The Age of Odin - James Lovegrove [9]
"What, he left the Regiment and didn't manage to wangle himself a fat juicy publishing contract? How's that possible?"
"Funnily enough, he said he'd written a book about his Spec Ops experiences and he showed it to a literary agent but the agent told him the SAS memoir market's all but dried up."
"Who Dares Loses. My heart bleeds. Another one?"
I bought him a fresh Scrumpy Jack and a Theakston's Old Peculier for myself. My second pint of the night, and my last. I never took it further than the two, not any more. That was my limit. Exceeding it led to trouble. Anger. Flare-ups. Punches. Bruises. Police. Holding cells. Cautions. I'd been down that road too many times. I'd even done a short stint at Her Majesty's pleasure. Never again. The pleasure had been all hers.
"What d'you reckon, then?" Abortion asked. He was Devon born and after a drink or two his West Country burr always got thicker. The "r" of his "reckon" dragged while the "ck" in the middle all but vanished.
"I rrre'un," I said, "that blogger's pulling everyone's leg. Two grand a week? For washed-up non-coms like us?"
"The impression I got is they're not too fussy."
"They'd have to not be. I mean, there's me with eighty per cent hearing loss in one ear and a titanium plate in my skull, and there's you with your, well, habit. We're hardly what you'd call prime soldiering material. They'd have to be pretty desperate to take us on, and if their standards are that low then what sane person would want to sign up with them anyway?"
"Do you miss it?" said Abortion. It sounded like a non sequitur but wasn't.
"The army? What's to miss? Low pay. Appalling housing. Getting shouted at all the time. Getting shot at. Going round the world to visit the dingiest shitholes there are, putting your life on the line fighting a war some nob-end in Whitehall thinks is a good idea but no one else does, saddled with shoddy uniforms and shonky kit that doesn't work properly half the time..."
"That's a yes, then."
He had me bang to rights. "You know I miss it. Every fucking day. I'd give anything to pull on a uniform again, pick up an assault rifle and get out there again, mixing it up with the bad guys."
"You can't explain it to civilians, can you?" Abortion said. "They just don't get it. Having your mates around you the whole time. Ripping the piss out of each other at every opportunity but knowing you trust these people with your life. Being part of a unit, feeling part of something that's big and strong and organised. Like being a member of the best gang ever and no one's going to mess with you. You don't have that in civvy street, that sense of belonging. Here, everyone fucks everyone else over. It's all about yourself. Me, me, me. What can I get? What can I grab? Never happens in the army."
"I always used to think it's like being at school again but being a grown-up at the same time," I said. "All the benefits of school - order, schedule, hierarchy, someone cooking your meals for you - with none of the bollocks. Rules and regulations that keep things in line but don't interfere with you having a good time. And even the combat... Shit, you don't get a rush like that anywhere else. Fucking hairy-arse scary while it's happening, but afterwards - woo-hoo! And I speak as someone who got blown up by a fucking IED."
"Yeah, if that couldn't put you off enjoying active service, what could?"
"Well, it's like they say. If you can't take a joke..."
Abortion chimed in: "...you shouldn't have volunteered."
"So you think this is on the level, this Valhalla Mission whatnot?" I said.
Aborted teetered his hand in the air. "You can't know 'til you've tried. Suck it and see. But two grand a week's nothing to sneeze at. And the minimum contract term is three months."
I did some mental arithmetic.