‘Like a lot of bloody old women!’ observed Mr Froud succinctly. ‘Four, rear rank! Get those arms in!’
Paul stiffened into a posture similar to the once-fashionable Grecian bend. But Mr Froud did not think it fashionable. He walked behind Paul and spoke in his ear.
‘WHEN YOU STAND TO ATTENTION YOU STAND WITH THE BODY BRACED CHEST OUT STOMACH IN HEELS TOGETHER AT AN ANGLE OF FORTY-FIVE DEGREES HEAD UP EYES STRAIGHT TO THE FRONT BOTH EYES LOOKING IN THE SAME DIRECTION,’ Mr Froud said to Paul. ‘My small daughter of three could do better. Blindfolded.’
Mr Froud walked in front of the Beattys and surveyed them.
‘Two weeks tomorrow,’ he said, ‘Royalty will be coming down here to have a look at us. You’re not fit to be seen. If we could hide you somewhere for the day, we would. I’ve heard some
horrible
things about you lot on this parade ground. Let’s see if you can prove they’re not true.’
Mr Froud had a beautiful word of command. It had been trained from an early age, practised on the prairies of Whale Island, and was now reaching its full time of fruition. From the first command, the Beattys knew they were in the hands of a parade prima donna, a drill-book diva.
They plunged forward together and headed for the centre of the parade ground as solidly as a Zulu impi. They marched in line, swinging their arms, keeping their dressings, in step with each other. Mr Froud wondered whether the Chief G.I. had been mistaken.
But at the turn, where Mr Froud achieved a high soaring B Flat which would have tested Dame Melba herself, Mr Froud saw the cross which he, like the Chief G.I. before him, had to bear.
Before marching off the Beattys had been sized, the tallest on the left and the shortest on the right. This arrangement always left three small Sikhs in the right-hand file.
The three small Sikhs had the individuality and the proud independence of spirit which have always made their nation good friends and bad enemies. They were incapable of marching with the rest. They were of the main body, but not with it. Time and again, when the division wheeled and crunched off in a new direction, three turbaned figures marched away on another line.
The erratic behaviour of the Sikhs affected the other Beattys. They saw three Sikhs approaching them, first from one side and then from the other; they saw three Sikhs receding into the distance; and they saw three Sikhs struggling through the ranks after the rest had turned about. The Beattys grew nervous. Such was the Sikhs’ co-ordination and so determinedly did they manoeuvre that several of their neighbours were hypnotised into following them. The remainder lost the step, missed orders, forgot their right and left, and their proper file and their proper direction. When Mr Froud halted them, the Beattys were no longer a division, or a squad, or a platoon, or any known symmetrical formation of men. They were a shapeless, rankless, straggling rabble.
Mr Froud watched blankly. Seldom had he seen such an exhibition. He dug deep into his memory for a comparison.
‘Once, when I was a little boy,’ he said, ‘a circus came to our town. In that circus was a three-legged woman. My dad wouldn’t let me have a look at her and from that day to this I’ve wondered what she looked like. Now I know. Now I know what
eighty-one
three-legged old women look like! I wish my small daughter of three was here to see you lot. I really do. She’d laugh like a mad thing just looking at you.’
As the drill periods wore on, the Beattys concluded that Mr Fraud’s small daughter of three was something of an infant parade-ground prodigy, who not only knew the Naval Drill Book by heart, but had written it.
After a fortnight the Beattys felt that they had improved. But Mr Froud shook his head.
‘I don’t know who’s going to teach you. I can’t.’
‘How about your small daughter of three, Chief?’
The Beattys rested while Maconochie doubled twice round the parade-ground, once for blasphemy, which was calling a Cadet Gunner ‘Chief,’ and again for impertinence to a Cadet Gunner (a crime comparable only to defacing a statue of Nelson). However, Maconochie’s protest seemed to cheer the Beattys, for when they next halted Mr Froud admitted that he had once long ago seen a squad of Nigerian thermometer glass-blowers give a worse exhibition than the circus act with which the Beattys had just offended his tired old eyes. The Beattys felt that they could have received no higher praise.
‘But don’t run away with the idea that you’re any good. You’re not. But at least I’m not ashamed to be seen on the same parade-ground now.’
