packet of Woodbines if you aren’t.” Purvis looked at Butler. “Unless you’ve got a nice fat nest egg tucked away somewhere, which none of us have—and I don’t mean the demob gratuity they’ve promised either, because no one’s going to get fat on that.”
Butler frowned at him.
“The best place to be is in the Army of Occupation and an officer, like Jack says,” Purvis continued. “That way you’ll get the best of everything—the best food and the best drink and the best women.”
Butler was disappointed in Sergeant Purvis. He was also aware for the first time that he was a little lightheaded, so that he couldn’t think of the right word with which to express his feelings. The trouble was that he had clean forgotten to eat anything—that was the trouble.
“The thing you’ve got to worry about, Jack,” said Purvis, “is whether you really can get that commission of yours, because as of now they’re not going to be so easy to pick up, once they start cutting the Army down. The bastards are going to be able to pick and choose from now on—and they’ll pick bloody hah-hah jobs like your Mr. What’s-‘is-name with the stutter.”
Taffy nodded his agreement. “You’re dead right there, Harry. It’ll be like before the war—not what you are, but who you are. And not what you know, but who you know.”
Butler looked from one to the other. They were good blokes, he decided—the best, in fact. But they were absolutely wrong.
The only problem was that he couldn’t remember why they were wrong any more.
“Influence in high places, that’s what you want,” said Taffy Jones wisely. “Influence in high places—and that’s what you and me haven’t got, boyo.” Influence—Suddenly it all came back to Butler with a rush, why it wouldn’t be the same as last time.
Because this time there were the Russian Communists—millions and millions of them, all armed to the teeth. That was why there’d be a big Army still, and a place for him in it.
The arguments were all there now, at his fingertips. But they were jumbled up like the pieces of a jigsaw. It hadn’t been his father who had said that about the Russians, for all that he loathed the Communists and was always scheming to keep them out of the union’s affairs. They weren’t to be trusted—the general said the same thing, and when his father and the general agreed on something then it had to be true, he felt that in his bones. The general!
He pointed triumphantly at Jones. “But that’s just it, Taffy: I have got influence in high places—I’ve got the general-in-chief of the regiment, who is a colonel…” That didn’t sound right. “… I mean, the colonel-in-chief of the regiment, who is a general—he’s a very good friend of mine. A friend of the family. My father was his sergeant-major.”
He found to his surprise that he was looking at the end of his finger, which was waving in the front of the blur of Taffy Jones’s face. He noticed that he’d broken the nail on something.
Someone took his arm—it was Sergeant Purvis.
“What you need, mate, is something solid in your stomach,” said Purvis distantly. “Taffy—there’s some cold stew in the pot. Get it heated up.”
Butler had just been thinking happily that the irritation between his toes had entirely disappeared—he couldn’t feel a thing even when he stamped his foot. But now there was something very strange and unpleasant going on in his stomach—something the mention of cold stew was causing to rise—
“No—“ he began thickly, as the room started to tip up under him.
CHAPTER 7
How Corporal Jones answered a civil question
THE DARKNESS was thick and warm, and it revolved around Butler not in a circle but in a great swirling ellipse. He steadied in it and was sick.
Then he was on his knees, the sweat clammy on his face, and he was being sick again. And again.
Now there was a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s right, boyo—get it off your
Butler frowned at him.
“The best place to be is in the Army of Occupation and an officer, like Jack says,” Purvis continued. “That way you’ll get the best of everything—the best food and the best drink and the best women.”
Butler was disappointed in Sergeant Purvis. He was also aware for the first time that he was a little lightheaded, so that he couldn’t think of the right word with which to express his feelings. The trouble was that he had clean forgotten to eat anything—that was the trouble.
“The thing you’ve got to worry about, Jack,” said Purvis, “is whether you really can get that commission of yours, because as of now they’re not going to be so easy to pick up, once they start cutting the Army down. The bastards are going to be able to pick and choose from now on—and they’ll pick bloody hah-hah jobs like your Mr. What’s-‘is-name with the stutter.”
Taffy nodded his agreement. “You’re dead right there, Harry. It’ll be like before the war—not what you are, but who you are. And not what you know, but who you know.”
Butler looked from one to the other. They were good blokes, he decided—the best, in fact. But they were absolutely wrong.
The only problem was that he couldn’t remember why they were wrong any more.
“Influence in high places, that’s what you want,” said Taffy Jones wisely. “Influence in high places—and that’s what you and me haven’t got, boyo.” Influence—Suddenly it all came back to Butler with a rush, why it wouldn’t be the same as last time.
Because this time there were the Russian Communists—millions and millions of them, all armed to the teeth. That was why there’d be a big Army still, and a place for him in it.
The arguments were all there now, at his fingertips. But they were jumbled up like the pieces of a jigsaw. It hadn’t been his father who had said that about the Russians, for all that he loathed the Communists and was always scheming to keep them out of the union’s affairs. They weren’t to be trusted—the general said the same thing, and when his father and the general agreed on something then it had to be true, he felt that in his bones. The general!
He pointed triumphantly at Jones. “But that’s just it, Taffy: I have got influence in high places—I’ve got the general-in-chief of the regiment, who is a colonel…” That didn’t sound right. “… I mean, the colonel-in-chief of the regiment, who is a general—he’s a very good friend of mine. A friend of the family. My father was his sergeant-major.”
He found to his surprise that he was looking at the end of his finger, which was waving in the front of the blur of Taffy Jones’s face. He noticed that he’d broken the nail on something.
Someone took his arm—it was Sergeant Purvis.
“What you need, mate, is something solid in your stomach,” said Purvis distantly. “Taffy—there’s some cold stew in the pot. Get it heated up.”
Butler had just been thinking happily that the irritation between his toes had entirely disappeared—he couldn’t feel a thing even when he stamped his foot. But now there was something very strange and unpleasant going on in his stomach—something the mention of cold stew was causing to rise—
“No—“ he began thickly, as the room started to tip up under him.
CHAPTER 7
How Corporal Jones answered a civil question
THE DARKNESS was thick and warm, and it revolved around Butler not in a circle but in a great swirling ellipse. He steadied in it and was sick.
Then he was on his knees, the sweat clammy on his face, and he was being sick again. And again.
Now there was a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s right, boyo—get it off your
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