The Complete McAuslan (23 page)

After that the president called for closing addresses, and Prosecution got slowly to his feet and repeated the order-was-clearly-given-and-disobeyed line; it sounded lame, but it was all he could do. Then Einstein got up and laid about him. It was fine, impassioned stuff which left the impression that McAuslan was the R.S.M.’s admired and special favourite, doted upon for his salubrious brilliance and perfect cleanliness. How could this model soldier, this paragon who had been specially selected for the guard of honour (I tried not to remember the true circumstances) be represented – as the prosecution had tried to represent him – as noisome and unseemly? Plainly, Einstein asserted, Corporal Baxter was mistaken, to say the least of it. Plainly, McAuslan was entitled to think that he was being jested with when he was told to enter the pillow-fight and get washed. His personal cleanliness, which was the crux of the whole affair, had just been demonstrated in the most convincing manner, by a highly senior warrant officer who judged by the standards of the Brigade of Guards. And so on. It would have made you weep; it really would.

The court was out for less than twenty minutes. They found McAuslan not guilty.

‘Key witness at the last minute,’ said Einstein to me as he shovelled his papers away. ‘Never fails. And why? Let me tell you, mate. Court-martials are human, unlike judges; they like you to make their flesh creep; they want you to slip the ace down your sleeve just when all is lost. “Make ’em feel warm and clever, son, and you’ll sit on the Woolsack yet,” my dear old dad used to say. Mind you, that R.S.M. of yours is a bloody jewel, he really is. Perfect witness. Ah well,’ he buckled his brief-case up, ‘that’s show business. See you in court, old man.’

It is a matter of record that Private McAuslan, on realising that he was not going to be shot, shambled straight from the court to the battalion sports office and there entered for the inter-regimental pillow-fight. He was not going to have it supposed, he explained, that he was feart. Far from it; his cleanliness having been established by process of law – Justice on this occasion not merely being blindfolded but having a bag over her head as well – he was aflame to get on that pole and belt the hell oot o’ thae ither fowk from the ither mobs. He had, he observed, shown that – Baxter that he couldnae talk tae him like that; now, let him be provided with a pillow and give him some fighting room.

His entry being accepted, he went to bask in the glory which briefly surrounds all soldiers who have faced the ultimate military trial and got away with it. Not that there was much congratulation from his fellows; the battalion simply shook its head and remarked that he was as lucky as he was dirty. But the Bullet-Headed Little Bandits, Donnie and Davie, rejoiced in his delivery, and delighted in the rumour that Corporal Baxter had wept on hearing the verdict, and had vowed to nail McAuslan for insolence in entering for the pillow-fight after all.

Saturday was clear and brilliant, and the sports field was all gay dresses and uniforms; the women were wearing the ‘new look’ then, with ankle-strap shoes and big, bucket hats; the sun shone on green grass and white marquees and panting Highlanders in singlets; there were refreshments and small talk and the tinkle of well-bred laughter, and in the distance the beat of pipes and drums from the little arena where the dancing and piping were being judged. Royalty was there in the person of a Duchess, surrounded by a gracefully inclining crowd from which there rose a continual hum of murmured pleasantries and nervous jealousy. There were officers of rank, blazered civilians, elderly gentlemen with kilts too long and memories even longer; young officers whose accents had grown remarkably refined overnight flirted with the Edinburgh belles; there were the occasional rumbles of applause as a race finished, and much calculating as the results came in to decide which regiment was out in front; the pipe-sergeant, skipping with nervousness, was there to hustle the Adjutant, flushed from his victory in the high jump, to the dancing stage, inquiring anxiously about strains and ruptures; the various colonels affected a fine disinterest in the competitive side of things and watched the scoreboard like hawks; starters’ guns cracked, debs squeaked, subalterns giggled, sergeants swore softly, hats were raised, glasses were emptied, programmes were consulted, and I weighed up the lean, sallow Cameron Highlander who had clipped two seconds off my time in the heats of the quarter, and wondered if I had an extra five yards somewhere in me for the final.

As it turned out, I hadn’t. In spite of the gallant blocking tactics of Corporal Pudden, that Cameron hung at my elbow like a shadow, and in the final straight, when he drew ahead, I made my burst too soon and hadn’t anything left for the last twenty yards. He could have beaten me anywhere, any time, I think, so it made no odds. A Black Watch came third.

