by Will Self
state, too. COLONEL THOMAS: I’ll deal with that, Landon – I want
you back at comms. Base is on full lock-down now … (he hefts the
BAG o’ PHONES) … if any of the men still has a mobile phone,
I want it impounded, and no one’s to enter or leave the base before
rouse. Swing by Captain Petersen’s quarters on your way – give her
a knock and tell her she needs to go see Major Townshend sharpish,
he’s had a bit of an … accident. (He salutes SERGEANT LANDON
smartly, and moves away, leaving the squadron lines. He passes by
the vehicle park: rows of aypeesees and up-armoured Land Rovers
still releasing the fierce heat of the day into the hardly less hot
night.) THE STEELY STEEDS: Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick! COLONEL
THOMAS (seeing the whirring gimbals of the carriage clock on
the mantelpiece in the dining room of the Bardney beeandbee):
Jonathan’d probably hate it, though – sabotage things … insult our
guests while I was working hard at trying to get us accepted in the
community … (Nearing the squat outline of the TeeDeeEff, he
sees several troopers loitering about, smoking.) COLONEL THOMAS:
What’s going on here, men? What’re you doing up and about
again? I’ve already had to disperse you once … TROOPER PHILPOTT:
We heard Bessie ain’t gonna make it, sir. TROOPER WESLEY
(stepping forward from the shadows – a lowering and truculent
figure): Slotted by those rag ‘ead cunts! TROOPERS HIRST and
SUTCLIFFE (appearing beside him): Yeah, those rag ‘ead cunts,
sir – they gotta be corrected … innit – straightened out, an’ that.
COLONEL THOMAS: I realise you’re upset, men … TROOPER WEST
(a big, open-faced lad who’s now the Rams’ finest goal-kicker):
Upset, sir … fucking upset! COLONEL THOMAS: Yes, upset after
today’s incident – but there’s absolutely no justification for this
behaviour. Rouse is at oh-five-hundred as per – I suggest you get
your sweds down NOW, and that suggestion is a BLOODY
ORDER! (He stands watching the men as they sullenly bestir
themselves and head back towards the squadron lines. From the
cunts, fucks and rag ‘eads that float back towards him, COLONEL
THOMAS realises all the hard work he’s put in over the past three
years has been instantly and catastrophically annulled. The
BLOODY ORDER! screeched so shrilly and camply, has cost
him what little respect he ever had. A wave of disaffection radiates
out from the group of troopers in the form of a dark shadow rushing
before them towards the squadron lines. When it arrives, it lifts the
slack canvas of their highly vulnerable accommodation, so meeting
and merging with the still fouler revelations plopping from MAJOR
TOWNSHEND’S mouth. As COLONEL THOMAS looks on, transfixed,
he sees his three children sprint from between THE OFFICERS’
TRAILERS – this great tsunami of contempt and revulsion rearing
up behind them. Their mother stands beside the point-fifty-cal’ on
top of the main gate sangar, a camcorder in hand, getting liveaction
footage of the moment an exemplary twenty-two-year-long
military career was swept away.) FIONA THOMAS (shouting through
a ram-cum-bullhorn): Okay, okay! Great stuff, people – but I’d like
to do the whole wave-of-disaffection scene again. Positions, please,
everyone! DEREK THOMAS (appearing beside her dressed in full
Utherian clobber: sheepskin cloak, conical wizard’s hat and leather
buckler, holding a shepherd’s crook, with his long beard hanging
down to his velveteen codpiece): No need for a second take, Fi …
(he gently pushes down the ram-cum-bullhorn) … I think we all
got the point: my son’s a homosexual. Frankly, if any of you lot’re
at all surprised, it can only be because you’re kneeling, hooded
and handcuffed in a dark cell, while a man torments you with a
boom box. THE BOOM BOX (rising up through the roof of the TeeDeeEff,
all lit up by disco strobes): Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, oh no …
DEREK THOMAS: Not my problem – I knew he was that way
inclined when he was a little boy. That’s why I asked Rodney to be
his godfather … to look out for him … Thought Rod – being an
iron himself – might be a positive influence on Gawain, get him to
realise what a fool’s-bloody-errand peacetime soldiering really is.
