Army, a half-colonel in the Guards. As a boy Wilderness had collected the cards that came free inside packets of cigarettes—he’d had a full set of English Automobiles, most of British Butterflies and all but three of HM Forces Uniforms. According to his fag cards, this bloke was in the Coldstream Guards—the buttons on his tunic grouped in pairs.
Wilderness wondered why he was getting a bollocking from the army. Was the RAF not capable of slinging him back in the glasshouse one more time without calling in the troops?
A corporal he’d never met before had barked him in, all the hup-to, left-right, left-right bollocks, slamming down his feet and expecting Wilderness to do the same. Wilderness went through the motions, out of step, out of time and no doubt far too quietly for the barker.
The colonel was bent over papers. Looked up once to say, “Thank you Corporal. You can go now.”
More stomping. Turning on his heel as though powered by clockwork. But then that was their trouble with NCOs. They really were clockwork.
More than a minute passed. The colonel looked up again, pushed his sheaf of papers away from him and pointed at the chair opposite.
“You might as well sit. I’m sure you’re less trouble sitting down.”
It seemed to Wilderness like an invitation. He took it.
“I don’t think I’m ever trouble.”
“Really? You don’t say? Aircraftman Holderness, I’ve just read a dozen pages about you—all but three of them complaints. Complaints from Corporal Turpin, complaints from Corporal Bodell, complaints from Flight Sergeant Mills, complaints from Flight Sergeant Downes—all endorsed by Flight Lieutenant Cooper. Not trouble? Holderness, they think you’re a pain in the arse!”
“That’s ’cos they’re a bunch of fucking twats.”
There was a momentary pause, the merest flinch on the colonel’s part.
“A bunch of fucking twats, sir .”
“Of course. Sorry. A bunch of fucking twats, sir .”
“Let’s get one thing clear. I’m not a fucking twat, and if you talk to me like a fucking twat I’ve enough authority to bung you back in the glasshouse and throw away the key.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good—now we understand one another, let’s backtrack and get to the introductions. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Burne-Jones. And I can save your bacon if you let me.”
Burne-Jones. A hyphenated Englishman. That went with the rank and the regiment and the pencil-line moustache. If he stood he’d be six two and ramrod straight . . . but then so would Wilderness.
“I’m listening.”
Burne-Jones held up the top three pages of the papers in his right hand.
“You remember this?”
Wilderness didn’t.
“It’s the test you sat in London last August. It’s known as an IQ test. Now, do you know what that stands for?”
Wilderness remembered it now. Word games and pattern recognition. Matching up identical triangles. Juggling rhomboids and trapezoids. The square peg and the round hole. Only an idiot could fail it. He’d thought nothing of it at the time. Just call-up bollocks. It went with the ill-fitting uniform and the beetle-crusher shoes.
“Intelligence Quota?” he ventured.
“Close. Intelligence Quotient. It’s a way of measuring intelligence. Assigning a score to it. Would you be interested to know yours?”
“If I say no I go back to chokey?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m all ears.”
“One hundred and sixty-nine.”
“Big is it?”
“Well, it’s bigger than mine. In fact it’s bigger than most.”
“Bigger than yours? Then maybe I should be the officer?”
“That’s right, Holderness, push your luck. I do hope you like bread and water.”
“Excuse me, sir. Cheek is a way of life where I come from. Almost a language in itself. It has its own rules and syntax. My point is it must mean something, it must change something or you wouldn’t be telling me.”
The shift from cockney lout to articulate individual gave Burne-Jones another little pause. An effect
Wilderness wondered why he was getting a bollocking from the army. Was the RAF not capable of slinging him back in the glasshouse one more time without calling in the troops?
A corporal he’d never met before had barked him in, all the hup-to, left-right, left-right bollocks, slamming down his feet and expecting Wilderness to do the same. Wilderness went through the motions, out of step, out of time and no doubt far too quietly for the barker.
The colonel was bent over papers. Looked up once to say, “Thank you Corporal. You can go now.”
More stomping. Turning on his heel as though powered by clockwork. But then that was their trouble with NCOs. They really were clockwork.
More than a minute passed. The colonel looked up again, pushed his sheaf of papers away from him and pointed at the chair opposite.
“You might as well sit. I’m sure you’re less trouble sitting down.”
It seemed to Wilderness like an invitation. He took it.
“I don’t think I’m ever trouble.”
“Really? You don’t say? Aircraftman Holderness, I’ve just read a dozen pages about you—all but three of them complaints. Complaints from Corporal Turpin, complaints from Corporal Bodell, complaints from Flight Sergeant Mills, complaints from Flight Sergeant Downes—all endorsed by Flight Lieutenant Cooper. Not trouble? Holderness, they think you’re a pain in the arse!”
“That’s ’cos they’re a bunch of fucking twats.”
There was a momentary pause, the merest flinch on the colonel’s part.
“A bunch of fucking twats, sir .”
“Of course. Sorry. A bunch of fucking twats, sir .”
“Let’s get one thing clear. I’m not a fucking twat, and if you talk to me like a fucking twat I’ve enough authority to bung you back in the glasshouse and throw away the key.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good—now we understand one another, let’s backtrack and get to the introductions. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Burne-Jones. And I can save your bacon if you let me.”
Burne-Jones. A hyphenated Englishman. That went with the rank and the regiment and the pencil-line moustache. If he stood he’d be six two and ramrod straight . . . but then so would Wilderness.
“I’m listening.”
Burne-Jones held up the top three pages of the papers in his right hand.
“You remember this?”
Wilderness didn’t.
“It’s the test you sat in London last August. It’s known as an IQ test. Now, do you know what that stands for?”
Wilderness remembered it now. Word games and pattern recognition. Matching up identical triangles. Juggling rhomboids and trapezoids. The square peg and the round hole. Only an idiot could fail it. He’d thought nothing of it at the time. Just call-up bollocks. It went with the ill-fitting uniform and the beetle-crusher shoes.
“Intelligence Quota?” he ventured.
“Close. Intelligence Quotient. It’s a way of measuring intelligence. Assigning a score to it. Would you be interested to know yours?”
“If I say no I go back to chokey?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m all ears.”
“One hundred and sixty-nine.”
“Big is it?”
“Well, it’s bigger than mine. In fact it’s bigger than most.”
“Bigger than yours? Then maybe I should be the officer?”
“That’s right, Holderness, push your luck. I do hope you like bread and water.”
“Excuse me, sir. Cheek is a way of life where I come from. Almost a language in itself. It has its own rules and syntax. My point is it must mean something, it must change something or you wouldn’t be telling me.”
The shift from cockney lout to articulate individual gave Burne-Jones another little pause. An effect
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