by Jan Needle
I had to think a while. I drank some lager and I crunched some porky scratchings. The others did, as well. A quiet little scene in a noisy, blaring pub.
“Maybe it’s me,” I said, at last. “Maybe that’s its problem – it hasn’t changed and it never fucking has to, does it? We’ll be back up there on Sunday, won’t we? And so will Mart, and Big Dave Hughes, and Chas Hicks and Timmo Hawes and Geordie George. Are you telling me that you can stand it? That everything’s okay? SSDD and fucking hallelujah? That’s bollocks, in’t it? It’s all so fucking bone.”
Then Ashton dropped a casual little bombshell.
“Not Timmo Hawes,” he said. He took a great big swig. “He’s out. He’s on his way. Got done for drugs, din’t he? Class A.”
That was a shaker, a real one.
“Timmo! Class A? But Timmo don’t do drugs! Timmo Hawes?”
They both looked at me. Not amused, though, despite my ignorance.
“Yeah,” said Shahid. “Funny, innit? Random drug test after the ranges one night, about a week ago. Timmo fails with knobs on. There were so much in his locker when they checked it after, they banged him in the glasshouse straight away. Timmo’s out. I doubt they’ll even let him back to Catterick.”
I had to think that through. That sounded like a right old pile of crap. Timmo was a booze-hound, straight up and down. If he had a hero it was Homer, or maybe Homer and Barney Gumble rolled into one. Can’t get enough of that guzzling stuff!
“Maybe it was a plant?” I said. “Maybe someone down there had it in for him? Some southern bastard?”
Shahid nodded.
“Maybe it weren’t. I mean, that camp were swimming in it, weren’t it? If you wanted any, you’d never find a better bleeding place.”
“But Timmo never did. Jeez, he was the biggest piss-head in the mob. Well, apart from all his mates. But drugs. Fuck me.”
“Yeah,” said Sha. “I tell you what though, Sherlock. We’ll never know. Will we?”
“And it’s bye-bye Timmo Hawes,” said Ashton. “Sweet fucking dreams.”
We’ll never know. We’ll never fucking know. But it makes you think though, doesn’t it? It made us all think. Our brains were bloody boiling…
Three
Lance Corporal Martin was back on Sunday night, along with all the other buggers, and the new week started off the same as every other week – boring. Wake up, have shower, block jobs, breakfast, PT, TAB or circuit training, shower, change, do telly or the PlayStation, pie, chips, ignore the salad, sit around or get a game of football if your face fits, CFT Warrior, rifle cleaning, fall out. The only good bit was that I was off punishment (“Sarnt Williams said you was the best bitch he’s ever fucked” – Martie) and the walking deadheads – which included Ken – had been cleared off to a different floor, or put down or something, they’d disappeared. The bad bit was that Gough was back next door, and I hated him. He’d got above himself, he’d got an attitude, and if he wasn’t careful he’d get a fucking broken neck.
The only other good bit was we were going off to Wogland in a fortnight. Not a rumour, lads, it’s definitely definite this time, that’s definite. The ’Stan, or maybe somewhere else. And maybe it’s two months, or on Wednesday afternoon. No time to even kiss the girls goodbye, best have one last little wank.
That first full evening back, the Monday, I went down to Ashton’s room. I’d had me tea, which was shit, changed into civvies, boxed me kit away, polished me boots – ready for anything. Ashton had done the same, and bought some weed off someone in D Coy to start the evening off. He was in a really shitty mood, which was why he’d got the stuff, but he wouldn’t really say what was bugging him. The posting news had sharpened up our minds a bit, but we hadn’t done much more talking about leaving or stuff like that, there didn’t seem a lot of point. We’d signed up for good or bad, and for the moment – well, that was that. So bugger it.
But his mood was quite annoying when I’d mellowed out a bit, so I said we’d better go out and get a drink down us. We signed off at the gate, and went to Tesco’s for some brandy. Ash, as it happened, was due on ranges in the morning, but what the fuck? If he couldn’t shoot an SA80 straight by now, no point in worrying.
We took nearly an hour to knock off the brandy – only half a bottle, all we could afford – and Ash was still dead moody until I finally dragged out of him that it was over money – his bank was playing silly buggers with his pay. He’d had a letter and a statement saying he was overdrawn, and charging him for the privilege, and he couldn’t understand it. He showed me in the end, and it did look pretty bad – bleeding horrendous. But I couldn’t see a mystery there, no way.
