by Jan Needle
Ashton again. I couldn’t get my head round it, quite honestly.
“It wasn’t just me,” I said, defensively. “My sister Vronnie talked her round as well. She said statistically I had much more chance of being run down by a bus in town than stopping a bullet, and at least I’d end up learning something useful – like a brickie, say, or a plumber or mechanic. Much more useful than I’d learn at uni, anyway.”
“And did you?”
“Did I fuck as like, it was a con like every other bleeding thing they said was going to happen. I learned piss-artistry that’s all, and Olympic standard swearing, and a bit of minor thieving, and I go mad with rage if someone crosses me, and I earn fuck all and owe a bleeding fortune. I even owe the government me one-year student loan back. The only good thing is, in the army, I’ll never earn enough to have to pay it! They can bloody whistle.”
I wanted a drink again. Not tea. I nearly asked for one. Carole unfolded her legs and leaned towards me. Her sleepiness had gone away.
“So did you hate it straight away, then? When did you realise you’d got it wrong?”
I thought a bit, but I didn’t need to think for long. They pitch it brilliant – it’s quite good, it’s interesting, until it’s just too late to walk away. I think I realised it about five weeks after I’d missed me chance to go. After I’d signed up for four years.
“Well,” I said. “I didn’t hate it from the start, to be quite honest I sort of loved it. I mean, I got fit, I lost a ton of weight, then put it back in muscle, I played with rifles, played lots of sport, drove Land Rovers off road, all sorts of boss things. It was like…well, it was sort of like I’d found what I was looking for, my mum was chuffed to death. Still worried, like, but chuffed as well. ‘He’s loving it,’ she used to tell the aunties. ‘New lease of life, I think he’s found his fucking feet at last.’ Not fucking, obviously, this was me mum, but you know what I mean. When it changed, I didn’t dare to tell her, I didn’t want to, it was so nice to have done something right at last. I haven’t even told her yet how bone it got, how utter, utter crap. She hasn’t even got a clue.”
I thought that through, as well. Not completely true, but not so far off.
“I did say once I wan’t so keen,” I said. “When I’d finished training. There’s a lot of bullying and racism when you join an actual regiment and I did get pissed one night and say I hated it. But she went mad, really. Well, it was more she looked as if I’d hit her in the face. Terrible.”
“Oh God,” said Carole.
“Yeah. She went ‘But you said you loved it! Oh love, it seemed so wonderful!’ And me sister’s like ‘But it’s money coming in! It’s only for four years!’ Yeah. Four years unless they shoot me brains out, I thought, that used to be her fucking worry once, that didn’t last long, did it? And then mum goes: ‘But what about Bridgie? Won’t she be disappointed?’ and I bloody near threw up. Talk about clutching at fucking straws!”
“Bridgie? Is that your girlfriend?”
“Sort of. Well, used to be. The thing is, they both hated her. She was Irish. Well, she was a royal pain, in actual fact. But they were prepared to like her again, pretend to, anyway – just to keep me in. Keep me out of mum’s hair, like. Jesus. Bloody diabolical.”
“But you were going to go to war,” she said. “Afghanistan or something, they must’ve known that, surely? I mean, what if you’d been killed?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe they really hoped I’d die, d’you reckon? Deep down. Save a lot of bleeding bother.”
Carole’s face went furious.
“That’s bollocks, Andy! I’m not having that, no way! You don’t mean that, do you? That’s just ruddy crap.”
It could have been a shouting match. I couldn’t let that happen. And she was bloody right.
“Okay, okay,” I said, “I’ll take that back, okay? Maybe I’m just shit scared is all. Maybe I’m just a coward. Am I allowed to say that? Does that sound right?”
“Well, I don’t know, do I?” she said, still pretty brisk. “Are you? Scared, I mean?” Her voice went softer. “If you aren’t you ruddy ought to be, it don’t make you a coward in my book. It’s dangerous. Lots of lads get killed. It’s terrible. I’m sorry if I shouted, love. I didn’t mean it, either.”
I shook me head. I was being serious.
“Yeah, I guess I might be, in the end,” I said. “There’s more chance with a bleeding bus, though, when you think about it, int there? It’s not the war I’m scared of, it’s the army. It’s the shit. The bollocks. The way we just exist to save some bugger’s skin. Some shitty politician’s skin who started it, like. We may not even get to war it’s turning into shit so fast. The whole thing’s so fucked up I wouldn’t be surprised. A glitch. Computer error.”
