The Complete McAuslan (22 page)

Looking at him, as he stood listening in evident agitation while they explained what taking the oath meant, I decided that while he was certainly clean for once, that was about all you could say for him. He looked like Sixteen-string Jack on his way to Tyburn, keenly conscious of his position.

Einstein got up, and McAuslan clung to him mentally like a monkey to its mother. Then Einstein started questioning him, slowly and gently, and to my surprise McAuslan responded well. No, he had not taken the order seriously; he had thought Baxter was at the kidding; who ever heard of a fella bein’ told tae get intae a pilla-fight? In a military career that stretched from Tobruk onwards (trust Einstein) McAuslan had never heard of such a thing. Oh, aye, Baxter had been smilin’; grinnin’ a’ ower his face, a’ the fellas in the room had seen it.

‘Have you ever refused an order, McAuslan?’ said Einstein.

‘S’help ma Goad, no, sir. Ye can ask Mr MacNeill.’

‘You realise that if you have, and been convicted of it, that may appear during this trial? In which case, you know, you can be charged with perjury?’

McAuslan called the gods of Garscube Road to witness his innocence. I was pretty sure he hadn’t ever been disobedient – dirty, idle, slovenly, drunk, you name it, McAuslan had been it, but probably he had never wilfully disobeyed a lawful command.

‘But, look here, McAuslan,’ said Einstein. ‘You said some pretty rough things to the corporal, you know. We heard them. How about those?’

‘That wis when he got nasty, and started sayin’ Ah wis dirty,’ said McAuslan vehemently. ‘Ah’m no’ havin’ that. Ah’m no’ dirty. He’d nae business tae say that.’

It sounded convincing, although I was certain Einstein had rehearsed him in it. Despite his original protestations to me and to the C.O., when his rage was hot against the upstart Baxter, McAuslan must know he was generally regarded as personally fit only for the dead cart. There had been times in the past when he had seemed to take a satisfaction in his squalor; he had been forcibly washed more than once.

‘So, this is your case, then.’ Einstein, hands on hips, stared at the floor. ‘You thought the corporal was joking, and so you didn’t take his order seriously. When he said you were dirty and should enter the pillow-fight to get a wash, you resented it, but you didn’t think he really meant you to enter the pillow-fight?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘And then he charged you, and you swore at him.’

‘Aye.’

‘You aren’t charged with swearing at him, of course,’ Einstein was casual. ‘And you contend that when Corporal Baxter says you’re a dirty soldier, he is not telling the truth.’

‘He’s not, sir. Ah’m no’ dirty. Ye can ask Mr Mac . . .’

Not if you’ve any sense, you won’t, I thought. I’d do a lot for McAuslan, but perjuring myself to the extent of saying he wasn’t dirty would have been too much.

‘Tell me, McAuslan,’ said Einstein confidentially. ‘The reason why you didn’t take the order seriously was that you felt that it was silly and unreasonable, wasn’t it? I mean, the corporal was really telling you, in a rather nasty way, to get washed. That right? And you knew that wasn’t sensible. Oh, I know you’d been on ablutions, but his order implied that you were habitually filthy, didn’t it? And you knew that wasn’t right?’

Prosecution rose languidly. ‘Really, I feel the witness is being led, rather. At this rate defence might as well give his evidence for him.’

There was a bit of legal snarling, and the president mumbled at them, and then Einstein resumed.

‘Did you think such an order, given seriously, could reasonably apply to you?’

‘No, sir. Ah didnae.’

God forgive you, McAuslan, I thought. Morally, I may be on your side, but legally you’re a perjured ruffian. And Einstein, the clown, was making it worse.

‘You take a pride in your appearance, McAuslan?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Now I’d heard everything.

Einstein sat down, and Prosecution came slowly to his feet, stropping his claws. McAuslan turned to face him as if he were one of the Afrika Korps. Now, I thought, you poor disorderly soldier, you’re for it, but somehow it didn’t turn out that way. McAuslan knew his story, and he stuck to it: he hadn’t disobeyed, he wasn’t dirty. Prosecution put his questions suavely, sneeringly, angrily, and Einstein never made a murmur, but McAuslan just sat there with his ugly head lowered and said, ‘No, sir,’ or ‘Ah didnae, sir’. Prosecution’s cross-examination was falling flat; you can’t play clever tricks with a witness who just persists in dogged denial, and eventually he gave it up. McAuslan went back to the accused’s chair, and I felt that on balance he had made not a bad show—better than I’d expected, by a long way.

Then the blow fell. Einstein called Private Brown, who testified that Baxter had been leering wickedly, and had not intended the order seriously; not at first, anyway. Baxter thought he was good, Brown opined, and often took the mickey out of the fellas. So far so good; Brown stuck to his story under cross-examination, and then Prosecution drove his horse and cart through the middle of the defence’s case.

