LITMIR.BIZ

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bullshit, when it flew thick and fast, landed lightly on young Trooper Parker.

      ‘Hey, Dead-eye,’ Boney Maronie said to him, ‘when they give us some time off I’ll take you into George Town and find you a nice Malayan girl who likes breaking in cherry-boys.’

      ‘I’m not a cherry-boy,’ Parker replied quietly as the Bedford bounced over a hole on the road leading to the barracks. ‘I’ve had my fair share.’

      ‘Oh, really?’ Boney asked with a broad grin. He was six foot tall, pure muscle and bone, and sex-mad. ‘Where and when was that, then?’

      Dead-eye shrugged. ‘Here and there. Back home. In West Croydon.’

      ‘In your car?’

      ‘I’ve never had a car.’

      ‘So where did you do it?’

      ‘None of your business, Boney. Where I did it and who I did it with is my concern, thanks.’

      ‘You’re a cherry-boy. Admit it!’

      ‘I’m not,’ Dead-eye replied. ‘It’s just something I don’t talk about. I was brought up that way.’

      ‘You bleedin’ little liar,’ Boney said. ‘If you’ve got as far as squeezing a bit of tit, I’d be bloody amazed.’

      Dead-eye shrugged, but said no more. The conversation was beneath him. In fact, he was attractive, girls liked him a lot, and he’d practised sex with the same clinical detachment he brought to everything else, getting his fair share. He just didn’t think it worth boasting about. Being a soldier, particularly in the SAS, was much more important.

      ‘It’s the quiet little buggers like Dead-eye,’ Dennis the Menace said to Boney Maronie, ‘who get their oats while blow-hards like you are farting into the wind. I know who I’d bet on.’

      ‘Hey, come on…’ Boney began, but was rudely interrupted when the Bedford ground to a halt outside the barracks and Sergeant Lorrimer bawled: ‘All out back there! Shift your lazy arses!’

      The men did as they were ordered, hopping off the back and sides of the open Bedford MK four-ton truck. When they were assembled on the baking-hot tarmac in front of the barracks, Sergeant Lorrimer pointed to the unattractive concrete blocks and said: ‘Argue among yourselves as to who gets what basha, then put your kit in the lockers and have a brief rest. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes to give you further instructions.’

      ‘The man said a brief rest,’ Pete Welsh echoed, ‘and he obviously means it.’

      ‘You have a complaint, Trooper?’ Sergeant Lorrimer placed his large hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes. He was sweating and his beefy face was flushed.

      ‘Complain? I wouldn’t dream of it, boss! Thirty minutes is much too long.’

      ‘Then we’ll make it twenty,’ Lorrimer said. ‘I take it you agree that’s in order?’

      ‘Absolutely!’ Welsh glanced uneasily left and right as the rest of the men groaned audibly and glared at him. ‘No problem here, boss.’

      ‘I could do with some scran,’ Dennis the Menace said.

      ‘You’ll get a proper meal tonight,’ Sergeant Lorrimer replied, ‘when you’ve been kitted out and had a sermon from the OC. Meanwhile, you’ll have to content yourself with a breakfast of wads and a brew up. And since you’ve only got twenty minutes to eat and drink, I suggest you get started.’

      Sergeant Lorrimer jumped back up into the Bedford while the men moaned and groaned. Even as the truck was heading away towards the administration buildings located along the edge of the airstrip, the men continued complaining.

      ‘Your bloody fault, Pete,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘We could have had all of thirty minutes – now we’re cut down to twenty. You should’ve known better.’

      ‘I only said…’

      ‘One word too many.’ Alf Laughton was disgusted with him. ‘You know what Sergeant Lorrimer’s like when he gets too much sunshine. His face turns purple and he can’t stand the bullshit.’

      ‘You’re all wasting time talking,’ Dead-eye pointed out with his usual grasp of the priorities. ‘If you keep talking you’ll waste more of your twenty minutes and won’t have time for breakfast. Let’s pick beds and unpack.’

      The accommodation consisted of rectangular concrete bunkers surrounded by flat green fields, slightly shaded by papaya and palm trees. The buildings had wire-mesh and wooden shutters instead of glass windows. The shutters were only closed during tropical storms; the wire-mesh was there to keep out the many flying insects attracted by the electric lights in the evenings. Likewise, because of the heat, the wooden doors were only closed during storms.

      From any window of the barracks the men could see the airstrip, with F-28 jets, Valetta, Beverley and Hercules C-130 transports, as well as Sikorski S-55 Whirlwind helicopters, taking off and landing near the immense, sun-scorched hangars. Beyond the airstrip was a long line of trees, marking the edge of the jungle.

      After selecting their beds and transferring personal kit to the steel lockers beside each bed, the men hurriedly unwrapped their prepacked wads, or sandwiches, and had hot tea from vacuum flasks.

      ‘Christ, it’s hot,’ Pete Welsh said, not meaning the tea.

      ‘It’s hardly started,’ Alf Laughton told him. ‘Early hours yet. By noon you’ll be like a boiled lobster, no matter how you try to avoid the sun. Fucking scorching, this place is.’

      ‘I want to see Penang,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘All those things you told us about it, Alf. All them Malay and Chinese birds in their cheongsams, slit up to the hip. George Town, here I come!’

      ‘When?’ Boney Maronie asked. ‘If we’re not even getting lunch on our first day here, what hope for George Town? We’re gonna be worked to death, mates.’

      ‘I don’t mind,’ Dead-eye said, stowing the last of his personal gear in his steel locker. ‘I came here to fight a war – not to get pissed and screw some whores. I want to see some action.’

      Dennis the Menace grinned crookedly and placed his hand affectionately on Dead-eye’s head. ‘What a nice lad you are,’ he said, only mocking a little. ‘And what a good trooper! It’s good to see you’re so keen.’

      ‘You’d see action if you came with me to George Town,’ Boney Maronie informed him. ‘You’d see a battle or two, mate.’

      ‘Not the kind of battle Dead-eye wants to see,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘This kid here has higher aims.’

      ‘That’s right,’ Dead-eye said.

      Boney Maronie was rolling his eyes in mock disgust when the red-faced Sergeant Lorrimer returned, this time in an updated 4×4 Willys jeep that had armoured perspex screens and a Browning 0.5-inch heavy machine-gun mounted on the front. Hopping down, leaving the driver behind the steering wheel, Lorrimer bawled instructions for the men to assemble outside the barracks in order of height. When they had done so, he marched them across the broad green field bordered with papaya and palm trees to the quartermaster’s store, to be kitted out with everything they needed except weapons, which could only be signed for when specifically required.

      The standard-issue clothing included jungle-green drill fatigues, a matching soft hat and canvas-and-rubber boots. The men were also supplied with special canvas bergens which looked small when rolled up, but enormous when filled. The contents of each individual bergen included a sleeping bag of hollow-fill, man-made fibre; a bivi-bag, or waterproof one-man sheet used as a temporary shelter; a portable hexamine stove and blocks of hexamine fuel; an aluminium mess tin, mug and utensils; a brew kit, including sachets of tea, powdered milk and sugar; matches in a waterproof container and flint for when the matches ran out; needles and thread; a fishing line and hooks; a pencil torch and batteries; a luminous button compass; signal flares;

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