Free Private's Progress by Alan Hackney

’alf-way up the wall, so you call us in the end. You want to tell your dad.”
    “You two men,” said a voice behind them.
    It was the orderly sergeant with a notebook.
    “You any trades?” he asked, pencil hovering.
    “Electrical fitter, me,” said Cox promptly.
    “I was at a university,” said Stanley.
    “Names?” said the orderly sergeant. “Double away, then, to Company stores for buckets and brushes and get all that old distemper off the A.T.S. Rest Room. Come on! Should be there by now!”
    Standing on chairs with their buckets of hot water, Stanley and Cox rubbed away at the coffee-coloured walls. Underneath the brown distemper they discovered other colours. First green, then pale blue, then white. They thought at first that the white was the basic colour, but a foolish experiment in one place revealed more green and then red beneath. Gradually their arms became coated to the elbows with a milky green deposit.
    “It’s all go, this,” said Cox. “Too much ’eavy liftin’. A mate of mine in Camberwell once, he got this distemper to do one bedroom out and gets a sort of craving to keep at it. ’E spends a whole ’Oliday Monday at it—gets ’is missus to shift all the stuff gradually out of all the bedrooms, then the parlour. ’E’s just startin’ on the kitchen when ’e suddenly ups an falls down dead. Only thirty-five.”
    Another member of Depot Company looked in at the window.
    “Wotcher, Greensleeves,” he remarked cheerfully.
    Cox heaved a bucket of the pea soup at the window.
    At half-past three in the afternoon they began mopping the horrible liquid from the floor, the pavement outside, and the buckets. The walls were a patchy pale green.
    “I ’ope the A.T.S. enjoy it,” said Cox. “They reckon green’s the most restful colour, only I knew a bloke in Wembley heard about it and got all ’is ’ouse done out pale green. ’E convinced ’imself it was doin’ ’im good and ’e got that way ’e fell asleep after ’is tea and in the morning ’e couldn’t ’ardly seem to get up ’alf the time, so in the end the warehouse ’e works for gives ’im the last-card-in-the-pack. Then ’is missus gets dead lazy, too, and can’t seem to get the nippers off to school in time or anything and they ’ave the attendance officer round creatin’. Then it turns out it’s not the green paint at all, but they got a bit of a gas leak they’ve not noticed for the smell of this paint.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    “C OX ,” SAID S TANLEY, “I think the best thing would be to get employed. I used to hear about Dicky’s Gardening Squad. Shall we try to get into it, if it doesn’t entail too much work? Anyway, it’s up at the camp, isn’t it, so one could lose a good deal of time getting there.”
    “Well,” said Cox admiringly, “you’re learning, my old china. Best way is, work it so you get on it one day, then next day tell the orderly sergeant Dicky wants you again, then just keep on going up. Trouble is, you really got to wait for one of ’is regulars goin’ sick. Funny, I never did go much on gardening, only it’s dead steady with old Dicky.”
    “Who is this Dicky?” asked Stanley.
    “Sarnt-Major Sparrow. ’Ad ’im left over from the Bo’er Wo’er most probably. Failin’ that, we might get took on at the Company stores, do a bit of a fiddle.”
    They were, in fact, queueing outside the Company Office for pay parade.
    Suddenly a window just ahead of them was flung up and a pair of well-tailored arms shot out. They held a small ruler and proceeded without ado to measure the shoulder flashes of an astonished queuer.
    “Half-an-inch out. Report with it properly stitched tomorrow,” shouted Major Hitchcock, withdrawing hisarms and substituting his head. “Well, damn it! Salute me, can’t you? I’m a major; you’re only a private!”
    The queue shuffled forward and Stanley and Cox were now in line with the window.
    “Good morning!” hailed the major. “This is where we