A Soldier's Love

06. Shut Up and I'll Tell You

My name is Corporal Jack Harrington, of Her Majesty's Royal Expeditionary Force, also known as the Second Army.

I entered the service ten years ago, as soon as I came of age. I grew up in South London in a devastatingly poor family, my father a drunken bastard and my mother a terrified and battered wife, forced to work as a seamstress when my father's drunkenness forced him out of a job. A typhus outbreak killed them both when I was seven years old. How I escaped it, I'll never know. I bounced around from charity house to charity house for the next ten or so years of my life, never knowing a moment's peace, so as soon as I was able, I joined the military.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

My lack of discipline and stability as a child made me, at first, a poor candidate. I was often in trouble and threatened many times with discharge, but I always talked my way out of it. See, I was not always the low, crippled creature you now see before you. When I was eighteen I was handsome, and charming, and my academic performance was poor but I could talk my way out of-- or into-- anything.

Eventually, I found my footing. As you can see, I've lost it now, but back then I had it. I settled into the rhythm of military life, and the discipline-- well, it didn't precisely tame me, but I grew accustomed to it. I figured out how to play along, while still finding my own small ways to rebel. I found it stifling at times, liberating at others, but always I felt as if I had no other choice. I had no trade, no education, and no desire to learn anything except how to spend my salary. So, no matter how bad it got, I stayed.

After a few years skating by, too much of a scamp to be promoted beyond Private, a desire kindled in me to do more with my life. You see, by then, I had done quite a lot of the boyish nonsense that got me in trouble-- frequenting dance halls, drinking all the time, gambling, traveling when I had leave and doing as I pleased, and it was all beginning to feel a bit hollow. It was peacetime, still, and perhaps if I had been at war there wouldn't have been any desire to do more. But as it was, I was tired of running the same drills, drinking at the same watering holes. I wanted to better myself, to advance. I wanted to go to India, to the Afghan provinces, to Russia, even to Africa.

I set my  sights on becoming a corporal. I knew if I could gain that rank, I could talk my way into a better assignment. I'd have the trust of my senior officers and my world could finally get bigger.

As it would happen, another boy in my division wanted to make corporal, too.

He overheard me discussing my plans in the mess hall one day. I was at liberty, juggling oranges, making a spectacle of myself for the amusement of my mates, and relating all my schemes in the grandest terms. I'd make corporal, and go to the Continent, and prove my worth, and make Sergeant before the year was out. I knew I could if I put my mind to it. I'd be a Lieutenant before I was twenty-five, I said, mark my words.

The other boy, I'll call him Marcus, heard me say all this-- and more.

"You're a no-account street urchin, and you'll never make the grade," he said. "If anyone is making Corporal this quarter, it's me."

I paid him no mind. Marcus was from a posh family and had only been in the service for three months-- compared to my three years. He was a prat and I paid him no mind at all-- which later I would regret dearly.

"What happened next?" said Marguerite, her lips parted in fascination.

Corporal Harrington had stopped speaking, and closed his eyes. Margie feared he had fallen asleep, but when she prompted him, he shook his head.