Open Writing

“The what?”

“The Dillinger Battle Crouch.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a position from which you can continue to fire after you have been cut down by the enemy. Look, I’ll demonstrate.”

Lexton positioned himself in the middle of the room and crouched while firing an imaginary Sten gun.

“I’m firing away with my Sten - shtung, shtung, shtung, shtung - when suddenly a bullet enters my head. Pow ! Note that if I were completely upright the blast would hurl me backwards, my weapon would jerk upwards, sending bullets spraying uselessly into the sky, the message to release the trigger not having been sent by my brain. On the other hand, my crouching position compacts the body’s resistance to horizontal bullets and I am able to continue firing in a forward position until I collapse on to my face and not on to my back.”

Rutherford had been watching the demonstration in amazed silence.

“Who the fuck told you that crap?”

“Fisk.”

“I think I’ve heard of him. By all accounts he is mentally disturbed.”

“We all know that. He is nevertheless our weapons instructor.”

“Nowhere in the manual is there any mention of - what did you call it? - the Dillinger Battle Crouch.”

“I’m glad you agree. None of us has been able to find any.”

“Who is this Dillinger when he’s at home?”

“Ah, now there I can tell you something you apparently don’t know. John Dillinger was an American gangster who lived from 1903 to 1934. He came to a sticky end in a shoot out with the FBI. Whether he fell face down with his finger on the trigger I can’t say.”

“What was he doing with a Sten gun?”

“I don’t suppose he had a Sten. More likely he had whatever automatic weapon American gangsters favoured in the 1930s. A Tommy gun, perhaps. According to Fisk, the principal is universal. The weapon is immaterial.”

“Where did Fisk get all this rubbish?”

“He has his sources, it seems, but he’s pretty tight-lipped about them. For reasons which we all know he won’t have read about it. He’s got quite an imagination has Corporal Fisk.”

“The man is barking.”

“Most people would agree with you. But, as I said earlier, he is our weapons instructor. That is why you will find us flopping face down into mud on the firing rage every Tuesday afternoon.”

“The British Army does not taken its guidance on the most effective use of weapons from American gangsters.”

“We know that, but Fisk apparently does not.”

Later, at dinner, he said: “Isn’t there some protocol or other that prevents us meeting like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, officers and other ranks can’t hobnob like this, can they? Even if they were at school together. Bad for discipline and all that.”

“We are not likely to be noticed here. We’re not in uniform. Nobody knows us. We’re just a couple of old friends enjoying a weekend reunion. We go our separate ways on Monday, I to the officers’ quarters in Stoughton and you back to barracks.”

“You haven’t answered my question. I’m not so much worried about myself. Privates are of no importance. But captains ... . well, couldn’t you be court-martialled and cashiered? You‘re a professional, a career soldier. I‘m just a temporary amateur.”

Simon patted his friend’s hand as he raised a wineglass to his lips.
“Let me worry about that. Let’s just enjoy or meal. And thank you for telling me about that idiot Fisk. We’ve got a fair number of oddballs in the unit, but most of them are bright enough not to come to notice. I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks. The lads would appreciate it. He really is making our life a misery.”

*

Years later, whenever Rutherford thought about the beginning of his military career in the late 1940s, it was Fisk and Lexton who came to mind. Fisk, the unpredictable and dangerous psychopath, and Lexton, who never wanted to be a soldier in the first place. It was strange that the paths of the two men, complete strangers, should have crossed in the way that they did.

*

“Lexton, the captain wants to see you. At the double. I want you back here before the training session ends.”

“Right,Corp.”

“Less of your lip. Move it. And get rid of some of that mud on the way.”

Fisk didn’t take kindly to having his sessions interrupted.

“You sent for me, sir,” shouted Lexton, after closing the door and saluting smartly.

“At ease, Simon. God, why do you have to shout? I’m only four feet away.”

“That’s another thing Fisk insists on. Apparently shouting shows respect, alertness and impresses officers. Tell me the man’s been posted. We’re all getting pretty desperate. There’s talk of him having an accident.”

“You shouldn’t have told me that. If he does have one ... . Anywhere, there’s a bit of a mystery surrounding Fisk. He had - I would like to say a distinguished, but a more accurate word would be violent - war record. He was a POW for over a year and seems to have been treated pretty badly. His experiences may be the root of his trouble.”