We took the relay, however, no thanks to me, for running fourth I inherited a lead of thirty yards which a lanky Seaforth reduced to five; he came desperately near to catching me at the finish, but at the risk of thrombosis and nervous exhaustion I managed to stay in front.

We were doing respectably enough, one way and another, for the tug-of-war team were having a field day in the heats of that event, thanks to the colossal weight of the battalion cooks, under their sergeant, and the tremendous brawn of Provost Sergeant McGarry and Wee Wullie, who was the anchor. The cook sergeant, or master gyppo, was only about five feet high, but he was about eighteen stone in weight, and his assistant cooks were full of high living and endurance. McGarry would have given a gorilla a run for its money, and Wee Wullie, the rope like a thread in his paw, was as immovable as the city hall. They pulled a wiry H.L.I. team to pieces in the first round, and walked away with the Argylls in the second, to the great satisfaction of the pipe-sergeant.

‘The Campbells iss beat,’ said he. ‘Glory to God and to the master gyppo, see the champion size of him. He is like Donald Dinnie for strength, or A. A. Cameron that could lift a Clydesdale horse and cart. Wait you till they meet the Black Watch in the final, and some of the Colonel’s good manners will disappear; he cannae abide the Black Watch. I don’t mind them mysel’; it’s the Argylls I cannae stomach. I’ll go over to their pipey, Sergeant Macarthur, in a minute and have a wee gloat.’

The day wore on in a golden haze; I spent most of my time lolling on a grassy bank, smoking the cigarettes which I had been avoiding while in training, strolling up to the marquee for lunch, full of content that the battalion was acquitting itself well (not that the sports officer gets any credit for that, only blame if they do badly), and stopping by the children’s sports in the afternoon to watch Donnie and Davie perform in the infants’ foot-race. A good proportion of the crowd were here, including the Duchess and her train; children get them every time.

Fortunately the well-bred spectators were at a sufficient distance not to see the raw work that was being pulled in some of the events. I watched a tiny blonde of the Argyll and Sutherlands take the egg-and-spoon race with her egg firmly clamped down by a thumb, and in the boys’ obstacle race things happened during the crawl under the tarpaulin that would have disgraced a gladiatorial combat. One unfortunate little Seaforth emerged into the light crying, with his belt knotted round his ankles – yes, there are lessons in imperial history even in a regimental children’s athletic meeting.

But the infants’ foot-race was a horror. I had reassured myself by careful inquiry beforehand that the wise money was riding on Davie at odds on, with Donnie evens and no one else quoted. The thing appeared to be sewn up, and the Bullet-Headed Little Bandits set a cracking pace after some excellent elbow-work at the start. They were neck and neck to within feet of the tape, and then Donnie stumbled, his brother checked instinctively, and a foxy-faced little ruffian in the Camerons shot through to take the decision literally by a head.

There was light laughter and applause from the gallery, and obscene lamentation from the defeated participants. I saw Davie’s little gargoyle face distorted with grief as the stewards shooed him away, while Donnie appeared to be entering some form of official protest; he almost caught the Cameron child by the tea-tent, but fear lent the winner wings and he escaped. I reflected that it was going to take more than a mere bedtime story to console the twins for this.

I was studying the scoreboard back at the main arena when the pipe-sergeant skipped up to announce that we had come third in the piping and second in the dancing, which wass not too bad at all, at all, ‘although mind you, Mr MacNeill, sir, there is chudges there that are more concerned to give the prizes to regiments wi’ royal colonels-in-chief than to honest dancers. I’m no’ sayin’ the princess had anythin’ to do wi’ it, mind, but there’s an H.L.I. man yonder wi’ a winner’s ticket an’ him wi’ no more grace and music than the M.O.’s dog. He iss chust a yokel.’

‘Never mind,’ I said, counting up. ‘If we take a place in the pillow-fight and win the tug-of-war we’ll finish top of this heap yet.’ They were the only events left, and from all over the ground people were converging on the space in front of the stand where the pillow-fight tank stood below the royal box; the preliminary rounds were already being decided amidst shrieks of laughter and monumental splashings, and the pipey and I made our way round until we could get a view of the tank and the combatants crouched precariously on the pole two feet above the water’s chilly surface.

