Chapter Four
Wednesday, August 22nd 2012
James squatted down and examined the footprints in the mud in front of him. He could see the crisscross of an abundance of prints that showed it was a high traffic area. They all bore the same design, and though they were of varying sizes, none were what he was looking for.
"Well, they certainly fucked that up."
James nodded. He couldn't disagree with Lucky's sentiment.
"Completely butchered our chance of finding any sign." James let out a frustrated sigh.
They had been on the trail for three hours, and most of it had been the same. Destroyed by the other boots on the path.
With the recent rains, it should have been almost easy to find signs amongst the forest that had become the target of their search.
"Wait." James said, sighting something on the side of the muddy path.
He carefully stepped around disturbed ground and squatted again, careful not to let his hiking boots disturb the ground. This boot print was different. It was smooth, with a different pattern, much less grip.
"Here."
Lucky walked over and saw what James was pointing at.
"Yeah. That'll do it. Bit careless boys."
James looked around thoughtfully.
Lucky saw it first. He gently nudged James and indicated his head towards a small series of bushes that lay to his left off the trail.
James followed his eyes and nodded.
They shared a look between them, and Lucky gave him a big grin.
"Alright mate. Want me to call in the Paras?"
"Yeah, Luck. Let's teach them something."
Lucky put his fingers to his lips and let out a loud piercing whistle. Several heads popped up about thirty metres further into the forest.
They were all wearing cammies. They had faces smeared with paint to make them more camouflaged which was made completely redundant by the maroon berets that sat on their heads.
"All about Education, aren't you Jimmy Boy?"
James shook his head as he stood. He wouldn't dignify that with an answer. He fucking hated being called Jimmy Boy. Hell, he hated being called Jim. But he knew that to fight Lucky on that would just make it so very much worse.
The section of paratroopers jogged up.
"Stop!" James called when they reached the muddy patch in the path. He removed his hands from his coat. It was one of his favourite coats, it looked like a retro Army coat that would have been worn in Vietnam.
By virtue of their positions, both James and Lucky were dressed comfortably in civvies. They wore blue jeans, hiking boots, button-up work shirts and jackets.
Lucky's was black to James's green. It was much more tactical with velcro on the sleeves where he could put all manner of patches. There he had placed his favourite 'Lucky' subdued Australian Flag patch.
"You've missed them."
James said, indicating towards the mud.
"An' how's that then, mate?" Came the reply from one of the paratroopers.
James looked at the man. "Because the sign says so. Well, what sign you blokes didn't destroy, stomping through the mud."
The paras looked down at their boot prints.
"Do they not teach you any form of stalking and tracking in the Paras?"
The paras, for their part, looked slightly embarrassed. They had been caught out and they knew it.
"Fuck me," said Lucky. "so much for the elite Paras of the British Army."
There were several angry glares at that. Paras had a lot of pride in being Paras. Lucky knew that. He was doing it to get a reaction.
"You all need to double back. And when you do so, have some fucking care about where you stand. You've been tracking these boys for half a day and you've made a right bloody mess of it." James said simply, indicating back the way he had come.
"How about you do it, you SS cunt."
James's eyes narrowed.
"Who the fuck said that?" Lucky said, eyes darting around the gathered paras. Most of them looked innocently back. Proud the Paras may be, but Lucky and James both knew that several in the group would have aspirations to join the Regiment and insulting it's members was not a positive career move for them.
A short, muscular paratrooper stepped forward from behind several of the privates standing in the front row. He was probably only 5'6" tall, but he was very broad at the shoulders. He was broader even than Lucky.
The sides of his head were shaved, and James knew he was bald on top. He had an ugly face with a pug nose which looked bent out of shape where it had been broken.
"Sergeant Whitwall." James said simply.
"Guardsman Black." Came the curt reply. "Fuckin' Regiments dropped its standards if they let a piece of utter shite like you into their ranks."
Lucky looked at James and could see his hands were kept firmly in his pockets. He could see how tense his best mate was. James had a tendency to flex his right hand when he was aggravated. It didn't bode well.
"Sergeant Whitwall. Funny. I would have thought you'd be a Warrant Officer, by now. I guess attacking those under your command limits your promotion opportunities."
"Not my fault, a useless, little cunt like you can't take a bit of growth."
"Still calling it that then? Growth?" James tone was raw with danger.
