Killing Time at Catterick Read online

  It was Martie Martin – hard as arseholes as he liked to see himself – who had come off worst, he was as pissed as a pudden on a legless high. He’d bummed two twenties off of Geordie George and made it clear he wouldn’t get it back, and he’d told Josh Peters that he’d fucked his sister, which for all I know was true, she was known to put out for a wrap when desperate. He’d told anyone who’d listen that Sambo was a Zulu prince, and had gone from Stan to Shag to Shithead Paki Ponce with Shahid, and demanded that he found that club the taxi man had promised us. So Shahid did. And it served Mart fucking right. We had a well good laugh.

  It was a set-up, obviously, even the dimmest buggers in our team knew that except the corporal, which says it all, I guess. It was a dead hole with a little Asian bouncer on the door, who wasn’t big enough in fact to bounce a ball, and it was laid out for a bit of drinking and not much else at all. There were a few blokes sitting about in corners, drab as drab, and tell the honest truth it could have been a rest room behind a taxi firm. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe they were mini-cabsters on a break. Some of them were even drinking tea.

  I looked at Shahid’s face to get a hint at least, but I got absolutely nothing. He had his easy smile on, and he was making big friendly gestures with his arms, as if to say “well here it is, lads, enjoy!” It clicked quite quickly, though, that he’d brought us here to have a laugh was all, to show the lance up for a wanker, to take the monumental piss. With this magic get-out clause for him – it was all the taxi driver’s fault, the lousy Bangla toerag. Quite honestly I didn’t mind at all, I thought that it was pretty smart. Except that there’d be trouble over it, when Mart got Shahid back to camp. I thought he’d have his bloody guts for garters.

  For a moment it was like something from the films the OC showed us in the training for Afghanistan. The Asians looked at us, we looked at the Asians, and it was like East meets West, the merging of the minds and cultures, the road to better understanding – not. They were sitting down, with beards and puzzled faces, and we were standing over them, tall, and drunk, and arrogant. The master race.

  “This place stinks,” said Big Dave Hughes. “I need a pissing drink.”

  “But where’s the tarts?” said Peter Bollocks Bowyer. “You said we’d get some tasty Moslem minge.”

  “Hey! Mohammed!” said Corporal Martin to a seated man, an old man with white hair and beard. “We paid good cash for this, Grandpa! We want crumpet.”

  There are some things that you just don’t say, I reckon, in a certain situation, and in three seconds we’d said three of them, with knobs on. So “Run,” yelled Shahid, and as half of us shot towards the front door, a dozen lads with sticks burst through another way to batter us. Our boys barged through them to follow us – Chas Hicks knocked the bouncer over like a ninepin – which left Martie, Bollocks and Big Dave to do their version of Custard’s Last Stand. Outside we stood and listened for five minutes to let them make their mark on history – because no one liked them anyway – and then we did our duty and waded back in, freshened and regrouped.

  It was very dark now – lights had been turned off – and Shahid did a lot of Urdu shouting while we all got punched and kicked and punched and kicked them back, but it didn’t last that long. Fights look good on films or telly, but they don’t do much harm unless someone draws a blade. The Asian lads had won in their terms – they’d driven out the invaders, hadn’t they? – so they didn’t bother to come outside and risk the coppers bringing white man’s justice in. That can be expensive, if you’re not a white.

  We didn’t get a taxi, though – funny that, but no one seemed to want to know us – and it was a long walk in the lashing rain. Lance Corporal Martin had a broken nose – which was nice – and there were some cuts and loosened teeth or so, but all in all it had been a good successful Friday night. When we got back to the camp, Martie lost his sense of balance and fell down and smashed his face on the lavvy pan, then threw up all down himself. No one really tried to help him, much.

  “Mission accomplished,” said Shahid, as we rolled into our pits. “And as usual, God were on our side. Amazing how that works, ent it?”

  Three

  We had a lie-in in the morning, which we well needed, given it had been our first night out since we’d been posted to this hell hole. In fact they’d been working us like ten-pee tarts, with no time off for good behaviour, to show us who was boss. We were actually down here to be the “enemy,” to be the targets in some hard-man training for the Paras. Not as punch bags, no way, they would have murdered us, they had an image to keep up. But every day we had to go out on the ranges, and make like “aggressors” or “insurgents” to be tracked down and “eliminated,” ie killed. It was good hard dirty filthy graft.

