The Fourth Estate

“’Och reporting as ordered, sir,” he bellowed as if he were still outside on the parade ground. Lubji stopped directly behind the corporal, and was nearly knocked over by him when he took a pace backward.

Lubji stared at the smartly-dressed officer behind the desk. He had seen him once or twice before, but only at a distance. He stood to attention and threw the palm of his hand up to his forehead, trying to mimic the corporal. The commanding officer looked up at him for a moment, and then back down at the single sheet of paper on his desk.

“Hoch,” he began. “You are to be transferred from this camp to a training depot in Staffordshire, where you will join the Pioneer Corps as a private soldier.”

“Yes, sir,” shouted Lubji happily.

The colonel’s eyes remained on the piece of paper in front of him. “You will embus from the camp at 0700 hours tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before then you will report to the duty clerk who will supply you with all the necessary documentation, including a rail warrant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any questions, Hoch?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lubji. “Do the Pioneer Corps kill Germans?”

“No, Hoch, they do not,” replied the colonel, laughing, “but you will be expected to give invaluable assistance to those who do.”

Lubji knew what the word “valuable” meant, but wasn’t quite sure about “invaluable.” He made a note of it the moment he returned to his hut.

That afternoon he reported, as instructed, to the duty clerk, and was issued with a rail warrant and ten shillings. After he had packed his few possessions, he walked down the hill for the last time to thank Mrs. Sweetman for all she had done during the past seven months to help him learn English. He looked up the new word in the dictionary under the counter, and told Mrs. Sweetman that her help had been invaluable. She didn’t care to admit to the tall young foreigner that he now spoke her language better than she did.

The following morning Lubji took a bus to the station in time to catch the 7:20 to Stafford. By the time he arrived, after three changes and several delays, he had read The Times from cover to cover.

There was a jeep waiting for him at Stafford. Behind the wheel sat a corporal of the North Staffordshire Regiment, who looked so smart that Lubji called him “sir.” On the journey to the barracks the corporal left Lubji in no doubt that the “coolies”—Lubji was still finding it hard to pick up slang—were the lowest form of life. “They’re nothing more than a bunch of skivers who’ll do anything to avoid taking part in real action.”

“I want to take part in real action,” Lubji told him firmly, “and I am not a skiver.” He hesitated. “Am I?”

“It takes one to know one,” the corporal said, as the jeep came to a halt outside the quartermaster’s stores.

Once Lubji had been issued with a private’s uniform, trousers a couple of inches too short, two khaki shirts, two pairs of gray socks, a brown tie (cotton), a billycan, knife, fork and spoon, two blankets, one sheet and one pillowcase, he was escorted to his new barracks. He found himself billeted with twenty recruits from the Staffordshire area who, before they had been called up, had worked mostly as potters or coalminers. It took him some time to realize that they were talking the same language he had been taught by Mrs. Sweetman.

During the next few weeks Lubji did little more than dig trenches, clean out latrines and occasionally drive lorry-loads of rubbish to a dump a couple of miles outside the camp. To the displeasure of his comrades, he always worked harder and longer than any of them. He soon discovered why the corporal thought the coolies were nothing more than a bunch of skivers.

Whenever Lubji emptied the dustbins behind the officers’ mess, he would retrieve any discarded newspapers, however out of date. Later that night he would lie on his narrow bed, his legs dangling over the end, and slowly turn the pages of each paper. He was mostly interested in stories about the war, but the more he read, the more he feared the action was coming to an end, and the last battle would be over long before he had been given the chance to kill any Germans.

* * *

Lubji had been a coolie for about six months when he read in morning orders that the North Staffordshire Regiment was scheduled to hold its annual boxing tournament to select representatives for the national army championships later that year. Lubji’s section was given the responsibility of setting up the ring and putting out chairs in the gymnasium so that the entire regiment could watch the final. The order was signed by the duty officer, Lieutenant Wakeham.

Once the ring had been erected

in the center of the gymnasium, Lubji started to unfold the seats and place them in rows around it. At ten o’clock the section was given a fifteen-minute break, and most of them slipped out to share a Woodbine. But Lubji remained inside, watching the boxers go about their training.

When the regiment’s sixteen-stone heavyweight champion climbed through the ropes, the instructor was unable to find a suitable sparring partner for him, so the champ had to be satisfied with belting a punch-bag held up for him by the largest soldier available. But no one could hold up the bulky punch-bag for long, and after several men had been exhausted, the champion began to shadow-box, his coach urging him to knock out an invisible opponent.

Lubji watched in awe until a slight man in his early twenties, who wore one pip on his shoulder and looked as if he had just left school, entered the gymnasium. Lubji quickly began to unfold more chairs. Lieutenant Wakeham stopped by the side of the ring, and frowned as he saw the heavyweight champion shadow-boxing. “What’s the problem, sergeant? Can’t you find anyone to take on Matthews?”

“No, sir,” came back the immediate reply. “No one who’s the right weight would last more than a couple of minutes with ‘im.”

“Pity,” said the lieutenant. “He’s bound to become a little rusty if he doesn’t get any real competition. Do try and find someone who would be willing to go a couple of rounds with him.”

Lubji dropped the chair he was unfolding and ran toward the ring. He saluted the lieutenant and said, “I’ll go with him for as long as you like, sir.”

The champion looked down from the ring and began to laugh. “I don’t box with coolies,” he said. “Or with girls from the Land Army, for that matter.”