Two

Life here would be fine it wasn’t for Sergeant Kelsey. We all hate him, from the tip of his dazzlingly polished cap badge to the mirror-like toes of his boots. There is a huge roll of fat at the back of his neck bulging over the tight collar of his shirt, which has earned him the nickname Sausage. It is covered in stubble – rumour has it that he goes to the barber every day – and often nicked and bleeding. Kelsey likes to think that he ‘runs the show’ at Reville although it’s quite clear that the officers can’t stand him any more than the men, and if he is so bloody great then why hasn’t he been promoted above the rank of sergeant?

His main purpose in life seems to be picking on the weak, especially among the conscripted men, but the regulars will do just as well. I could see him, on our very first parade, picking out his victims. He has a sixth sense for strangeness, deviation or queerness. He can’t stand brown faces but he’s under orders from above to curb his treatment of these ‘black bastards’ as he calls them under his breath. So he takes it out on everyone else. He picks on the university men, the Taffies, Jocks and Micks, men who are shorter than him, men who are taller than him, men who stutter, men who cannot march properly, men who wear glasses and, particularly, men who display the faintest trace of effeminacy. He gave me a good going-over that first day, found out that I had been to art school and called me Botticelli, called me a poof – but then, he called nearly everyone a poof. It’s the word that you hear from his lips more than any other. He puffs himself up like a toad, and it all comes out in that single syllable: Poof! He’s not allowed to say wog, nigger, coon or spade, but poof he can say with impunity. It also enables him to spit in a man’s face, which he obviously enjoys.

A little down the line, of course, he found Stephen Poynter.

‘Hello hello hello, what have we here?’

A bit of tittering from other airmen who were probably just as relieved as I was that Kelsey had found his supervictim. He didn’t stop until he’d made Stephen cry – real, big, fat tears dropping off his face and splashing on to his boots.

Then, ‘What is this on your boots, Poynter?’

‘Water, sir.’

‘Water, Poynter? Have you pissed yourself, boy?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then what’s it doing there?’

‘I …’

‘What’s that, Poynter? Speak up. I can’t hear you.’

‘I’m crying, sir.’

‘Crying!’ He sounded like a crow. ‘Crying! What sort of fucking poof are you, Poynter? I said what kind of poof are you?’

And so it went on until Stephen looked as if he was going to faint. Kelsey knows exactly when to stop – and not a moment before.