The Fog - James Herbert [90]
He’d almost got court-martialled over that: it was only the fact that the NCO was being returned to England the next day and didn’t want to hang around for the trial that got him off. But he’d been made to pay for it in other ways.
Then there was the ‘nice, clean, little tart’ they’d introduced him to in Hamburg. She even had a medical certificate to prove she was clean. He’d got the pox from her and the British army frowned on soldiers who get the pox, even though it happened all the time.
In Northern Ireland, they’d taken him to a ‘friendly little social club’, not far from the barracks and where they’d been well received so long as they were in civvies. The three of them had nearly ‘well received’ bullets in the backs of their heads on that occasion. It was only his prompt action of hurling a chair through the window, the three soldiers quickly following it, that had saved their lives. Evans had laid out the bitch who had invited them with a bottle before he’d leapt through, and that had cost him a glancing bullet on the side of his arse. It was a pity it hadn’t gone right up it! The army hadn’t been too pleased about that little episode either.
He supposed he’d been lucky, considering. The incidents – there were many more of them – were never quite enough to cause drastic action against him, but they all served to keep him down at his present rank.
The trouble was, he fell for it every time. They either smarmed their way round him or offered him a challenge. And he always gave in or rose to the bait. He always had to prove he was one of the boys. Christ, this was a long tunnel!
He looked back and realized he must have rounded a bend for the torches of the two privates were no longer visible. He shone his torch ahead but all he could see was its bright reflection against the shiny damp wall. He must be at the centre of the bend, unable to see back or ahead – and unable to be seen. Right, this is far enough, he thought to himself, stepping out of the track and leaning his rifle against the wall. He began to unbutton his trousers, holding his torch between his upper arm and side. That was another thing! He couldn’t even piss in front of them. Their mocking faces caused a mental block – or a block somewhere else. They knew the effect they had on him and sometimes would follow him out to the gents if they were in the Naafi or a club, and stand on either side of him, grinning, while his face grew redder and the cock in his hand more apologetic.
Even now, just the thought of them was preventing him from performing his body’s natural function. Why did they have to make his life a misery? Just wait till he was made sergeant, then they’d pay for it. Maybe that was it. Maybe they knew that and were trying to stop his progress. Bastards!
As he stared blankly at the wall two feet away from him, his features eerily lit in the throwback from his torch, his legs apart, his hands on his penis, his mind engrossed in bitter thoughts, he failed to notice the thick tentacles of mist that crept around his ankles like a wispy grey vine. The tentacles thickened into a layer of fog as they began to rise and slowly engulf his body.
‘Eddie’s a long time,’ Buswell commented, his cigarette beginning to burn the insides of his fingers in his effort to waste as little as possible.
‘You’ll get cancer doing that,’ Evans remarked. ‘It’s the last bit that’s got most of the nicotine.’
Buswell shrugged his shoulders. He should worry.
‘Come on, Corp, what you doing? Having a wank?’ Evans shouted into the darkness. There was no reply. ‘He’s probably sulking,’ he said, once more resting his elbows on his knees and flicking his cigarette end into the gloom.
‘Poor old Eddie. He takes it serious, doesn’t he?’ said Buswell.
‘Yeah. He’s all right though. Just ’asn’t really got what it takes. He’s good for a laugh though.’
‘D’you think he’ll ever get to be sergeant?