him clean off the floor. The top of Waterhouse’s head struck the taller Sugarwhite under the chin, and his head cannoned into a third man’s with a click like a billiard ball.
‘Mon,’ an awed Seaforth had said as the Military Police arrived to pick up the bodies. ‘Three o’ the buggers wi’ one crack!’
When Hockold arrived next morning the prisoners were all waiting in the corridor outside Captain Amos’s office. The sergeant-major, six foot of lean hard Regular by the name of Rabbitt - a dangerous label in the electric atmosphere of No. 2 Transit -- stood chatting with the corporal of the escort, and as Amos swept past him he turned and followed.
‘What was it this time, Mr Rabbitt? Bannockburn or the Peterloo massacre?’
‘Boredom chiefly, sir.’
‘Well, we’re all bored, but we can’t tear the British army apart because of that, can we? What shall we do with ‘em? Crucify ‘em or just give ‘em twenty years in the glasshouse to slow ‘em down?’
The waiting men heard every word and were just visualizing a life of endless stamping about the detention barracks when the door at the end of the corridor opened and an officer appeared. He was tall, beak-nosed, and wearing desert boots. As he stalked past them into Amos’s office they saw he was a lieutenant-colonel.
The door swung shut behind him so that they could hear only muffled voices, though once they caught Amos’s voice raised in a single startled exclamation. ‘Let ‘em off, sir?’
There was another long wait and a great deal more muttering beyond the door, then Sergeant-Major Rabbitt appeared. ‘All right, you lot,’ he said briskly. ‘Something’s come up. March ‘em off, Corporal. Find ‘em something to do for an hour.’
As the startled men about-turned and marched out of the building, Amos watched them through the window. He was delighted to learn he was losing the bored unwilling soldiers who had made his life a misery but he was also having sudden visions of some spiteful army authority promptly filling the empty camp up again with another ration of similar types.
‘Not wanting an extra officer or two, are you, sir?’ he asked.
Hockold turned. ‘Want to come along?’
‘Can you fix it, sir?’
Hockold smiled. ‘Anybody else?’
Amos grinned. ‘Mr Rabbitt’s beginning to look as though he’s got mange,’ he said.
Shortly afterwards a lorry stopped outside the guard-room where Rabbitt’s four criminals were now scrubbing the verandah. Fidge jumped out, unshaven, frowsty and ashamed.
The military policeman who had accompanied him gave him a push. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Shove off.’
‘Ain’t Oi gowing in the knocker?’ Fidge asked.
‘Not as far as I know. Better find some blankets and get your head down. You’ll be needing all the sleep you can get before long.’
The buzz went round the camp like wildfire. They were being posted. It stuck out a mile. They were being sent home for training at last. Scotland was where they trained commandos, wasn’t it? And the beer up there was good. For the first time in weeks, there was an air of excitement in the camp.
‘We’re moving on Friday,’ the next buzz said. ‘And it’s Cape Town, not Scotland. They’ve set up a commando camp in the middle of the Karroo and the instructors have all been drawn from the Special Service Battalion because they’ve got a reputation for not liking the British.’
Kits were packed in readiness. And not a moment too soon, because almost immediately they were paraded and told to be ready in an hour. Sergeant Bunch got them into a column. ‘Heads up,’ he roared. ‘Backs straight! Chests out!’ A glittering eye like the muzzle of a Spandau swept over them. ‘You look like a lot of nasty old age pensioners,’ he complained. ‘You’re not lumps of pudden, you’re human beans. Right! Company -le-eft turn! By the Christ - qui-ick march . . .!’
They were crammed into the lorries waiting outside the gate
‘Mon,’ an awed Seaforth had said as the Military Police arrived to pick up the bodies. ‘Three o’ the buggers wi’ one crack!’
When Hockold arrived next morning the prisoners were all waiting in the corridor outside Captain Amos’s office. The sergeant-major, six foot of lean hard Regular by the name of Rabbitt - a dangerous label in the electric atmosphere of No. 2 Transit -- stood chatting with the corporal of the escort, and as Amos swept past him he turned and followed.
‘What was it this time, Mr Rabbitt? Bannockburn or the Peterloo massacre?’
‘Boredom chiefly, sir.’
‘Well, we’re all bored, but we can’t tear the British army apart because of that, can we? What shall we do with ‘em? Crucify ‘em or just give ‘em twenty years in the glasshouse to slow ‘em down?’
The waiting men heard every word and were just visualizing a life of endless stamping about the detention barracks when the door at the end of the corridor opened and an officer appeared. He was tall, beak-nosed, and wearing desert boots. As he stalked past them into Amos’s office they saw he was a lieutenant-colonel.
The door swung shut behind him so that they could hear only muffled voices, though once they caught Amos’s voice raised in a single startled exclamation. ‘Let ‘em off, sir?’
There was another long wait and a great deal more muttering beyond the door, then Sergeant-Major Rabbitt appeared. ‘All right, you lot,’ he said briskly. ‘Something’s come up. March ‘em off, Corporal. Find ‘em something to do for an hour.’
As the startled men about-turned and marched out of the building, Amos watched them through the window. He was delighted to learn he was losing the bored unwilling soldiers who had made his life a misery but he was also having sudden visions of some spiteful army authority promptly filling the empty camp up again with another ration of similar types.
‘Not wanting an extra officer or two, are you, sir?’ he asked.
Hockold turned. ‘Want to come along?’
‘Can you fix it, sir?’
Hockold smiled. ‘Anybody else?’
Amos grinned. ‘Mr Rabbitt’s beginning to look as though he’s got mange,’ he said.
Shortly afterwards a lorry stopped outside the guard-room where Rabbitt’s four criminals were now scrubbing the verandah. Fidge jumped out, unshaven, frowsty and ashamed.
The military policeman who had accompanied him gave him a push. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Shove off.’
‘Ain’t Oi gowing in the knocker?’ Fidge asked.
‘Not as far as I know. Better find some blankets and get your head down. You’ll be needing all the sleep you can get before long.’
The buzz went round the camp like wildfire. They were being posted. It stuck out a mile. They were being sent home for training at last. Scotland was where they trained commandos, wasn’t it? And the beer up there was good. For the first time in weeks, there was an air of excitement in the camp.
‘We’re moving on Friday,’ the next buzz said. ‘And it’s Cape Town, not Scotland. They’ve set up a commando camp in the middle of the Karroo and the instructors have all been drawn from the Special Service Battalion because they’ve got a reputation for not liking the British.’
Kits were packed in readiness. And not a moment too soon, because almost immediately they were paraded and told to be ready in an hour. Sergeant Bunch got them into a column. ‘Heads up,’ he roared. ‘Backs straight! Chests out!’ A glittering eye like the muzzle of a Spandau swept over them. ‘You look like a lot of nasty old age pensioners,’ he complained. ‘You’re not lumps of pudden, you’re human beans. Right! Company -le-eft turn! By the Christ - qui-ick march . . .!’
They were crammed into the lorries waiting outside the gate
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