Free Day by A. L Kennedy Page B

‘Doesn’t much matter where you bunk, does it.’
    â€˜So then it won’t matter much to him. We’ll talk about it. Have a darn good discuss.’ He lay full out, claiming the space. ‘Loverly. Sheets – don’t get sheets in the army, but we do.’ Boots on, rubbing that filthy hair oil of his into the pillow. ‘And I got to have a wall at my back and at my head, can’t sleep otherwise. You wouldn’t want me not sleeping. Someone has to be alert, keep an eye out.’
    Very clear this was a dig at Alfred, at his gunnery and observation skills, and so he had to answer, his forearms getting tight, ‘We can’t help it if you’re used to living in a cell.’ Hanson ignored him so he had to go again, ‘You can’t do this.’ Which sounded weak.
    â€˜Just did,
old boy
. Just did.’ This with his eyes shut, trying to show that he was the gen man and entitled. He’d managed two ops before he broke his leg in a way he wouldn’t tell them and effectively had to remuster and start again. The two ops were supposed to make him someone. But he’d had to go back and get more training and conversion – the RAF hadn’t bloody well thought he knew everything.
    Miles sucked on his pipe and looked as troubled as he ever could and there was silence. So nothing was settled beyond Johnnie Bastard Hanson getting his way and putting up a black for all of them. He never was happy till everyone else was upset. There might have been a fight, Alfred could feel one was coming, but there wasn’t time.
    Because then the two officers from adjustment came in, very quiet, almost apologetic when they saw they had company. They glanced about them for a minute and seemed confused. They frowned at each other. They turned to the Bastard, the pair of them solemn, vaguely disgusted, and eventually he sensed it, opened his eyes. When he saw them he almost flinched, scrambled up, slid away to one side and fumbled his cap on. It was nice to watch, Alfred thought.
    Then they made the adjustment, while everybody had to stand and let it happen and Alfred wanted to leave, only that might look yellow, or not be the proper thing. The framed snap shot by the bed was taken – pretty girl, but rather heavy-set – a drawer was emptied, the traces cleared and put into a box: letters, a magazine, little things which seemed too insubstantial for all that a man would leave – not a memorial, more like a mess.
    The taller adjuster searched out the dead man’s clothes, folded the shape of him flat. Probably, they’d emptied his locker already. Nobody spoke, but it seemed at last that everyone stopped moving and looked at the Bastard. He’d taken the man’s bed and now the man didn’t need it. That wasn’t a lucky thing to do. That was like murder.
    The shorter adjuster – pilot officer, slapped-looking face – when things were finished he drew to a kind of attention and Alfred knew they were all remembering that no one had saluted, that something in the room had stopped them.
    â€˜We’ll sort through everything elsewhere. Has to be done. Wouldn’t want to send a shock back home. Not an additional shock.’
    The other man, a flight lieutenant, started to walk out and then hesitated. ‘You’re new bods.’ Nothing in his voice to soften what he’d just done, only a need to explain. ‘Well, this is what you get. If you’re not careful and don’t follow procedures and remember your drill this is what you get. He got the chop last night. Over Essen.’ He realised this sounded wrong, a type of insult. ‘He was a decent man. You should hope you’re as good.’
    Alfred swallowed and wondered what he should be thinking, how to show respect, how he should be.
    Didn’t know him, so how can I be sad? If I was, it would only be for myself – in case I get the same. But I’m not sad. I