The Complete McAuslan Read Online Free PDF Page B

o’ ye,’ said Forbes. ‘Ye’re aye greetin’ at each other.’
    ‘Sharrup,’ said Fletcher. ‘C’mon, get the bottles packed up. Let the man get tae his bed.’
    Daft Bob and McGilvray collected the empties, while Fletcher bossed them, and they all straightened their bonnets, and looked at each other again.
    ‘Aye, weel,’ said Forbes.
    ‘Well,’ I said, and stopped. Some things are impossible to put into words. ‘Well,’ I said again. ‘It was great to see you. Thank you for coming.’
    ‘Ye’ll be seein’ us again,’ said Fletcher.
    ‘Aw-haw-hey,’ said Daft Bob.
    ‘Every mornin’, numbered aff by the right, eh, Heinie?’ said McGilvray.
    ‘That’s the way,’ said Forbes.
    ‘Tallest on the right, shortest on the left.’
    ‘Clean, bright, and slightly oiled.’
    ‘We’re the wee boys.’
    ‘Gi’ the ba’ tae the man wi’ glasses.’
    ‘Here’s tae us, wha’s like us?’
    ‘Aw-haw-hey.’
    ‘Ye gaunae staun’ there a’ night, then?’ demanded Fletcher.
    ‘Ah’m gaun. Ah’m gaun,’ said Daft Bob. ‘Night, sir. Guid New Year.’ They jostled out, saying good-night and a good New Year, and exchanging their incredible slogans.
    ‘Good night,’ I said. ‘Thanks again. Good night, Fletcher. Good night, Forbes. Good night, Daf –, er, Brown. Good night.’
    They clattered off up the corridor, and I closed the door. The room was full of cigarette smoke and bar-room smell, the ash-trays were overflowing, and there was a quarter-full bottle of whisky still on the sidetable, forgotten in the packing. I sat on the edge of my bed feeling about twenty feet tall.
    Their feet sounded on the gravel, and I heard Daft Bob muttering, and being rebuked, as usual, by Fletcher.
    ‘Sharrup, ye animal.’
    ‘Ah’ll no’ sharrup. Ah’ll better go back an’ get it; it was near half-full.’
    ‘Ach, Chick’ll get it in the mornin’.’
    There was a doubt-laden pause, and then Daft Bob: ‘D’ye think it’ll be there in the mornin‘?’
    ‘Ach, for the love o’ the wee wheel!’ exclaimed Fletcher. ‘Are ye worried aboot yer wee bottle? Yer ain, wee totty bottle? Ye boozy bum, ye! D’ye think Darkie’s gaun tae lie there a’ night sookin’ at yer miserable bottle? C‘mon, let’s get tae wir kips.’
    The sound of their footsteps faded away, and I climbed back into bed. In addition to everything else, I had found out who Darkie was.

Play Up, Play Up, and Get Tore In

    The native Highlanders, the Englishmen, and the Lowlanders played football on Saturday afternoons and talked about it on Saturday evenings, but the Glaswegians, men apart in this as in most things, played, slept, ate, drank, and lived it seven days a week. Some soldiering they did because even a peace-time battalion in North Africa makes occasional calls on its personnel, but that was incidental; they were just waiting for the five minutes when they could fall out crying: 'Haw, Wully, sees a ba’.’
    From the moment when the drums beat ‘Johnnie Cope’ at sunrise until it became too dark to see in the evening, the steady thump-thump of a boot on a ball could be heard somewhere in the barracks. It was tolerated because there was no alternative; even the parade ground was not sacred from the small shuffling figures of the Glasgow men, their bonnets pulled down over their eyes, kicking, trapping, swerving and passing, and occasionally intoning, like ugly little high priests, their ritual cries of ‘Way-ull’ and ‘Aw-haw-hey’. The simile is apt, for it was almost a religious exercise, to be interrupted only if the Colonel happened to stroll by. Then they would wait, relaxed, one of them with the ball underfoot, until the majestic figure had gone past, flicking his brow in acknowledgment, and at the soft signal, ‘Right, Wully,’ the ball would be off again.
    I used to watch them wheeling like gulls, absorbed in their wonderful fitba’. They weren’t in Africa or the Army any longer; in imagination they were