The Man Who Knew Too Much - III

Now the concluding part...

None of us will ever forget the drowsy summer afternoon which was such a turning-point in the Professor's life.

We were sprawling contentedly on the warm grass while Corporal Turnbull was taking a lesson on the hand grenade.

Corporal Turnbull was a young man, but he was not a man to be trifled with. He had come back from Dunkirk with all his equipment correct and accounted for and his pet kitten in his pocket. He was our hero, and we used to tell each other that he was so tough that you could hammer nails into him without his noticing it.

'The outside of a grenade, as you can see,' Corporal Turnbull was saying, 'is divided up into a large number of fragments to assist segmentation-'

'Forty-four.'

'What's that?' The Corporal looked over his shoulder.

'Forty-four segments.' The Professor beamed at him.

The Corporal said nothing, but his brow tightened. He opened his mouth to resume.

'And by the way, Corporal.' We were all thunder-struck. The Professor was speaking again. 'Shouldn't you have started off with the five characteristics of the grenade? Our instructor at the other camp always used to, you know.'

In the silence that followed, a dark flush stained the tan of the Corporal's face. 'Here,' he said at last, 'you give this lecture!' As if afraid to say any more, he tossed the grenade to the Professor. Quite unabashed, Private Quelch climbed to his feet and with the air of a man coming into his birthright gave us an unexceptionable lecture on the grenade.

The squad listened in a cowed, horrified kind of silence. Corporal Turnbull stood and watched, impassive except for a searching intentness of gaze. When the lecture was finished he said, 'Thank you, Private Quelch. Fall in with the others now.' He did not speak again until we had fallen in and were waiting to be dismissed. Then he addressed us.

'As some of you may have heard,' he began deliberately, 'the platoon officer has asked me to nominate one of you for-' He paused and looked lingeringly up and down the ranks as if seeking final confirmation of a decision.

So this was the great moment! Most of us could not help glancing at Private Quelch, who stood rigidly to attention and stared straight in front of him with an expression of self-conscious innocence.

'-for permanent cookhouse duties. I've decided that Private Quelch is just the man for the job.'

Of course, it was a joke for days afterwards; a joke and joy to all of us.

I remember, though...

My friend Trower and I were talking about it a few days later. We were returning from the canteen to our own hut.

Through the open door we could see the three cooks standing against the wall as if at bay; and from within came the monotonous beat of a familiar voice.

'Really, I must protest against this abominably unscientific and unhygienic method of peeling potatoes. I need only draw your attention to the sheer waste of vitamin values...'

We fled.

Hope you liked the short story....