“O.C.T.U. candidates,” said the Company Sergeant-Major.
“Who have we got? The Adjutant doesn’t take nil returns.”
“Well, sir, there’s Brodie.”
Brodie was a weedy solicitor who had appeared with the last draft.
“Really, Sergeant-Major, I can’t see Brodie making much of an officer.”
“He’s not much good in the company, sir, and he’s a man of very superior education.”
“Well put him down for one. What about Sergeant Harris?”
“Not suitable, sir.”
“He’s a man of excellent character, fine disciplinarian, knows his stuff backwards, the men will follow him anywhere.”
“Yessir.”
“Well what have you got against him?”
“Nothing against him, sir. But we can’t get on without Sergeant Harris in the company football.”
“No. Well, who do you suggest?”
“There’s our baronet, sir.” The Sergeant-Major said this with a smile. Alastair’s position in the ranks was a slight embarrassment to Captain Mayfield but it was a good joke to the Sergeant-Major.
“Trumpington? All right, I’ll see him and Brodie right away.”
The orderly brought them. The Sergeant-Major marched them in singly. “Quick march. Halt. Salute. Brodie, sir.”
“Brodie. They want the names of two men from this company as O.C.T.U. candidates. I’m putting your name in. Of course the C.O. makes the decision. I don’t say you will go to an O.C.T.U. I take it you would have no objection if the C.O. approves.”
“None, sir, if you really think I should make a good officer.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll make a good officer. They’re very rare. But I daresay you’ll make an officer of some kind.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And as long as you’re in my company you won’t come into my office with a fountain pen sticking out of your pocket.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Not so much talk,” said the Sergeant-Major.
“All right, that’s all, Sergeant-Major.”
“About turn. Quick march. As you were. Swing the right arm forward as you step out.”
“I believe we’ll have to give him a couple of stripes before we can get rid of him. I’ll see the Adjutant about that.”
Alastair was marched in. He had changed little since he joined the Army. Perhaps there was a slight shifting of bulk from waistline to chest, but it was barely perceptible under the loose battledress.
Captain Mayfield addressed him in precisely the same words as those he had used to Brodie.
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t want to take a commission?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s very unusual, Trumpington. Any particular reason?”
“I believe a lot of people felt like that in the last war.”
“So I’ve heard. And a very wasteful business it was. Well if you won’t, I can’t make you. Afraid of responsibility, eh?”
Alastair made no answer. Captain Mayfield nodded and the Sergeant-Major marched him out.
“What d’you make of that?” asked Captain Mayfield.
“I’ve known men who think its safer to stay in the ranks.”
“Shouldn’t think that’s the case with Trumpington. He’s a volunteer, over-age to have been called up.”
“Very rum, sir.”
“Very rum, Sergeant-Major.”
Alastair took his time about returning to his platoon. At this time of the morning they were doing P.T. It was the one part of the routine he really hated. He lurked behind the cookhouse until his watch told him that they would have finished. When he reported back the platoon were putting on their jackets, panting and sticky. He fell in and marched with them to the dining-hut, where it was stuffy and fairly warm, to hear a lecture on hygiene from the medical officer. It dealt with the danger of flies; the medical officer described with appalling detail the journey of the fly from the latrine to the sugar basin; how its hairy feet carried the germs of dysentery; how it softened its food with contaminated saliva before it ate; how it excreted while it fed. This lecture always went down well. “Of course,” he added rather lamely, “this may not seem very important at the moment” ? snow lay heavy on every side of them ? “but if we go to the East…”
