Read Online Private's Progress by Alan Hackney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Hackney
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they walked together to the barracks.
“You get on all right, then?” asked the corporal. “Very very nice it was, really, only a bit early to have to get up.”
They had breakfast and went to the Guard-Room to collect the deserter.
“He’s all right, this geezer,” said the provost sergeant, getting out the documents. “Wanted to join the Engineers, only when they wouldn’t transfer ’im ’e just sloped arms. Sixteen months ’e was out.”
“Go on,” said the corporal. “Tidy old break that’d make.”
“Then ’e goes and give ’imself up,” said the provost sergeant.
“Cor stone me,” said the corporal, shocked. “Fancy doin’ that. Gorblimey, the Army musta given ’ im up by that time. Some blokes. I dunno. Still.”
The deserter was brought out, a miserable man of about thirty in civilian clothes. He signed for a packet of articles taken from him on admission, and the corporal then signed for him.
“One body,” he said. “Right, off we go, then. Givin’ ’imself up. I dunno.”
When the three of them were walking to the station the corporal said: “I see you still got your uniform,” indicating the rolled bundle under the deserter’s arm. “You didn’t flog it then?”
“No,” said the deserter. “I thought it best, keeping it.”
“Quite right, too,” said the corporal. “Always very difficult for them, proving desertion, if you ’aven’t sold it. You can plead anything you fancy, long as you ’aven’t sold it. We’ll go through the side streets to save your feelings, if you like.”
When they got into the train the deserter brought out cigarettes and handed them round.
“What gets me,” said the corporal, “you just come back, and not ’ang on till the redcaps pick you up. Honest, you must be a dead stupid bugger.”
“No, well,” said the deserter, “I laid up at my main-law’s until she got too niggly. Too dodgy tryin’ for a regular job, and I didn’t go out before black-out much. In the end I got brassed off.”
He looked gloomily out of the window.
“When I was a nipper I was misunderstood,” he said.
The train pulled in at Gravestone.
“All change,” said the corporal. “We won’t put the cuffs on. Generally we don’t, ordinarily. Usually, that is, unless you get awkward. Best go through the back streets; save your feelings.”
At the Guard-Room the corporal knocked on the door.
The voice of the R.P. Fred came in a bellow from within:
“Wassup?”
There was a rattle of the large stagey keys.
“Bloke ’ere, Fred,” shouted the corporal.
The door opened.
“Ah, more customers,” said the policeman Fred, brightening up.
“Sign here, please,” said the corporal, producing the documents.
“Picked up, eh?” observed Fred, laboriously scratching his name.
“Give ’imself up,” said the corporal.
“You what?” asked Fred, astonished.
The other regimental policemen gathered briskly round.
“Bloke ’ere turned ’imself in,” said Fred.
“Must be bleedin’ barmy,” said the policeman Alf, aghast.
“Wants ’is ’ead seen to,” said the policeman Fred.
“Don’t know when ’e’s well off,” said the policeman Cyril. “Gittin there.”
The deserter was led away.
The regimental policemen cadged some more cigarettes before they let Stanley and the corporal out.
*
A large poster had been pinned up on the Depot Company notice-board. A three-coloured motif of clothes-pegs and square holes ran through the formalised head of a private soldier. All-pervading was the wording: “If you possess qualifications which cannot be utilised in the Army you are doing the right thing by remaining in your present job.”
“My trade’s really linoleum-laying,” said Cox to Stanley as they read it. “You’d be surprised what there is in it. I daresay your dad tries doin’ ’is own.”
“Well, not actually,” said Stanley.
“And what ’appens?” cried Cox. “Bits sliced orf ’ere and there, or it comes
“You get on all right, then?” asked the corporal. “Very very nice it was, really, only a bit early to have to get up.”
They had breakfast and went to the Guard-Room to collect the deserter.
“He’s all right, this geezer,” said the provost sergeant, getting out the documents. “Wanted to join the Engineers, only when they wouldn’t transfer ’im ’e just sloped arms. Sixteen months ’e was out.”
“Go on,” said the corporal. “Tidy old break that’d make.”
“Then ’e goes and give ’imself up,” said the provost sergeant.
“Cor stone me,” said the corporal, shocked. “Fancy doin’ that. Gorblimey, the Army musta given ’ im up by that time. Some blokes. I dunno. Still.”
The deserter was brought out, a miserable man of about thirty in civilian clothes. He signed for a packet of articles taken from him on admission, and the corporal then signed for him.
“One body,” he said. “Right, off we go, then. Givin’ ’imself up. I dunno.”
When the three of them were walking to the station the corporal said: “I see you still got your uniform,” indicating the rolled bundle under the deserter’s arm. “You didn’t flog it then?”
“No,” said the deserter. “I thought it best, keeping it.”
“Quite right, too,” said the corporal. “Always very difficult for them, proving desertion, if you ’aven’t sold it. You can plead anything you fancy, long as you ’aven’t sold it. We’ll go through the side streets to save your feelings, if you like.”
When they got into the train the deserter brought out cigarettes and handed them round.
“What gets me,” said the corporal, “you just come back, and not ’ang on till the redcaps pick you up. Honest, you must be a dead stupid bugger.”
“No, well,” said the deserter, “I laid up at my main-law’s until she got too niggly. Too dodgy tryin’ for a regular job, and I didn’t go out before black-out much. In the end I got brassed off.”
He looked gloomily out of the window.
“When I was a nipper I was misunderstood,” he said.
The train pulled in at Gravestone.
“All change,” said the corporal. “We won’t put the cuffs on. Generally we don’t, ordinarily. Usually, that is, unless you get awkward. Best go through the back streets; save your feelings.”
At the Guard-Room the corporal knocked on the door.
The voice of the R.P. Fred came in a bellow from within:
“Wassup?”
There was a rattle of the large stagey keys.
“Bloke ’ere, Fred,” shouted the corporal.
The door opened.
“Ah, more customers,” said the policeman Fred, brightening up.
“Sign here, please,” said the corporal, producing the documents.
“Picked up, eh?” observed Fred, laboriously scratching his name.
“Give ’imself up,” said the corporal.
“You what?” asked Fred, astonished.
The other regimental policemen gathered briskly round.
“Bloke ’ere turned ’imself in,” said Fred.
“Must be bleedin’ barmy,” said the policeman Alf, aghast.
“Wants ’is ’ead seen to,” said the policeman Fred.
“Don’t know when ’e’s well off,” said the policeman Cyril. “Gittin there.”
The deserter was led away.
The regimental policemen cadged some more cigarettes before they let Stanley and the corporal out.
*
A large poster had been pinned up on the Depot Company notice-board. A three-coloured motif of clothes-pegs and square holes ran through the formalised head of a private soldier. All-pervading was the wording: “If you possess qualifications which cannot be utilised in the Army you are doing the right thing by remaining in your present job.”
“My trade’s really linoleum-laying,” said Cox to Stanley as they read it. “You’d be surprised what there is in it. I daresay your dad tries doin’ ’is own.”
“Well, not actually,” said Stanley.
“And what ’appens?” cried Cox. “Bits sliced orf ’ere and there, or it comes
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