Lucky knew that trouble was brewing.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
November 2003
Exhaustion had taken James into a deep sleep. He was completely out. The physical training for Pegasus Company had floored him with its gruelling and endless repetitions.
It hadn't helped that he was receiving extra attention from the Directing Staff. Not that he had done anything wrong, well, nothing worse than anyone else, but it seemed like the chief instructor just had it in for him.
He had even noticed sympathetic looks from the Royal Marines and other non-Paratrooper candidates, who were on the course. Normally, the Royal Marines were subjected to harsher punishments by virtue of them being Royal Marines, but in this course, all the heat had been on James.
It was late, so late it was early. He hadn't been asleep for long when the door to the barracks banged open, disturbed the sleep of exhausted soldiers and Marines.
A line of soldiers came barraging in, waking James, who quickly sat up, expecting the Paratroopers who had entered to start screaming, throwing things and waking everyone up for another round of punishment.
But with sleep-hazed horror, James realised they were making a bee line, straight for him.
James fought to extract himself from his blankets, but he was too slow. The first Paratroopers descended on him in a flurry of fists and booted feet.
The onslaught threw James from his cot, bringing him crashing to the floor.
A para jumped on him, but James wasn't going down without a fight. He threw a fist into the man's snarling face, which made a satisfying crunch when it connected. The Para was slightly rocked, giving James the opportunity to throw him off and climb to his feet.
But it had only been a precious few seconds. The next two Para's were on him. Throwing booted feet and hard hands. James pulled his arms around his face and backed up, desperate to protect himself from the onslaught.
His back hit the cold concrete wall of the barracks, but the attackers kept on coming. Realising that shelling up was not going to get him out of this one, he started to throw.
Punches connected
Punches missed.
Nothing however stopped the onslaught of blows as they struck him around the head, in the stomach, on his arms.
With each hit, James became angrier and angrier. What the fuck was this?
He summoned his strength and pushed.
It was the one move that his attackers had not expected. He managed to push them backwards and topple them as he drove himself to the end of the bed.
But it had all been for nought. Now, he was exposed. The punches came from everywhere.
He threw another series of blows at a Para that had attacked him, causing him to stumble backwards and collapse to the ground. His world was a flurry of camouflaged soldiers, pain and punches. He struck at anything that came near him.
If he could see it, he punched it.
If he could not, he punched it.
It did not matter.
"Fucking deck him, cunts!" he heard one man yell.
"Tackle him! Tackle him!" came a desperate cry from one of the men in front of him.
Finally, he was struck around the waist by another man. He hit the ground with a sickening thud. His head striking the ground and dazing him. He could see stars shining all around his vision as he tried to fight from the ground.
Then they really lay the boot in.
"Oi! That's enough! That's enough!" Came a cry from nearby.
"Fuck off cunt, or you'll cop it, too!" came a snarled reply.
James couldn't even defend himself from the onslaught of blows, kicks and strikes.
They seemed to lessen. The strikes stopped.
He raised a dazed head and saw what was happening. The rest of the candidates at Pegasus company were attacking the Paratroopers.
He saw one man, a Royal Marine named Alberts, had a Paratrooper in a headlock and was pulling him away from James.
Another man, who James only knew as 'Mac', a huge, genial Scotsman who had completed SAS selection and was undertaking his qualifications, was single-handedly fighting off four men. They couldn't get close to him as the big man had frightening speed when he threw punches. Each strike seemed to drop any man that it connected with.
Suddenly there came a series of Whistle blasts.
The melee stopped. The Paras backed away.
James coughed and spit blood on the ground. He gingerly tried to raise himself up. James felt Mac lean down and easily scoop him to his feet, placing him down more gently than a man of his size looked like he should be able to. He then gave James a pat on the back that had so much force that he nearly fell over again.
The whistle blasts continued, and Sergeant Whitwall came striding into the barracks.
He appraised the situation. Torn clothes, and ripped uniforms. Bloody noses and black eyes.
"There will be no fucking fighting in my fucking barracks!" Bawled the short, squat Sergeant.
He started bawling on everyone present.
He screamed at them with all manner of imaginative and unique insults about them and their sexual abilities.
Then he started on their mothers.
James wasn't phased by the profanity and the screaming. The first thing he had learnt as a soldier was how to get yelled at.