  I thought I was the first to wake up in my room, it was so quiet, but when I opened my eyes, thinking of Bridget, I saw another pair, big brown ones, staring at me. They were pretty close, because this camp was built before the dawn of time, and in them days there were eight beds in it, not four like now. In them days, Shahid’s nose would have been down my bleeding throat. He grinned at me.

  “Sleeping Beauty,” he said. “Shall we go breakfast, or just stay in bed and enjoy the reek of dried-up blood and vomit?”

  “Fuck off,” came a muffled voice from opposite. “Just fuck off and shut your fucking row up.”

  It was the corporal. He’d not died in the night, then. Ah well. I blinked my eyes a few times, testing. Not even a headache. Brilliant.

  “What time is it?”

  “Fuck off! Fuck off the fucking noise, you fucking arseholes!”

  “Gone eight o’clock. We’ll get talked about. We’ll miss— Fucksake, Martie! What have you done to your fucking face?”

  Corporal Martin had suddenly sat up. Jesus, what a fright. The one eye you could see was wild. Especially when he realised where he was.

  “Christ,” he said. “Whose bed is this? Christ fucking Jesus!”

  “It’s okay, Mart,” said Shahid, soothingly, “it’s Billy’s bed, but Billy didn’t stay. You’re still a virgin.”

  “Christ,” said Corporal Martin. He was really shocked.

  “I’m not kidding you,” Shahid said. “You were drunk enough to lose your honour, but you still said no. Are you a Catholic, by any chance?”

  The last head poked out of the covers, bleary eyed. It was Big Dave Hughes. He’d been pissed as well, completely wrecked. Still big enough to tip Martie into Billy’s pit, though.

  “You watch your fucking lip,” said Mart aggressively to Shahid. “I’ll put you on a fucking charge.”

  Shahid winked at me.

  “Pals’ night out,” he said. “All equals now, Lance. Don’t you remember that bit?”

  He suddenly flung his covers back and stood up, tall and willowy. He had on a tee-shirt and boxers. He reached out for his shells.

  “I won’t interfere with your ablutions, ladies,” he said. “Me and Tiny are off to get some breakfast, right Tiny? We’ll make sure the butler keeps your coffee warm.”

  I shifted fast now. Fair enough to rip the piss off Martin, but if Big Dave had heard the “ladies” bit we could end up dead. If he understood it, that is. Hard to tell with Dave, though. He had reverse reactions. His reflexes worked the wrong way round. Sometimes he twitched his leg because the MO had tapped his kneebone three weeks before. I grabbed me gear and scarpered.

  The breakfast, as predictable, was total crap. Not so long ago, my Mum had told me, the government decided squaddies ought to get more proper stuff to eat, you know, Jamie Oliver-type sort of bollocks about how actual food would make us better fighters, all change for fresh veg and pork from proper pigs. Yeah, and the Pope’s a Jew.

  “What’s up with you, then?” Shahid said, as I looked at the stuff on the electric hotplates. He dished out half a ton at random. “It’s only bleeding food, you div.”

  Have you ever seen fifty fried eggs floating in warm oil where they’ve been for half an hour? Have
you ever seen bacon twisted into lengths of black and yellow corpse intestines? Fancy it, do you? Join the British Army. You can have fried bread, too. Handy for dabbing on your piles.

  “Them baked beans look like last night’s sick,” I said. “All pink and lumpy.” I took some bits of toast, and some marge and jam, and followed him towards a table. “Anyway, ain’t this lot against your religion, you bloody heathen? You’re not allowed it, are you?”

  “Nah,” he said, “that’s pig and stuff, but this is champion for Muslims. I don’t know what it is, granted – but pork it ain’t, I guarantee it. Next you’ll be telling me you believe in God.”

  I couldn’t really make Shahid out, quite honestly, so I picked up a bit of toast and crunched it, and watched him fill his hole with shite. He dabbed his lips with a slice of soggy bread as if it was a serviette.