‘The court has been told that the accused didn’t take the order seriously,’ he informed Brown, ‘and it has been implied that his reason for this attitude was that such an order couldn’t apply to him. He contends – the defence will correct me if I’m wrong – that he is a clean soldier, and that therefore the order to enter the pillow-fight (and consequently get a bath) couldn’t be taken seriously. What do you think of that?’

Einstein was up like a shot. ‘Witness’s opinion of evidence is not itself evidence.’

Prosecution bowed. ‘All right, I’ll change the question. Is McAuslan a clean soldier?’

Brown, who was well named Daft Bob, grinned. ‘Ah widnae say that, sir.’

You could feel the court stiffen.

‘You wouldn’t?’ Prosecution’s voice was honeyed. ‘What would you call him?’

Brown, realising that this mattered, and torn between the fear of the court and loyalty to one who was, after all, his comrade, hesitated.

‘Ah don’t know, sir.’

‘Oh, yes, you do. Is he clean or not, smart or not?’

‘He’s no’ very clean, sir.’ A pause. ‘We had to wash him once.’

‘So his contention that he couldn’t believe the order was serious is simply nonsense?’

‘Ah . . . Ah suppose so, sir.’

Einstein did his best in re-examination, but it was no use. No honest witness from the battalion could have called McAuslan anything but dirty, and Einstein had made his cleanliness the keystone of the defence. Why he had, I couldn’t guess, but he had cooked McAuslan all the way. Prosecution was looking serene when Daft Bob stood down, the court was looking solemn and stern, Einstein was looking worried.

There was a pause, and then the president asked if the defence had any further witnesses. Einstein looked blank for a minute, with his mouth open, said ‘Errr’ at some length, and then ended abruptly, ‘Yessir. Yes, one more, sir.’ He stood up, straightened his rumpled tunic, and called out:

‘Regimental Sergeant-Major Mackintosh!’

If he had called General de Gaulle I’d have been less surprised. I couldn’t think of a good reason for calling the R.S.M., just a few bad ones. If Einstein was hoping to get helpful evidence here, he was, as the Jocks say, away with the fairies.

The R.S.M. came in, like Astur the great Lord of Luna, with stately stride. He was in great shape, from the glittering silver of his stag’s head badge to the gloriously polished black of his boots, six and a quarter feet of kilted splendour. He crashed to a halt before the president, swept him a salute, took the oath resoundingly, kissed the book – the sheer military dignity of that one action would have won Napoleon’s heart – and sat down, folding the pleats of his kilt deftly beneath him. Einstein approached him like a slightly nervous ambassador before a throne.

‘You are John Mackintosh, Regimental Sergeant-Major of this battalion?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘I see, yes.’ Having established that, Einstein seemed uncertain how to proceed. ‘Er . . . tell the court, please, er . . . Mr Mackintosh – have you always been with this regiment?’

‘No, sir,’ said the R.S.M. ‘Having completed my early service in this regiment, I was for twelve years in the Brigade of Guards. The Scots Guards, to be exact.’

‘Thank you,’ said Einstein. ‘May I ask what rank you attained – in the Guards?’

‘Drill Sergeant, sir. I served in that capacity at the Pirbright depot.’

Which is to say that Mackintosh had been one of the two or three smartest and most expert parade-ground soldiers in the world. It didn’t surprise me.

‘And after that?’

‘I was attached to the Second Commando durin’ the late war, sir, before returnin’ to the Scots Guards in 1943. Shortly afterwards I was transferred to this battalion.’

‘As R.S.M.?’

‘In my present capacity, sir; yes.’

Which rounded off his military service nicely, but hadn’t done much to clear up the case of Rex v. McAuslan. Einstein was scratching himself; Prosecution was looking slightly amused.

‘Tell me, Mr Mackintosh,’ said Einstein. ‘Having served in the Guards, as you’ve told us, would you say . . . well, would you disagree, if I said you were probably a leading authority on military standards and deportment?’

The R.S.M. considered this, sitting upright like a Caesar, one immaculate hose-topped leg thrust forward, hand on knee. He permitted himself a half-smile.

‘I would nott disagree, sir – no. But if there is any credit in that, it belongs entirely to the Guards, and to my present regiment.’

‘Well, that’s very nicely put,’ said Einstein. ‘However, I think we’d all agree that you are an expert in that field.’

Go on, I thought, ask him what he thinks of McAuslan; let’s really go out with a bang, so that we can all whimper later.

‘What is your opinion,’ said Einstein carefully, ‘of the standard of drill and dress in this battalion?’

