Private's Progress Read Online Free PDF Page B

Stanley had hardly time to take in the wire-netted windows, cheerless concrete floor and creaking wooden beds before the hut sergeant appeared.
    “Gather round. This is the Holding-in Company. You must make yourself familiar with Company Standing Orders, posted on the tree opposite Company Office. Company detail is posted up on the next-door tree. Any questions?”
    He looked round aggressively and began to read out a series of anxious “Hut Standing Orders” of his own confection. They mainly concerned the table.
    “Boots will not be cleaned on the table.”
    “Rifles will not be cleaned on the table.”
    “Cigarette ash and ink will not be spilt on the table.”
    “The table will not be damaged in any way.”
    By his side stood the vulnerable table, its edges chipped and cigarette-burned, the surface scored and stained with dark patches of oil.
    “First parade tomorrow, rouse p’rade 0715 hours. Bed spaces will be swep’ out before rouse p’rade.”
    *
    Seven-fourteen and a misty morning. Stanley wandered through the woodland paths, mug in hand, on the way back from breakfast. Feverish cadets flitted past him towards the Company Office. A sergeant of the staff leaned on the wooden railings at the crossroads, calling in a mild tone: “Come along now, you idle gentlemen.”
    The morning was devoted to lectures. The Commanding Officer, brisk and sunburnt, reviewed their coming training and warned them against tipping the permanent staff. A brigadier from the Indian Army, touting for volunteers, showed lantern slides of the Martial Races: Punjabis, Rajputs, Sikhs, Madrassis, Gurkhas. He cleared his throat at frequent intervals so that it sounded as if he didn’t believe a word of it.
    “They need you young British officers because they trust you. Hrm. They regard you as—hrm—cleanliving. Hrm. Honest, trustworthy and competent. Hrm.”
    He would like to relate a typical incident.
    “… and the Havildar whispered: ‘Sahib, we are surrounded.’”
    After a heavy lunch a strange officer took them out on a forced march. In three hours, running down hills, they covered fourteen miles. The officer was alone in being cheerful at the end of it.
    “Foot inspection in ten minutes,” he cried merrily, pulling at an enormous moustache. “Feet will be clean, bright and slightly oily.”
    And at six-thirty the hut sergeant read out a list of names.
    “Aforementioned cadets parade tomorrow morning 0700 hours for proceeding off to War Office Selection Board at Redgate.”
    *
    Stanley and his companions got down from the truck at Redgate and formed up automatically in threes.
    A long-haired and rather decadent sergeant-major watched them in some pain, hands in pockets.
    Egan, who had been put in charge, brought them to attention.
    “Oh dear,” said the sergeant-major. “There’s no need to do that here.”
    He leaned back against a tree.
    “Now take your caps off,” he said. “That’s a lot better. I have to tell everybody. You can do just as you please here. Change into civvie shoes after I’ve finished talking to you. Now, are you all here?”
    He removed one hand from a pocket and read out names.
    “Right. Well, now go and get those armbands over there and put them on. Lovely. Well, civvie shoes, and then come up to the house.”
    They were led to a large Edwardian dwelling, porticoed and ornate, set in a maze of rhododendrons. Inside, every ground-floor-room door gave a glimpse of crowded oil paintings.
    “Take a seat,” suggested the sergeant-major, leading them into a deep-carpeted lounge. It was hung with impressionists; a log fire hissed in the grate. Near the french windows a Steinway grand gleamed back at the fire. Stanley sank into a deep armchair.
    The sergeant-major leaned on the bust of one of the gilt angels supporting the mantelpiece.
    “Well, well,” he said, “I suppose you’ve heard a lot of horrible tales about these Selection Boards, eh? Really speaking, you’ll find it not hard at