. And after a few more drinks, in strict sobriety, Fletcher said:
‘We’ll have tae be gettin’ along.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ I said. ‘It’s not late.’
‘Aye, weel,’ said Fletcher, ‘mebbe it’s no’.’
‘Aw-haw-hey,’ said Daft Bob.
So another half hour passed, and I wondered how I would find out the answers to the questions which could not be asked. Probably I wouldn’t, but it didn’t matter, anyway. Next day, on parade, Fletcher would be looking to his front as stonily as ever, Leishman would have given several extra minutes’ attention to his rifle, I would be addressing Daft Bob severely, and all would be as it had been – except that for some reason they had thought it worth while to come and see me on Hogmanay. Some things you don’t ponder over; you are just glad they happened.
‘You gaunae sit boozin’ a’ night?’ Fletcher snapped at Daft Bob. ‘Sup, sup, sup, takin’ it in like a sponge, I’m ashamed o’ ye.’
‘Ah’ll no’ be rollin’ in your gutter, Fletcher,’ said Daft Bob. ‘So ye neednae worry. It’s no’ me Mr MacNeill’ll be peggin’ in the mornin’ for no’ bein’ able tae staun up on parade.’
‘Peg the baith o’ ye,’ said Forbes. ‘Ye’re aye greetin’ at each other.’
‘Sharrup,’ said Fletcher. ‘C’mon, get the bottles packed up. Let the man get tae his bed.’
Daft Bob and McGilvray collected the empties, while Fletcher bossed them, and they all straightened their bonnets, and looked at each other again.
‘Aye, weel,’ said Forbes.
‘Well,’ I said, and stopped. Some things are impossible to put into words. ‘Well,’ I said again. ‘It was great to see you. Thank you for coming.’
‘Ye’ll be seein’ us again,’ said Fletcher.
‘Aw-haw-hey,’ said Daft Bob.
‘Every mornin’, numbered aff by the right, eh, Heinie?’ said McGilvray.
‘That’s the way,’ said Forbes.
‘Tallest on the right, shortest on the left.’
‘Clean, bright, and slightly oiled.’
‘We’re the wee boys.’
‘Gi’ the ba’ tae the man wi’ glasses.’
‘Here’s tae us, wha’s like us?’
‘Aw-haw-hey.’
‘Ye gaunae staun’ there a’ night, then?’ demanded Fletcher.
‘Ah’m gaun. Ah’m gaun,’ said Daft Bob. ‘Night, sir. Guid New Year.’ They jostled out, saying good-night and a good New Year, and exchanging their incredible slogans.
‘Good night,’ I said. ‘Thanks again. Good night, Fletcher. Good night, Forbes. Good night, Daf –, er, Brown. Good night.’
They clattered off up the corridor, and I closed the door. The room was full of cigarette smoke and bar-room smell, the ash-trays were overflowing, and there was a quarter-full bottle of whisky still on the sidetable, forgotten in the packing. I sat on the edge of my bed feeling about twenty feet tall.
Their feet sounded on the gravel, and I heard Daft Bob muttering, and being rebuked, as usual, by Fletcher.
‘Sharrup, ye animal.’
‘Ah’ll no’ sharrup. Ah’ll better go back an’ get it; it was near half-full.’
‘Ach, Chick’ll get it in the mornin’.’
There was a doubt-laden pause, and then Daft Bob: ‘D’ye think it’ll be there in the mornin‘?’
‘Ach, for the love o’ the wee wheel!’ exclaimed Fletcher. ‘Are ye worried aboot yer wee bottle? Yer ain, wee totty bottle? Ye boozy bum, ye! D’ye think Darkie’s gaun tae lie there a’ night sookin’ at yer miserable bottle? C‘mon, let’s get tae wir kips.’
The sound of their footsteps faded away, and I climbed back into bed. In addition to everything else, I had found out who Darkie was.
Play Up, Play Up, and Get Tore In
The native Highlanders, the Englishmen, and the Lowlanders played football on Saturday afternoons and talked about it on Saturday evenings, but the Glaswegians, men apart in this as in most things, played, slept, ate, drank, and lived it seven days a week. Some soldiering they did because even a peace-time battalion in North Africa makes occasional calls on its personnel, but that was incidental; they were just waiting for the five minutes when they could fall out crying: 'Haw, Wully, sees a ba’.’
From the moment when the drums beat ‘Johnnie Cope’ at sunrise until it became too dark to see in the evening, the steady thump-thump of a boot on a ball could be heard somewhere in the barracks. It was tolerated because there was no alternative; even the parade ground was not sacred from the small shuffling figures of the Glasgow men, their bonnets pulled down over their eyes, kicking, trapping, swerving and passing, and occasionally int
oning, like ugly little high priests, their ritual cries of ‘Way-ull’ and ‘Aw-haw-hey’. The simile is apt, for it was almost a religious exercise, to be interrupted only if the Colonel happened to stroll by. Then they would wait, relaxed, one of them with the ball underfoot, until the majestic figure had gone past, flicking his brow in acknowledgment, and at the soft signal, ‘Right, Wully,’ the ball would be off again.
I used to watch them wheeling like gulls, absorbed in their wonderful fitba’. They weren’t in Africa or the Army any longer; in imagination they were running on the green turf of Ibrox or Paradise, hearing instead of bugle calls the rumble and roar of a hundred thousand voices; this was their common daydream, to play (according to religion) either for Celtic or Rangers. All except Daft Bob Brown, the battalion idiot; in his fantasy he was playing for Partick Thistle.
They were frighteningly skilful. As sports officer I was expected actually to play the game, and I have shameful recollections still of a company practice match in which I was pitted against a tiny, wizened creature who in happier days had played wing half for Bridgeton Waverley. What a monkey he made out of me. He was quicksilver with a glottal stop, nipping past, round, and away from me, trailing the ball tantalisingly close and magnetising it away again. The only reason he didn’t run between my legs was that he didn’t think of it. It could have been bad for discipline, but it wasn’t. When he was making me look the biggest clown since Grock I wasn’t his platoon commander any more; I was just an opponent to beat.
With all this talent to choose from – the battalion was seventy-five per cent Glasgow men – it followed that the regimental team was something special. In later years more than half of them went on to play for professional teams, and one was capped for Scotland, but never in their careers did they have the opportunity for perfecting their skill that they had in that battalion. They were young and as fit as a recent war had made them; they practised together constantly in a Mediterranean climate; they had no worries; they loved their game. At their peak, when they were murdering the opposition from Tobruk to the Algerian border, they were a team that could have given most club sides in the world a little trouble, if nothing more.