The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles, #2)(24)
When Giles climbed off the bus, he came face to face with a giant of a man, barrel-chested and dressed in a khaki uniform, who looked as if he had been planted on the parade ground. There were three rows of medals on his chest and a pace stick under his left arm, but what struck Giles most about him was the knife-edge crease in his trousers and the fact that his boots were so highly polished he could see his reflection in them.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ the man said in a voice that boomed around the parade ground; not someone who would find any use for a megaphone, thought Giles. ‘My name is Sergeant Major Dawson – sir, to you. It’s my responsibility to turn you from a shambolic rabble into a fighting force in just twelve weeks. By then, you will be able to call yourselves members of the Wessex, the finest regiment of the line. For the next twelve weeks I will be your mother, your father and your sweetheart and, let me assure you, I only have one purpose in life, and that is to make sure that when you meet your first German, you’ll be able to kill him before he kills you. That process will begin at five tomorrow morning.’ A groan went up which the sergeant major ignored. ‘Until then, I’ll leave Corporal McCloud to take you to the canteen, before you settle into your barracks. Be sure to get a good night’s rest, because you’ll need every ounce of energy you possess when we meet again. Carry on, corporal.’
Giles sat down in front of a fishcake whose ingredients had never seen salt water, and after one sip of lukewarm brown water, posing as tea, he put his mug back on the table.
‘If you’re not going to eat your fishcake, can I have it?’ asked the young man sitting next to him. Giles nodded, and they swapped plates. He didn’t speak again until he’d devoured Giles’s offering.
‘I know your mum,’ the man said.
Giles gave him a closer look, wondering how that could be possible.
‘We supply the meat for the Manor House and Barrington Hall,’ the man continued. ‘I like your mum,’ he said. ‘Very nice lady. I’m Bates, by the way, Terry Bates.’ He shook Giles firmly by the hand. ‘Never thought I’d end up sitting next to you.’
‘Right, chaps, let’s be ’avin’ you,’ said the corporal. The new recruits leapt up from the benches and followed the corporal out of the canteen and across the parade ground to a Nissen hut with MARNE painted on the door. Another Wessex battle honour, the corporal explained before opening the door to reveal their new home.
Thirty-six beds, eighteen on each side, had been crammed into a space no larger than the dining room at Barrington Hall. Giles had been placed between Atkinson and Bates. Not unlike prep school, he thought, though he did come across one or two differences during the next few days.
‘Right, chaps, time to get undressed and have a kip.’
Long before the last man had climbed into bed, the corporal switched off the lights and bellowed, ‘Make sure you get some shut-eye. You’ve got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.’ It wouldn’t have surprised Giles if, like Fisher, his old school prefect, he’d added, ‘No talking after lights out.’
As promised, the lights came back on at five o’clock the following morning; not that Giles had a chance to look at his watch after Sergeant Major Dawson entered the hut and bellowed, ‘The last man with both feet on the ground will be first to be bayoneted by a Kraut!’
A large number of feet quickly hit the floor as the sergeant major marched down the centre of the hut, his pace stick banging the end of any bed whose incumbent still didn’t have both feet on the ground.
‘Now listen, and listen carefully,’ he continued. ‘I’m going to give you four minutes to wash and shave, four minutes to make your bed, four minutes to get dressed and eight minutes to have breakfast. Twenty minutes in all. I don’t recommend any talking, on account of the fact you can’t afford to waste the time, and in any case, I’m the only one who’s allowed to talk. Is that understood?’
‘It most certainly is,’ said Giles, which was followed by a ripple of surprised laughter.
A moment later the sergeant major was standing in front of him. ‘Whenever you open your mouth, sonny,’ he barked, placing his pace stick on Giles’s shoulder, ‘all I want to hear is yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Giles.
‘I don’t think I heard you, sonny.’
‘Yes, sir!’ shouted Giles.
‘That’s better. Now get yourself in the washroom, you horrible little man, before I put you on jankers.’
Giles had no idea what jankers was, but it didn’t sound enticing.
Bates was already on his way out of the washroom when Giles walked in. By the time he’d shaved, Bates had made his bed, dressed and was on his way to the canteen. When Giles eventually caught up with him, he took a seat on the bench opposite.
‘How do you manage it?’ asked Giles in admiration.
‘Manage what?’ asked Bates.
‘To be so wide awake, when the rest of us are still half asleep.’
‘Simple really. I’m a butcher, like me dad. Up every mornin’ at four, and off to the market. If I want the best cuts I have to be waitin’ for them the moment they’re delivered from the docks or the station. Only have to be a few minutes late, and I’m gettin’ second best. Half an hour late, and it’s scrag-ends, and your mum wouldn’t thank me for that, would she?’