Sergeant Nelson of the Guards by Gerald Kersh Page B

tapes, and pretty damn soon at that.’ What I mean to say is, I run into him the other day, and he’s a lance-jack. I would have sworn he couldn’t have stood the racket, and I wouldn’t have held it against him if he hadn’t, because there’s some fellers that aren’t cut out for it.
    “What I mean, Bearsbreath, is; for sheer sand in the belly, grit, spine, nerve, and guts, some o’ these soft-looking civvies take some beating. He went through hell, that rook did. He was over thirty, too. Definitely, Bearsbreath, the war brings out the what-d’you-call-it in some blokes. There’s big buck navvies would have laid down and had kittens at half what this here Spencer went through. Now my point is this: the Army helped to make a man of that geezer. He wouldn’t have known how good he was if it hadn’t been for the Army. But that’s neither here nor there. My point is this: the kid of eighteen has soft bones, and he’s young—he don’t feel the strain much because it’s helping him to grow. The working mug that’s shoved barrows, or handled a pick and shovel, he doesn’t notice it so much, because he’s been using his muscles all his life, more or less. But the clurk, Bearsbreath, the clurk, the shopwalker, the pen-pusher, the bloke that’s never used his muscles in his life—he’s the bloke I’m sorry for and take my hat off to at the same time. He sort of feels that he’s got to stand up to it as well as anybody else. And he does. And he won’t go sick unless he’s absolutely got to go sick. He’s ashamed to. Toughish; definitely toughish.”
    Bearsbreath said: “We was all Civvies once, Nelson.”
    “Were we?” said Sergeant Nelson. “To tell you the honest truth, I hardly remember.”
    *
    That evening, as we come back from tea, Trained Soldier Brand says:
    “No talking, singing, or whistling. No smoking. No eating. Shining Parade. Remember, every morning the Officer comes round to inspect this hut. I noticed one or two greatcoats with buttons like old halfpenniesthis morning. I’m responsible for you. You land me in the muck if you don’t watch out, and that is a serious offence. I want to see you fellers working till seven. Them gaiters have got to be blancoed every night. So’s your belt, and et cetera. Remember, brush the surface of the webbing with water, first, then brush your blanco in thinly and evenly. Take your belts to bits and work on them brasses. A thin smear of polish, let it dry, and then rub, damn it, rub. Above all, work on them boots. I don’t mind telling you, they’re ’ot on boots ’ere. You’ll be inspected soon. Say your boots is bad. What happens? The Company Commander hauls me in on Orders and says: ‘Trained Soldier Brand, why is them men’s daisy-roots in muck? Is this ’ere the way you maintain the high standards of the Brigade of Guards? Are you a Coldstreamer? Or what the lousy hell are you? Why, you twillip,’ he says. ‘Take three drills just for a warning.’ And if you think I’m going to rush round that Square with a pack just for you, you’re wrong. So let me tell you something—any idle skiver I catch will find himself with such a load o’ jankers he won’t know where he is.”
    “What is jankers, Trained Soldiers?” asked Johnson.
    “It’s a sort of general kind of word meaning punishment. You’ll get to know the call: Defaulters— You can be a Defaulter as long as you like, As long as you answer your name. It might be Show Boots Clean. It might be Extra Drill. It might be C.B.”
    “What is C.B., Trained Soldier?”
    “Confined to Barracks.”
    “But we’re confined to barracks now.”
    “Yes, but only while you’re Recruits. After you’re done here, you’re Guardsmen, and have the right to go out every night, duty permitting. You get a Permanent Pass, allowing you out of barracks from After Duty to Midnight. But if you get C.B., you can’t go out. Defaulters sounds five minutes after Reveille. You’ve got to hustle to the