THE RAINBOW WHEEL (which throughout has been scooting about
the compound, snitch-style – shooting through tents and trailers,
bouncing off walls and the sides of vehicles, spinning the while –
and now rises up to hover above the main gate): Maaaaaaybeeeeeee
neeeeeext yeeeaaarrr! COLONEL THOMAS (muttering as he paces in
a tight figure-eight, again and again): There isn’t going to be any
next year – not now. Besides, Dad, this isn’t bloody peacetime
soldiering, is it – and it isn’t my fault the Rams’ve ended up policing
Ali al-Garbi rather than racing to cut off thousands of Soviet
TeeSeventyTwos at the Fulda Gap. DEREK THOMAS (mockingly):
The Fulda Gap, eh – talk about fighting the last existential conflict
rather than the current ethically dubious one. THE RAINBOW
WHEEL: Stop lagging, Gawain, and come with me – come with
meeeee to Bardneeeeey! I can download this image at high speed:
You getting the old Volvo out of the garage … Murder to start on
cold mornings, isn’t it – needs plenty of choke. Got your shopping
bag, have you? Bag-for-life, isn’t it – eco-friendly and all that. You’ve
already told Jonathan you’re off to Market Rasen to do the shop,
and there he is, freshly showered and shaved, wearing clean jeans
and a pressed white shirt, all lithe and graceful in the oaken parlour.
JONATHAN DE’ATH: (who appears beside THE RAINBOW WHEEL,
floating in a bubble of Bardney beeandbee, its translucent surface
eerily lit from within by the wan light of a winter’s morning in rural
Lincolnshire): I’ll just fill these individual dishes with what’s left in
the catering tins. COLONEL THOMAS (calling all the way from
southern Iraq): Make sure the jam and marmalade at the bottom
isn’t manky! JONATHAN DE’ATH: Wilco, Boss. (He slips an apron
over his adorable head and ties the tapes behind his back.) THE
RAINBOW WHEEL (scooting over from the main gate to hang beside
the bubble of Bardney): Got him where you want him now, haven’t
you? COLONEL THOMAS: Dunno what you’re talking about … THE
RAINBOW WHEEL: C’mon – enter our competition for a twenty-pound turkey, simply leave your business card in the goldfish bowl
on the bar … Really, Gawain, is your imagination this simplistic?
Your fantasy of being out and proud is merely to replace one gay
couple with another – it’s not being on top cover at all, it’s clambering
right underneath it. JONATHAN DE’ATH (who stands, blobs of
jam dripping from spoon to dish): Don’t forget the meat order from
Lancaster’s. COLONEL THOMAS: I phoned it through yesterday,
love, they’ll have it all ready for me. JONATHAN DE’ATH: Make sure
they’ve put in the sausages and bacon –. COLONEL THOMAS: Don’t
worry. JONATHAN DE’ATH: And the chicken and duck breasts –
remember, we’ve eight for dinner tonight. COLONEL THOMAS:
Please … Jonathan, I’ve got it all in hand. JONATHAN DE’ATH
(calling louder as the bubble rises): Steaks, too – fillet and rump!
Then those ham-hock pies Lancaster’s do so well – mm-mm, love
that jelly! And there should be both white and black pudding –
some veal, too … COLONEL THOMAS: I promise! THE BUTCHER
(shouting now, as the bubble rises still higher): Most important: the
beef – we’ve got to have the beef, Gawain, if you don’t bring home
the beef we’ve both had it … THE RAINBOW WHEEL (which orbits
the bubble of Bardney with increasing speed as they both lift off
into the Iraqi night): Your love got me lookin’ so cra-azy right
now … COLONEL THOMAS: Don’t go, Jonathan! Don’t go rainbow
wheel! THE BUTCHER: You had your chance – should’ve finessed
me years ago … COLONEL THOMAS: Finessed you? THE BUTCHER:
Y’know, the pack of cards … COLONEL THOMAS: What do you
mean, Jonathan? THE BUTCHER (setting down the catering tin and
grabbing a low beam to steady himself as the bubble rises yet
higher): The packs of cards the Yanks had made – ones depicting
Saddam’s top fifty-two bad guys, with him as the ace-of-spades …
COLONEL THOMAS (shouting now): What about them, Jonathan?