James kept his eyes straight, fixed on a single point. He thought he was about to pass out. He felt like he had at least a few cracked ribs, his nose didn't feel right, and he could feel the beginning of a black eye forming under his left eye.
"Let me fucking guess! Guardsman Black! Turning my beloved barracks into the battle of fucking Agincourt, are we? Thinking you can just punch on with everyone do we? Training is not hard enough for you, is it?"
The Sergeant came striding over towards him with a finger pointed right in front of him, pointing it towards James's face.
"You wanna fight someone, you pathetic Grenadier, you fight me!" Somehow, the Sergeant turned 'Grenadier' into an insult.
It was at that point that James realised he had been set up. Whitwall had orchestrated the whole thing.
Mac stepped in front of James.
"Yeh touch him pal, and I'll knock yeh teeth rig't ou't your horrid fuckin' mouth."
James felt a wave of gratitude to the big Scotsman. While he may be a candidate on the course, he was largely left alone. He had been exempted from the selection, required to get into the training company, but he had decided to do it, anyway. Mac preferred to have the full experience.
The Sergeant spared Mac a single look, before turning back to James.
"Woho!" cried the Sergeant, theatrically turning to his bruised Para's. "Wouldn't you know it lads, looks like we got ourselves a fucking weak cunt! Wouldn't be like a fucking Grenadier Guardsman to be a fucking coward." The last part was said sarcastically, loud enough for all to hear.
"We train men here, boy. Men! Men who will jump out of fucking planes and bring the fight to the fucking enemy. We train men who have big fucking balls and are willing to put it all on the line. But instead, the Guards have sent me a scared little fucking boy with an 'SS' scar, who hides behind his mates!"
"Was that an offer, Sergeant?" James's voice rang clear, despite his slightly laboured breathing. "A chance to fight you?"
The barracks went deathly silent. Mac gave him a look. There was almost a hint of pride in it.
The Sergeant's face cracked into a big smile.
"Shut the fuck up, you red coated, leg. You're a coward, and that is all you will ever be. I lay one hand on you, and you'll go crying to the Major about an unlawful assault of a subordinate."
The sergeant looked over at his boys, who were all looking at him with raised eyebrows.
"Now who's the fucking coward, Sergeant?"
The Sergeants head snapped back around and looked at James. He could tell he was losing the room. Here was an offer to fight, fair and square, he had the size advantage and James was already injured and exhausted, out on his feet.
"I thought you trained men who have big fucking balls and are willing to put it all on the line."
Finally, the Sergeant smiled. A big, evil, smile.
"Have it your way then, Bill Brown."
The big Sergeant handed his maroon beret, smock and coat over to one of the Corporals standing nearby, before he moved into the centre of the room, and adopted a fighting stance. He had a big smile on his face as if all his Christmas's had come at once.
For his part, James limped over. Mac gripped him on the shoulder and gave him a nod. He was still clad only in his black Physical Training shorts, and was cradling his ribs a bit, but he didn't lose any purpose in his walk.
The two men began circling each other as the rest of the Barracks formed a ring around them.
"Should have quit while you were ahead, Grenadier. I'm going to make sure you never see those wings upon your chest. That you never, fucking ever, march into the Guards Parachute Platoon."
"If you say so, Sergeant," said James, his eyes never leaving the big man as they circled each other.
The Sergeant opened the fray with a straight punch aimed squarely at James's face. James managed to slip it to the side but was unable to avoid a follow up strike that hit him in the ribs.
Pain lanced through him as the Sergeant's big meaty fist connected with his injured ribs. It was all he could do to stop himself from crying out.
He shook his head and readopted his fighting position.
The Sergeant threw a feint towards his torso, which James easily read, slipping under it and to the side, dodging the follow up and planting his own, open- handed strike squarely in the Sergeant's face. He felt a satisfying crack as the Sergeant's nose broke. His head flew back and James could see the tears forming in the Sergeant's eyes from the impact the strike had had on his sinus's.
Blood streamed out of his nose, and the Sergeant cried out.
"You prick!" he growled as he advanced on James.
James tried to spin and strike again, but the Sergeant had had enough. Angered by his nose, the Sergeant threw a front kick that struck James square in the chest, pushing him backwards and onto his arse. The air had been driven from his lungs and he felt like he was about to pass out from the pain.
He tried to get up, but the Sergeant was upon him. James tried to defend himself as blow after blow after blow rained down upon him.
