Sarge

• Stuart Balsley, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2009

Things changed when the Sergeant arrived. Alcohol was hastily shoved out of sight, food hidden under the tables. Even the cutlery and crockery were not spared from the impromptu game of hide and seek. The Sergeant, or simply Sarge as he was better known, slowly walked towards the centre of the canteen, with deliberate and calculated steps. It takes a surprising amount of skill to march so professionally through the remains of such a hasty clean-up; especially one organised by new recruits. He came to a stop next to the partially covered keg that sat alone in the centre of the room, seemingly unaware of the angry murmurs that followed his every step.

Sergeant Wilkins was a man of strict routine and stricter discipline. He was an imposing man, mainly because he seemed to be a size up from everybody else. He wasn’t particularly heavily muscled, or hugely fat like many of his fellow rank, but instead he was just…big. Literally larger than life.

The Sarge stared at the inebriates slouched around the room, in the patented manner that suggested that its occupants weren’t deserving of a proper glare. It was the stare worn by sergeants, vanquished villains and teachers everywhere. And the Sarge had perfected it. The metaphorical temperature dropped considerably, and the officers closest to the centre of the former feast began to feel isolated from their peers and muttering ceased.

The Stare belonged to a man who was the finished product of a system. It was a system that had been perfected over many, many years of civilisation. This particular system had experienced its ups and downs, its unpopular periods. It had been praised for its victories and disbanded after defeats. It was a proud system, with a reputation to consider. It was called the City Police Force.

Sarge cleared his throat, the sound echoing around the room like not-so distant thunder. It was the kind of cough that suggested that the Sarge was definitely not impressed, rather than suggesting he was just trying to remove a troublesome chunk of phlegm from the back of his oesophagus.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Sarge’s deep voice boomed. Police officers sat rigid in their seats with unaccustomed discipline. It was the inevitable rhetoric offered by superior officers when they find scenes such as this. Sarge stared blankly at the mess around the room. Several tables had been overturned; one had even collapsed under the weight of the fat Senior Sergeant Frank Bresnehan. He was lying nearby clutching a bottle of vodka.

Hands clasped behind his back Sergeant Wilkins marched slowly towards the drunken Constable Jesse Smith, jaw clenched. The constable was lounging in his seat, and seemed to be only just conscious. In his hands were a bottle of unidentified alcohol and half a chicken leg. He was wearing a cheap pointed party hat bearing random swear words. The Sarge’s jaw seemed to tighten further. An example must be made.





Sarge bought himself to a stop in front of the curled lump sitting in the chair. He stared down at the officer.
“WELL Smithy, you really have outdone yourself!” he boomed, waking the intoxicated constable with a rough shake.
Smith tried to straighten up in his chair and failed, falling in a heap on the floor with a groan and mumbled swearing. “I want your badge on my desk by Thursday, boy!” Sarge added cheerfully.

The Sergeant sighed and sat down on the recently vacated chair. He leaned over and snatched the chicken leg off of the now unconscious former constable. The mood in the room lightened somewhat. Someone even laughed.

“Now,” the Sarge began cheerfully, “we have a fair amount of cleaning to do, don’t we lads? If this isn’t cleaned in,” He paused and took out a tarnished silver fob watch from the front pocket of his immaculate uniform “20 minutes, there will be hell to pay!”

This was received by a chorus of very policeman-like insubordinate mutters. The Sarge’s eyes narrowed upon hearing these. “CLEAN THIS MESS UP! GET TO IT!” he bellowed. The less inebriated of the officers cringed at this and leapt into action. Their jobs were on the line.

In the chaos that followed the Sarge stood up and marched towards the door, paving a path through the panicked officers of the law. Useless fools, he thought.

At the edge of the room a half-drunk Senior Constable slowly unravelled the banner he had hastily sat on previously and let the party whistle drop from his mouth. The banner read; “HAPPY ANNIVERSARY SARGE 7 YEARS AND STILL GOING”. He sighed, and began to help with the clean-up. When the Sarge had burst open the doors he had panicked and hid the banner, and once the Sarge had started talking it would’ve just ruined the moment. No-one interrupted the Sarge.

Cops just can’t hold their drink like they used to, the Sarge thought, reminiscent of the good old days. These days the young men just get smashed within the first couple of hours, leaving the stayers like himself to clean up. He hated having to do that, he just wanted to go home.

This was the third party he had broken up. Why did they bother?