The sun shone for Divisions on the day of the Royal Visit. It was the social climax of the summer term and several hundred parents and friends were present. From their positions on the ramparts they looked down on a brave picture of lines of cadets in their best uniforms and white caps, and the sparkling gold lace and polished swords of their divisional officers. It was a picture of hope and enthusiasm and eagerness for life which thrilled the hearts and moved the tears of the watching parents, friends and masters and even of the newsreel cameramen who had been invited for the occasion.
Whilst the Parade waited for the Guard to appear, Mr Froud walked slowly behind the Beattys’ ranks giving advice in a low, growling stage whisper.
‘Don’t let me see any of you fainting like a shower of Fannys. Remember what I told you. If you’ve got to move something, wriggle your toes. Don’t move anything that shows, because I’m
watching you
. If you feel the sky beginning to close in on you, wriggle your toes. If you hear a buzzing in your ears, wriggle your toes. If your legs go all weak and you see everything going grey and hazy. . . .’
Soundlessly, George Dewberry toppled like a felled tree and lay prone at Mr Fraud’s feet.
‘ . . . just wriggle your toes and you’ll be all right!’
Mr Fraud passed along the ranks repeating his advice and smelling out the weaker members who, one by one, fainted; far better that they should faint now than later. He worked especially hard on the three small Sikhs but the Sikhs resisted. They wriggled their toes until their boots creaked, but they stayed upright.
The last Beattys had hardly regained their places after carrying one of their number, legs trailing, to the side, when the Guard appeared and the ceremony began.
The Guard halted opposite the flagstaff. The Colours were marched in slow time from the main doors of the College, down the steps and across the parade-ground to a place in the middle of the Guard.
When the Royal Visitors appeared on the parapet, the Guard presented arms, the band played the National Anthem, and the Colours dipped. Fathers removed their hats, mothers wiped their eyes, the cameras whirred and the cadets, their officers and the spectators were held together in a few moments of traditional pride and personal loyalty.
The Royal Visitors acknowledged the salute and descended to the parade-ground to begin the inspection. The parade relaxed. The divisions were stood at ease and the band played excerpts from the operas of Gilbert and Sullivan.
The inspection took some time. When the inspecting party, heavy with medals and weighted with gold lace, at last reached the Beattys in the rear the band had long since exhausted its repertoire from ‘The Mikado,’ ‘The Gondoliers’ and ‘Trial by Jury’ and were playing excerpts from ‘Chu Chin Chow’ and--in a fit of unaccustomed and daring modernity on the part of the Bandmaster--a selection of tunes by Ivor Novello.
The most distinctive figure in the Beattys’ front rank was Mehibash, a tall bronzed Egyptian who stood as rigidly to attention as an obelisk. No inspecting party could pass such a figure by without a word and because Mehibash’s English was known to be rudimentary and to consist largely of profanities taught him by the Beattys, The Bodger was afraid that Mehibash might be at a loss for a suitable reply; it was a point which The Bodger had forgotten to arrange beforehand. But The Bodger had no need to worry. Paul had anticipated the question and had coached Mehibash in his answer.
‘How long have you been in England?’
Mehibash swivelled a golden-tawny eye downwards.
‘Too blahdy lawng, thang you verree moch!’ said Mehibash and grinned generously. He was obviously confident that he had upheld the reputation of the Pharaohs in this barbaric land whose inhabitants had been painting themselves blue and burning their prisoners in wicker cages whilst his ancestors had been building the Pyramids.
The College marched past, led by the Guard and the Colours, and afterwards went to church. The cadets filed into the College chapel in the same order as they had marched past the saluting base and wearing superficially the same expressions. The service was as much an evolution as a parade, as though it had been designed to give the maximum number of cadets the maximum amount of religion in the shortest time.
The visiting Bishop who conducted the service had once been told as a theological student that no sailor could be an atheist since he lived too close to one of God’s instruments, but a period in a Portsmouth parish and experience as a naval padre in two wars had made the Bishop sceptical. But now, as he looked over his huge congregation, the Bishop felt again that heart-warming quality which all naval services have, whether they are held in a church, or on the quarterdeck of a ship at sea. Used as he was to the empty churches and elderly congregations of his own diocese, the Bishop beamed at the youngest, most hopeful and certainly the largest congregation he had had for years.
