into a practised routine of “Twat,” “Fucking twat,” and “Smart-alec wankers.” He sent for Flight Sergeant Downes, who sent for the flight lieutenant, who could not conceal his boredom with all of them.
“Is this really necessary, Flight?”
“Rank insubordination, sah!”
“Do you have to be quite so loud.”
“Sah!”
“Call the man a fool and have done, Flight.”
“No, sah! King’s Regulations clearly state—”
“Flight Sergeant, do not start quoting me King’s Regulations. If you want to punish this man, punish him. I don’t know . . . have him whitewash the coke heap . . . polish the lino . . . something like that. But for Christ’s sake stop shouting.”
Wilderness whitewashed coke, and when he had whitewashed it Downes and Mills had him hose it down and do it again. After three days he was whitewashing it by torchlight. Small incident followed on small incident. More bogs to scrub, more coke to whitewash. And the added pleasure of putting a shine upon linoleum floors that already shone. He spent a total of six nights in the glasshouse for minor misdemeanours. They had him marked as a troublemaker.
Along the way he learnt what he had to about marching, cleaning a Lee Enfield .303 (but not actually firing one), the boundless joys of blanco and stamping his feet. It wasn’t enjoyable, but it was tolerable. For some reason planes—surely the raison d’être of the RAF—had not yet come into it. Nor had clerking, nor had the prospect of driving.
What changed things for ever, and most certainly for better, was the cunt.
Yet again they were on parade. Wilderness bored out of his brain, Flight Sergeant Downes shouting orders, Corporals Turpin and Bodell enforcing them, checking that thumbs aligned with the seams of trousers, that feet were splayed at the regulation RAF angle, that heels banged down with the requisite force.
They got as far as Birch.
Today he was not bleeding, but his shirt protruded beneath his blouse and his bootlaces resembled a cat’s cradle made by a three-year-old.
Turpin kicked at his feet.
“What are you Birch?”
Birch knew the routine.
“I am a fucking twat, Corporal.”
“No, no, no, no . . . laddie. That was last week. You have slipped down the slippery slope of sloppiness since then. Birch, you are a cunt.”
Birch said nothing, reddened in the face.
“What are you, Birch?”
“No, corp. I can’t say that. Not that word.”
Turpin screamed, “YOU ARE A CUNT. WHAT ARE YOU BIRCH?”
Birch said nothing, turned his head towards Wilderness to avert his eyes from Turpin’s glare.
Turpin seized him by the chin, turned his head back and an inch from his face yelled, “SAY IT! YOU ARE A CUNT!”
Birch wet himself, a hissing sound of escaping urine, a rapidly spreading wet patch discolouring his best blues, and a splash of orange piss bursting over his shoes and onto Turpin’s. Turpin all but jumped backwards.
“Jesus H. Christ. I do not fuckin’ believe it.”
As he raised his arm to hit Birch, Wilderness blocked it.
“Hit him and I’ll deck you.”
Wilderness was at least six inches taller than Turpin. Turpin looked up in disbelief, not trusting his own ears.
“Come on, Sandy. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led Birch out of line and across the parade ground in the direction of their hut.
Bodell intercepted, positioning himself in front of Wilderness. Downes stood motionless a way off, swagger stick tucked under his arm. Turpin began to yell, so loudly Wilderness could not make out what he was saying.
Bodell was no bigger than Turpin. Five foot six of gutless obedience.
Wilderness said, “Step aside, Corporal. This won’t take long and then we’ll both be back on parade.”
Bodell seemed to have a verbal fit, “Wuuh worra wuuh worra wuuh.”
Wilderness shoved him aside, the palm of his hand flat against his chest.
It was then that Downes’s voice boomed out, “Arrest that man!”
§29
This bloke wasn’t RAF he was
“Is this really necessary, Flight?”
“Rank insubordination, sah!”
“Do you have to be quite so loud.”
“Sah!”
“Call the man a fool and have done, Flight.”
“No, sah! King’s Regulations clearly state—”
“Flight Sergeant, do not start quoting me King’s Regulations. If you want to punish this man, punish him. I don’t know . . . have him whitewash the coke heap . . . polish the lino . . . something like that. But for Christ’s sake stop shouting.”
Wilderness whitewashed coke, and when he had whitewashed it Downes and Mills had him hose it down and do it again. After three days he was whitewashing it by torchlight. Small incident followed on small incident. More bogs to scrub, more coke to whitewash. And the added pleasure of putting a shine upon linoleum floors that already shone. He spent a total of six nights in the glasshouse for minor misdemeanours. They had him marked as a troublemaker.
Along the way he learnt what he had to about marching, cleaning a Lee Enfield .303 (but not actually firing one), the boundless joys of blanco and stamping his feet. It wasn’t enjoyable, but it was tolerable. For some reason planes—surely the raison d’être of the RAF—had not yet come into it. Nor had clerking, nor had the prospect of driving.
What changed things for ever, and most certainly for better, was the cunt.
Yet again they were on parade. Wilderness bored out of his brain, Flight Sergeant Downes shouting orders, Corporals Turpin and Bodell enforcing them, checking that thumbs aligned with the seams of trousers, that feet were splayed at the regulation RAF angle, that heels banged down with the requisite force.
They got as far as Birch.
Today he was not bleeding, but his shirt protruded beneath his blouse and his bootlaces resembled a cat’s cradle made by a three-year-old.
Turpin kicked at his feet.
“What are you Birch?”
Birch knew the routine.
“I am a fucking twat, Corporal.”
“No, no, no, no . . . laddie. That was last week. You have slipped down the slippery slope of sloppiness since then. Birch, you are a cunt.”
Birch said nothing, reddened in the face.
“What are you, Birch?”
“No, corp. I can’t say that. Not that word.”
Turpin screamed, “YOU ARE A CUNT. WHAT ARE YOU BIRCH?”
Birch said nothing, turned his head towards Wilderness to avert his eyes from Turpin’s glare.
Turpin seized him by the chin, turned his head back and an inch from his face yelled, “SAY IT! YOU ARE A CUNT!”
Birch wet himself, a hissing sound of escaping urine, a rapidly spreading wet patch discolouring his best blues, and a splash of orange piss bursting over his shoes and onto Turpin’s. Turpin all but jumped backwards.
“Jesus H. Christ. I do not fuckin’ believe it.”
As he raised his arm to hit Birch, Wilderness blocked it.
“Hit him and I’ll deck you.”
Wilderness was at least six inches taller than Turpin. Turpin looked up in disbelief, not trusting his own ears.
“Come on, Sandy. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led Birch out of line and across the parade ground in the direction of their hut.
Bodell intercepted, positioning himself in front of Wilderness. Downes stood motionless a way off, swagger stick tucked under his arm. Turpin began to yell, so loudly Wilderness could not make out what he was saying.
Bodell was no bigger than Turpin. Five foot six of gutless obedience.
Wilderness said, “Step aside, Corporal. This won’t take long and then we’ll both be back on parade.”
Bodell seemed to have a verbal fit, “Wuuh worra wuuh worra wuuh.”
Wilderness shoved him aside, the palm of his hand flat against his chest.
It was then that Downes’s voice boomed out, “Arrest that man!”
§29
This bloke wasn’t RAF he was
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