The Tune That They Play by Ronald Bassett

Author:Ronald Bassett [Bassett, Ronald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2015-11-24T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

‘Ye’re a bloddy dishgrace ter the Ridgement, Whelan,’ Sergeant Gamble snarled. ‘Look at ye — a sack o’ praties tied up wid string. Hev ye niver stood straight in ye loif? Holy St Michael! Ef we’re recruitin’ bloddy Kilkenny bog-peasants thet’s niver walked upright loik men, thet don’t know the diff’rence ev left an’ roight, an’ niver washes below their chins — whit’s the future ev the British Arrmy?’ Sergeant Gamble positively bristled. ‘Hev ye seen yeself? Hev ye?’ He wheeled, his immaculate boots crashing, his face puce. ‘Look et him!’ He invited the attention of the platoon of recruits and awkward men. ‘Hev ye heerd ev Homo Saypeens?’ They had not. ‘Ef ye read books — ef ye kin read — Homo Saypeens es the ultimate en the development o’ mankind.’ He leaned forward, his face inches from Whelan’s. ‘But theer’s some craytchers thet’s niver developed, bedad. They’re called missin’ links!’ He paused. ‘Ye’re a bloddy missin’ link, Whelan! Jasus, I’d not be surprised ef ye wuz covered wid hair under thet dishgustin’ uniform. And thet’ — he pointed — ‘es a Martini-Henry rifle, the foinest infantry weapon en the worrld — not a bloddy pitch-fork!’ He strode three paces, then whirled again. ‘Theer’s ridgements thet recruits missin’ links, loik the Dublins en the Connaughts, see? This’ — he roared —’es the 24th Redgement o’ Foot! Howard’s Greens, the Bengal Tigers! The jewel o’ the British Army!’ He slumped dramatically. ‘An’ we hev things loik Private Whelan!’

Sergeant Gamble was an Irishman in a regiment drawn predominantly from Wales and the northern midlands of England. The names on the battalion’s muster-roll were those of the Rhonda, Merthyr Tydfil and Abergavenny — names like Griffiths, Jones, Morgan, Owens and Williams. If there was such a thing as an average British soldier, then these men could be said, in terms of morals, to be better than average. Many were the sons of mining villages where Chapel elders firmly regulated local behaviour, or of Sheffield cutleries where employees were bound by fraternal trade union loyalties.

Sergeant Gamble made no secret of his Irish origins, but he was also a good soldier, and he was coldly incensed when faced with the inadequacy of a recruit from the Emerald Isle. It was painful but true that, compared with the Welshmen, these uncouth, illiterate products of rural Ireland were an embarrassment. No Irish recruit to the 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment could expect concessions from Sergeant Gamble.

And Private Whelan was a disappointing specimen of Irish manhood. He was an insignificant, weasel-lie man, round-shouldered, awkwardly elbowed, with a dark-skinned face from which no amount of shaving would remove a slate-coloured shadow. No tailor would have measured such a frame with confidence — least of all a quartermaster-sergeant, accustomed to a swift glance at a recruit, then shouting, Tunic three, breeches five, boots eight, helmet seven!’ Most men broadly speaking, were of similar shape. Private Whelan was not. His cuffs fell to his knuckles, his breeches cascaded

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