Open Writing

John ate a sombre breakfast with his aunt and uncle before leaving them at the gate waving goodbye. They'd wanted to go with him to station but he said his goodbyes at home. Mary was in tears and Joe gave him one of his big hugs saying simply, "Take care of thisen, lad. An' if tha wants owt let us know." Then John left.

As the train raced down the valley, he looked across at the Clemences' house. It was just visible from the carriage window and he guessed Ann would be inside. Then it was gone and he was glad to be going away. The storm the previous day had cleared the air and the valley looked fresh, washed clean of the grime and dust which had accumulated during weeks of drought.

The clatter of the train's wheels, its steam flying past and other familiar sounds and sights brought back memories: his daily trips to university and the times he'd gone with Ann unknown to her mother; the time only weeks earlier they'd travelled abroad together; and his heart ached for the past.
He arrived in London with a couple of hours to kill before he caught the train to Farnborough, where lorries were waiting to pick up his draft for Aldershot. He toyed with idea of sight-seeing, but he'd no stomach for that and sat with the other conscripts dully watching the world go by.

The crowd of commuters thinned to a trickle till only knots of conscripts dotted the concourse, or huddled round a tea-vendor. They spoke quietly, no joking or banter. Some were white-faced, miles from homes they'd never left before in Scotland or Wales. London was an alien place to suddenly be thrust into. So was the army.

The announcement for his train jerked them to life and they surged towards the barrier. Beyond, the train was already waiting, its driver and fireman lounging over the side of their cab idly watching the conscripts file by. Clouds of steam from a train leaving the adjacent platform enshrouded him as he walked on, looking unsuccessfully for an empty carriage to hide away. He was in no mood to make idle conversation,
but he needn't have worried. He was down south. No one spoke all the way to Farnborough.

As soon as they left the train, harsh military voices assailed them obscenely on all sides, bawling out their names and chivvying them into line on the station forecourt. As they shuffled into a dog's leg, they were screamed at by corporals and a red-faced sergeant ticking off names on a clipboard.

Satisfied everyone was present, the sergeant turned and yelled something at a gaggle of drivers lounging nearby smoking. The forecourt exploded in a clatter of studded boots as they raced for their lorries, onto which the conscripts were herded, cowed and hanging onto their suitcases or rucksacks. Then they drove off to Aldershot.

They stopped outside some RASC training barracks, long soulless lines of identical huts pipe-clean and standing permanently to attention. When the lorries stopped, the shouting and swearing started up again, not from the sergeant who'd disappeared, but from a stocky drill corporal strutting with his pace-stick like a bantam cock backwards and forwards, stopping occasionally to look at his reflection in the full-length mirror outside the guardroom.

He screamed at them to get off the lorries into a ragged line, then tucking his pace-stick under his arm, he marched smartly up to a languid officer who'd drifted from a nearby office. John glanced across, watching the heel-clicking corporal throw up a stiff salute. The officer returned it with a flabby wave, then turned to face the new recruits. John's stomach sank. It was Second Lieutenant Rodney Clemence.

Clemence took a cane from under his arm and strolled across flicking the cane against his trouser leg. The army had honed him down, but he still carried puppy fat and looked like a boy playing soldiers. He wore his officer's hat with the neb pulled well down like a Guards officer and he was as full of himself as ever.

As he approached he stroked an incipient moustache. He'd gone in for the army in a big way. He was waiting like a beast of prey, the agent of whatever malicious spirit had allocated John to his unit for basic
training. At his heels marched the corporal until Clemence stopped before John and eyed him up and down superciliously, going up on his toes the way he'd done in Illingworth's office.

"What's your name, soldier?" he asked. John was so surprised he didn't reply at once.

"Well, I suppose you have a name, soldier... or were you born a bastard?" he rasped. The corporal laughed loudly.

"Greenwood," John mumbled.

"Sir!" screeched the corporal. "When you speaks to a norficer, you addresses'im as'sir'. Gorrit!"

"We'll start again," said Clemence, tapping his cane on the palm of his hand. "What's your name, soldier?"

John grit his teeth and yelled, "Greenwood, sir!"

"That's better, Greenwood," grinned Clemence stroking his apology for a moustache. "We'll make a soldier out of you, yet. You may be straight from college but you begin your real education here. Understand?"

"Yessir," bawled John.

Then Clemence turned to the rest of the intake. "Now listen carefully, all of you. I shan't repeat myself. Corporal Williams is your platoon corporal and he'll keep you on the straight and narrow. Anything you want to know, ask him. He'll give you plenty of good advice over the next few weeks. He's very good at giving advice."

The corporal came in on cue and gave his vacant laugh.

"And my name's Mr Clemence," he continued. "I'm your platoon commander, the officer responsible for your welfare and for turning you into soldiers. If you listen to me and obey my orders we'll get on fine. If you don't, I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks. If there's
anything you want to discuss, that's my office over there with my name on the board. That'll be all for now. Carry on, corporal."