The science of pillow-fighting lies in the balance. You sit astride the pole, legs dangling or crossed beneath it, and hammer your opponent with your pillow (which after the first few rounds is sopping wet and heavy). The trick is hitting with controlled force, for if you swing wildly and miss, your own momentum will put you in the drink.

McAuslan didn’t know this, but he had a technique of his own, and it worked. Of course, being more ape than man he had an advantage, but no idea of how to exploit it. He just sat astride, ankles locked, hair plastered down, head sunk between his shoulders, face shining with bestial fear, and clung to the pole like a limpet. Let them hit him all they wanted, he didn’t care; the word went round that he was paralysed with fear at the thought of contact with water, which may well have been true. At any event, he won two bouts against opponents who overbalanced in their energy, while McAuslan, without striking a blow, concentrated on staying perpendicular.

His third fight was a closer thing, for he was up against the Seaforth colonel’s batman, a herculean thug who battered so hard that McAuslan fell sideways but managed to keep his feet wrapped round the pole, and hung head down above the water. The batman thrashed away at him, leaning over to get at him, and McAuslan in his desperation managed to catch the other’s pillow and drag him down to destruction.

This feat received the biggest cheer of the day, while McAuslan, clinging on like some great sloth, worked his way along the pole to safety.

‘That brute’s prehensile,’ muttered the Seaforth colonel, and our colonel, the very one who had seen McAuslan consigned to a court-martial, said happily that he wouldn’t be surprised.

It would be nice to record that McAuslan continued to triumph through the final round, but it didn’t happen. I was beginning to wonder if Corporal Baxter’s well-meant efforts to introduce our contestant to water were not going to be frustrated after all, when he met his match. It was an epic contest, in its way, for McAuslan was pitted in the final against the Argyll’s padre, a fat and sporting cleric, toughened by countless General Assemblies, and with a centre of gravity so low that he was practically immovable.

He swung a powerful pillow, but for once McAuslan, supposing no doubt that since his opponent was a man of God he would be a soft touch, came out swinging himself. They clobbered each other heartily for a few seconds, and then McAuslan’s pillow slipped from his hand, and he was left defenceless. He gave a despairing cry, the crowd roared, and the padre, full of the lust of holy slaughter like Archbishop Turpin at Roncesvalles, humphed along the pole for the kill. He brandished his pillow aloft, and McAuslan, all decency gone, grappled with him; they swayed together for a moment, and then with shrieks of shipwreck and foundered mariners, they plunged into the tank.

The surface boiled and heaved for a few moments, and then the padre emerged with a fine porpoise action, and was understood to complain that McAuslan had bitten his foot. Presently the culprit broke surface, looking like Grendel’s mother, to be disqualified for wrestling and ungentlemanly conduct, or whatever it is called under pillow-fighting rules. It was fair enough, I suppose, and my sympathies were with the limping padre, Argyll though he was. Any man who has had McAuslan gnawing at him under four feet of water deserves all the commiseration he can get.

After this the tug-of-war was an anti-climax, especially as we disposed of the Black Watch in two straight pulls, despite the fact that Wee Wullie had obviously taken a liquid lunch (‘weel gassed,’ observed the pipe-sergeant, ‘stiffer than a caber’) and insisted on pulling sideways instead of straight back. This seemed to alarm the Black Watch more than his own side, who were used to him, and the massive strength of McGarry and the master gyppo did the rest.

There remained only the prize-giving, presided over by the Duchess, with R.S.M. Mackintosh beside her in full fig, roaring out the names as the winners came forward. If you have seen one sports prize-giving you have seen them all; the polite clapping and murmurs of ‘Ahhm, well done’ from the Quality gathered behind the platform, and the cries of ‘Aw-haw-hey, we’re a wee boys’ from the hoi-polloi out in front as their champions are rewarded; the little table with its silverware and certificates; the tousled competitors hurrying up to shake hands and receive their prizes; the cool Duchess (or whoever it is) in her picture hat, smiling and offering pleasant congratulations – it may happen elsewhere, but there is something uniquely British about it; it is one of those pointless important rituals that we could not conceivably give up, especially if it happens to be raining.