She smiled, but she wan’t that daft, no way. She shook her head and let out a big sigh.
“That’s not what Ashton says,” she said. “He reckons you’re going pretty soon, he says it’s on the cards. Afghanistan, Helmand, whatever. He says the story’s out.”
“The story’s always out,” I said. “Three times a week it’s going to happen, something, anything. It never bleeding does. The only thing you know for sure is you know damn all, and the damn all that you know is definite. That’s how they like it.”
“Well he’s getting married, though,” said Carole. “That’s how sure Ashton is. Didn’t you know that? He’s got a honeymoon booked in a few weeks. Pre-wedding honeymoon. Malta or somewhere. Majorca maybe.”
First I’d heard about a honeymoon, but it sounded right for Ash. If he did get posted and he missed the actual wedding, fair enough. But he’d get the honeymoon in, no bleeding way! I grinned, a bit sickly. To be honest, I didn’t care no longer. Suddenly, I wanted me bed. Suddenly, I thought I might fall over soon. I was completely buggered.
I sort of half stood up, and Carole got up, too. Her face was full of sympathy. She shook her head.
“God, you look terrible,” she said. “I’ll wake you in the morning, shall I? Before I go to work. Look, you can stay here longer if you like, you’re more than welcome, honest, love.” She stopped. “But I’d go back if I was you. I really, really would.”
I looked at her. What did she know? She looked straight back, and give a little smile.
“Why?” I said.
“Because,” she said. “Well, I don’t really know. It just feels right, know what I mean? You’ve only missed a day, they won’t do much, will they? Anyone can tell that you was drunk. I’ll be a witness if you like. I’ll give you my mobile number. Tell ’em to ring me. I don’t mind, Andy. I think you ought to go.”
“Hah!” I said. I was going to slur my words. “You just want to see me get blown up, don’t you! You just want to see me in Afghanistan!”
She didn’t smile, but she wasn’t angry, neither. She just looked at me.
“You’re not afraid of that, I know you’re not,” she said. “And your mates are going. Think how bored you’ll be without them. Now that’s really boring. Go on to bed. In there. D’you want another brew?”
“I’ll piss myself,” I said. Last gasp of bravado.
“You won’t be the first one,” she said. “Sadie was the last. On her birthday, silly cow. You get to bed. I’ll leave the light on in the loo.”
She walked across and kissed me. I thought that I might cry. It was terrible.
“I’m called Tiny,” I said. “Not Andy. Thanks.”
“Size don’t matter,” she said, and laughed like a drain. “Go and get your head down, love. I’d like to hear the rest, one day, all the ins and outs. But go back in the meantime, Tiny. Do it for me. Do it for yourself. Okay? Night-night.”
And she went out through the door.
Three
Shahid rung up in the morning, and he’d already rung the camp, the crazy bastard. He’d told the switchboard he was my dad and told them to pass a message on. That he’d spoke to me, and I was in Newcastle, and I was coming back to camp and I’d
got pissed but okay now. I couldn’t believe it, really. That he’d had the bloody neck. But Carole had gone to work so I couldn’t talk to her, and when I rung up Sha again to argue he told me he was busy, and piss off back to Catterick. So I did.
It was like some sort of nasty dream, going in. The squaddie on the gate looked me up and down and asked me if I’d slept in a pigsty or a hedge, then laughed his socks off and said I had to report to the RSM immediate and he was fucking glad he wan’t in my shoes. The corporal in the RSM’s office told me to go and have a wash and change into a uniform, and come back in fifteen minutes, and God help me if I wasn’t super-smart. And when I looked for my trousers they were underneath my mattress, no cleaner than the night before. I got back looking like a victim of a bomb blast, and the RSM didn’t bollock me at all, he even smiled.
“Jesus, Hassan,” he said. “What a mess. I hope your story’s good, lad. Your father’s on your side, apparently. He rang up, did you know? Explained it to the switch.”
I swallowed.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. (He was the RSM. The NCO you did call sir). “He’s... he’s good, my dad. He told me to come back. He said it was the best.”
