Part 4 (2/2)

He tells us about the 'perks'.

”The CO 'e says, go orf and get some salvage, so we takes a day's rations, bully bread cheese an' all that, we p.i.s.s orf somewhere and swop the bully and cheese fer Iti eggs or chickens, an' we live like fightin' c.o.c.ks, but,”, he giggled, ”we don't do no fitin'.”

For two days we met them on the beach and gave them a hand picking up empty ammo boxes, sh.e.l.l cases, and were rewarded with marvellous grub; the last day they brought three bottles of white Chianti, we got back to the Camp that evening very merry. We had also solved sleeping in the mud. Three hundred yards east of our camp in a field, I spotted a small hut on legs; these are apparently farmhands' resting places during the hot harvesting season, made of straw, with wooden slats for the supporting skeleton. It was lovely! dry and warm. We slept very cosy that night.

But all good things come to an end, in this case a cigarette end; we set fire to the place. The glow drew the attention of the enraged farmer and we had to grab our belongings and, wearing only our socks and s.h.i.+rt, run like h.e.l.l for the camp. We were stopped by the sentry, who had us taken to the guard room. The guard Sergeant asked what we were doing 'runnin' round half b.l.o.o.d.y naked'.

”Our gra.s.s hut caught fire,” explained Arrowsmith.

I couldn't speak for suppressed laughter.

”What gra.s.s 'ut?” says the Sergeant.

We had to tell the story and he put us on a charge for absenting ourselves from the camp. Next morning he forgot all about it. Well, not exactly, during the night he was convulsed with terrible pains in his side, he had a perforated appendix and was hurried to the hospital, so next morning I presume he had forgotten us. The subsequent guard commander said, ”p.i.s.s off.” The boredom was getting me down. One grey morning I asked to see the OC.

”What for?” said the Corporal.

”It's about Basenji.”

”Wait here.”

He knocked on a door. A very crisp voice shouted, ”Come in.”

Opening the door the Corporal said, ”There's a Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan wishes to see you, sir.”

I was ushered in. The OC was a Major. He was a bright red. He wore his hat. Under a bulbous nose was a pepper and salt cavalry moustache. His chin was a ma.s.s of small broken veins, he blinked at twice the normal rate, and from time to time sniffed what was a running nose. He would be somewhere between thirty-eight and ninety-seven, it was hard to tell. He was writing an aerograph letter which, on my approach, he hurriedly covered with a blotter. Silly sod.

”What do you want?” he said curtly.

”This will come as a surprise to you, sir, but what I want is a job.”

He looked at me, blinked and sniffed.

”A job?” He stressed the word and said it again. ”Job?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Being a soldier is is a job.” a job.”

”Well, I want a job on top of that job.”

”What kind of a job?”

”Any kind, sir, it's the boredom here, it's driving me mad.” kind, sir, it's the boredom here, it's driving me mad.”

”You think you're alone? What's your army trade?”

”Wireless operator.”

”Well, I'm sorry we don't have a wireless set for you to play on-”

”Any job, sir, otherwise I will desert.”

”Desert? Look, go to the Q stores, see Bombardier Logan, tell him the Major says you are to help him.”

I saluted and left him to his aerograph. As I closed the door behind me, I heard him give a gigantic sneeze and say, ”b.u.g.g.e.r!”

Bombardier Logan turned out to be a Scot; he didn't have a face, just an area under his hat. His eyes, mouth and nose were all in conflict as to who should be in the centre. It turns out he was an ex-boxer. By the look of his face, every punch had got through. His ears were mangled fragments of gristle and skin. He was partially deaf, but then he was only partially human. He was from Glasgow, and spoke with an accent no one understood, not even himself. He walked stooping forward, his arms hanging ape-like, a square head with real corners on it.

From eight in the morning to eight at night I worked. There was nothing else to do, if there had been I'd have done it. He took pity on me and said, ”Ye karn harve some T chaists tae mak yer sael a baed.” (”You can have some tea chests to make yourself a bed.”) He permitted me to sleep in the same room. It was dry and had three hurricane lamps in, so at least one could read in bed. Having nothing to read didn't help. By day he talked to himself in Scots gutteral-interspersed with s.n.a.t.c.hes of Scottish folk songs-it nearly drove me insane.

The Scotts have taught the bagpipes to the Canadians, the Australians, the Indians, the Gurkhas, the South Africans, the Rhodesians; even the Chinese! they've got a lot to answer for. This Bombardier couldn't converse-saying h.e.l.lo to him had him completely baffled. Every night he regaled me with stories of his boxing prowess. He'd had two hundred fights. I asked him how many he'd won, he said ”Seven.” He showed me a picture of his wife. She looked like she'd had two hundred fights as well; she had-with him. What he really needed was a head transplant.

Suddenly, with no warning we have to move. A back-breaking twenty-four hours loading stores on to lorries, again in the pouring rain. The Major (his name escapes me, but I think it was Castle) must have felt pity, for as the Bombardier and I sat in the empty storeroom, soaked, he brought in a bottle of whisky, and poured a liberal amount into our tea mugs.

”You've worked very well, Millington, I appreciate it, it's been a b.l.o.o.d.y hard boring time setting up this unit, we've had b.u.g.g.e.r all co-operation, all the stores, etc., have all been rushed up to the front lines, that's why the food's been so b.l.o.o.d.y awful, but this place we're moving to, things will be much better.”

Well, that was nice. First comforting words I had had for weeks. Before he left he said, ”Before we leave tomorrow, any questions?”

”Yes sir,” I said. ”What's Basenji?”

He frowned. Walked back a few paces towards me. ”What's what?”

”Basenji, sir, what's it mean?”

”I've no idea...is it an Italian word?”

”I don't know, sir.”

He stood a while, then turned and left in silence. The Scottish Bombardier drained his mug. ”It's an Afrrrrrican dog,” he said.

”What is?”

”Basenji...it's an Afrrrrican Dorg...it can nay bark.”

My G.o.d...he knew what Basenji meant! ”How did you know?” I said, desperate to find out. knew what Basenji meant! ”How did you know?” I said, desperate to find out.

”I wus bitten by one in South Afrrica.”

”Where?”

”I tod yer, South Afrrrrica.”

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