1st Prize, Bunkle. Barnes, Tom

The Short Story Writer Competition
FIRST PRIZE
Fog Index: 5.5
Bunkle
by
Tom Barnes
www.TheShortStoryWriter.com
Whether Bunkle cheated or not is difficult to say. But it was fun while it lasted.
Allow me to explain.
The first thought that crossed every National Servicemans mind, once he was
inducted into the regiment, was how to get out. How to work his ticket.
But working your ticket was a difficult and dedicated job. In fact, it was almost
impossible. Even so, anything was worth a try, because the alternative was hell
on wheels.
Here you were dragged off the street, lanced from your apprenticeship,
university or labour exchange with not so much as a by-your-leave and pressganged. The prospect was two years in an organisation for which you had little
appreciation and no respect.
The qualifications for entry into the army were modest. If you were thought to
be breathing during the medical examination and you could walk across a room
without knocking the furniture over, you were in. Few conditions were deemed
serious enough to prevent entry; and anyone not actually inside an oxygen tent
was stamped A1.
Academically and socially, there were no limits. From the illiterate to the wellread, from borstalites to Old Etonians. If you knew your own name and could
cough while the MO held a ruler beneath your testicles, you would be a soldier,
my son.
However, the rank and file National Serviceman would do anything to get out of
it; and Bunkle was among the most enthusiastic in this respect.
He came to prominence in 1955 during basic training, just two days into the
course. A quiet lad, he had so far kept himself largely to himself; only the man
in the next bed had had any communication with him. But on the second day, he
rose.
I tsol ym tseb stoob, he said.
What? queried Corporal Edmunds.
I tsol ym tseb stoob.

What the hell are you talking about, you idle man?
Ym tseb stoob, Bunkle explained.
Ym steb stoob? What kind of language is that? Are you a bleedin foreigner?
On, Laroproc Mi Shilgne.
Corporal Edmunds shook his head as though he couldnt believe what he was
hearing. Which he couldnt.
Dont try and snow the snowman, sunshine. Talk proper.
Bunkle remained stiffly at attention beside his bed. I ma gniklat reprop,
Laroproc.
The rest of the thirty-man platoon, standing at ease beside their beds, suspected
that something interesting was afoot.
Edmunds took one pace smartly to the rear and addressed himself to a man at
the far end of the barracks. Sergeant, this man is idle.
The Sergeant looked up from a minute inspection of a squared-off bed-pack.
An idle man, Corporal? We have an idle man?
Yes, Sarnt.
Well see about that. His boots punished floorboards as he strode rigidly
towards the offender. Do you know who I am?
I knith os, Bunkle replied.
The Sergeant thought about this for a moment, began to say something, changed
his mind and then said: I am Sergeant Dent. You will come to know me and
love me. I am fireproof, waterproof, bomb-proof, and always bleedin right! Got
it?
I tog ti.
What?
I tog ti.
Frowning now and towering over the soldier. Where are you from, son?
Nodnol.
Nodnol? Where the hell is Nodnol? Yugoslavia? Poland? And if you are a
foreigner, what are you doing in this mans army?
Nodnol si raen eht Semaht.
I do not believe this. Speak English, son. You know: the mother tongue.
I syawla kaeps ekil sith.
Dent was by now somewhat unsure of himself. Over the years as a training
instructor, he had run into every type and stripe of man possible. From the
unkempt to the fanatically clean. From the straight to the bent. From the stupid
to the intellectual. From the introvert to the extrovert. Never before had he come
across an alien.
What is the matter with you, lad? he asked loudly, in order to be better
understood.
Sereht gnihton eht rettam htiw em, Tnras. Mi etiuq thgirla.
Jesus fucking wept! The Sergeant cast around. Does anyone know what this
ponce is on about?
The man at the next bed slammed his heel to the floor as he came to attention.
"Permission to speak, Sarnt."
Go ahead. Whats your name?
McQueen, Sarnt.
Right, McQueen whats this mans name.
Bunkle, Sarnt.
Bunkle?
Bunkle.
Is he a British subject?
Yes.
Then tell me what language is he speaking?
Well, Sarnt, its English, but.