THE BUTCHER: If you’d come out you could’ve forced me out as
well – that’s what the Yanks’ve been doing: scooping up the low-value
cards, bracing ’em hard … then the faces start popping outta
the woodwork – pushed or shoved. COLONEL THOMAS: I couldn’t’ve
done that, Jonathan – what about your career? What about the
OhEssAy? THE BUTCHER: Fuck my bloody career, Gawain – fuck
it. It’s all bullshit – same as your career. A fool’s errand – isn’t that
what your faggy old Uncle Rodney calls it? You and your precious
Rams, rooting about in that shit-hole – me and my exiguous
colleagues, floating around the world, haunting remote storage
facilities while the Company boys get out their car batteries and
uncoil their hoses. It’s all the same bullshit: an entire-bloody-civilisation
embarked on a colossal – no, a cosmic – fool’s errand!
COLONEL THOMAS (running around in circles, clutching his bag
of CONFISCATED MOBILE PHONES to his armoured breast): Please,
Jonathan, dooooon’t goooooo! (But it’s too late: the RAINBOW
WHEEL and the dancing bubble, circling one another, rise higher
and higher, dip down over the main gate sangars in salute, then
disappear into the darkness.) THE LOUDSPEAKER: Maaaaybeeee
neeeext yeeeaaarrr! (COLONEL THOMAS stops short, shaking his
woolly head – then moves off purposefully towards the concrete
blockhouse allocated to the Provost. Piled up beside it, glowing
weirdly in the searchlights, is a huge stack of plastic chairs – the
white garden variety, with arms that are injection-moulded into a
parody of Sheraton. He fishes a bunch of keys from his trouser
pocket, unlocks the door, gets out a torch and uses its beam to locate
a safe, which he unlocks with a second key. He deposits the BAG o’
PHONES, locks safe and door. Striding back across the compound,
he pauses beside a signpost the Kiwis have erected with pointers
indicating the many thousands of clicks to Auckland, Christchurch
and other of the Southern Hemisphere’s suburbs. Looking up, he
sees one inscribed BARDNEY, THREE THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED
AND THIRTY-FOUR. He walks on, shaking his woolly head
some more, and, reaching the TeeDeeEff, stands, head cocked,
listening.) CAPTAIN CAMBELL (muffled but still audible): Come
on … C’mon – for fuck’s sake, you’ve been pissing in your pants all
fucking night. Pissing in your pants and moaning you gotta go to
the toilet. Right! Fine! Now you’re in the fucking toilet and you
can’t fucking piss! IRAQI DETAINEE (more muffled and scarcely
audible): Pliss, I no unnerstan’ … pliss … CAPTAIN CAMBELL:
You’ll unnerstan’ well enough when we cut your fucking cock off
and make you suck the piss out of it! IRAQI DETAINEE: I no
unnerstan’ –. CAPTAIN CAMBELL (shouting): Marty! For fuck’s
sake! Will you get your sorry arse in here and translate! MAJOR
MCADIE (also muffled): What did you say, Dave? CAPTAIN CAMBELL:
I said I was gonna cut off his fucking cock and make him
suck the piss outta it. MAJOR MCADIE: That’s, um, pretty difficult
to get across in Arabic, Dave – their expressions for these things are
fairly … well … metaphoric. CAPTAIN CAMBELL: I don’t care
how fucking metaphoric you are, Marty, as long as you make it clear
to this piece of low conniving rag-head shit what I’m literally gonna
do to him. Got it? MAJOR MCADIE (in Arabic): My comrade wishes
it to be known that he will remove your noble, thrice-blessed manhood
while you sit in our tents and drink coffee. IRAQI DETAINEE
(in Arabic): These Crusaders are simply deranged … (in English)
I no unnerstan’ … pliss, I no unnerstan’ –. (Sound of metal door
being torn angrily open.) CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Get the fuck outta
here, you piece of shit! Oh, fuck, you stink … (COLONEL THOMAS
knocks heavily on the outer door, which is at once opened a crack by
MAJOR MCADIE.) COLONEL THOMAS: Open up, Marty. MAJOR
MCADIE (swinging the door wide): Certainly, Boss, just observing
the formalities. (He slams it shut once the SeeOh has entered.)
