Divisions [The Who]

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

All the lights had been turned off in the barracks, and the boys of Division 3 lay peacefully asleep in the dark of the room, save for one. John rested with his head nestled against his pillow, his eyes wide as he watched the sliver of green that served as a safety light at the foot of the lavatories, just so boys didn’t trip over the single step.

He thought of home, his grandparents, and his mother—even his grandparents’ ratty dog that would yap at all hours of the day until Grandmother had him walk the bloody thing. And though he had not a single thought of affection towards his father, he still tried to remember him. Who was he? How had he treated him as a child? As he searched his mind, he recalled a man holding a camera up to snap a picture, but his face was hidden. It was bright out that day, though they were in the shade. No, they were indoors. A pet shop. He could hear the squabble and discord of animals surrounding him. John was maybe seven years old. He tried to dig deeper. Take that camera away from your face, he thought. And just as the man in his mind was doing so, John was brought out of his reverie, hearing a shuffle behind him. Someone was awake.

Turning quietly to the other side, John made out the form of a lanky boy near the end of the barracks, rising from his bed. As the figure approached to pass his cot, John distinguished the face as Pete’s, and he heard a sniffle as he continued on towards the showers. He turned around the corner and the light of the shower room went on, the sound of rushing water faintly wafting into the barracks. Curious, John pushed himself up and slipped away from his cot, stepping into his boxers and lifting them up to his waist. Not wanting to disturb the others, he walked slowly, following Pete’s footsteps to the shower room. When at last he turned the corner, he saw the boy drying his face in the mirror above the sinks. Pete glanced over, flinching in shock.

“Shh,” John hushed him, his brow furrowed. Soundlessly, he stepped over to Pete, leaning against the walls. The place was lit with a dim yellow light, and everything seemed washed-out and sallow. Even Pete’s face. “Wot’s wrong then? You were crying?”

“No,” Pete shot a look towards the mirror, wondering if it was that noticeable that he had been crying. “Yes, but don’t tell anyone. Bad dream.” He used a hand towel to wipe the glistening perspiration from his neck and bare shoulders.

“You’re shakin’ like you almost died… And you’re oll sweaty. Wot sort of bad dream was it?”

“I don’t wont to talk about it. Why were you awake?”

“You woke me up. You were movin’ about like a bloddy elephant.”

“Sorry.” Pete started on his way back to the barracks, head bowed down.

“Take care of yourself, Pete.” John stayed behind to leave him to his senses, seeing him off through the doorway of the tiled room. He ran a hand back through his dirty blond tufts of hair, causing it to stick up at the front. Looking once in the mirror before departing, he scowled as he saw his mess of hair and flattened it quickly then left without another thought, thumbing the lights off. Returning to his cot, he slid his boxers off and crawled under the thin, ordinary wool covers that the boys were given at the beginning of their Division years. He remained lying awake in the dark for some time as he mulled over his encounter with Pete that night. It seemed he wasn’t the only one disturbed by his past. But what could make a boy wake in the midst of slumber, weeping, sweating, and shaking? John watched his thumb as he stroked it over the sheet he lay on, mind vivacious with thought. He felt sad. Not for himself — god forbid self-pity — but for Pete. It was the first time in a very long while that he had felt such heavy sentiment of commiseration for a friend, and it wouldn’t dissipate. He, as Pete’s good mate, was determined to unearth Pete’s troubles and aid him in every way possible. No one was healthy carrying the weight of haunting memories or inner troubles. This applied to everyone. However, John had never seemed to accept this for himself.

***

Always last of three to get out of bed in the morning, John shuffled his way to the showers where the boys of his Division were pushing each other about the room, some losing their footing on the slippery tile floors. Steam rose from the showerheads, causing the atmosphere to be warm, muggy, and uncomfortably sticky. Some boys were leaned over the sinks, squinting at the mirrors as they shaved unnoticeable peach fuzz from their upper lip, declaring that since they were soldiers, they must have hit manhood as well. John and a small amount of the others found it to be a petty excuse to deny their youth.

Stepping into place beside three others at the sinks, John speculated the state of his dishwater-coloured hair, fixed it to his liking, and spotted Pete in the reflection of the mirror, standing in the steaming water of a shower. Still feeling that sympathy that had ached in him the night before, he turned and smiled, lifting a hand in greeting.

“’Allo Pete!”

“’Lo John…!”

John abandoned his post at the sink, stepping over to occupy the shower beside his friend to avoid shouting across the room amongst the loud chinwag that always went on in the mornings. He needed a rinse anyway. Cleanliness was always thought highly of in the Entwistle family.

“Did you sleep well aftah yor dream last night?” John thoroughly scrubbed his head with foamy wash, head tilted down.

“Wot dream?” Pete replied accusingly. John halted his scrubbing and looked up, his confused gaze being met with Pete’s worried glare. John caught on quickly. Pete didn’t want the other boys getting hints he wasn’t sleeping, even if they weren’t eavesdropping at the moment.

“Oh, right,” John immersed himself in the stream of water, squeezing his eyes shut as he rinsed off the lather. When he turned off the showerhead, still sputtering from soaking himself, he aimed the conversation elsewhere, “So ‘ave you met any girls you like? Don’t pick Gord’s, he’ll single you out and give you a right boot up the bum.”

“Gord’s? Gordon? Oh, right. Well, there’s that one girl in Division Four. Her name is Karen.” Pete was wrapping his towel around his waist. Out of kindness, he snatched one off the wire rack for John, handing it to him.

“Oh! Yes, I know who y’mean. She’s the one with the fringed brown hair that’s always draped over her shoulders. Good choice mate, she’s lovely.” John grinned, accompanying Pete out of the showers and into the barracks, strolling down the middle aisle between the cots. Pete eyed him suspiciously, his lips pulled in.

“One would think you’ve been close to her before with that sort of talk…” he muttered. John had no words of comfort to give him this time. What he said was true, but he wasn’t proud of it any longer. Pete continued on to his bed near the end of the row, leaving John at his own. Standing there rigidly, John regretted what had happened, and was lost in his mind. Absently, he moved onto dressing in his practice suit, forgetting about his hair so it went unkempt. After securing his belt, he looked up, catching the brown haired boy with those shy blue eyes sitting alone on his bed, watching the few others that were still scrambling about to get clothed for breakfast like a colony of worker ants.