In contrast to the pubs in Richmond, the NAAFI was a new building with decked pine lining the walls, ceiling and floor. The planks were randomly studded with knots, and standing by the door narrowing my eyes, the room looked as though it had been peppered with gunfire. The bar was largely empty, and at the far end of the cavernous room, soldiers played at pool tables and attended to slot machines. A pair sat in opposition, playing chess. A lone figure, dressed in a green T-shirt and jeans and with a Yorkshire flat cap at a slant on his head, slouched over the bar, his back stooped in a perfect quarter-circle. Above him, behind the counter, hung a large framed portrait of the Queen.
Adrian and I each took a stool at the other end of the bar.
‘Let me buy you a drink.’ The man swivelled on his stool and touched the brim of his flat cap. ‘And your bum boy,’ he said to Adrian, ‘what’s he having?’
It was Corporal Longbone, his voice slurred. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the barman. ‘Two lagers, and the same again for me.’ He returned his attention to the small glass before him, turning it between his fingers.
‘Th-thank you, Corporal, sir,’ I stammered.
He patted a stool next to him. Adrian and I went over and took a stool on either side of him. ‘Don’t call me sir, not in here.’
We looked at him. He was obviously drunk, his cheeks flushed and nose strawberry red. His eyes were glazed over, and as he focused on me, they seemed to soften and a thin smile spread across his lips. ‘I like to know who I’ve got in my company,’ he said.
The barman put our pints on the counter before us. Swiping away the corporal’s empty glass, he replaced it with another of whisky neat.
‘Something the matter?’ Adrian said to the corporal.
The corporal laughed, exposing strong brown teeth. ‘Not in here. Here we’re all friends. Here you’re one of us.’ Leaning over, the corporal briefly put an arm around my shoulder. He stank of sweat and whisky. Adrian rolled his eyes at me. ‘Out there,’ continued Longbone, ‘is the British Army. And you, Recruit Akram Khan, you need to prove yourself worthy of the uniform.’
Adrian’s eyes slipped down, fixing on the bulge of the corporal’s Adam’s apple.
Longbone shook his head and for a long minute he stared at his glass. ‘But,’ he raised a finger, ‘you need to get past me first.’ Turning to the portrait of the Queen, he picked up his whisky, took a sip.
‘I could have killed Her Maj,’ he said, addressing the portrait. ‘Truth is, I was just clowning around, but I thought about it.’ He turned to me again. ‘Would you have done it? Recruit Khan, would you, like me, have acted the clown?’
I reached for my pint and drank half in one go. ‘That would be murder.’
‘England forever England would never be the same again,’ said the corporal.
‘But for some,’ I said, ‘it would be martyrdom.’
‘Not for an Englishman,’ he said.
‘For a Paki, for some, I can see it,’ I said.
The corporal nodded. ‘It would have made me the most famous person to have ever lived.’
‘Some would see you as a hero,’ I said.
‘Everyone would know where they were the day the Queen died.’
‘It would be like the enemy within,’ I said.
The corporal drained his glass, signalled the barman for a refill. ‘We were standing around these tables having tea and dainty cupcakes and she came up and stood right next to me. I put my hand in my pocket, felt my penknife in there.’ He laughed. ‘Used it to clean the shit out of my boots. Fucking hell, I thought, how the hell did that get in unnoticed by security? And then it occurred to me, I could fucking have her, I could just lunge at this little old woman, one split second.’
The corporal turned to me, his eyes serious and sober. ‘So, lad, just so you know, I can spot a clown.’
*
Early the following morning Corporal Longbone stalked up and down the line, his gaze wandering from the polish on someone’s boots to the sparkle of a belt buckle or the starched stiffness of a shirt collar. It was dawn, and despite having had his last drink only a few hours earlier, his eyes were alert and his voice loud and fully awake.
‘The good news is we will not be going on a run.’ The troop cheered. ‘The bad news is that instead we will find a quiet field and have a little fun.’ We cheered again. He smiled at a large, bulging canvas bag that he had dropped to the ground. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Corporal, sir.’
‘If any recruit does not want to take part in the fun he may take the run instead, with my assistant, Lance Corporal Bunce. But you should know that Lance Corporal Bunce was out dancing last night and at this very moment he is cleaning his cock and looking forward to an undisturbed breakfast of bacon and eggs. Does anybody require an escort from the Lance Corporal?’
‘No, Corporal, sir.’
We followed him to a field with rugby posts at each end. It was an unremarkable morning with a cool breeze and a mildly grey sky that grew lighter by the minute, almost daylight. We were instructed to form a circle about six yards in diameter and stood rubbing our bodies with our hands for warmth.
Longbone opened the bag and retrieved two pairs of sparring gloves, then threw them at two of our number, seemingly at random. ‘Fighting men, gentlemen, is what we are teaching you to become, and God help you if you lose your rifle, your bayonet, all your weaponry and don’t realize that you still have your God-given weapon. With our bare hands we can thrust, scrape, gouge, claw, squeeze, chop — and today, ladies, you will punch.’
The pair of recruits had already put on the gloves and begun to shadow box, dancing on their toes. Without prompting they seemed to be working their way into the middle of the circle.
‘Each pair will have only one three-minute round. You will find the time quite sufficient. On my first whistle, box. On my second whistle, stop. If I blow the whistle at any time before the three minutes are up you are to cease immediately and go to opposing corners.’ He signalled to opposite sides of the circle. ‘Understood, Recruit Company C?’
‘Yes, Corporal, sir.’
‘Are you fighting men, Recruit Company C?’
‘Yes, Corporal, sir.’
He blew the whistle, and the boxers, who were now eyeballing each other, got to work. Their leg movements seemed clumsy, and as they circled each other, neither threw a punch that made contact. Both snorted and panted, and after about thirty seconds their pace slowed.
‘Come on, ladies, we need a fight.’
Momentarily their punch rate quickened, although the efficiency of contact did not, and their blows barely scraped each other’s skin. Looking disgusted, the corporal consulted his watch and blew his whistle. ‘Get those gloves off and get out of my fucking sight.’
The second pair stood square on to each other and traded punches. They both bled from the mouth and nose, and their faces turned a purple-red I did not think it possible for a gora to be.
The corporal blew his whistle. ‘Time. Well done, but you could have circled a bit — the idea is to hit without being hit.’
As he looked around the circle, men shrank away from his gaze. ‘Khan and Hartley, you bum boys next.’
I stared at Adrian. Suddenly I saw an image of a boy of about eleven with a snub nose and a gentle face. A boy knocked to the ground, getting up, and smiling as though to say, This will all be over in a second. Won’t it? Briefly and out of necessity, I hated Adrian. I stepped into the circle and slipped on the gloves. Adrian stood a couple of yards away. He put his gloves up to his face and punched them together, shuffling his feet neatly on the spot. The corporal blew his whistle.