But?
But backwards.
Backwards.
Correct. I copped onto it last night when I was talking to him, like. And after a
bit, I got the hang of it.
Young eyed McQueen through lowered lids. You wouldnt bullshit me, would
you?
No, Sarnt. He definitely talks backwards.
Is he mad? Is he a nutter?
McQueen shrugged. It wouldnt be for me to say, Sarnt. But youve got to
admit hes bloody good at it.
At what?
At English backwards.
All right, lets try it out. Ill ask him a question and you
ubersetzentranslate.
Okay.
Now then, Bunkle, the Sergeant said, addressing the man in question. You
understand what Im saying?
Erus, Bunkle replied.
He does, McQueen supplied.
Why are you talking like this?
Esuaceb sti yltcefrep larutan rof em ot klat ekil siht.
He says: because its perfectly natural for him to talk like this.
I evah syawla enod ti.
Hes always done it.
Dent rubbed his chin. I think youd better see the MO, my lad. A couple of
aspirins will soon put you right.
Later that day, Bunkle was marched into the Medical Officers surgery,
accompanied by translator McQueen. There, he was given as thorough a going
over as the young second-lieutenant MO was capable of giving. The latter had
been only a year out of medical school before being drafted; and his sole handson experience was eight months as a junior doctor on a casualty ward. Which
meant that if his patients had neither fallen off ladders, nor got their heads
wedged in railings, he was pretty much stumped to make a diagnosis.
He reported his findings by telephone to the platoon commander, another
lieutenant like himself.
This man Bunkle, Rupert.
Yes, Tarquin. The one who converses backwards?
The same.
Strange type.
Quite. Well, I can find nothing organically wrong with him. Hes as fit as a
butchers dog, so to speak.
Oh, yah, I thought as much. But is he insane thats the question?
Search me, Tarquin. You see, Im really not qualified to say. I am a body man,
not a bonce man.
Whats the drill, then?
Cant say really. I mean, do you want a platoon member who can only speak in
reverse? Mind you, hes damn good at it.
But is he genuine? You know, is he swinging the old lead?
Hard to say. I couldnt catch him outand I tried, I really tried. Well, I get the
lot over here. I get barkers, frothers at the mouth, fainters, simulated epileptics.
Ive had them all.
Yah. You know, to be honest, Rupert, I dont know how this Bunkle chap
would work in practice. Wed need to have that other guttersnipe McQueen on
tap all the time to tell us what he is saying.
Yes, thats a point. But Ill call in a psychiatrist if you think that will help.
No, I dont think so. Theyre all crackers anyway.
Well, youve got that right.
Of course, this backward speaking business could be quite hazardous under
certain circumstances, Tarquin.
Wouldnt make much of a radio operator, eh?
How very droll. I think I shall recommend to the old man that he be
discharged. Lets throw the bugger out.
Good idea. Probably be more trouble than hes worth.
As was customary for anyone due for discharge on medical or noncompatibility grounds, the dischargee would be interviewed at length by the
Commanding Officer. This final procedure was designed to trap and unmask the
ticket-workers; and the CO was very good at laying traps.
The interview was short and sharp.
McQueen translated just five of his comrades sentences, while the CO,
attempting to write down the backwards dialogue, quickly lost patience.
Are you a lead-swinger, Rifleman? Are you a ticket-worker?
On, ris. I evol eht ymra. I tnaw ot ekam a reerac fo ti.
He says no, sir, McQueen confirmed. He loves the army and wants to make
a career of it.
Well, thats quite impossible if we cannot understand a damn word hes
saying, the CO he said. But give him credit, hes bloody good at it.
Bunkles discharge papers were quickly signed and he was unceremoniously
shown the main gate.
Which should have been the end of Bunkle.
Three months passed. Then, out of the blue, McQueen received a picture
postcard from Hawaii.
Dear McQueen, it began
As you can see, Im in Honolulu. I am working
on a cruise liner as an entertainer. I do impressions
and tricks with backward speaking, which I have
made my forte. The customers love it.
Thanks for all your help, mate. As to the others: Skcollob
Ot eht tol fo meth!
Bunkle.
END

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The Short Story Writer Competition

Fog Index: 5.5

I tsol ym tseb stoob.

Well, Sarnt, its English, but.

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