James threw several clumsy strikes that the Sergeant avoided. He grabbed a hold of James's exposed arm and swept his legs out from underneath him, collapsing him in a heap upon the ground.
The Sergeant looked down upon James with a satisfied expression.
"You are absolute shite, you know that don't you, you Lobster-backed cunt?"
James panted on the ground.
Pain.
He felt pain.
He felt nothing but pain. Pain and fucking anger.
Slowly, he began to lift himself up off the ground.
"Stay down, Guardsman. You're injured enough that you won't finish the course. Don't make me end your career, too."
But James didn't listen. He lifted himself gingerly back onto his feet.
"Come on then." He managed to get out through gritted teeth.
The Sergeant shook his head, as if it was merely an inconvenience.
He stepped forward and threw a kick at James, but James stepped out of the way and grabbed the Sergeant's leg.
He threw a hard punch into the Sergeant's inner thigh, causing him to grunt with surprise and pain.
James stepped into the Sergeant's leg and grabbed it with his second hand, sweeping his oppponents leg and causing him to collapse onto his back on the ground.
But the Sergeant was back on his feet before James could exploit the situation in his favour. He came up charging and used his vastly superior mass to grab James and lift him from the ground. He then turned and threw James onto the hard, cold, concrete ground with all his might.
James blacked out, momentarily.
When he came back too, he saw the Sergeant was looking down at him and trying to fix his broken nose.
James began to crawl back to his feet, again.
"Stay down mate!" came a cry from the crowd.
"You've proven your point, lad!" came another.
"Leave it out, mate." came a third.
But he didn't listen. He stood up, his feet shaking beneath him. He had no momentum, but he wouldn't give the prick the satisfaction.
James couldn't raise his hands in time to stop the haymaker that floored him.
Back on the ground, a crumpled heap of a man. James's breath came in gasps. Pain, was again his world, as he tried to crawl to his feet.
A big, black boot, slammed down upon his chest, arresting his motion.
"I'm so fucking sick of you fucking Guardsmen, swanning around my beloved fucking battalion. With your bright tunics, and your airs and graces. Who the fuck do you think you are? Bunch of fucking show soldiers, that's all you are. Suited for nothing more than standing around like a bunch of peacocks for tourists to take pictures."
The boot moved to his neck.
James couldn't breathe. Not that breathing was entirely pleasant at the moment, but it was still a necessity.
"So, here's what's going to happen, boy. Tomorrow, you are going to face in my office and announce your withdrawal from the course, at your own request. You'll go back to the Guards and never trouble the parachute regiment with your presence ever again. And while you are there, you can tell the rest of the Guards that they aren't welcome either."
James's hands tried to remove the boot, but he was too weak and the Sergeant was too strong.
He saw Mac take a step forward, but James raised a weak hand to stop him.
The Royal Marines were looking nervously at each other. Even the Paratroopers were exchanging glances.
This wasn't fair.
The Paratroopers were all for hard-training and high expectations. But they didn't like seeing a capable candidate singled-out for this kind of mistreatment.
James's vision started to swim as the oxygen deprivation reached his brain.
Which is when it started.
A single man at first, James didn't know who, but it was taken up by the others.
A whistle. Joined by a chorus as the candidates on the course took up the tune. It was such a distinct tune that every man present knew it. They had heard it countless times.
Then there was a baritone voice that took up the lyrics.
James suspected, as his vision darkened, that the singer was the only man present besides himself that knew the lyrics. But they all knew the song.
"With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadiers."
The boot lessened as the Sergeant looked around at the circle. He could see hostility from all of them. Mac still looked like he was ready to take up the fight in James's place. Even the Paratroopers were looking at the Sergeant with a sense of uncertainty and even a little disgust. He had taken it too far.
He looked down at James again, struggling to stay conscious.
The big Sergeant raised his boot and slammed it down hard into James right hand. James couldn't stop the cry that emerged from his lips as he felt his hand break.
"It's all about growth, boy. Now, fuck off back where you came from."
But James did not.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Wednesday, August 22nd 2012
'Whitwall, I think it's about time you fucked off back where you came from. Maybe, you can find our candidates while you're at it." James snarled at the broad Sergeant standing across the muddy path from him. James was pointing over his shoulder, away from the direction of the boot prints.
"Ain't happening. You think your so fucking good, Black, you go do it." The Sergeant was still his same hostile self.
