Free The Ice Soldier by Paul Watkins Page B

caps of the MPs, he would sit down on the floor and wait to be dragged off. The next day, he would be back to his old self and seemed to have no memory of his tirades from the night before.

    We were also put through a course in the use of various weapons, including the Sten submachine gun, the Webley revolver, and the Sykes-Fairbairn fighting knife. We also practiced throwing Mills bomb grenades and learned to hold our genitals when they went off only a few feet away on the other side of the practice trench, or risk being neutered from a vacuum created by the blast.
    With little else to discuss, we speculated endlessly about what we would be asked to do and where we would be sent.
    The training ended with a climbing exercise on a rock face overlooking Loch Amon. The tannic acid in the ground had stained the lake water almost black. A local legend held that in 1900, a boy had tried to swim across it on a dare. He had traveled halfway across when a huge creature rose up from below and dragged him down.
    I was glad to turn my back on the loch as we began our climb. Despite the added weight we had been asked to carry, the ascent was easily accomplished and by the end of the day we had marched back into camp through the pouring rain. We were peeling off our wet and dirty clothes and listening to the showers groan and creak as warm water finally began to pour through them, when Sholto Lindsay came in, kilt swinging about his knobbly knees.
    â€œReport to my office in fifteen minutes,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked out again.
    All thoughts of rest evaporated. We knew this was the moment when we would be told where we were going.
    There was no time to shower. We piled into any dry clothes we could find and shambled into Lindsay’s office, having dashed across the empty parade ground under the steadily falling rain.

    In Lindsay’s office, I was astonished to see, sitting comfortably at Lindsay’s desk, none other than Henry Carton. He was not wearing a military uniform. Instead, he had on a Norfolk jacket made of impossibly thick wool and a turtleneck sweater which bunched around his throat. His cheeks were rosy and the bristles of his mustache looked as stiff as pencil leads. Carton was leaning back in Lindsay’s chair as if he owned the place.
    â€œGentlemen,” said Lindsay, closing the door, “you know who this is.”
    Of course we did.
    â€œDue to Mr. Carton’s expertise in the specific nature of your task,” continued Lindsay, “he has very kindly volunteered to help us out.”
    Carton had been smiling at us, but now the smile flickered and died. “Where is my nephew?” he asked. “Where is Stanley?”
    â€œHe didn’t sign up with us, I’m afraid,” said Lindsay.
    Carton stood suddenly, sending his chair scudding back against the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he spluttered.
    Lindsay cleared his throat. His face turned red. “I wasn’t at liberty to give out any specific names over the telephone.”
    â€œBut when you mentioned the group, I assumed they’d all be here.” Carton looked stunned. His eyes fanned across us. “I thought he’d finally come to his senses, instead of wasting away in that bloody sausage factory!”
    â€œIt’s all right, sir,” said Sugden quietly. “We feel the same way.”
    The rest of us glared at Sugden, because he had no right to speak for all of us.
    Carton glanced around the room, as if he did not know
where Sugden’s voice had come from. “It’s bad enough that he dodged his military service, but now he’s gone and let you down as well!”
    This time, nobody replied.
    In the quiet of the room, we heard the wheezing of his ruined lungs.
    â€œWhere’s the phone?” demanded Carton.
    â€œThere’s one in the orderly room,” said Lindsay.
    Carton stamped out of Lindsay’s office and across the parade