  “Or maybe it’s your escape plan,” he went on. “Starve yourself to death and get out that way, is it? I know you’ve got a death-wish, Paki-lover.”

  I gaped.

  “Fuck off,” I said. “I think the food is shite, that’s all. And I ain’t a fucking Paki-lover. I’ve known you too fucking long.”

  “Yeah, maybe that’s why they call you it,” he said, not laughing at the joke. “Hanging about with me and so on. You didn’t even notice how they looked at you when we came in just now, did you?”

  Well, that was truth and no mistake, I hadn’t noticed anything. I find messtimes the worst part of the lot, best done switched off, if you follow me. The stink, the stainless steel, the dirty fork prongs, the food, the grease, I try to stick me mind in neutral. But I still didn’t get what he was driving at.

  “I wouldn’t call ’em Pakis, anyway,” I said. “It’s illegal, innit? Racial insults. Did you miss the lectures, or don’t you care?”

  “I don’t have to care,” he said. “I’ve got immunity. I can call a spade a spade, you ask Ashton! But you don’t do it anyway, do you? Why not? Are you scared you’ll go to prison?”

  “Very funny,” I said. “Hey – what d’you call a Paki with a crossbow?”

  Shahid smiled.

  “William Patel! D’you get it? See? I called you Paki!”

  “And you’re a racist git,” he said. “What d’you call a sarcastic cowboy?”

  “I dunno. Go on.”

  “Tex Piss!”

  We were being looked at now, I noticed that, and no mistake. Not only sitting with a Paki, but laughing with him, too. And then in walks Corporal Martin, with Big Dave Hughes and Billy ’Unt. His face was terrible, and he got a storm of yells and wolf whistles. He gave a little bow all round.

  “You should see the others, though!” he said, to all and sundry. “Two still in hospital is what I heard. Billy – get’s a cup of tea. Sausage, beans and eggs, okay, four sugars. And hash browns if they’ve got ’em.”

  “Come on,” said Shahid. “My bullshitometer’s going to blow a fuse. D’you want a smoke? I’ve got a bit of weed.”

  The corporal tried to stop us. As Shahid stood up, he beamed in on him like a (one-eyed) laser gun. His body was bunched up for trouble. He pulled Big Dave towards him by the arm.

  “Ah,” he said. “The target. D’you want to score some points, Davie my friend?”

  Dim Dave looked stupid as per usual, but me and Shahid got the message fast enough. I got up too, quick but casual. Trouble was, he was between us and the door.

  “Oi, Paki” he said. “Where d’you think you’re going? You owe me, bastard. And you, wanker.”

  The interest-level shot up like a rocket. The chat-level went down to balance it. We had an audience.

  Shahid stared into Martin’s face as he walked up to him. If he was nervous it didn’t show at all. I kept my end up best way that I could. A thumping was unlikely here, even with a moron like Big Dave as strong-arm man. But if a lancejack takes against you, things can get quite rough. There’s a lot of shit a lance can put your way. Shed loads. And shit always rolls downhill.

  Billy dodged back to reinforce the human wall, but me and Sha were fast, and for the moment they moved back, hemmed in by plastic chairs and tables. A low whoop went up – appreciation of the tactics.

  “Come on, Paki!” came a sudden yell – anonymous. “Knock his other fucking eye out!”

  That wasn’t going to help, and Shahid tried to defuse it.

  “What’s going off?” he said. “There’s plenty breakfast left. Billy – get the man that cup of tea, why don’t you?”

  Martin was four-square now, dead in front of him, his chin stuck out like a cartoon ape.

  “You fucking set me up, you little bastard,” he began. “You and them Paki poofters in that shithole.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Shahid. “Banglas, I told you, not—”

  “Shut it! You’re fucking dead, you are! You’re going to—”

  Just at that moment the double doors swung open, and Corporal Martin shut his mouth so fast he almost bit his tongue off. He’d been shouting, and the whole damn world could hear, inside and out the room. It was an officer, one I didn’t know, one of their lot, not ours. He was a big man, a captain. Silence reigns and we all get wet. You could’ve heard a pin drop.