“Look,” I said. “Check the dates. Two hundred out there. A hundred and forty there – that’s two days later. Sixty seven out there. Sixty one. One fifty three. For fuck’s sake, Ash, that’s where it’s gone, mate, and all them little ‘OD’s’ mean overdrawn, don’t they? So what d’you want to know?”
“Yeah yeah, I’m not bloody mental, prickface, I understand that, you twat. But all that out, and nothing fucking in, is there?” he said. “No pay or nothing, not a fucking cent, what’s that all about? Did you get paid this month?”
“’Course I did.” I thought for a second. “Well, I spose I did, I never looked like, did I? I guess the bank’d tell me quick enough if I got skint.”
“Too bloody right,” he said. “That’s what this letter says, innit? And they’ve charged another thirty quid for writing it, the bastards! But I haven’t had me pay! It’s gone missing!”
“It can’t go bloody missing. Where’s your slip?”
He looked at me. He made a funny face.
“I didn’t get one. When I got this letter I went down the offices to kick up shit. They said it were a minor cock-up. Something in the system. It happens.”
“Minor!” I shouted. “But you’re getting charged interest by the bank, ain’t you? Din’t you tell them that?”
“Of course I fucking told ’em.” Ashton sounded tired. “The corporal fucking laughed! ‘Your problem, mate – change your fucking bank!’ I went hairless. Shouting bloody murder. Sergeant come out in the end, give me a bollocking. He said he’d put me on Agai if I din’t shut up.”
We were in the pub by now, watering down the brandy in our bellies with some lager. Clerks hate squaddies. They love to screw things up for us, it’s the way they get their rocks off, they’re pathetic. They’re fireproof an’ all, though, untouchable. We drank and thought.
“What you going to do?” I asked. “Ring up your bank tomorrow? You might get more sense out of them. Well…”
He sighed. “Nothing else I can do though, is there? ’Cept go back to the office grovelling. And hope the loot comes through and the bank don’t sting me too much bloody extra charges.” He sighed again, more like a groan this time. “It’s this honeymoon,” he said. “And then the wedding, when we gets round to it. It’ll bankrupt me, but she ain’t waiting too much longer. She wants to be a Mrs. Mrs Respectable.”
I tried to cheer him up.
“Well, you black twats are always on about respect,” I said. “You don’t know what it fucking means, like, but you’ve got to have it, haven’t you? If you’re talking about suits and Rollers, mate, if you think that that’s respect, it don’t come cheap, though. Weddings are for mugs.”
That didn’t help much, I will admit. He was drinking very slow, as if that would make a difference to his debts. He kept looking at the statement, really bothered.
“We’ve booked two weeks in Cyprus,” he said. “Arm and a leg job, Ti. All paid upfront, and now I’ve got to find some spends. Fucking nightmare. She’s worth it, though, the slag. ’Ere, what about that Goughie, then?”
A change of subject. God knows where it came from, but thank God it did. He’d been looking suicidal.
“What about him? He still looks like the same old streak of piss to me.”
“Yeah, ’course he is. He’s been sucking up to the CSM
they reckon, though. Bollocks Bowyer saw him with Colour and Mart Martin. Three peas in a pod, big mates. Because he took the rap for punching that police tart, maybe. Something cooking up.”
I slid the last bit of my pint down. Looked at it significantly, like. He might be skint, but it was still his round.
“I thought I took the rap for that,” I said. I knew what he meant though. If Gough was being sneaky it meant trouble, except I couldn’t see what trouble there was left still to happen. We’d done our punishment, there wan’t nothing left to cook. And every other bugger in the pikie fight had got away scot-free.
“Funny innit,” I said. “He’s gone from being everybody’s kicking post to bleeding Supercreep. If he ever does go into action he’ll get the VC, I’ll put cash on it. Authentic British hero. No brains, no brawn, no fucking hope.”
“Oooh, bitter!” said Ashton.
“No, lager,” I said, quick as a flash. “And it’s your shout, get ’em bloody in!”