"That's why we bring you fucking crap hats, here. So, you can get an ego boost from capturing a few half-starved, sleep-deprived candidates for us." Lucky cut in, realising that the game was on.
"Tell you what, boy, fight me for it. Loser goes and looks for the candidates."
"Fight you for it?" James's eyebrows show up. This was a bad idea.
"Yeah, fight me for it. Rematch. Though this time, I'm going to end your fucking career."
"You're going to try. Maybe, I'll fix your nose for you." James took off his green coat and handed it over to Lucky, rolling up his sleeves so they were above his wrists.
Lucky didn't voice a word of protest. It was as casual as if James had handed him a coffee.
He took several steps onto the slippery, muddy ground.
Whitwall, for his part, removed his beret, his smock and his coat, and stepped in to face James.
"Any of you fucking craphats get involved, and I will knock your block off," said Lucky, hanging up James's jacket on a nearby branch, before removing his own and rolling up his sleeves. "Just give me a reason."
The two men stepped into the centre and faced off against each other.
"I'm going to break more than just your hand and a couple of ribs this time, boy."
James didn't answer. He just looked him dead in the eye.
The Sergeant moved. He was just as quick as James remembered. He threw a distraction jab before sending a powerful knockout punch right at James's face.
Only, James's face wasn't there anymore.
James had moved so quickly, that he had almost seemed to disappear and reappear.
"You're getting slow." James lied.
The Sergeant grunted in anger and threw a front kick.
James easily batted it out the way with his hand, stepping back as he did so.
"So slow, they should send you to the Territorials."
The Sergeant growled and ran at him.
James waited until the last possible moment, before slipping to his right and bringing a knee up hard, right into the Sergeant stomach, causing the Sergeant to double over.
"Maybe, they should just make you a leg.", said James, referring to the condescending term amongst Paratroopers for regular infantry.
He stood back up.
"I'm going to fucking end you, son."
"Well, do it," challenged James.
The Sergeant stepped forward so quickly that it hard to see. He adjusted his footing in the slippery mud and threw a series of punches. James slipped one after the other, as each punch missed by a nearer and nearer margin.
Finally, one connected with the side of James face, causing him to recoil.
The Sergeant let out a cry of victory. He could taste blood in the water now, and he renewed his attack with fury.
But it was over.
James slipped the hard strike and seized the Sergeants hand. He pulled it down and twisted his wrist and elbow, causing the Sergeant to grunt in pain.
He then punched the Sergeant in the face with his right hand. Hard.
Repeatedly.
Punch after punch after punch.
The Sergeant started to slink down to the ground as the impact of each repeated fist messed up his face.
The watching Paras looked like they were about to become involved, but a strangely casual look from Lucky kept them at bay.
James kept punching. Each fist hammered into the Sergeants face, harder than the last.
Someone grabbed his arm and stopped it. James looked over in a fury and saw that Lucky had seized it.
"That's enough mate. He's had enough. Come on."
James looked like he was about to punch Lucky.
His fist raised, he seemed to look straight through him.
"Mate. Enough." Lucky's tone left no argument, and sense seemed to return to James's eyes.
He nodded, and let go of the Sergeant, letting him crumple into the mud.
The other Para's looked uncomfortable. They looked like they didn't know what to do.
"Pick him up. Take him. You've missed the candidates. Now, go and find them." James said to the assembled men.
There was no argument as a few of the men rushed forward and scooped the Sergeant up.
"I trust we all know what happened here?" Said Lucky, eyeing the men as they moved.
"Clumsy fuck, our Sergeant, ain't that right Yorkie?" said one man, eyeing a Corporal who was directing the rescue effort.
"Bloody Clumsy. Tripping over a log and smashing his face into a tree like that. You'd expect better from a Paratrooper."
They began moving down the path, spreading out and searching the area for the errant candidates.
"Good man," said Lucky, watching them go. "And if you don't bloody find them, ain't none of ya getting on Selection, any time soon."
The men picked up their paces.
James raised an eyebrow as he shook his bleeding hand.
"Gotta give them the right motivation." Lucky said, the grin returning to his face.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
They watched as the Paratroopers disappeared into the tree line in silence.
Lucky looked like he wanted to ask, but he waited. He knew that look.
"Alright, you four. Stand up, they're gone." James turned and called over to the nearby bushes he had indicated to before.
Nothing happened.