The cadets too felt the exaltation of the moment. The words of the Naval Prayer gave them a vision of the line of ships and men which they and their future ships would continue. It was one of the few times while they were at Dartmouth, indeed while they were in the service, when they were permitted a glimpse of the final end of their labours.
After starting on a crest of such high exaltation, the day dropped into a trough of low comedy. The Day of the Royal Visit passed into the Night of George Dewberry’s Run Ashore.
Having avoided Mr Froud all day, George Dewberry dressed himself in his best uniform at supper time, presented himself to the Chief Cadet of the Day for inspection and proceeded ashore.
It was George Dewberry’s first, last, and only expedition outside the College. He went alone and this was in itself unusual, for the naval custom whereby officers proceed ashore in parties of not less than two, often a prudent custom abroad, is normally still observed at home, where the natives might have been supposed to be friendly. George Dewberry told nobody why he went ashore on that particular night or where he had been, but from the moment he stepped inside the Beatty barracks it was obvious what he had been doing. George Dewberry was splendidly, unashamedly, roaring drunk.
It was Michael who first heard the voice outside the chest flat window, and a sound of scuffling.
‘Goosh!’ roared the voice. ‘Goosh! Gorright! Clumsy fool! Whatcha think you’re doing, eh? He he! Goosh, hup! Goosh me.’
Michael looked out of the chest flat window and saw George Dewberry standing astride, calmly and with an air of satisfaction passing his water against the base of the Beattys’ flagstaff. Michael thought of The Bodger’s face in the morning and shook Paul.
‘What the hell’s the matter?’
Paul looked at his watch.
‘Good God, Mike, do you know what the time is?’
‘Quick Paul. George Dewberry’s tight.’
‘How tight?’
‘As a newt.’
‘Good for him.’
Paul turned over but Michael shook him again.
‘Oh for Christ’s sake!’
‘We can’t leave him there.’
‘Why not? Look, let me get some sleep, will you? Please?’
‘You’ve got to give me a hand to get him to bed. He might hurt himself.’
‘Hope he does.’
‘No, come on, Paul. We’ve got to get him to bed. There’ll be the most frightful nausea if The Bodger or old Froud or someone finds out.’
‘Oh all right.’
Paul got out of bed and they both looked through the window. George Dewberry was just finishing. Having finished, he stepped back, solemnly saluted, turned and saw his audience.
‘Hi fellows!’ he said cheerily and waved. ‘No s-satisfaction without urination y’know.’ His cheery look changed to one of bewilderment. When Michael and Paul reached him, he was staring about him with a puzzled air, as though he were searching for someone. Here is Dewberry, he appeared to be thinking, but where is Bohun, where are De Vere and Mowbray, nay, what is first and greatest of all, where is Plantagenet? They caught him as he fell and dragged him into the chest flat.
‘Vknow,’ he said, ‘I feel
really
good. I never felt as good as this before. Everythin’s goin’ to be O.K.!’
‘No wonder,’ said Paul. ‘You smell like a bloody brewery. What’ve you been drinking?’
‘Drinking?’
‘You’re as honked as an owl.’
‘Y-you may think
I’m
honked,’ George Dewberry said with a seraphic smile as they sat him on his bed, ‘but you should see the other blokes!’
Paul removed George Dewberry’s clothes, with no protest from him; indeed he co-operated, giggling, as though he were performing some form of party forfeit. When he was naked, George Dewberry sat up and examined his toes as though he had never seen them before.
‘Thish little piggy went to market--hup!’
‘Up,’ said Paul. He lifted George Dewberry on to his feet.
George Dewberry staggered along, willing to go wherever his benefactors cared to lead him. He was still reciting ‘This little piggy went to market’ when Paul turned on the cold shower.
The effect of the ice-cold water was immediate and appalling. George Dewberry brought his fist sharply down on the bridge of Michael’s nose and let out a roar of shocked, and sober, fury which would have brought the Seven Sleepers doubling out of their cave in Ephesus.
‘Shut up, you idiot!’ whispered Paul fiercely through gritted teeth as he fought to control George Dewberry who was plunging and kicking like a young buffalo in the springtime. ‘You’ll have Mr Froud in here!’
‘---Mr Froud!’ George Dewberry bellowed. ‘---Froud!’
He was struck by the alliteration.