Jesus. Now Shahid was my father. Official. What would me mother say?
“Aye, well he’s dead right there. Go in now. Captain’s waiting. You’d better tell him you fell off an elephant or something. It could explain the way you look.”
I was starting sweating. This was all wrong, everyone was being nice. I knew the Captain would be if the Sarnt Major was, because the Captain was as soft as shit. He was sitting when I opened the door, looking at his keyboard. He glanced up and smiled.
“Give me a minute, Private. Take a seat. Nice of you to press your uniform. Sorry – joke.”
Jesus. He was trying to put me at my ease. Jesus. I could easy shit myself. Then he turned away from the screen, and he said: “Well.”
I swallowed.
“Er. Yessir. Sorry, sir. I mean I’m... I’m sorry, sir. I mean it. Sir.”
His eyes were pretty keen in fact, they were sort of boring into me. The trouble was I wasn’t sorry at all, it was a lie. I wondered if he knew, but I didn’t really care, I just hoped I didn’t get the glasshouse. I wished I’d stayed away. Gone on the run. Got a full-time job. Say McDonald’s. Oh bleeding hell. Alternative career. Oh bleeding, bleeding hell.
“Why did you do it, Tiny? Do you know?”
Tiny! That really put the fears up me. Was I here to get a medal? I licked my lips. Mouth like shit, despite the toothbrush job I’d done. Made me gums bleed.
“Do what, sir?”
Oh shit, bad mistake. I saw his face change.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I didn’t mean that, sir, I’m... like, confused. I don’t know, sir. That’s the honest answer. Sir. I think, sir.”
“Are you worried about Afghanistan? There’s no certainty we’re going there, you know. Nothing’s decided yet. It could be Canada, or Germany, or Kosovo.”
Now he was bullshitting, so that made two of us. But I didn’t mind.
“No, sir!” I made it sound like I was annoyed he thought I was a coward. “I’m not a coward, sir. I didn’t join the army to run away!” Whoops. But he didn’t smile.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Just because things out there haven’t gone…well, exactly the way the politicos expected, in some people’s opinion. Which is nothing to do with us, of course, in any way. We’re paid to fight, however hard it might turn out to be. We’re soldiers. It’s what we do.”
To me, he sounded a bit uncomfortable, sort of stilted, but I guess I’ll never know what officers really think, or if they even think at all. Squaddies are paid to “fight not think” is fair enough, and officers get paid more than us because they’ve got a lot more thinking not to do. Or something. My brain was hurting. Cut down the argument. They’re a gang of wankers, overpaid.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I won’t do it again, sir, honestly. I think it was the drink.”
He looked at his computer screen. He tapped the keyboard. He nodded, like a bleeding judge.
“It has been noticed,” he said. “Are you worried about your drinking, Tiny? Do you think you ought to talk to the MO?”
Yeah, bloody likely – not. I bet he was a pisshead anyway. My doctor back at home is. Famous for it. I shook my head.
“I don’t think that’s the problem, sir. I’m maybe a bit... you know, sir. Just at the minute. I got bounced back from the exercises, sir. Me mates are all still there. But I’ll cut down. I promise, sir. I’ll just stick to beer.”
He smiled.
“Very wise. Whisky is the devil, Hassan, that’s what they brought me up to think.” He read the screen some more. “Hhm. Hhm. Well, you must admit you brought it on yourself. Why did you hit that young police officer? A woman, too, in actual fact. Which makes it rather worse, doesn’t it?”
I looked at his soft face and I didn’t know if I should hate him or some bugger else. Should I deny it? Was there any point?
“It wasn’t me, sir,” I said, “and that’s the honest truth. It was a sort of riot, that’s all I can say. I think someone must have... made a mistake, like. It wasn’t me. Sir.”
“Hhm,” he went. “Oh well. But you’re not depressed about it? Not that I’m saying I believe... but you’re not claiming...ah... depression?”
The magic word.
“No, sir. I was pissed, sir. Sorry, sir, drunk, sir. I was drunk, not dep— Not suffering from depression, sir. Sir – does it mention Khan on there, sir? Shahid Khan? ’Cause if it says he’s a terrorist, I... well he’s...”
He was staring at me. Then at the screen, as if to check.