No movement save the gentle breeze through the forest.
"I can always call them back?"
With tentative slowness. Four figures in big khaki coats from World War Two climbed to their feet. They were a sorry looking lot. Their mud-caked faces couldn't hide the red eyes of men who had been awake and moving for entirely too long. It could not hide the fatigue and desperation that looked like it had seeped into their very souls.
They hugged their green coats close to themselves, trying to keep the cool breeze of the high country out. They were wet. They were muddy. And they looked absolutely miserable.
Each of them wore black armband with a different number on it.
"Way I see it, you've got about two hours before they come back. Keep moving to your next checkpoint. If you make it in time, you get a feed, if you don't, you don't."
The four men looked at each other in confusion. They were being let go? They weren't being captured?
"Dinner and a show is over now boys, time for you to get moving I reckon. And next time. Don't leave any sign."
They all looked at each other, hardly able to believe their luck. They were just about to turn and go, but one of them, a tall skinny man with an armband displaying '37' turned back.
"Staff? If we get in, will you teach us how to do that?" The man indicated towards the muddy path where the fight had taken place.
"Candidate, if you get in, we will teach you how to do many things."
37 nodded and turned to leave. "Thank you, Staff."
"If, Candidate!" James called to his retreating back. "If."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
James climbed into the passenger seat of the Range Rover, while Lucky got in to drive.
"You ready to tell me what the fuck that was about?" Lucky said, starting the engine and putting it into gear.
"Just an old grudge. Settled now, I'd wager."
The vehicle turned onto the dirt track, beginning the long drive back to Stirling Lines.
"Mate. I've known you for a long time. I've seen you pissed off before, but that was next level, even for you."
James sighed. He quickly retold the story of his experience in Pegasus Company. For his part, Lucky didn't interrupt. He just listened, making the occasional acknowledgement or two at the right time.
When he finished. Lucky sat in silence for a long moment.
He let out a very long breath.
"What a cunt. Was it your 'lies' hand?"
"What?
"He broke your 'lies' hand?"
James looked down at the back of his right hand. He could see the bleeding had mostly stopped on the back of his knuckle. He traced over the scar on the back of his hand with his left.
"Yeah. My 'lies' hand."
"Well, fuck. Fair enough then." Lucky said simply.
They sat in companionable silence for a while. Lucky was not the type to judge this kind of behaviour. In fact, James could tell that Lucky was pissed off by what had transpired all those years ago.
"I can't believe you completed Pegasus Company with a broken hand and three cracked ribs."
James just nodded.
"I mean, fuck. I can't believe Mac never told us that you completed Pegasus Company with a broken hand and three cracked ribs." Lucky was just thinking out loud at that point.
"You can't believe Mac didn't tell you something?" James asked sceptically.
Lucky snorted. "No, that I can believe. But fuck mate, I gotta say. You Pom's are something else."
James looked over at him.
"Bashing each other like that on a training course. That's fuckin' stupid."
You never had that happen during any of your training?"
"Fuck no. Look mate, in 'Straya we played some fucked-up pranks on each other. And we picked on the new blokes, don't you worry about that. We could 'punch on' like the best of them. But I never saw an entire section descend upon one bloke just because of the unit he was in."
James just shrugged.
"Wish I woke up in Australia, then. I found out later that his wife had left him for a Coldstreamer. He has had it in for Guardsmen ever since then"
Lucky nodded his understanding. "Can't all be so Lucky as to be from the promised land. Also, wife or no, doesn't make it okay to organise a section to go bash a bloke who had nothing to do with that. Also, what's with the 'SS'? Last I checked you didn't have any swastikas lying around."
James just pointed at his forehead. "Apparently, that looks like half the Nazi 'SS' logo."
Lucky seemed genuinely disappointed at that moment. Not because James had been accused of being a Nazi, but because Lucky prided himself on good nicknames. 'SS' wasn't a good nickname.
"I mean, AckaDacka is way better. Thunderstruck even. Anything like that. He's a shit bloke with shit banter. I should have let you keep hitting him."
Yep. Genuinely disappointed.
"I shouldn't have done that though. That was stupid." The reality of what had occurred was starting to seep in.
"Nah, fuck him mate. You got your own back." Trust Lucky to have his back.
"Regiment is all over Squadron about this footage fiasco. Squadron and Troop headquarters have been investigating whether anyone in the team leaked the footage to the press."