That actually made him laugh, and he went off to the bar looking not so bloody glum. Through the door came Mart, and Big Dave Hughes and Bollocks, and Josh (whose sister does), and Billy ’Unt – and Goughie. Thick as thieves they were, and twice as friendly. Except that Gough got in the drinks, and all of them had pints with double whisky chasers. Not much friendship there then, whatever the poor sap thought. They took up the tables next to ours.
“Yo, bitch!” Mart said to me. “How’s the battered bumhole?”
There was a bit more banter when Ash came back, but Martie was too dumb to dredge up much, and it fizzled out. They were already a bit rowdy, and they settled down to get the pissedness level up, with the corporal shouting off about some “master plan” he had. Pity we’d just got drinks in, we could’ve buggered off. No problem, though. A pint don’t last that long.
We’d lost our will for conversation – our will to live, you could say – but we heard pretty damn soon what Martin had in mind. It seemed he’d got his taste for trouble fired up down south, he’d been in punch-ups every other night, and his face was all cuts and bruises, some half-healed. Maybe the CSM was in on it. Maybe that’s what the crack had been. And there was more crack looming.
“I know you don’t give a fuck for footie, la’,” he said to Bollocks.” But it’s the big one, see. There’s Jocks involved. There could be well good trouble.”
Oh, football. Boring. That’s what Bowyer thought, and he’d need some convincing this time, you could tell.
“Yeah,” said Bollocks, “fair enough, but the Jocks ain’t involved though, are they? It’s England against some fucking team, they’re all the fucking same to me – but it ain’t the fucking Scotch. So where’s the fucking trouble coming from?”
“It’s Gough’s idea,” said Mart. “Nice one, Goughie, fucking smart, la’. We goes into Darlington and hits the sports shops, and we gets all their foreign flags, every last one in the bleeding town. What is it, Portugal we’re playing? Some gang of fucking wops, who cares? We’re all supporting England, okay, everyone’s supporting England except the Jocks, who’d rather bleeding die, so we flogs them all the wog gear to dress up in on the night! They’re thick, okay, but they’ll get the idea in the end, won’t they – they can be the official fucking opposition! It’s trouble guaranteed!”
I saw Goughie’s adam’s apple bob up and down. He was going to speak! Daring...
“Especially if we give ’em at half price,” he said. “I mean, you know what Jocks are over money.”
“Fuck off!” said Big Dave Hughes. “Them fucking foreign strips cost dosh, mate. Half price? You must be fucking joking!”
Billy ’Unt said: “Don’t be stupid, Dave, we don’t pay for ’em do we, where’s your regimental pride? The Jocks pay us half price, we pay the shops sweet bugger all. We go in mob-handed, create diversions, out like a dose of salts with all the gear. Or you can tell the shopgirls you’re Wayne Rooney, looking for a freebie. You look like fucking Shrek!”
“Who’s Shrek?” said Big Dave Hughes, and he wasn’t joking, either. “What for, anyway? Why the foreign flags, and that? Ain’t we supporting Ingerland?”
“Course we are, you dildo! And the Jocks support the enemy! England’s enemy, don’t matter who it is, it’s in the blood, innit? We get their money for the strips that cost us nothing, and we get an ’omemade war. Jesus, Dave. You are so, so thick. Get ’em bloody in.”
The match was in the Naafi, on the big screens, and someone sprung the idea on the Scotchmen a day or two before, fed it to ’em like some deadly secret. I don’t know who did the spreading of the virus – Colour I think – but he played a blinder. Suddenly there was Jock lads everywhere – sworn to secrecy among themselves, the halfwits – getting opposition shirts, and flags, and coughing up real loot if they couldn’t nick or beast them out of someone – to wear under normal, neutral stuff and infiltrate into the game on Saturday. They thought it was all their own idea, that was the best thing. They were going to time it to the second, wait for a signal, then switch from being Scottie squaddies into foreign football fans rooting for the dagoes – and screw the English to the fucking floor. It was a dead sweet plan, I must admit.
Then, two days before the match, fucking disaster. Out of the blue, out of a fucking cloudless sky, Shahid and Ashton both got knocked back. An army carve-up, pure and simple, and both of them completely blown away. Ashton’s leave was cancelled – his pre-wedding honeymoon, his fortnight in the Cyprus sun – and Shahid was pulled in by the RMPs. They wouldn’t tell him why – why should they? – but everybody knew, him most of all. Ashton was flattened, he was in the lower fucking depths. Shahid was so angry I swear he turned damn nearly white. And Goughie was behind it, it was obvious. Who fucking else?