“Can you get him assessed and invalided out?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Are we meeting this weekend?”

“No. The CO’s away. The 2 i/c wants me to stick around till he gets back. Not that anything ever happens here, but you know what he’s like.”

They both smiled. Major Guinness was a nervous man at the best of times, but particularly fearful when he was called upon to take charge. He had not been happy since he was hauled, protesting, out of a comfortable job behind a desk in Whitehall.

“OK. Following weekend all right?”

“Yes, but we’d better make it The Royal in Uckfield. We’ve become almost regulars at The Bay in Pevensey. Eyebrows are being raised.”

They both heard the door handle being turned.

“Right, Lexton. Better get back to weapon training.”

“Sir!” shouted Lexton. He gave an exaggeratedly correct salute, about-turned sharply, assumed an unseeing, horizontal stare and marched out.

“Was that Lexton?” asked Captain Fossick settling in his seat. “Supercilious bastard. I never know when he’s taking the piss.”

Rutherford laughed.

*

The Royal was warm and comfortable and the two young men were happy to linger over dinner. Inevitably the conversation turned towards ..

“There’s something you ought to know,” said Lexton, “but I am reluctant to tell you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have bloody mentioned it, should you? Why are you reluctant?”

“Well, I suppose it’s snitching, in a way.”

“We finished school some years ago. If it’s about Fisk, as I suspect it is, I need to know. I’ve seen confidential reports on the man and I’m pretty certain he ought not to be where he is now.”

“He’s been bringing ammo back to the camp from the firing range. And nobody knows why. Worrying, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than worrying. It’s strictly forbidden, as you know. I can have his billet searched. In fact, I’ll get on the ‘phone now.” He stood up.

“Hang on. I happen to know he’s away from camp this weekend. He’s got a sister in Brighton who, rumour has it, keeps an eye on him and insists he visits her once a month. You can’t search unless he’s present, except in exceptional circumstances.”

“You seem to know a great deal about Fisk.”

“There’s a toad amongst us, I’m afraid, who sucks up to him, gives him fags and bottles of this ‘n that from time to time. Makes life easier, you know what I mean. That’s how we all know a lot more about Fisk that you’d think.”

Rutherford looked at him.

“You know I can’t ignore what you’ve said.”

“Yes, I know that. But don’t spoil our weekend. Go over to his billet on Monday evening and talk things over.”

“Simon, this is the army. We don’t ‘talk things over‘. I go along there with the RSM and a couple of squaddies and take the place apart.”

“OK, OK. Have it your military way. But do it on Monday, will you? And for Christ‘s sake don‘t reveal your sources.”

“I may be only an officer in the British Army, Simon, but I’m not that stupid.”

So matters were left as they were over the weekend.

*

“Corporal Fisk. RSM Alcott here. Open the door.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just open the door,Fisk. I’m here with Captain Rutherford.”

There was sound of movement within and Alcott stood back. Rutherford and two soldiers were in the background. What happened next took everyone by surprise. The door was opened at the same time as the roar of speeding bullets shattered the evening calm. As Alcott reeled backwards with blood spurting from his chest, Rutherford caught a glimpse of a man in full uniform with campaign medals shining clearly against the khaki of his battle dress tunic.

He was crouched over a Sten gun, the magazine of which he emptied without pause, before withdrawing it and adding another from a pile of several on the floor beside him. Rutherford threw himself forward towards Fisk just as the trigger was pressed for the second time, but he was thrust aside by one of the soldiers screaming “No! No! No!”

The soldier seized Fisk round the waist and both men fell heavily to the floor cursing and shouting. By the time others came running down the corridor there was no movement from either man.

*

The camp has long gone. It was replaced in the 1950s by a council estate, which is itself due for renewal. There are not many people in the village who even remember that at one time there was a military establishment there which sent trained fighting men all over the world.

The village church is there, of course, but attendance is so poor that services are held only every other Sunday and there is no longer a resident priest. The churchyard is also still there, but it is full and villagers are now buried several miles away.

An elderly man regularly places flowers on a grave located on the south side and in warm weather brings a collapsible stool. The inscription on the headstone is simple: To the memory of Simon Lexton who died in violent circumstances not far from this spot on 4th April 1949. There is a quotation. John 15:13.