"What the fuck?"
"Yeah. The last thing we need is more scrutiny on the team. We need to be avoiding stuff like that, not seeking it out." James said, annoyed. "I just gave them another fucking thing to look at us for."
"Those Paras won't say a word."
"I know. But who says the candidates won't tell the story of watching a 'Regiment man' punch on with a Para Sergeant in the mud while on Selection." James asked, concerned that he had just brought the wrong kind of attention to the team.
"They are so out of it, they probably won't remember."
"They might."
"Do you remember yours?" Lucky asked, but he knew the answer.
James chuckled. "I remember fuck all."
"See. But anyway, why would they think we released it? We wouldn't do that. No one hates being the centre of attention, more than you."
"I know that, Luck. So do you. So do the team. Hell, Byron and Bits know that, too." Said James, referring to the Troop Sergeant and Troop Commander respectively. "But my reputation of putting myself at risk, and now the bloody medal has other blokes thinking that maybe I'm a glory hound. Maybe, I released the footage to make myself look better."
Lucky looked furious.
"Any bloke who says that is a dead set dickhead. Besides, why are they looking at us and not at the Avo's? It was their footage!"
James just shrugged. "They are. But we had access to all footage for our AAR's and all the paperwork. You know it wasn't us, I do, too. But we need to keep our heads down a bit until this can blow over. I don't want it impacting the lads."
"Yeah, no worries. It's just between us."
"Thanks, mate."
They continued towards Stirling Lines. James wondered how the candidates were going. Had they managed to escape, or had they been rounded up by the Paras. They all got caught in the end. All of them. It was all part of the process.
One thing was for certain, they would be cold, hungry, and miserable.
But now they had a reason to continue.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"Quick beer on the way out?" Lucky said as they walked out of the office, having submitted their paperwork on the candidates and handed back their keys.
"A beer-beer? Or a lager?" James asked. Knowing he would get a reaction.
"A fucking beer. Served ice cold and foaming."
"Oh, a lager, then." James deadpanned.
"You're a dickhead. Sometimes, I swear I don't know why we are mates." Lucky was shaking his head.
"Because who else would put up with your pathetic arse."
"You love it James, don't lie."
"What? Your arse? I don't think so mate."
Lucky and James were laughing as they entered the bar that had been set aside for use by their Squadron. It was empty. Most of the Squadron was either deployed abroad, deployed on short notice, or helping with selection.
He approached the bar as Lucky took a seat at a table near the television. He could see that a football match was on but was too far away to determine who was playing.
He grabbed two lagers from the fridge and chucked down a couple of marks against his name on the IOU board.
Cracking them open, he placed one in front of Lucky and sat down.
They both watched the game in companionable silence. Aston Villa versus Coventry City. Aston Villa up by 2.
The beers were about half gone when Lucky finally spoke.
"So, I hear there's a new Doctor at St Michael's."
James didn't reply. He instead continued to watch the game. He took another swig.
"Very pretty, from what I hear."
Another swig.
"Wavy brown hair, brown eyes. Fit. Neurologist."
James wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"Can't remember her name though. Peyton was telling me about her the other day. What was it? Harmony? No. Helen? Nah. It started with a 'H'."
"Hermione." James finally said.
"Of course! Hermione!" Lucky said, clicking his fingers, continuing the obvious charade. "That was it. Hermione. Nice name. Really pretty. Ancient Greek origins, I'm led to believe."
"What? Did you Google that?"
"Nah."
James finally looked at his best mate. Lucky was giving him the look. That sceptical look of curiosity. That look that said he had been wanting to talk about this all day.
"Okay. Yes. How the fuck would I know that otherwise?"
James just shook his head.
"Anyway. Jimmy Boy. I'm just repeating what Peyton told me."
"Is that what Peyton told you, Luck? A pretty young Neurologist started at the hospital." James was giving him an intentionally oblivious look.
"Nah. Peyton told me that a pretty young Neurologist started at the hospital and that you and her may have gotten along like a house on fire." His trademark big smile was working its way up his face.
"Is that what Peyton said, is it?" James replied, noncommittally.
"That's what Peyton said."
"Hmm."
James let that hang in the air.
Lucky pushed on, doing what Lucky did best. Pushing buttons.
"Yeah. Way she told it was that you two were basically hooking up right there in the rehab ward. Reckons that by the time you guys got to the cafeteria, you'd organised a priest and were taking your vows."
