Читать книгу Confessions of a Private Soldier - Timothy Lea - Страница 5

When I walk away from the flats my spirits are lower than the balls on a kneeling dachshund. I still cannot believe that it happened – or rather that it didn’t happen. How could I, the answer to the secret love dreams of twenty-five million British birds, make such a hopeless cock up of it? ‘Cock up’! I permit myself a wry smile. What a bleeding marvellous choice of words. And after three months Sellotape – or celibate, or whatever it is. I might as well knot myself. Twenty-two and on the way to the knacker’s yard. It wasn’t as if I was pissed or anything. I have absolutely no excuse. I look down at the smooth, unruckled front of my brushed denim jeans and feel like bursting into tears.

There is only one thing for it: get pissed. Fortunately, Mum has slipped me a few quid and the pubs are still open. I go into the nearest boozer and order a double scotch. I get in a couple more and then buy a half bottle to take on the common when the pub closes. The more I think about things the more depressed I get. Not just about sex but about my life as a whole – or as a hole, more like. The nick was pretty bad but I relish living at home less than being a chalet maid at an eskimo nudist camp. I have had half a dozen different careers and I would have made more cash if I had become a yak sexer and signed on for unemployment benefit. Nothing seems to go right for me. And one of the main reasons for that is bleeding Sidney. He is always messing me about. What I need is a complete change of scene. I must get away from the suffocating pressures of home life.

I turn my back on the couple who are practically having it away in the shelter in the under-sixes playground and consider what to do next. Two old birds wander past and one of them shakes her head as she looks at me. ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ she murmurs to her companion as they both stare at my half-empty bottle.

She is dead right, of course. Fifty years later I could still be sitting here, only with a bottle of meths. I must do something to change my aimless, self-indulgent life. Pausing only to swig down the rest of the scotch, I hurl the bottle into the nearest litter bin and immediately feel a better man. A new sense of purpose, that is what I need. Starting from next weekend I will begin watching Stars on Sunday.

Right now, I see that there is a revival of Titty, Titty, Gang Bang at The Roxy, Balham, and I might just be able to catch the main feature. I don’t want to waste the whole afternoon.

But I never get to the The Roxy. The way to the cinema takes me past the Army Careers Information Office. Normally, it takes me past it bleeding fast, but today I am in a state fast approaching the pissed and I stop and have a butcher’s through the window. I should be warned when the bloke with sergeant’s stripes and peaked cap nearly covering his tash leaps to his feet like a monkey seeing a banana walking past its cage.

My attention has been caught by a placard in the window showing a bloke dressed up in a white ski suit, with a fur hood, sub-machine gun and goggles. He is carrying – would you believe it? – a pair of skis. The bloke looks very like me, as do lots of people when you can only see the ends of their hooters, and releases in me a tidal wave of wish fulfilment. Looking at him I can see myself, completely on my tod, skimming up and down mountain peaks while some kid whistles the theme music from Shane in the background – if he couldn’t whistle that I would settle for 633 Squadron.

‘Good afternoon! Thinking about becoming a professional, are you?’ The voice is brimming over with friendly enthusiasm and issues from the cakehole of the sergeant who is now standing in the doorway.

‘I was just looking,’ I say, defensively.

‘Look away, laddy. That’s what it’s all there for. You like skiing, do you?’

‘I’ve never done any.’

The sergeant shakes his head sympathetically.

‘It’s a wonderful sport. You haven’t lived ’til you’ve been on skis. And taught at the Army’s expense, too. It doesn’t seem credulous, does it?’

‘You do that in Germany, do you?’ I hear myself saying.

‘Germany, Norway, Cyprus. In Cyprus you can snow ski in the morning and be water skiing in the afternoon. All that and twenty-nine pounds thirty-three p before you even get a stripe up. What a life for a young man, I only wish I had my time again.’

‘Yeah.’ I take another look at the bloke on skis. It would certainly be a lot different to Scraggs Lane, wouldn’t it?

‘It’s changed out of all recognition since I first went in. No bull, choice of first class food. Lots of free time to follow up your own private interests. Like skiing, for instance.’

Of course, I can see it all. Check in your rifle about four o’clock and then up and down the ski runs until it’s time for a mug of edelweiss and a spot of clog dancing. Must be the life, mustn’t it? I don’t know why I never thought of the Army before. Ooh, I do feel dizzy.

‘Come in and sit down and I’ll answer any questions you may have,’ says the kindly sergeant. I follow him inside and he picks up the evening paper lying on his desk and throws it to one side. Funny that it should be open at the ‘Sits. Vac.’ section.

‘Now, lad. What branch of the service were you thinking about? Infantry?’

‘I hadn’t really thought—’

‘That would be the best for the skiing, wouldn’t it? Build up the leg muscles nicely. There’s a lot of famous regiments, you know. You a local boy, are you?’

I nod.

‘How about the Light Division?’

‘I can’t even mend a fuse.’

‘No, laddy.’ The friendly sergeant grits his teeth for a fleeting second. ‘I meant the Light Infantry or the Green Jackets. If we can make a decision today I can practically guarantee you the choice of any regiment you care to mention.’

‘Are there any skiing regiments?’

The kindly sergeant shakes his head regretfully.

‘No, laddy, I’m afraid not. But you could well find yourself being seconded to a Norwegian unit on a NATO exercise. You know all about our obligations to NATO, don’t you?’

‘You mean the president of Yugoslavia?’

‘No, lad. I meant – oh, it doesn’t matter.’ He reaches for a form. ‘Now, let’s see. You want to join the infantry and you want to ski. It’s a question of how many years it’s going to take to make you a Jean Claude Killer.’

Suddenly, things seem to be going a bit fast and I wish I hadn’t knocked back that half-bottle of scotch. I don’t feel a hundred per cent in control of the situation.

‘It could be three or six or–’

‘I was thinking more of–’

‘If you spoke a bit of German it could make it easier with the skiing.’

‘Yeah, well I think maybe I’d better–’

‘Do you know what the German for “no” is, lad?’

‘Nein,’ I say, proudly.

‘Nine? Very good, lad. Right, sign here.’

‘You signed on for nine bleeding years?’ says Sid. ‘You must be round the twist.’

‘I was conned,’ I bleat. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’

‘You seldom do, Timmo. But at least you don’t let yourself in for a caper like this. Blimey! Nine years. You’ll be out in time for the Clapham Olympics, won’t you?’