Private's Progress by Alan Hackney

damned sure of it. My brigadier used to say to me: ‘Hitchcock,’ he’d say, ‘you’ll never make an officer while you’ve got a hole in your bottom.’”
    He stubbed out his cigarette and offered the case all round.
    “So don’t be too disappointed,” he went on, “and watch out for my sergeant-major or he’ll have you by the short hairs. Now, I’ve been looking up the A.C.I.s and it seems you all have to do corps training with George’s company up at the camp.”
    A pigeon-hatch in the wall shot open and part of the sergeant-major’s face appeared.
    “Lady to see you about Private Horrocks.”
    The hatch shut.
    “It’s about some child,” explained the major. “I really can’t be responsible for what my company gets up to off parade. Arthur!” he shrieked suddenly .
    A hatch in another wall opened and the head and one shoulder of a lieutenant came into view.
    “Arthur,” said the major, “see to that young lady, there’s a good chap. About Horrocks. It’s more in your line.”
    “A’right,” said the lieutenant without enthusiasm. He grimaced and shut the hatch.
    “I’m rather busy, I’m afraid,” said the major. “We must have a chat some other time. Actually, you’re all supposed to go before the Personnel Selection Officer and do peculiar tests so that the Army doesn’t get any square pegs in round holes. Curiously enough,” he went on ruminatively, “the tests you do are just that sort of thing: putting pegs in holes. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep you all here and raise the tone of the place—that’s if you care for it here. You should meet my runner. Cambridge man. He translates Chinese lyric poetry into English lyric poetry. But I’m afraid I haven’t many like him here. They’re an odd lot. Keep pinching the nominal roll, too. Well, cheer up and off you go.”
    As the jobs for the day had been allocated they skulked cautiously in the Naafi till lunchtime.
    After lunch Stanley went carefully round the back way to “F” block and began to change into civilian shoes.
    A corporal came in.
    “Ah!” he said. “We want big tough people. Do you live in Dover?”
    “No,” said Stanley.
    “Right, you’ll do,” said the corporal. “Boots on. We’re going to Woolwich, collect a deserter. Meet me at the Guard-Room, fifteen minutes’ time. I got to get the documents.”
    Stanley hung about outside the Guard-Room. From inside came raucous noises of the energetic regimental police at play. A loud voice, echoing round the girders, sang “The First Noël.”
    A prolonged series of “Oi’s” attracted Stanley’sattention. Three large grinning faces of R.P.s packed one of the barred windows.
    “Yes?” said Stanley.
    “’Ere,” called one of them. “’Ere a minute. Which one of us is the ’andsmest?” The three ugly gorilla faces became immobilised in their grins for the choosing.
    Stanley pointed to the middle gorilla.
    “He is,” he said.
    They greeted this decision wildly, the two losers falling on the winner and sitting heavily on him.
    Then one got up.
    “’Ere,” he said in a whisper. “Guess what that mark is on the wall.”
    “It looks like dried blood,” said Stanley.
    “You’re dead right there, tosh,” said the R.P. eagerly. “We ’ad some drunk Canadian come in, few nights back; tried to get funny with one of the boys. So what ’appened? So someone bashed ’im up. I dunno who, mind. Eh, Alf? No. Eh, Cyril? Know who bashed up that Canadian?”
    “No, mate,” said Cyril solemnly. “Musta bin someone come in and done ’im.”
    They burst into shouts of laughter, and one swung on the girders to work off energy.
    After a while he dropped off and came to the window.
    “’Ere,” he said, “you sound like a bloke we got in the cells. OCTU wallah. Very dodgy. Awaiting transfer, ’e is; got ’undred an’ twelve days in the glasshouse. Used to be a lawyer. Cor, honest, you’d die laughing, ’ear ’im talk! Fetch ’im out,