Where’ve you been, Boss? COLONEL THOMAS (entering the interrogation
room): Where haven’t I bloody been, Marty – the men are
all acting up, and I’m afraid Tizer’s had some sorta … turn. (He
sits down heavily on a white plastic garden chair that’s to hand.)
Something must’ve … (he massages his eyes with thumb and
forefinger – it’s fast becoming the signature gesture of the Yorkshire
Hussars’ Commanding Officer, his equivalent of Patton’s hands-on-hips
or Schwarzkopf’s decisive karate chop) … pushed him to the
limit. (As the dark chamber comes into focus, he notices the IRAQI
DETAINEE.) Jesus, Marty, who’s this when he’s at home? MAJOR
MCADIE (checking the label affixed to the detainee’s plasti-cuffs):
This one’s Amir, Boss – cute little Amir … Ain’tcha a cute one,
Amir … Ain’tcha a cutie … (He chucks the wild-eyed DETAINEE
under his chin, and, as the man rears back, his face catches the
light and COLONEL THOMAS sees bruises and a cut below one
eye.) COLONEL THOMAS: He doesn’t look too cute to me, Dave –
he looks like someone’s been knocking him about. CAPTAIN
CAMBELL: Straightforward conditioning, Boss – nothing hairy, but
we’ve had this one solo a couple of times now – we think he may be
the one. COLONEL THOMAS: The one? CAPTAIN CAMBELL: The
one Colonel Trimmingham mentioned, Boss – the one the slime in
London said might be coming over the border. COLONEL THOMAS
(angry, but feebly, homosexually, so): For Christ’s sake, Dave!
Boss-boss-boss – bosh-bosh-bloody-bosh! If he’s
their asset, they’ll
want him at Shaibah in one bloody piece – how’s it gonna look if
we pitch up with damaged goods? MAJOR MCADIE (pulling the
pillowcase back over the DETAINEE’S tousled head): Unexpected
item in the bagging area … Unexpected item in the bagging
area … Please remove … (He yanks the DETAINEE upright, steers
him by his thumbs back into the cell where the others are and
forces him to kneel. COLONEL THOMAS and CAPTAIN CAMBELL
follow on behind. SERGEANT HAYNES, a skinny, nervy young man,
whose hair has bleached highlights, is standing over the IRAQI
DETAINEES with THE IRON BAR in his hand.) COLONEL THOMAS:
Ha-bloody-ha – didn’t you hear what I said? CAPTAIN CAMBELL:
Thing is, Boss, we gotta keep the pressure up if we want any decent
product – we reckon this is the fucker who slotted Asif as well, so
we gotta … sorta … dilemma, Boss … COLONEL THOMAS: I’m
not seeing your dilemma, Dave – I repeat: we have no jurisdiction
over Iraqi citizens who’ve committed criminal offences, you know
that. CAPTAIN CAMBELL: But, Boss, if this man represents a threat
to Coalition forces we’re entirely within our rights –. MAJOR
MCADIE: If it is him. COLONEL THOMAS: Well, now you’ve
rebagged the item, Marty, I dunno what to … expect! (All three
British officers crack up and, crouched over, palms on thighs, wait
out the incoming hilarity.) So … so … s’pose you better … keep
the pressure … up. But one thing, Dave. CAPTAIN CAMBELL:
Boss? COLONEL THOMAS: We are still allowed to keep detainees
hooded and cuffed, are we? CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Boss? COLONEL
THOMAS: Thing is, wasn’t it this sort of carry-on landed us in hot
water during the Troubles? CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Troubles, sir?
COLONEL THOMAS (looking at his intelligence officer with frank
disbelief): Oh, forget it, Dave – you carry on. CAPTAIN CAMBELL:
You carry on, Haynes. (HAYNES bangs THE IRON BAR on the
concrete floor.) THE IRON BAR: Zoingggg! Zoingggg! COLONEL
THOMAS: But I don’t want any of that Majar or Abu-bloody-Ghraib
badness – we’re Fighting Rams, Dave, not banjo-picking hillbillies.
We have our … honour. CAPTAIN CAMBELL: Absolutely, Boss.
COLONEL THOMAS: As soon as Gail’s seen to Tizer, she’ll be over
here to give these men an exam – should’ve been done hours ago.