  “Lance Corporal Martin, isn’t it?” he said. His voice was calm and pleasant. That stuck-up tone they all have, even the ones who think they’re normal blokes like you or me. The sort of tone that makes you want to smash their faces in. The voice of reason, I don’t think.

  “Yessir! Sorry, sir!”

  “Sorry for what?” said the captain. His eyes took in Martin’s mashed up mug. I caught a gleam of “target” in his own eye. They could come down big on that sort of thing, when it suited them. I saw him glance at Shahid. Bruised mouth, slight cut to the eyebrow, he’d not got out entirely unscathed himself.

  “Well?” the captain said. “Have you two men been fighting? Is that what you’re sorry for? Look at your face, man!”

  Tough order that, looking at your own face, but no one thought to laugh. He could smell blood, it was standing out a mile. Bad enough to hit a squaddie – bullying! It just doesn’t happen in the Army does it, it’s a well-known fact! But to hit an Asian – sweet! If Shahid played his cards right, old Martie’s days with a stripe were severely numbered. He wouldn’t even touch the sides, they’d throw him down the road – and it was no skin off this captain’s nose, it wouldn’t be his outfit going short, would it, just brownie points and no mistake. Zero tolerance! No racists here! He’d probably get the frigging MBE.

  Martie was sweating on it. He wasn’t so thick he couldn’t see it coming. Big Dave Hughes just looked confused.

  “No, sir!” said Corporal Martin. “We ain’t been fighting, sir! I walked into a door!”

  “A door with fists? We don’t have doors with fists down here, Lance Corporal. They’re civilised down here. The doors.”

  “Door with a door knob, sir.” He stopped. “Honest truth, sir, I were pissed. Friday night, sir.” Another pause. He swallowed. “Honest truth, sir, we got in a fight. In town. Not just me, sir, few of us. All mates.” Last pause. Covering all the options. “Then I walked into a door.”

  “They jumped us, sir,” said Billy ’Unt. “In a club, sir. Some P—”

  Even Billy saw which way that line was going. He stopped. His mouth hung open.

  “Some pricks,” said Shahid, looking at the captain’s eyes. “Sorry about his language, sir. Billy... well, he’s from Rochdale, sir. We got jumped by some yobboes. Scallies. They were after squaddies, sir, and any bunch would do. We copped for it.”

  “Well, I hope you came off best!” the captain said. It came out automatic-like, he couldn’t help himself.

  “Yessir!” said the corporal, just as automatically. A sort of grateful grin, half proud, half rueful. It brought the captain to his senses, maybe. Too much stupid role-play. His face went severe again.

  “You’re a non-commissioned officer, not a thug,” he said. “On your honour, is this true? Were you set u
pon by local yobs? No provocation?”

  “Yes, sir!” said Corporal Martin. “No, sir! No provocation, sir!”

  “I’m a Muslim, sir,” said Shahid. “We don’t tell lies, sir, we’re not allowed to, Allah says. Lance Corporal Martin took the brunt of it, sir. He were standing up for us.”

  It was getting OTT. Maybe the captain was too frustrated to notice. Still, it had passed a little bit of time for him, hadn’t it? He’d not have had anything better to do. He had one more try, though, fair play to him.

  “Muslims don’t drink, either,” he said. “Do they?”

  “Do we,” corrected Shahid, mildly. “No, sir, that’s right. Have you studied comparative religion?” He stopped before he went too far. “No, sir,” he said. “But we’re very good at calling taxis.” Pause. “And driving them.”

  So that was that, then. The officer gave up the fight before he lost his temper with an Asian, and we took the opportunity to slide out of the canteen after him, before Martie could make up his mind to kill Shahid on the spot. We went and found a comfort zone behind the garages and smoked a joint or two.

  Sometimes, the army could be almost sweet.

  Four

  What d’you do that for, anyway?” I asked Shahid.

  “What?” said Shahid, pulling on his toke. “Save his life? You’ve got to stick together, ’aven’t you?”

  The sun was shining, and the weed was off of Sambo, and it was really good. We were lying on a patch of concrete behind some sort of shed, and even the grass was steaming, it was that hot. It was a sweet life, when you thought about it. Smoking dope just after breakfast in the English countryside, and getting paid for it. By the Queen!