The upshot was, that quitting came back in the air for us, big time. Four years to serve? Not fucking much! Ashton was so livid it’s a wonder he didn’t go straight over the wire the day he got the news, and as for Shahid, he just vanished off the block. Now you see him, now you don’t. The disappearing Paki.
So just like that I’m on me Jack again, the second time in no damn time at all. It made me think what it’d be like out there, Afghanistan, Iraq, even Iran if our Yankee masters decide we’ll give them some “democracy” as well. If I got a bullet in the head, fair enough – I’d be a hero, mum could be proud of me at last, and at least the army don’t charge you for your funeral yet, though it’s bound to happen some day I suppose.
But if Ash and Sha got killed – or if they did a runner, or got sent to jail for treachery – I’d be on my own again, full time.
Fuck that for a game of soldiers.
Four
Like I’ve said before, you’re taught to hate everyone except the men in your own mob from the first day of training almost. But when it comes to it, even people with a natural hatred for each other, like Manks and Scousers, Lanks and Yorkies, can join together to fuck off a common enemy. The civvies, say, the Taffs and Brummies and the southerners. And the Jocks.
Before we even passed off of the square, before we swapped crap hats for badge and beret, we knew half a dozen chants about the kiltie-men which were bound to lead to fights, and we used them every where, and every way, we could. That meant fights on the block, fights in the lines, fights on the ranges, in trains and buses, fights in Catterick, even the sergeants in their mess. When I say we, I don’t mean me, particular, I wasn’t that bothered much. I just mean us. The good guys versus them.
So when we crowded in the Naafi for the match, the air was like electric, it was jumping. The Scotchmen kept the flags and strips we’d sold ’em hid from us (thinking they were so fucking crafty!), and our fanatics looked like butter wouldn’t melt, they looked like lickle fucking angels. Ooh, there was going to be a holocaust!
It didn’t come off quick, that would have spoiled it. In any case, the actual game, far as I could tell who don’t give jack shit for football, was too boring to get up much extra buzz, enough to tip from tension to a fu
cking bang – at least until the booze kicked in. But with both my mates out of circulation, let’s just say that I was bored. Too bored to stay away from bloodshed, too bored to wander round the empty town, but also too bored to notice who the actual side was that licked old Ingerland. Portugal? Yeah, that was it maybe. Although I could be wrong. But they did lick us, although it took them long enough. And when they did – and by then the booze was running down the throats like water – the Jocks went wild. They erupted like volcanoes. Volcanoes on the piss...
They did it sudden, like, and the way they whipped their hidden flags out, and stripped their tops off down to the foreign, winning shirts, was a touch of pure, wicked, evil, magic. One instant they were England fans, down in the mouth and disappointed like the rest, and the next they were foreign nutters, waving their colours, whooping and shrieking like bloody dervishes.
“Ye wank-airs! Ye wank-airs! Fuck the English! Fuck the English fairies! Scawe’land f’r’evair!”
Well everybody knows the Jocks are hardest, that’s ancient history. They’re not the biggest, they’re not the brightest, they sure as shit are not the best. But fired up by coke and whisky, the little bone-head bastards are unbeatable. They swept across the Naafi floor like a horde of devils pouring out of hell, and a hail of glasses sailed in front of them. They bounced off everything, the ones that didn’t smash, off the chairs, the ceiling, mirrors, regimental photographs, off the fruit machines, and people’s heads, and soon the walls were pissing blood and lager. Some optic bottles got smashed behind the bar until the shutters were crashed down, and one of the telly screens went off with a bang and flash.
The Jocks are hardest, man for man, but this fight was about numbers, as much as anything. All the English buried the hatchet, so to speak, then looked for a Scotch head to bury it in again, and for the first phase everybody went by colour. England flags, tied around necks like capes, went rushing at the foreign flags, then at Scottish crosses that got conjured out of nowhere. I saw one Jock almost strangled by a Union Jack that two squaddies twisted round his neck and pulled till he went purple.
