Free Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville

myself. And apart from that, I simply can’t stand all that screaming. It goes right through me.’
    â€˜Third, avoid soldiers who have the Itch. Damned unpleasant disease, that. I’ll write down a list of names of those to avoid. Fourth, never dare question the
Glorious
epithet of the 85th Foot. As far as anyone can ascertain, the only glorious thing it has ever done is shoot a few smugglers in the back, but
never
cast doubt on the merit of the term. Fifth and finally, don’t write any love poems to Peggy Spratt. At least not until ye have mastered the art of duelling.’
    We looked over at Ned Lester, who gave me a challenging stare, and mimed the act of blowing my head off with a pistol. I smiled nervously, but the lout persisted with his mime until I was on the point of visibly squirming. Fortunately the fluting, girlish voice of Thomas Pomeroy came to the rescue.
    â€˜So, have we all dined well, gentlemen? May I pass compliments on to my dear wife?’
    The volley of vitriol that hit him instantly was surely no surprise to anyone, so I was amazed when Thomas’s eyes began to well up. His whole demeanour crumpled, and he had to be consoled by Little Bob, who put an arm round him and offered him a draw on his pipe, which he refused with effusive expressions of gratitude.
    â€˜We go through this little ritual every dinner time, even if the meal is adequate,’ said Dick. ‘It must satisfy a need in everyone. Strange though, if you think about it too much.’
    Immediately I started to think about it too much, casting sly glances at the strange characters in the room as I did so. What a dirty bunch of vagabonds, rogues and outcasts they were, yet how easy did they seem in each others’ company, with their limbs draped all over each other in attitudes reminiscent of that astonishing Italian food, spaghetti. I could not decide whether I was repelled or attracted by the hermetic, peripatetic nature of their lives, but I did know that this was Real Life in the Raw, and the experience of it would do wonders for the development of my own poetic idiom, assuming I got out quick.
    When Ann and Peter Pomeroy had cleared the plates away the soldiers settled to their pipes, and the contemplative silence that followed would probably had gone on for hours, and choked me to death in the process, had not an importunate tattoo started up with shocking suddenness outside the window.
    â€˜Out! Out! Out! Ye scurvy dogs!’ came the unmistakable cry of Sergeant Mycock. ‘Afternoon delight, gentlemen! The sun is waiting for you! Your adoring officers are waiting for you! Let us not tarry a minute longer, or Puss the Cat will be waiting for you!’
    The room exploded into life. Pipes were quickly extinguished with thumbs, then I was spun around like a top as all rose frantically to collect their equipment. Once hats were donned and queues tucked away, the grumbling, cursing cohort clattered out of the room and down the stairs.
    â€˜Parade exercises,’ called out Dick, last to leave and less agitated than the rest. ‘Four lovely hours of it. But not for you yet. You stay here until Corporal Tibbs comes to collect you. He won’t be long.’
    And with a smile he was off, shutting the door behind him. I dashed to the windows to see if I could open them and let out the hellish smoke, but I couldn’t – the locks were too well rusted. Gasping and spluttering, I staggered around the room waving the smoke away until a thin, big-nosed man entered the room gnawing a chicken bone. This, it seemed likely, was Corporal Tibbs, so remembering Dick’s advice I adopted what I took to be a humble demeanour, veritably cringing before him.
    â€˜And what’s your problem, Bowsprit?’
    â€˜Nothing, Sir,’ I replied to his knees, ‘Just trying to be proper in front of an officer.’
    â€˜Ah, I see,’ said the man, resuming his gnawing. ‘Well, no need to