they’d necessarily muh . . . mark one down for that. Anyway, I dare say officer training will be a more suh . . . civilized business.”
Alistair nodded. “They’ll assemble us around a cheese board. The CO will ask, ‘What do we serve with this?’ and as one we shall reply . . .”
“ Port! Port! Port! ”
“Whose port?”
“ The King’s port! ”
Alistair grinned. “We are officer material.”
Duggan gave a wire-thin smile and used the hot end of his cigarette to trace the undulations of the plain. “Don’t you luh . . . loathe this vile place?”
Alistair puffed at his pipe. “It was a paradise before the Army took it over. Full of little hamlets bursting with cheerful cottages, every one of them with a roaring hot fire and a unicorn tethered outside.”
“Suh . . . sounds like Peckham.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
Duggan shivered. “In the suh . . . sense in which the human suh . . . soul is eternal, no one is actually from Peckham. Some of us are living there pro tempore, suh . . . so help us.”
“I’m north of the river. Camden.”
“Oh, the guh . . . glamour. And what did you do up there before you began doing whu . . . whatever the Army tells you?”
“I was a very junior conservator at the Tate. I made tea and reminded the night cleaners not to use Vim on the actual canvases.”
“One wonders how the nation will muh . . . manage without you.”
“Oh, and I suppose you were the archbishop of Canterbury?’
“I’m an actor. Oh, the stuh . . . stammer disappears on the stuh . . . stage.”
“And you signed up for this?”
“I was suh . . . sick of being Second muh . . . Murderer. And so here I am. Rehearsing to be the fuh . . . first.”
“And how are you finding it?”
“Costumes are rather drab but there aren’t many luh . . . lines to learn.”
“It’s the one show you hope will never make it to the West End.”
“Amen.”
Alistair tapped out his pipe on the side of his boot. “Miss London?”
Duggan shook his head. “I duh . . . didn’t get through the bathing-suit round.”
Alistair smiled. “I miss being allowed to mind my own business.”
“I muh . . . miss it too.”
“Are you married?”
Duggan held up his cigarette and let the wind whip the ash away. “You ruh . . . really are young, aren’t you?”
In the southwest the horizon was gone now, lost in a flat zinc mist. Above them the base of the cloud was dropping, black cords of rain dragging it down. As the weather closed, the men occupied a shrinking remainder of the plain between the grass and the falling sky. The company exchanged the blackly comic looks of men about to be engulfed by worse of the same.
The sergeant major blew his tin whistle. “MIST COMING IN! TAKE NOTE, YOU HOPELESS BASTARDS! TAKE NOTE!”
Duggan frowned. “Take note of whu . . . what exactly? Will that awful man never tire of being unhelpful?”
Alistair blew on his hands to warm them. “What do you suppose he thinks we should be doing?”
“About the mist? Well we can hardly shh . . . shoot it, can we? And yet they have issued us th . . . these.” Duggan flicked the barrel of his rifle with a fingernail, making the dead note of a stopped bicycle bell.
“Do you suppose he means we should put on more clothes?”
“I’m wuh . . . wearing everything they gave us. Aren’t you?”
“Should we eat something, then? To keep our energy up?”
“Did the suh . . . sergeant major order us to eat anything? I don’t think I could bear being bawled at again.”
“We could use our initiative.”
“Did he spuh . . . specifically order us to use our initiative?”
“I have some jam in my pack.’
Duggan threw him a look. “You’ve been lugging jam around? Isn’t the stuh . . . standard-issue suffering heavy enough for you?”
“I’ve been saving it for when I needed bucking up.”
Alistair opened his pack and fished
Alistair nodded. “They’ll assemble us around a cheese board. The CO will ask, ‘What do we serve with this?’ and as one we shall reply . . .”
“ Port! Port! Port! ”
“Whose port?”
“ The King’s port! ”
Alistair grinned. “We are officer material.”
Duggan gave a wire-thin smile and used the hot end of his cigarette to trace the undulations of the plain. “Don’t you luh . . . loathe this vile place?”
Alistair puffed at his pipe. “It was a paradise before the Army took it over. Full of little hamlets bursting with cheerful cottages, every one of them with a roaring hot fire and a unicorn tethered outside.”
“Suh . . . sounds like Peckham.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
Duggan shivered. “In the suh . . . sense in which the human suh . . . soul is eternal, no one is actually from Peckham. Some of us are living there pro tempore, suh . . . so help us.”
“I’m north of the river. Camden.”
“Oh, the guh . . . glamour. And what did you do up there before you began doing whu . . . whatever the Army tells you?”
“I was a very junior conservator at the Tate. I made tea and reminded the night cleaners not to use Vim on the actual canvases.”
“One wonders how the nation will muh . . . manage without you.”
“Oh, and I suppose you were the archbishop of Canterbury?’
“I’m an actor. Oh, the stuh . . . stammer disappears on the stuh . . . stage.”
“And you signed up for this?”
“I was suh . . . sick of being Second muh . . . Murderer. And so here I am. Rehearsing to be the fuh . . . first.”
“And how are you finding it?”
“Costumes are rather drab but there aren’t many luh . . . lines to learn.”
“It’s the one show you hope will never make it to the West End.”
“Amen.”
Alistair tapped out his pipe on the side of his boot. “Miss London?”
Duggan shook his head. “I duh . . . didn’t get through the bathing-suit round.”
Alistair smiled. “I miss being allowed to mind my own business.”
“I muh . . . miss it too.”
“Are you married?”
Duggan held up his cigarette and let the wind whip the ash away. “You ruh . . . really are young, aren’t you?”
In the southwest the horizon was gone now, lost in a flat zinc mist. Above them the base of the cloud was dropping, black cords of rain dragging it down. As the weather closed, the men occupied a shrinking remainder of the plain between the grass and the falling sky. The company exchanged the blackly comic looks of men about to be engulfed by worse of the same.
The sergeant major blew his tin whistle. “MIST COMING IN! TAKE NOTE, YOU HOPELESS BASTARDS! TAKE NOTE!”
Duggan frowned. “Take note of whu . . . what exactly? Will that awful man never tire of being unhelpful?”
Alistair blew on his hands to warm them. “What do you suppose he thinks we should be doing?”
“About the mist? Well we can hardly shh . . . shoot it, can we? And yet they have issued us th . . . these.” Duggan flicked the barrel of his rifle with a fingernail, making the dead note of a stopped bicycle bell.
“Do you suppose he means we should put on more clothes?”
“I’m wuh . . . wearing everything they gave us. Aren’t you?”
“Should we eat something, then? To keep our energy up?”
“Did the suh . . . sergeant major order us to eat anything? I don’t think I could bear being bawled at again.”
“We could use our initiative.”
“Did he spuh . . . specifically order us to use our initiative?”
“I have some jam in my pack.’
Duggan threw him a look. “You’ve been lugging jam around? Isn’t the stuh . . . standard-issue suffering heavy enough for you?”
“I’ve been saving it for when I needed bucking up.”
Alistair opened his pack and fished
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