Men at Arms by Evelyn Waugh Read Free Book Online Page B

birth; the start of a new unknown life.
    Guy’s companions were mostly young clerks from London offices. Two or three had come straight from public schools. One, Frank de Souza, was just down from Cambridge. They had been chosen, Guy learned from more than two thousand applicants. He wondered, sometimes, what system of selection had produced so nondescript a squad. Later he realized that they typified the peculiar pride of the Corps, which did not expect distinguished raw materials but confided instead in its age-old methods of transformation. The discipline of the square, the traditions of the mess, would work their magic and the
esprit de corps
would fall like blessed unction from above.
    Apthorpe alone looked like a soldier. He was burly, tanned, moustached, primed with a rich vocabulary of military terms and abbreviations. Until recently he had served in Africa in some unspecified capacity. His boots had covered miles of bush trail.
    Boots were a subject of peculiar interest to Apthorpe: He and Guy first met on the day they joined. Guy got into the carriage at Charing Cross and found Apthorpe seated in the corner opposite to him. He recognized the badges of the Halberdiers and the regimental horn buttons. His first thought was that be had probably committed some heinous breach of etiquette by travelling with a senior officer.
    Apthorpe had no newspaper or book. He stared fixedly at his own feet for mile after mile. Presently by a process of furtive inspection Guy realized that the insignia of rank on Apthorpe’s shoulders were not crowns but single stars like his own. Still neither spoke, until after twenty minutes Apthorpe took out a pipe and began carefully filling it from a large rolled pouch. Then he said: ‘This is my new pair of porpoises. I expect you wear them too.’
    Guy looked from Apthorpe’s boots to his own. They seemed very much alike. Was ‘porpoise’ Halberdier slang for ‘boot’?
    ‘I don’t know. I just told the man I always go to, to make me a couple of pairs of thick black boots.’
    ‘He may have given you cow.’
    ‘Perhaps he did.’
    ‘A great mistake, old man, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
    He puffed his pipe for another five minutes, then spoke again: ‘Of course, it’s really the skin of the white whale, you know.’
    ‘I didn’t know. Why do they call it “porpoise”?’
    ‘Trade secret, old man.’
    More than once after their first meeting Apthorpe reverted to the topic. Whenever Guy gave evidence of sophistication in other matters, Apthorpe would say: ‘Funny you don’t wear porpoises. I should have thought you were just the sort of chap who would.’
    But the Halberdier servant who looked after them in barracks – one between four probationary officers – found great difficulty in polishing Apthorpe’s porpoises and the only criticism ever made of his turn-out on parade was that his boots were dull.
    Because of their age Guy and Apthorpe became companions in most things and were called ‘Uncle’ by the younger officers.
    ‘Well,’ said Apthorpe, ‘we’d better get a move on.’
    The luncheon break allowed no time for dawdling. On paper there was an hour and a half but the squad drilled in suits of privates’ dungarees (battle-dress had not yet been issued) and they had to change before appearing in the mess. Today Colour Sergeant Cook had kept them five minutes after the dinner call in expiation of Trimmer’s being late on parade that morning.
    Trimmer was the only member of the batch whom Guy definitely disliked. He was not one of the youngest. His large, long-lashed, close-set eyes had a knowing look. Trimmer concealed under his cap a lock of golden hair which fell over his forehead when he was bare-headed. He spoke with a slightly refined Cockney accent and when the wireless in the billiards-room played jazz, Trimmer trucked about with raised hands in little shuffling dance steps. Nothing was known of his civilian antecedents; theatrical, possibly,