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Authors: Gerald Seymour
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and
they
wanted graduates. "Don't have a degree, do you, Bill?" Gary
Brennard's sneer. "Didn't make university, did you, Bill?" His feet
hammered the linoleum above the launderette. He snatched the cover
off
the typewriter. "Without a degree, without a university education, you've reached your plateau, haven't you, Bill?" He began to type.
He
accepted the assignment. He listed the daily rate and a half to be
paid in advance, and the per them expenses rate .. . He pounded the
keys of the typewriter. "If that's the way you feel then you should consider transferring your talents to the private sector. We
wouldn't
want disaffected junior officers, would we, Bill?" He read through the
paper. No, he wouldn't be sentimental. No, he wouldn't get himself involved. He dialled the number. He watched the fax sheet go.
There
was not enough light for him to make a clean job of the sewing. He
did
it as best he could, and it was poor work because he could barely
see
where he pushed the thick needle, and his hands shook. His hands
shook
in fear. Ham sewed strips of black elastic onto the arms and the
body
of the tunic. The others watched him and waited their turn with the
one needle and the reel of heavy cotton. He tried hard to hide the
shaking because each of the other five men who would go across with
him
believed in his professionalism. It was what he was paid for, what
he
44
was there for, to communicate professionalism. There were eight
lengths of black elastic now on his tunic, and he had already sewn
five
lengths onto his combat fatigue trousers, and when they were down
at
the river, when they were ready to slip into the inflatable, then
they
would collect old grass and they would tuck the grass lengths in
behind
the elastic straps. They were important, Shape and Silhouette. He
passed on the needle and the cotton reel and the roll of black elastic
tape. He set himself to work on Shine. He spat into the palms of
his
hands and then scooped the cream from the jar and worried the mess
together, and made the sweeping smears across his eyebrows and nose
and
cheeks and chin, and his ears and throat and wrists and hands. He
handed the jar to those who were waiting to use the needle and the
cotton roll. He had told them about Smell, and he had bloody lectured
them that there should have been no smoking since the middle of the
day, and he had checked that the tinfoil was in his own battle pack
for
their shit and the burying of it. He had lectured them about Sound,
and he had shaken each of the webbing harnesses they would wear for
the
rattle of loose ammunition magazines, and he had made them all walk
round him in a circle until he was certain that their boots were
quiet.
Ham had learned Shape, Silhouette, Shine, Smell, and Sound at the
Aldershot depot, and none of the others, the dozy buggers, cared ..
.
They needed it, too fucking right they needed Shape and Silhouette
and
Shine and Smell and Sound, where they were going .. . the others were
from 2nd Bn, 110 (Karlovac) Brigade, and they had been pissed up since
morning and Ham was stone sober and his hands shook and his gut was
tight. They were dumb bastards to be spending the night with, across
the Kupa river, behind the lines. On down his checklist .. .
ammunition magazines for the Kalashnikov, knife, gloves, the radio
that
thank Christ he wouldn't be bent under, cold rations, the balaclava,
the water bottle that wasn't full of bloody brandy or the usual
slivovitz piss, map and compass, field dressings .. . The big fear,
what tightened Ham's gut, shook his hands, was of being wounded, of
being left. It was better in the old days, better when there were
45
Internationals on the ground like flies on meat, because then there
was
the promise that the Internationals, the 'meres', would look after
their own if one was wounded. You wouldn't know with this lot,
wouldn't know if they'd fuck off and get the hell out in
they
wanted graduates. "Don't have a degree, do you, Bill?" Gary
Brennard's sneer. "Didn't make university, did you, Bill?" His feet
hammered the linoleum above the launderette. He snatched the cover
off
the typewriter. "Without a degree, without a university education, you've reached your plateau, haven't you, Bill?" He began to type.
He
accepted the assignment. He listed the daily rate and a half to be
paid in advance, and the per them expenses rate .. . He pounded the
keys of the typewriter. "If that's the way you feel then you should consider transferring your talents to the private sector. We
wouldn't
want disaffected junior officers, would we, Bill?" He read through the
paper. No, he wouldn't be sentimental. No, he wouldn't get himself involved. He dialled the number. He watched the fax sheet go.
There
was not enough light for him to make a clean job of the sewing. He
did
it as best he could, and it was poor work because he could barely
see
where he pushed the thick needle, and his hands shook. His hands
shook
in fear. Ham sewed strips of black elastic onto the arms and the
body
of the tunic. The others watched him and waited their turn with the
one needle and the reel of heavy cotton. He tried hard to hide the
shaking because each of the other five men who would go across with
him
believed in his professionalism. It was what he was paid for, what
he
44
was there for, to communicate professionalism. There were eight
lengths of black elastic now on his tunic, and he had already sewn
five
lengths onto his combat fatigue trousers, and when they were down
at
the river, when they were ready to slip into the inflatable, then
they
would collect old grass and they would tuck the grass lengths in
behind
the elastic straps. They were important, Shape and Silhouette. He
passed on the needle and the cotton reel and the roll of black elastic
tape. He set himself to work on Shine. He spat into the palms of
his
hands and then scooped the cream from the jar and worried the mess
together, and made the sweeping smears across his eyebrows and nose
and
cheeks and chin, and his ears and throat and wrists and hands. He
handed the jar to those who were waiting to use the needle and the
cotton roll. He had told them about Smell, and he had bloody lectured
them that there should have been no smoking since the middle of the
day, and he had checked that the tinfoil was in his own battle pack
for
their shit and the burying of it. He had lectured them about Sound,
and he had shaken each of the webbing harnesses they would wear for
the
rattle of loose ammunition magazines, and he had made them all walk
round him in a circle until he was certain that their boots were
quiet.
Ham had learned Shape, Silhouette, Shine, Smell, and Sound at the
Aldershot depot, and none of the others, the dozy buggers, cared ..
.
They needed it, too fucking right they needed Shape and Silhouette
and
Shine and Smell and Sound, where they were going .. . the others were
from 2nd Bn, 110 (Karlovac) Brigade, and they had been pissed up since
morning and Ham was stone sober and his hands shook and his gut was
tight. They were dumb bastards to be spending the night with, across
the Kupa river, behind the lines. On down his checklist .. .
ammunition magazines for the Kalashnikov, knife, gloves, the radio
that
thank Christ he wouldn't be bent under, cold rations, the balaclava,
the water bottle that wasn't full of bloody brandy or the usual
slivovitz piss, map and compass, field dressings .. . The big fear,
what tightened Ham's gut, shook his hands, was of being wounded, of
being left. It was better in the old days, better when there were
45
Internationals on the ground like flies on meat, because then there
was
the promise that the Internationals, the 'meres', would look after
their own if one was wounded. You wouldn't know with this lot,
wouldn't know if they'd fuck off and get the hell out in
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