Two years. It had seemed a long time. ‘You’ll never hold a job down two years, you little bagger.’ His father sometimes worked in the markets, but was more often on the dole.
Where the hell did you look for a job that would last two years? ‘Struth, it was on the way to a pension. Two years… and if he so much as batted an eyelid at the boss and got sacked, the two years would have to begin again. Bloody hell!
‘You may as well piss up a wall, kid!’ His brother was a year younger and still at school. ‘What the hell do you want to join the army for? Someone must have hit you on the ’ead!’
‘It’s good; you can learn a trade. There’s opportunity.’ He had seen a recruiting film and sent off for all the pamphlets, before visiting the recruiting office. Even the sergeant who had turned him down had made it sound worthwhile.
‘Opportunity! Look at our old man… a toolmaker until he gets called up for his National Service, then he’s a batman and half the time in the glasshouse… hasn’t bloody worked since. Army fucking ruined him. You’ve heard Mam go on about it.’
‘Yeah… it’s a load of cobblers. He doesn’t work ‘us he’s too bloody idle.’ Where the hell was he going to find steady employment; there weren’t a lot of jobs around Liverpool. He tried a dozen different places before Woolworths. What if he were absolutely honest about his reason for applying for work there? He tried it!
The manager was sympathetic: ‘Two years, Inkester? Normally, we prefer to train staff who intend to stay with us longer… young men like to go on to managerial posts. We can afford to be selective; there is a lot of responsibility in a company like this. What sort of work would you be prepared to do?’
‘Anything, sir. Anything at all.’ The man hadn’t said no; it was the closest he had got yet to a job.
‘In the warehouse? It’s tiring and I doubt if I could promise any kind of promotion.’
‘Would it last two years, sir?’
The man had smiled at his anxiety. ‘It’ll see you into the army young man, if you work hard…’
Two years in Woolies. Afterwards, when he had been accepted, it had felt like extra time on a sentence, but it hadn’t really been like that. The two years had gone quickly. They had even held a small party for him the day he had left; turned out to be a good lot of blokes, and girls. It wasn’t bad. Dickenson the manager had seen him right… first man who ever did. Not bad for a Wallasey poofter!
Catterick! Jesus Christ, the first weeks of training… the first two. He had cried at night, like a bloody baby.
‘What the hell do you lot think you are? You terrify me… all of you! How am I expected to make soldiers out of you? Trooper! What the hell are you grinning at?’ A face three inches from his own’ Pull your chin in, Wacker… square your shoulders, you ignorant bloody maggot.’
‘You with the big ears… weasel head… yes, you, Trooper. Swing your arms smartly down to your side, don’t let ’em drift in the bleeding wind like a fairy… and don’t bloody ‘sir’ me… I’m a corporal… what d’you call me, Trooper?’
‘Corporal…’
The face, leering again, the breath on his cheeks still smelling of the beer that had been drunk the previous evening. ‘No you don’t, Wacker… I know what you bloody call me. You call me a Manchester bastard! Now right dress… as you bloody were… Squaaad. Right dress.’
It had begun to get better; he had cottoned on to what was happening. The corporals and sergeants didn’t hate them… it was all an act. And the act worked. It turned raw individuals into soldiers, into a unit, a team… made them think and work together, get annoyed with themselves and each other if something dragged them back. Christ, it began to look clever. The NCOs treated them like humans when the day was over; accepted them, talked to them, gave them private advice. He made more friends in the first four weeks than in all his previous life. And what was even better, he trusted them; they were proper mates.
‘Any idea what you’d like to do, lad? The sergeant leant across his desk, genuinely interested in him.
‘I’d like to be a gunner, Sar’nt.’
‘You’ll have to work hard for it… it’s pretty technical, and important. A lot of responsibility. Think you can handle it?’
‘Yes, Sar’nt.’
There was a moment’s hesitation that made Inkester doubt himself, and then the sergeant’s reply: ‘I’ll see what I can do for you.’
He had worked; it had been like being back in Woolworths in some ways… proving yourself for someone else’s benefit… not entirely; for your own as well. It hadn’t been easy. He had wasted a lot of his time at school, and had to make up for it now; but there was a good reason for learning.
There had been a great week last year, he remembered. A week’s package in Calella, Spain, with a couple of the other lads, Weeksie and Lovell. They had tried to persuade three of the WRAC girls to join them, but one had suddenly become engaged to a civvy, and the other two got chicken. Pity, because he had quite fancied one of them, though her Glasgow accent got on his nerves a bit; smashing figure, though. They hadn’t found one girl between them in Calella. Every bloody English girl wanted to go out with a Spaniard. And the local girls just giggled like fourteen year olds when you tried to chat them up. But, God, they had shifted some drink in the six nights and seven days. They tried to keep count of the bottles of wine, but in the end it became impossible, there was always a bottle floating in a kind of mist in front of them, stuck in the sand, or balanced on a table.
Irma. That was the last bird he had screwed. What a bloody carry-on! She had one leg over his shoulder, and the other under his arm, wedged against the rear window so tightly he thought the bloody glass would pop out. When was it? Two months ago? Shit, it was barely one week.
The sky was brightening with the dawn, turning the vision blocks of the episcope in the Chieftain’s turret into bars of soft green light. To the left of the Chieftain, fitly meters away, were the crew of a machine gun, lying beside the weapon sited in a break in the stone wall. Davis could see them clearly for the first time; twenty meters on were another group, but they were still difficult to distinguish from the low shrubs in which they were waiting.
He sat watching them. It was chilly enough inside the tank, it would be perishing cold out there. The infantrymen would be feeling stiff and uncomfortable, their clothing wet with the dew, their helmets dripping the condensation on to their shoulders. Jesus, who’d be a foot soldier!
‘Tea, sir.’
‘Thanks…’ It was hot, sweet. He heard Inkester mutter something and thought, well, they’ll get on together in the end. It was always difficult for a new crew ‘member for the first few days. First few days? Charlie Bravo One and its crew might not last that long. A few days. Another two and maybe, if they were still lucky enough to be alive, they might get pulled out of the line for R and R. That would be good. That’s something to aim for… aim to stay alive just two more days.
‘What you doin’ down there, DeeJay?’ Inkester was leaning forward below Davis’s knees, trying to peer into the driving compartment.
‘Shaving.’
‘You what?
‘Shaving!’
‘In yer tea?’
‘In maiden’s water… what the hell do you think?’
‘You’re bloody mad… you’ll be changing your shirt next.’
‘I’ve done that.’
‘I wish Stink would change his trousers…’
Davis had been watching the machine gun crew in the growing daylight. There was a kind of sadistic satisfaction in sitting inside the Chieftain with his mug of hot tea cupped in his hands, while the infantry shivered outside. One of the soldiers was standing, stretching, shaking his arms. He was taking a risk, a good sniper with a Dragunov and telescopic sight could pick him off from across the river. What the hell was he doing? He had stripped off the upper part of his NBC suit and was waving his helmet above his head. Another of the members of the GPMG crew was going to get him… no, was ignoring him… what in God’s name were they doing with the machine gun? A man was lifting it off its bipod… he dropped it… picked it up, then threw it at one of the soldiers on the ground. They were laughing. One stumbled to his knees, then lay on his back, kicking his legs in the air like a crippled insect.