‘Something like that.’
‘That bastard,’ he gestured towards the corporal, who was helping a recruit with his face paint, ‘he’s got a weak point.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I know.’
‘What is it?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, that’s helpful,’ I said.
‘Seriously,’ said Adrian, ‘if you haven’t discovered any obvious weak point then try the throat. A finger’s width above the bulge of the Adam’s apple. He won’t get up for a day.’
‘Forget about it. Like you said, he’s the corporal.’
‘Sure, but if you do, think Dax. throat, Dax. throat, and aim for a finger-width above the Adam’s apple. Throw a wild punch in the air with your left, and for a split second he’ll look up and his throat will be fully extended, and at precisely that moment just fucking smash it — fingers, knuckles, lunge with your teeth if you fucking have to. If you don’t put enough feeling into it then you’ll just wind him and make him angrier and he’ll smash you proper, so get it right first time. You got that?’
‘Recruit Khan.’ The corporal stood a couple of yards away. I looked at him, wondering if he had heard the exchange between Adrian and me, and my heart sank. He shook his head and raised his eyebrows. ‘You Pakis, you really are hung like niggers, put it away at once.’
I put a hand to my wet crotch and looked down. Confused, I looked back up at the corporal. I was about to say that my cock wasn’t out but he turned away, laughing. Suddenly I got it. The joke was about me looking for my cock. They all laughed, even Adrian. I stared at the ground and couldn’t help but laugh too.
On the corporal’s order, we marched in formation to a nearby field and formed a neat queue outside a small wooden building not unlike a garden shed. Three steps led up to a door on one side and three steps led out of a door on the other. Cut into one wall was a long perspex window. Inside, I could see a small desk with a metal chair either side of it.
‘Gas masks,’ instructed the corporal.
Our gas mask cases hung like a boxy aberration on the outside of our webbing. I reached for mine, slipped it on and tightened the straps. It felt like an imposition, like a great black rubber hand clamping itself across my face. The trick, we had learnt, was to settle into a pattern of slow, controlled breathing. Breathing at rest. It was bearable if you were breathing at rest.
Briefly opening the hut door, the corporal threw in a grenade-like pellet of CS gas. ‘You’ll enter when you’re commanded to, one at a time. Once inside, you will feel guilty for making the others wait. Understood?’
‘Yes, Corporal, sir,’ we croaked through the resistance of our gas masks.
The corporal slipped on his own mask and as he opened the door to go in dense white clouds of gas escaped, caught in the wind and billowed upwards into the atmosphere. Despite the mask, the gas stung my eyes. I tightened the straps as much as I could bear, the rubber digging into my flesh. Longbone took in the first recruit, Binnington. With the thick smoke inside the shed, we could see nothing through the window. After about a minute, the exit door opened and Binnington fell out, throwing himself onto the grass, coughing and screaming. His gas mask dangled off his arm.
The corporal stepped out of the hut and closed the door behind him, then took off his gas mask and stood over Binnington. ‘Get up, get up now, and stand still with your arms spread out.’
Binnington continued to roll around on the grass, clutching at his face.
The corporal shook his head. ‘If you rub it into your eyes you will suffer. Stand up, Recruit Binnington, that’s a fucking order.’
The corporal turned to us. Behind him, Binnington, foaming at the mouth, staggered to his feet. His face was bright red, his eyes bloodshot and tears streamed out of them. A neat arc of vomit escaped his mouth and met the grass.
‘Man up. Remember to stand still with your arms out. Let the wind do the work. Understood?’
‘Yes, Corporal, sir,’ we collectively replied.
Longbone took in the next nervous recruit. After about a minute the door opened. Clappison jumped the steps, landing awkwardly on the grass. He got to his feet and ran across the field screaming, his arms held out. The next one went in, and the next. Eventually, as the first recruits in began to recover, sitting on the grass looking thoughtful but relieved, I had the idea that it mightn’t be so bad after all.
‘No pain,’ I heard Adrian say as the corporal stood by the door, gesturing for me to go in. He shut the door behind us. Inside, the white smoke was dense, but close up the visibility was surprisingly good and I could see the corporal clearly as we each took a chair. Looking at his watch, he motioned for me to remove my mask. I took a deep breath and, whispering the words ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim’, I prised it off, then put it on the table in front of me.
‘Name?’
The effect of the gas wasn’t immediate. For a few seconds I felt okay. ‘Recruit Akram Khan, Corporal, sir.’
The CS began to sting my eyes and throat.
‘Number?’
‘Two-four-seven-seven-seven-three-one-one.’ The paralysis came in a blunt wave, and suddenly I found it difficult to breathe. My eyes watered and I could feel the white gas forcing its way inside my throat and nose. I coughed, thought about shielding my mouth and eyes with my hands and then thought better of it. ‘Cor-por-al, sir.’
The corporal sank back in his chair and looked again at his watch. ‘Tell me a joke,’ he said.
I was conscious of his eyes staring at me through his gas mask, cold and determined. The gas seemed to have blocked my throat and although I tried, no words would come out. My mind scrambled to think of a joke. I thought I might pass out or collapse; the overwhelming sensation was of burning from the inside out, and suddenly I was afraid I would die. I reached for my mask and tried to get to my feet. I felt the corporal’s thick hands clamp over mine.
‘Tell me a fucking joke,’ he repeated slowly.
I screwed my eyes tightly shut but the gas seemed to be inside, between the lens and the eyelid, burning at my eyeballs, and closing them made it worse. ‘Knock, knock,’ I said and then coughed, letting more of the gas into my lungs. My chest was on fire and heavy as though weighing me down.
‘Tell me a joke.’
I thought, this is where I will die.
Suddenly I felt the corporal’s heavy hands grab the straps at the rear of my webbing. Opening the hut door, he flung me out.
*
On Friday evenings and taxicabs queue patiently, far into the distance, along the long broad streets that made up the perimeter of Catterick Garrison.
‘It’s cheaper by bus,’ I said.
‘We’re earning, aren’t we?’ said Adrian.
We nodded at the guard at the gatehouse and exited onto the street.
In our first week we had been issued with a bank card, and I had been to a cash machine at the Navy, Army and Air Force Institute and looked up my balance. It was hard to believe that for this, boys messing around, the army was paying money into an account in my name.
‘It’s a waste,’ I said, following Adrian into the back of a waiting car.
Richmond was like no other town I had seen. The houses were made of solid brown stone and the narrow streets, many of which were cobbled, were hilly and steep and swept into a curled distance as though hiding a secret. There were more pubs in one road than I had seen in my entire life, and young men milled about on the ancient narrow pavement, crawling from pub to pub, searching for local girls. The squaddies, who were always in groups and outnumbered the locals, were immediately recognizable: short-cropped hair, moleskin desert boots, tight blue jeans with pockets bulging with money, starch-pressed shirts, and most distinguishing of all, an easy swagger and erect posture.