Sergeant Nelson of the Guards by Gerald Kersh Page B

says: “I played for Underwood Wednesday.”
    “And are there any market gardeners, or other men who know all about turfing and whatnot?”
    Two more men rise.
    “Excellent. Excellent. Lastly, is there anybody here of education up to matriculation standard?”
    Old Silence stands up.
    “That’s fine.” The sergeant with the book licks a pencil and says: “Names…. You will all report to the Green Lanes Cookhouse for spud-peeling.”
    (“And let that be a lesson for you,” says Brand, grinning: “In the Army, you never volunteer for anything except certain death.”)
    Those of us who have risen go out. A cookhouse sergeant says: “Do you mind eating spuds a little bit wizened?”
    “No.”
    “Then bloodywell peel them.”
    The men left behind congratulate themselves, until a serious-looking Corporal, asking for men who know jig and tool making, the use of the typewriter, the elements of the banjulele and singing, salesmanship, care of livestock, bandaging, fire-fighting, bartending, building, haircutting , carpentering, ladies’ hairdressing, platen-minding, typesetting, fancy lettering, high jumping, and box making, drags in most of the others for floor washing, and, tiring of the joke, asks, all humour apart, for one intelligent man. Johnson leaps up. “You read books, I bet,” says the Corporal. “Ah,” says Johnson. “Then go and swab out the library,” says the Corporal In Waiting, and goes out, while Johnson swears that in this life there is no justice.
    *
    That Sunday is quiet. Recruits in the Naffy tell dark tales of discipline . Men three weeks squadded, already assuming the portentous air of old sweats, ask themselves rhetorically why they did not join something else. The Glorious Fusiliers, says one, do no drill; the Dagenham Foresters, says another, have dulled brasses for active service, and rightly so. Old Silence, pursuing the vexed question of spit-and-polish in the Brigade of Guards, asks the Trained Soldier about it.
    Brand laughs. “You’ll work your boots and brasses up,” he says, “whether you like it or not. So you may as well do it with a good ’eart. When you get round to fighting, I dessay you’ll be told to let your brasses go dull and grease your second-best boots. Meanwhile, you’ll shine.Why, you might ask. Because the Guards have got a tradition of smart turnout, that’s why. I admit you work harder in the Guards than elsewhere . Well, that’s the price you pay for the privilege of being in the ’Ouse’old Brigade. Don’t worry—you’ll learn as much of tactics and field-training and fighting as anybody in the Army; only you’ll be made to get the ’abit of smartness in your appearance. Why? Because we’re the Guards. We’re the Lilywhites, the Coalies, the Coldstreamers. It’s got to be kept up. At Dunkirk, our mob were still pick-outable on account of some of them still shining up their daisy-roots and working in a quick shave, even on the retreat. It’s crazy, I know. But personally, I like it. And so do you. Or if you won’t you will. And if you don’t, you’d better. Gorblimey, we’ve ’ad fellers ’ere like Wild Men o’ Borneo, and turned ’em out neat as a new pin in a few weeks. Carriage! Smartness! That’s the real uniform of the Guards. Because all battledress looks alike. And yet you could pick a Coldstreamer out of a thousand others. It may be a bit tough. Well, blimey, you’ve got to suffer to be beautiful … Ain’t you, you de-licious little peach-blossom?” he says, to Thurstan.
    Before Thurstan can unload the insults which rise and fill his mouth, a bugle sounds, a siren moans, and Brand says:
    “Jerry in the sky. Get in the trench.”
    The Guards’ Depot exploits air-raids, and makes prompt action a part of Guards’ training. We run to cover, and it is then that Sergeant Nelson, who, for eight weeks, will never let us out of his sight, tells us about the Wogs, “light of ear, bloody of hand,” the Arabs; and tells tall