‘Are you a regular communicant?’
‘I’m an OD,’ Peter said, and lost himself in the crowd.
When they had finished their tea, the adjutant took them to a locked room where military clothing was stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling. He gave them each a toothbrush, a cake of soap, a towel, some woollen underclothes, a pullover and an RAF greatcoat. He parted with these things reluctantly as though they were his private property. ‘They’re sent out by the Red Cross,’ he explained. ‘I’ll get you to sign for them, as I expect they’ll be entered against your account at home. Now I expect you’d like a bath.’
The water was hot. Peter stripped off his dirty underclothes and stood under the shower for about twenty minutes, soaping himself and letting the hot water run over his head and down his back. The room became full of steam from the dozen showers. Pink figures ran shouting across the slatted floor. The sound of falling water mingled with snatches of song. He felt happy again. If they could get a shower like this every day things wouldn’t be too bad. He made the most of it, fearing that it would be a weekly affair. He stood under the hot water until he was thoroughly soaked and pink all over from the heat, then turned on the cold water until he was gasping and spluttering. He dried himself on his new towel, and went across to the washbasin standing against the wall and cleaned his teeth with the new toothbrush. He brushed for about ten minutes; and then he shaved, shaved as carefully as he would have done if he had been going to a dance in the Mess. It was grand, this shave with a new blade, grand to feel the stiff bristles melt into nothing before the razor. After shaving he dressed in the clean underclothes and went back to the room where, the adjutant had told him, he would find a bed.
There were six beds in the room, and on one of them the Army captain was sitting, drying his hair.
‘Is there a spare bed?’ Peter asked.
‘They’re all spare, I think.’ He stopped rubbing his head. ‘I thought I’d have this one. But I don’t mind, if you’d rather be near the door.’
‘No, it’s all right, thanks,’ Peter told him, ‘I’ll take this.’ He put his clothes on one of the beds near the window. ‘My name’s Howard, Peter Howard.’
‘I’m John Clinton. I say – what sort of dump is this?’
‘In what way?’
‘This “permanent staff” business. I’ve been talking to one of the chaps who’s been here a few days. He says that they feed in a mess of their own – special rations and everything. Permanent staff! They look it too, I must say. That bloody adjutant was fairly dripping with fat.’ He sat, young and indignant, holding the towel between his slim brown hands. He seemed too warm, too vital to be kept for long in this sterile atmosphere.
At first Peter felt an impulse to defend his own service against this attack from the Army, but the captain’s indignation was without rancour. He grinned instead. ‘I thought you didn’t altogether approve.’
‘It’s his damned defeatist attitude,’ Clinton said, ‘telling us not to escape from here, indeed. Frightened it’d upset his precious routine, I expect.’ He sat on the edge of the bed, his black hair standing on end, angrily tying the laces of his suede desert boots. ‘Permanent staff, indeed.’
‘He’s right in a way, you know,’ Peter said. ‘We wouldn’t get far with all this snow on the ground.’
‘That’s just an excuse, but it becomes an attitude of mind if you’re not careful.’ He rose to his feet and began to rearrange the blankets on his bed. ‘I’m getting out of this as soon as I get the chance.’
‘I wouldn’t be too optimistic,’ Peter said.
As he walked along to the end hut where, the adjutant had told him, he would find his crew, Peter thought of John Clinton and his youthful indignation. He had been like that himself, once. But now, at thirty, he had grown more tolerant.
‘I’m an OD,’ Peter said, and lost himself in the crowd.
When they had finished their tea, the adjutant took them to a locked room where military clothing was stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling. He gave them each a toothbrush, a cake of soap, a towel, some woollen underclothes, a pullover and an RAF greatcoat. He parted with these things reluctantly as though they were his private property. ‘They’re sent out by the Red Cross,’ he explained. ‘I’ll get you to sign for them, as I expect they’ll be entered against your account at home. Now I expect you’d like a bath.’
The water was hot. Peter stripped off his dirty underclothes and stood under the shower for about twenty minutes, soaping himself and letting the hot water run over his head and down his back. The room became full of steam from the dozen showers. Pink figures ran shouting across the slatted floor. The sound of falling water mingled with snatches of song. He felt happy again. If they could get a shower like this every day things wouldn’t be too bad. He made the most of it, fearing that it would be a weekly affair. He stood under the hot water until he was thoroughly soaked and pink all over from the heat, then turned on the cold water until he was gasping and spluttering. He dried himself on his new towel, and went across to the washbasin standing against the wall and cleaned his teeth with the new toothbrush. He brushed for about ten minutes; and then he shaved, shaved as carefully as he would have done if he had been going to a dance in the Mess. It was grand, this shave with a new blade, grand to feel the stiff bristles melt into nothing before the razor. After shaving he dressed in the clean underclothes and went back to the room where, the adjutant had told him, he would find a bed.
There were six beds in the room, and on one of them the Army captain was sitting, drying his hair.
‘Is there a spare bed?’ Peter asked.
‘They’re all spare, I think.’ He stopped rubbing his head. ‘I thought I’d have this one. But I don’t mind, if you’d rather be near the door.’
‘No, it’s all right, thanks,’ Peter told him, ‘I’ll take this.’ He put his clothes on one of the beds near the window. ‘My name’s Howard, Peter Howard.’
‘I’m John Clinton. I say – what sort of dump is this?’
‘In what way?’
‘This “permanent staff” business. I’ve been talking to one of the chaps who’s been here a few days. He says that they feed in a mess of their own – special rations and everything. Permanent staff! They look it too, I must say. That bloody adjutant was fairly dripping with fat.’ He sat, young and indignant, holding the towel between his slim brown hands. He seemed too warm, too vital to be kept for long in this sterile atmosphere.
At first Peter felt an impulse to defend his own service against this attack from the Army, but the captain’s indignation was without rancour. He grinned instead. ‘I thought you didn’t altogether approve.’
‘It’s his damned defeatist attitude,’ Clinton said, ‘telling us not to escape from here, indeed. Frightened it’d upset his precious routine, I expect.’ He sat on the edge of the bed, his black hair standing on end, angrily tying the laces of his suede desert boots. ‘Permanent staff, indeed.’
‘He’s right in a way, you know,’ Peter said. ‘We wouldn’t get far with all this snow on the ground.’
‘That’s just an excuse, but it becomes an attitude of mind if you’re not careful.’ He rose to his feet and began to rearrange the blankets on his bed. ‘I’m getting out of this as soon as I get the chance.’
‘I wouldn’t be too optimistic,’ Peter said.
As he walked along to the end hut where, the adjutant had told him, he would find his crew, Peter thought of John Clinton and his youthful indignation. He had been like that himself, once. But now, at thirty, he had grown more tolerant.
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