“Shahid Khan? A terrorist? Whyever should it, Private? What are you suggesting? Are you saying that he is?”
“No, sir! No, sir! No! No he’s not sir, that’s the point! He hates them, sir, he thinks they’re fucking mad! I’m sorry, sir, I—”
“Oh forget it, soldier, swear if you must, for God’s sake! Just what is it you’re trying to tell me? Just spit it out!”
Christ, this was all completely wrong. I’d kill that Goughie. I’d fucking kill him. I was panting, so I took a breath or two. Calmed down.
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought... no, nothing, sir. Private Khan’s not a terrorist, sir, he’s one of the good guys. He’s not even a Muslim any more, he thinks it’s mental, sir, he thinks we’ve got to win.”
“Do they bully him? Is that what you’re saying, Hassan? Is it a racist thing?”
I was goggling. What was this wazzock on about?
“Sir? What, bully Sha? Not likely, sir. No way!”
“Hhm,” he went again. I think he was completely lost. He picked up a pen and dropped it back on to the desk.
“No racism, eh? Well, that doesn’t surprise me, actually. This is the best outfit I’ve ever known on the racism front. And bullying, as well. Some regiments are... well, it can be a problem, but... well, I’m glad you agree, Tiny. I’m very proud of it, in actual fact. I’m very proud indeed.”
I’d’ve mentioned Al Beano if I’d had the guts. Or if I’d known his proper fucking name. I had a sudden picture of Johnnie Gough running bollock-naked between two long lines of us on the block in Week Four of our basic training, being punched and kicked and spat at because the corporals said unless we give him some hammer for his messy bed we’d get much worse. And it suddenly got to me. No racism! No bullying! Was he completely fucking mad?
“Well!” I said. And I was almost spluttering. “Well the reason they don’t bully Shahid, sir – is because he’d bloody kill them! But racism, sir! Well! It’s terrible! Black lads and Pakis, sir – they get it in the neck, sir! One lad called Jamal, sir – he quit, don’t you remember? They made his life a misery! He damn near fucking topped himself!”
“Watch your language, will you!” said the captain, sharply, and I must’ve goggled like a fish, because he added: “I will not hear racist insults, understand? It’
s no help at all to call our Pakistani soldiers names. They are your comrades. They are your friends.”
“But…” I went. “But, but… Sir, it’s not me that’s racist, they are! The sergeants! Corporals! Lancejacks! There’s even officers—”
I thought he’d blow a fuse. He slammed his hand down on his table and his keyboard jumped up in the air. He shouted at me.
“Enough! I do not want to hear this!”
“And bullying!” I said. “I’m bloody sick of it! Take Johnnie Gough!”
My voice was trembling. I was running out of steam. His eyes were beady on me, but he could see I’d given in. He could see what I was thinking – shit, I’m in the shit, big style. As I wound down I could see that he’d relaxed. Game set and match to him. He smiled at me, the patronising twat.
“I think it’s the army that you’re sick of, Tiny, that’s the truth now, isn’t it? You mention Johnnie Gough, for instance, and let me tell you this – for Private Gough we predict great things, he’ll be a credit to the British Army. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re just brassed off with things? Jealous perhaps, just a little teenie weenie bit? Or maybe you’re in love. Is it woman trouble? We can be very sympathetic if you try us.”
I shook my head. What could I do? Jealous of fucking Gough. In love. God bloody save us all.
“No, sir. No, sir. Honestly.”
“Listen,” he said. “My guess is you’ve got the jitters, lad, whatever you might say, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of, I do assure you. But I’ve told you, and you have my word on it, we are not going to Afghanistan in the near future, nor Kosovo. You can count on it, you can tell your friends. Okay? Does that feel better?”
“Sir,” I said. I just wanted one more try. I’d spat it out to Carole, I knew it could be done. “Sir,” I said, “I ain’t afraid sir, honestly. It’s just that… Oh, I dunno. It’s not how I expected, sir, it feels a…it feels like it’s a waste. I mean, sir. I’m not stupid, I was told that I could get a trade, something for afterwards. I mean, this lot’s not going to last for ever, is it? Not even that much longer, a lot of people say. I was promised at the recruitment office, that’s why I joined. A bricklayer, a plumber, you know? And when I started here they knocked me back. They laughed at me.”
