The Fourth Estate

Lubji immediately pulled himself up into the ring, put up his fists and advanced toward the champion.

“All right, all right,” said Lieutenant Wakeham, looking up at Lubji. “What’s your name?”

“Private Hoch, sir.”

“Well, go and get changed into some gym kit, and we’ll soon find out how long you can last with Matthews.”

When Lubji returned a few minutes later, Matthews was still shadow-boxing. He continued to ignore his would-be opponent as he stepped into the ring. The coach helped Lubji on with a pair of gloves.

“Right, let’s find out what you’re made of, Hoch,” said Lieutenant Wakeham.

Lubji advanced boldly toward the regimental champion and, when he was still a pace away, took a swing at his nose. Matthews feinted to the right, and then placed a glove firmly in the middle of Lubji’s face.

Lubji staggered back, hit the ropes and bounced off them toward the champion. He was just able to duck as the second punch came flying over his shoulder, but was not as fortunate with the next, which caught him smack on the chin. He lasted only a few more seconds before he hit the canvas for the first time. By the end of the round he had a broken nose and a cut eye that elicited howls of laughter from his comrades, who had stopped putting out chairs to watch the free entertainment from the back row of the gymnasium.

When Lieutenant Wakeham finally brought the bout to a halt, he asked if Lubji had ever been in a boxing ring before. Lubji shook his head. “Well, with some proper coaching you might turn out to be quite useful. Stop whatever duties you’ve been assigned to for the present, and for the next fortnight report to the gym every morning at six. I’m sure we’ll be able to make better use of you than putting out chairs.”

By the time the national championships were held, the other coolies had stopped laughing. Even Matthews had to admit that Hoch was a great deal better sparring partner than a punch-bag, and that he might well have been the reason he reached the semifinal.

The morning after the championships were over, Lubji was detailed to return to normal duties. He began to help dismantle the ring and take the chairs back to the lecture theater. He was rolling up one of the rubber mats when a sergeant entered the gym, looked around for a moment and then bellowed, “’Och!”

“Sir?” said Lubji, springing to attention.

“Don’t you read company orders, ’Och?” the sergeant shouted from the other side of the gym.

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

“Make your mind up, ’Och, because you were meant to ’ave been in front of the regimental recruiting officer fifteen minutes ago,” said the sergeant.

“I didn’t realize…” began Lubji.

“I don’t want to ‘ear your excuses, ’Och,” said the sergeant. “I just want to see you moving at the double.” Lubji shot out of the gym, with no idea where he was going. He caught up with the sergeant, who only said, “Follow me, ’Och, pronto.”

“Pronto,” Lubji repeated. His first new word for several days.

The sergeant moved quickly across the parade ground, and two minutes later Lubji was standing breathless in front of the recruiting officer. Lieutenant Wakeham had also returned to his normal duties. He stubbed out the cigarette he had been smoking.

“Hoch,” said Wakeham, after Lubji had come to attention and saluted, “I have put in a recommendation that you should be transferred to the regiment as a private soldier.”

Lubji just stood there, trying to catch his breath.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” repeated Lubji.

“Good,” said Wakeham. “Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” responded the sergeant immediately.

“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Lubji. “Except…”

The sergeant scowled.

“Yes?” said Wakeham, looking up.

“Does this mean I’ll get a chance to kill Germans?”

“If I don’t kill you first, ’Och,” said the sergeant.