Tunes of Glory. James Kennaway

      MacKinnon took a deep breath which made him feel a little dizzy and he was glad that the Colonel could not resist a joke at this point. The sound of his little cough was drowned by the laughter that greeted his Colonel’s witticism. Jock looked from side to side.

      ‘We’ve got laddies that’ve never put it in, I know,’ he said with both a wink and a nod. ‘What I didn’t know is how we’ve one who can’t even draw it in, eh?’ When he laughed the veins on his temple stood out. Then the laugh, as usual, deteriorated into a thick cough, and he shook backwards and forwards in an attempt to control it.

      The officers were a mixed collection. One or two of them, such as Major Macmillan, who was perpetually sunburnt, seemed very much gentlemen, although they too laughed at Jock’s jokes. The others, if not gentlemen, were Scotsmen. The younger they were the larger were their jaws, the older they were the fatter were their necks, except of course for the Quartermaster, Dusty Millar, who had no neck at all.

      At last Jock recovered himself. ‘Aye,’ he said, with a final cough, ‘aye … Well gentlemen, I have news for you.’

      Someone at the far end of the table was still talking.

      ‘All of you, you ignorant men.’ Jock raised his voice. ‘News that’ll affect you all.’ He paused. ‘Tomorrow there’s a new colonel coming, and he’ll be taking over the Battalion. D’you hear? D’you hear me now?’

      All the officers hesitated. Their jaws dropped and they leant forward to look at Jock, who was looking at his tumbler.

      Macmillan had a light-comedy voice. He touched his fair hair with his hand and he said, ‘Come, Jock, you’re pulling our legs.’

      ‘Aye,’ someone said uncertainly, disbelievingly. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’

      ‘What I’m telling you is true.’ Jock took a sip of his drink. ‘Ask Jimmy Cairns. Jimmy knows right enough.’

      Cairns, who was his Adjutant, did not know what to say but felt it was a time when something should be said. He moved his hands, and he frowned.

      ‘That’s the way of it,’ he said.

      ‘Och …’ The Quartermaster moaned, and others echoed him.

      ‘That’s not right,’ one said; and another, ‘It can’t be true.’ The Battalion without Jock as C.O. seemed then an impossibility.

      Jock raised his hand in the smoky air.

      ‘We didn’t ask for comments,’ he said. Then, glancing at the younger officers at the far end of the table, some of whom did not seem so dismayed by the news, he added, ‘One way or the other,’ and he showed his teeth when he grinned. He grew solemn again and drew his hand down his face and wagged his head, as if to clear his vision. ‘It’s just a fact,’ he said slowly, ‘it’s just a fact,’ and he leant back in his chair again.

      Major Charlie Scott, who sat next to Jock, had an after-dinner habit of stroking his large red moustache, but he dropped his hand to ask, ‘What’s his name, eh?’

      ‘Basil Barrow.’

      ‘Major Barrow?’ a clear-voiced subaltern said at once. ‘He lectured at Sandhurst. He’s an expert on Special …’ Suddenly aware that he had sounded a little too enthusiastic, his voice trailed away. He looked around, brushed some ash from his trews, and continued in a nonchalant tone, ‘Oh, he’s really quite all right; they say he’s frightfully bright upstairs.’ The officers looked towards the Colonel again. They were gradually recovering.

      ‘Aye,’ Jock said. ‘He went to Oxford, if that means anything. They say he was a great success as a lecturer or whatever he was. Quite a turn with the cadets.’ He gave a malicious grin and another big wink. Then he belched and made a sour face. He took another drink of whisky.

      ‘Colonel Barrow’s a man about forty-four. Eton – aye, it’s right, what I’m telling you – Eton and Oxford. He joined the Regiment in 1935 and he was only with it a year or two before being posted on special duties. He has some languages, so it seems. It’s as young Simpson says. He’s bright upstairs. He got the M.C. and he was taken prisoner pretty early on.’ Jock swung his eyes around the table. ‘I know all about him; you see that?’

      ‘There was a fellow we used to call Barrow Boy. D’you remember him? A lightweight chap; good at fencing, if I recall.’

      ‘I remember. Good Lord, yes.’

      Jock spoke again. ‘That’s the same chum. That’s him. He was well placed in the Pentathlon sometime just before the war.’ He grew suddenly tired of the subject. ‘Well, he’s to command the Battalion and I’ll have another tumbler of whisky.’

      A Mess steward dashed forward and replaced the empty glass with a full one. On nights like this Jock’s drinks were lined up on a shelf just inside the pantry door; lined up in close formation.

      ‘And what about you, Jock?’ Cairns asked.

      ‘Aye. And what about me, china?’

      ‘You staying on?’

      ‘Unless you’re going to get rid of me, Jimmy.’

      Cairns knew just how far he could go with Jock.

      ‘I thought there might be a chance of it.’

      Jock was about to smile when the same subaltern who had known Barrow interrupted. ‘Staying on as second-in-command, you mean?’ and he was too young and a little too well spoken to get away with it. His seniors glanced immediately at the Colonel. Jock eyed the boy with real hatred, and there was a very long pause.

      One of the stewards by the pantry door all but dropped his salver; his eyes grew wide, and he felt the hair rising at the back of his neck. Goblets and glasses poised in the air, whisky stayed in the mouth, unswallowed, and the swirly cloud of smoke above Jock’s head for one instant seemed perfectly still.

      Jock spoke very sourly, and quietly. ‘So may it please you, Mr Simpson,’ was what he said, looking back to his tumbler.

      ‘Oh, I’m glad you’re not leaving us, sir.’ But the answer came too glibly. Jock shrugged and gave a little snigger. He spoke as if he did not care whether he was heard. ‘You’re away off net, laddie … and, Mr Simpson?’

      It was fairly easy to see that Mr Simpson had been a prefect at school. He looked the Colonel straight in the eye and he never quite closed his mouth.

      ‘Yes, sir?’

      ‘No “Sirs” in the Mess. Christian names in the Mess except for me and I’m “Colonel”. I call you just what I feel like. O.K.?’

      ‘Yes, Colonel.’

      ‘Yes, Colonel … Now, gentlemen; now then. This is Jock’s last supper and there’ll be a round of drinks on me. Even one for Mr Simpson. Corporal!’

      ‘Sir.’

      ‘Whisky. For the gentlemen that like it and for the gentlemen who don’t like it, whisky.’

      He turned apologetically to Charlie Scott, who was still stroking his moustache.

      ‘I’m no good at talking at the best of times, Charlie, and tonight I’m no coping at all. Will we have the pipers back? It fills the gaps.’

      ‘Whatever you say, Jock; it’s your night.’

      ‘Aye.’ Jock opened his eyes very wide: this was one of his mannerisms. ‘Aye,’ he used to say, then with his eyes wide open he would add a little affirmative noise. It was an openmouthed ‘mm’. Aye, and a-huh. ‘Well I say we’ll have the pipers.’ He leant back in his chair and addressed one of the stewards who was hurrying by with a bottle. ‘Laddie, call the pipers.’

      ‘This minute, sir.’

      ‘Just “Sir”.’ He made a gesture with his flat hand: a little steadying gesture. It was the same gesture