‘It is high, sir,’ said the R.S.M.

‘You’ve seen to that?’

‘Not I alone, sir. I believe I can say, with some confidence, that the battalion will bear comparison wi’ any in Scotland, or wi’ any regiment of the Line.’

‘With the Guards?’ asked Einstein mischievously.

‘Hardly that, sir.’ The R.S.M. gave another of his paternal half-smiles. ‘Capability of smartness,’ he went on impressively, ’is a pre-requis-ite of a Guardsman. This is not so in a Highland regiment, to the same extent. We do nott hand-pick for size, for example. But I would have not the slightest quaahlms, sirr, in matchin’ this battalion, for turn-oot and drill, wi’ any in the worrld outside the Brigade.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ said Einstein, pleasantly. ‘I think, in fact, if I remember rightly, that this battalion recently provided a very special honour guard for a royal occasion, didn’t it? Which would bear out what you’ve been telling us?’

‘You’re referring, sir, to the guard-mounting at Edinburgh Castle? Yes, the battalion provided the guard on that occasion.’ The R.S.M. glanced in my direction. ‘Mr MacNeill, there, was in charge of the guard-mountin’. With myself, of course.’

Then it hit me. I saw where Einstein was going, and it froze my marrow. Oh, yes, the R.S.M. and I had been there, and we weren’t the only ones.

‘Of course,’ Einstein was continuing. ‘It was a very responsible occasion, I imagine, for both of you. On such occasions, Mr Mackintosh, I imagine that really extra-special care is taken with the guard – with its appearance, turn-out, and so on?’

‘Naturally so, sir.’

‘The battalion will give of its very best, in fact – in drill, turn-out, and so forth?’

‘Yes, sir.’ There was a slight frown on the R.S.M.’s face; he was wondering why Einstein was hammering so obvious a point.

‘But of course, that’s a question of the men involved, isn’t it? That’s what it boils down to – you put your best men on to a guard like that. In front of royalty, I mean, only the best will do, won’t it?’

Still frowning, the R.S.M. said, ‘I think that is quite obvious, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Einstein happily. ‘I’m glad you agree. Tell me, Mr Mackintosh: do you see anyone in this room who was a member of that guard of honour? That very special guard on which, as you’ve told us, only the very smartest and best in the battalion would do?’

The R.S.M. had once stopped a burst from a German mortar; I doubt if it hit him harder than the implication of what he had been saying when he digested the question, surveyed the room, and saw McAuslan – McAuslan who, although he was the central figure of the trial, hadn’t been referred to since the R.S.M. entered the room, and whom Mackintosh had naturally not connected with all the questions about smartness and turn-out and the battalion’s standards. But, if he had been slow before, the R.S.M. was fast enough to see now how he had been hooked. Perhaps he blinked, but that was all.

‘Do you see anyone of that guard, Mr Mackintosh?’ Einstein repeated gently.

‘The accused,’ said the R.S.M., looking at McAuslan as though he was Hamlet’s father. ‘I see Private McAuslan.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from one of the court; all three of them stiffened.

‘The accused,’ repeated Einstein slowly, ‘was a member of that guard, which consists, I think, of five private soldiers apart from N.C.O.s. Five men out of a battalion of – how many?’

‘Seven hundred and forty-six on parade strength, sir, thirty-two on leave, five sick, eleven on courses . . .’

‘Quite, quite,’ interrupted Einstein. ‘We get the point.’ He sighed and took off his glasses. ‘So when five private soldiers were needed for the most important ceremonial occasion – a royal occasion – that your battalion has participated in since the war, I dare say, when smartness, appearance,’ – he paused – ‘and cleanliness are all-important – McAuslan was one of the five on parade?’

Nicely put, you had to admit it.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the R.S.M. slowly.

‘Thank you, Mr Mackintosh, no more questions,’ said Einstein, and sat down. I was too scared to look at Prosecution. Let him bound to his feet now and ask Mackintosh his opinion of McAuslan’s bodily condition, and the R.S.M. was caught between perjury and ridicule. And not only he; the battalion could have been made to look a laughing-stock. But Prosecution, when I dared to look, was plainly too bewildered to think quickly enough, and Mackintosh knew better than to give him a chance. The R.S.M. rose, as though that was all, crashed his foot on the boards, gave the court a look that commanded dismissal if ever a look did, saluted, turned about, and strode majestically from the room. Prosecution made no attempt to have him stopped; either he was too shaken by the R.S.M.’s bombshell, or he simply didn’t think it worth while cross-examining. At any rate he just sat there, looking slightly peeved, while the R.S.M. strode out (only Einstein and I knew he was running away, for the first time in his life). The door closed.