7

The following morning, MacQueen pulled on his battle dress and went to the noisy mess hall for breakfast. He was served two tough sausages, an egg boiled like a rock, three slices of limp white bread, and a mug of steaming tea sweetened with condensed milk. He still wore his peaked khaki forage cap, although he knew that he wouldn’t get away with it for long. His head didn’t seem shaped for the little side caps that someone had nicknamed “cheese cutters”. Later, he marched past the parade ground. The A Company was just falling in for parade. He noticed the sergeant shouting at his Number Five Platoon. This had all been background noise before, but it was now coming into focus. As he passed he noted Sergeant Browne out in front. He was calling the roll of Number One Platoon. The Permanent Force sergeant major stood immaculate and erect to one side like a shadow of doom.

The new second lieutenants were straggling down the hill to assemble on the parade square and assume their leadership duties. MacQueen saluted each one as he passed, and each punctiliously returned the salute. Most of these men were brand new at the job, and the sergeant had been harsh in criticizing them. However, he certainly had a point. They seemed uncertain and terribly vulnerable. They had little experience in leading men and now had to meet them face-to-face. Some men are natural leaders, but for most it is a painful process to learn. The sergeants were much more experienced, but an officer is also, in theory, a gentleman. No one salutes a sergeant—but no one trifles with him, either. The sergeant major is in a realm of his own.

MacQueen stomped to attention and reported to the weary staff sergeant for duty. “Good morning, Staff,” he said cheerily. The staff sergeant grunted, squinted through the smoke from his eternal cigarette, and handed MacQueen the handwritten daily orders.

Captain Dribble’s door was open, and he was nervously shuffling through a basket of piled papers on his desk. The gruff new colonel had not improved his temper, and the two of them were sinking in paperwork. The paper descending on the adjutant’s office was inexorable. There were anti-tank regiments and medical units and other infantry units scheduled to assemble under canvas at Aldershot Camp very soon. It gave the poor captain nightmares as he dreamed of enormous piles of paper cascading down out of the exploding windows of headquarters building. His grim conclusion was that Canada’s secret weapon was its forests. Germany could never defeat us in the paper war.

MacQueen’s salvation was a bottle of pink correcting fluid. His typing was self-taught and laborious. He pecked out a stencil on the old upright typewriter and ran it off on the ink-splattered Gestetner machine. His mechanical aptitude with the copying machine was negligible at best. MacQueen squeezed the black ink from what looked like large toothpaste tubes then fitted the stencil and cranked out copies of the orders. He put a dispatch case over one shoulder, placed two dozen copies in it, and started on his way to pin them on every noticeboard in the camp. They didn’t even provide a bicycle. He wore the gauntlet gloves of a dispatch rider without a motorcycle. In the old days, he would have ridden a horse.

Thus, MacQueen was a familiar figure in the camp. In the present context that meant that he was a ready target. Sergeant Browne knew who he was, although MacQueen hardly knew one sergeant from the other, and Bill Cyples was a newcomer altogether. MacQueen was not aware that all of A Company might envy him and his easy job. As he cheerfully went around posting up orders, they were sweating on a parade ground under bullying sergeants. Everyone was still a volunteer, of course, but some were luckier than others. MacQueen wanted to get into the war, and was still naïve enough to think that this ambition would find favour. Sergeant Cyples understood, but he was caught in the system too. Sergeant Browne bided his time.

Signalman MacQueen loitered for a few moments to watch the men on the parade square. The first thing these men had to learn was to distinguish the voice of their sergeant above the hubbub of the others, all shouting at the same time. MacQueen focused on Bill Cyples’ voice. He issued a stream of profanity, but it wasn’t vulgar like the others—it was really rather amusing. He wasn’t rigid either. Unlike the others, Sergeant Cyples ranged up and down with his men. The awkward squad was trying desperately to please him. He chided them and verbally assaulted them, but underneath was a tone of jollity. In a way, he was pleading with them to improve. They were of varied ages and sizes, all intently trying to get the knack of this ritual. Cyples threw his hands up in mock despair and winked at MacQueen. MacQueen moved on with the more sombre notes of Browne’s voice in his ear. He noticed the dye running on the old ex-major’s brow. The sergeant major stood by haughtily and didn’t utter a sound.

MacQueen cut through some trees to head for the quartermaster stores and thought of his new friend’s ambition to become an officer. The young signalman knew a good deal about officers and their attitudes—he had been brought up with them. Instinctively, he felt that Sergeant Cyples’ sardonic attitude and rough tongue would work against him. Being an officer and being a soldier were not necessarily the same thing. He knew that, given time, he would bridge the gap as his attitudes were already formed. He had a nagging doubt about his friend. Possibly he could be of some help after all. If Bill Cyples was going to protect him it was the least he could do. Refining rough diamonds is a delicate art and he didn’t want to offend his new friend.

The thumbtacks were always disappearing from the notice boards, and MacQueen carried a box in his dispatch case. Where do they go? he wondered. He headed for the canteen to post the orders there.