James just looked at him and rolled his eyes.
"Then, she reckons when you finished your meal, it was like the Honeymoon. You know, had her on the table and you two were just –" Lucky started moving his hips as if to replicate exactly what he meant.
"Shut the fuck up!" James's eyes had gone cold as he stared daggers at his best mate.
Lucky just rocked back in his chair with his big smile. He was clearly pleased with himself.
"You like her."
"She seems okay."
"You LIKE her."
"She seems alright."
"When are you going to see her again?"
"I dunno. I don't have her number or anything. It was one simple conversation at the hospital. That's all."
"Yeah, one simple conversation that made you so late that the OPSO was hitting the roof. I heard he threatened to charge you. Then he went and saw the Squadron Commander bitching about how late you were. How it reeked of a lack of professionalism. I heard he was saying that it was conduct unbecoming a 'medal winner'."
"Imagine charging a Patrol Commander for being late from lunch." James replied with a laugh.
Lucky just smiled at him. "I like this."
"Like what?"
"This. Look at you. You're all defensive. I haven't seen this before. I've seen every single chick who works at the base, basically throw themselves at you, and you've turned them all down. I'm pretty sure some of the boys in Mountain troop have a bet going that you're gay."
James laughed. "Sorry to disappoint Adam and all. But I'm not. And what would it matter if I was?"
"It wouldn't. But Mountain troop are a bunch of dickheads who bet on the colour of the tie worn by the Prime Minister every time he appears before the press. So, you can't be surprised to learn they placed a bet on your sexuality. What else do they have to do when they are sitting in the snow all bloody day?"
James shrugged. He was right. He remembered when they were placing bets on whether Peyton and he had been going at it behind Lucky's back. He had had a stern conversation with some of his fellow Patrol Commanders about that one. That bet had been refunded.
"Anyway, don't deflect. You like this girl."
"I think she seems alright mate. That's what I think. But I've only met her once, and even if I was interested, I've no way of enquiring."
"Peyton could take care of that," said Lucky simply.
"Peyton can leave it well enough alone." James said, more harshly than he intended.
"Well, you can try and tell her that. I tried to tell her that and got nowhere, so I don't like your chances," said Lucky, draining his beer before going to the fridge and pulling out two more.
"All I'm saying is mate, maybe it would be good for you to try and put yourself out there. You haven't dated, I mean, properly dated, anyone since Peyton. So, why not?" He walked back over the table and placed an open beer in front of James.
"I have dated." James grumbled.
"Mate, going on a few dates and then ending it, is not dating. Look, put it this way. If you were out on dates, sleeping around, having a bit of fun, I'd be like 'no worries,' he's doing this thing. But you aren't. You don't date, you don't sleep around. You've pretty much finished your house. So why not give it a go? What have you got to lose? It would do you some good to have someone in your life."
"I've got people in my life. I've got you, Peyton and Lily. Then there's the lads!" James said defensively.
"Yeah mate, you do. And we wouldn't have it any other way. In fact, I don't want you to think I'm trying to push you away from us, I'm not. What I'm trying to say is that Peyton and I want for you, what we have with each other. If you didn't want that, I'd get that. But I think you do. Hell, I know you do."
"I'll think about it, Luck. How about that?"
"That's all I'm asking mate."
They chinked beers together, before slamming them on the table and taking a good long pull.
"Do they really think I'm gay?"
Lucky just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
A/N:
Just wanted to take a moment to say if you're still reading now, than you have my thanks.
I started writing this a few weeks ago. It's been a lot of fun and a positive experience for me to sit down and put words on a page. Its been nice to go back to Creative Writing, as life has sent me down the professional writing path for the last few years. Trying to get my style back in.
I decided that at Chapter Four I would make the step of posting what I had to see if people actually enjoy the story. It's always nerve wracking to put your work out there, especially on the internet. So I truly, truly hope you are finding some good in the story, and it kills your boredom for at least a little while.
I'm sorry if my editing sucks, we are all our own worst enemies when it comes to 'Killing our Darlings.'
But I really hope that you are getting some enjoyment out of it, and that it makes at least a little sense.
Feel free to let me know your thoughts. Or don't if you don't. It's how we improve.
I'm working on Chapter Five as I post.
Stay safe in these weird times, friends!
Cheers,
AlwaysThatGuy