bit of luck we’re not going to have to do any more fighting. Our Willy’ll see to that, and he’s a man you can rely on.”
“That’s just it,” confided Butler miserably. “I was relying on taking part in the fighting.”
“Now—there you surprise me.” Taffy looked around for his glass and finding nothing in reach drank from the bottle. “It’s a nasty rough business, fighting is. Fighting”—he tapped Butler on the chest—“fighting should be left to soldiers.”
Butler frowned at him, remembering his recent testimonial for the little Italian submachine gun. “But we are soldiers,” he said stupidly.
“No, we’re not.” The finger which had tapped Butler’s chest now waved in front of his eyes negatively. “We’re civvies in uniform. I was a tool-maker before the war—a trained tool-maker. You were—whatever you were.” The Welshman took another swig from the bottle. “And after the war we’ll go back to civvy street, and they’ll expect me to be a tool-maker again … and you’ll be—whatever you were before.”
“No,” said Butler, thinking of his school blazer, which had been too small for him during the whole of his last year. “No.”
“Yes. When I say ‘soldiers’ I mean professional soldiers.”
“But that’s what I want to be—a professional soldier,” said Butler.
Taffy Jones stared at him incredulously. “Go on? You want to march up and down in a red coat, all bullshit and saluting? Never!” He blinked. “How long have you wanted to do that?”
“Ever since I was a little lad. Ever since I saw our county regiment march through the city with fixed bayonets and drums beating—it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—“ Butler stopped abruptly, shocked by his own words. He had never told anyone that, not even the general. He’d never even put the thought into words before.
Taffy scratched his head. “And what do your da and your ma say to that? If I’d have told my da I was going for a soldier he’d ‘uv tanned my arse for me.”
“My mum’s dead. And my dad doesn’t know.” It was easier to speak now; it was almost a relief. “He’ll be wild when he does find out. He thinks the Army is there to hold down the workers—like in the General Strike.”
“Dead right he is too.” Taffy nodded vigorously. “That’s what they did in Wales, by God—Winston Churchill sent them down to do it, and he’ll send them down again without a second thought, I shouldn’t wonder … and then will you fix your bayonet on your own da, Jack?”
Butler tried to thrust the image out of his mind. “It won’t happen like that again—things have changed since then.” He reached for something to obliterate the image, since it wouldn’t go away. Anything would do. “I’m going to be an officer, too. My company commander says he’ll sign my WOSB application. It’s a good career, the Army is. You know where you are in the Army.”
“Jesus Christ!” Taffy Jones’s face seemed to float away. “D’you hear that, Harry?”
Butler was flustered by Sergeant Purvis’s presence at his shoulder. He had the feeling that he’d been talking too quickly and too loudly— and saying too much. It didn’t seem to matter that the Welshman had heard him, somehow; but the thought that anyone else had overheard him was embarrassing.
“Not going to put the bayonet into his da, he isn’t—he’s only going to give the order for it,” said Taffy. “Jack, boyo, I’m disappointed in you, I am.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Sergeant Purvis. “It’s the right place to be—giving the orders. And the right place to be giving them is in the Army, too. You’re the bloody fool, Taffy—not Jack. He’s the smart one.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean, you bloody Welshman, that it isn’t going to be all beer and skirts in civvy street after this little lot. It’s going to be hard work and ration cards if you’re lucky, and the dole queue and a small
“That’s just it,” confided Butler miserably. “I was relying on taking part in the fighting.”
“Now—there you surprise me.” Taffy looked around for his glass and finding nothing in reach drank from the bottle. “It’s a nasty rough business, fighting is. Fighting”—he tapped Butler on the chest—“fighting should be left to soldiers.”
Butler frowned at him, remembering his recent testimonial for the little Italian submachine gun. “But we are soldiers,” he said stupidly.
“No, we’re not.” The finger which had tapped Butler’s chest now waved in front of his eyes negatively. “We’re civvies in uniform. I was a tool-maker before the war—a trained tool-maker. You were—whatever you were.” The Welshman took another swig from the bottle. “And after the war we’ll go back to civvy street, and they’ll expect me to be a tool-maker again … and you’ll be—whatever you were before.”
“No,” said Butler, thinking of his school blazer, which had been too small for him during the whole of his last year. “No.”
“Yes. When I say ‘soldiers’ I mean professional soldiers.”
“But that’s what I want to be—a professional soldier,” said Butler.
Taffy Jones stared at him incredulously. “Go on? You want to march up and down in a red coat, all bullshit and saluting? Never!” He blinked. “How long have you wanted to do that?”
“Ever since I was a little lad. Ever since I saw our county regiment march through the city with fixed bayonets and drums beating—it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—“ Butler stopped abruptly, shocked by his own words. He had never told anyone that, not even the general. He’d never even put the thought into words before.
Taffy scratched his head. “And what do your da and your ma say to that? If I’d have told my da I was going for a soldier he’d ‘uv tanned my arse for me.”
“My mum’s dead. And my dad doesn’t know.” It was easier to speak now; it was almost a relief. “He’ll be wild when he does find out. He thinks the Army is there to hold down the workers—like in the General Strike.”
“Dead right he is too.” Taffy nodded vigorously. “That’s what they did in Wales, by God—Winston Churchill sent them down to do it, and he’ll send them down again without a second thought, I shouldn’t wonder … and then will you fix your bayonet on your own da, Jack?”
Butler tried to thrust the image out of his mind. “It won’t happen like that again—things have changed since then.” He reached for something to obliterate the image, since it wouldn’t go away. Anything would do. “I’m going to be an officer, too. My company commander says he’ll sign my WOSB application. It’s a good career, the Army is. You know where you are in the Army.”
“Jesus Christ!” Taffy Jones’s face seemed to float away. “D’you hear that, Harry?”
Butler was flustered by Sergeant Purvis’s presence at his shoulder. He had the feeling that he’d been talking too quickly and too loudly— and saying too much. It didn’t seem to matter that the Welshman had heard him, somehow; but the thought that anyone else had overheard him was embarrassing.
“Not going to put the bayonet into his da, he isn’t—he’s only going to give the order for it,” said Taffy. “Jack, boyo, I’m disappointed in you, I am.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Sergeant Purvis. “It’s the right place to be—giving the orders. And the right place to be giving them is in the Army, too. You’re the bloody fool, Taffy—not Jack. He’s the smart one.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean, you bloody Welshman, that it isn’t going to be all beer and skirts in civvy street after this little lot. It’s going to be hard work and ration cards if you’re lucky, and the dole queue and a small
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