by Peter Hall
“By which time I’ll have spent days writing thousands of lines of code, only to learn the customer hates it and wants something more familiar.”
“Like I say, it’s the way the world works. Don’t sweat it.”
“I know I shouldn’t, but I’m good at this.” He lowered his voice so only Gordon could hear. “I can write code twice as fast as some senior programmers, but what’s the point if I have to do everything twice?”
Gordon continued to stare at his screen, typing as he spoke. “You get your paycheck at the end of the month, don’t you? That’s what really matters.”
“I suppose so.”
Is that really what matters? Wasting my time creating code that never gets used, or producing a website to sell stuff that nobody needs, just so I get paid, so I can buy food, so that I can continue to write more useless code.
Gordon pressed the ‘Enter’ key on his keyboard with gusto. “And send! Another fantastic world-beating website design winging its way to an undeserving customer.” He glanced over at John. “So, if you find this job so moronic, why’d you spend three years at uni learning how to do it?”
“I enjoyed learning about coding. It’s doing it all day, every day that’s getting monotonous. If only I could work on a project that’s innovative or worthwhile—something that would benefit humanity, then it wouldn’t feel so bad.”
Gordon laughed. “Benefit humanity! Jeez, did you pick the wrong job?”
“I’m not expecting to change the world, but look at this next project. A company that sells custom clothing for rabbits and guinea pigs.”
John held up a folder for Gordon to see.
Gordon looked at a picture of a guinea pig wearing a hat and waist coat, and smiled. “Aw, that’s cute. Almost makes me wish I had a little piggy.”
John put the folder back on his desk and returned to coding. He hadn’t told Gordon that this job was not his first choice. It was simply a task he excelled at doing. Perhaps a natural talent for dealing with machine code was nature’s compensation for being unable to deal with humans.
Towards the end of his degree course, John had applied for the Army yet again. This time an engineer battalion. The recruitment sergeant suggested somebody at his academic level should apply to be an officer, so John admitted he had already been down that route. Two weeks later, his rejection letter arrived. His performance during the officer selection had been so poor, they did not want him in any capacity. That hurt more than the first rejection. Was he seriously flawed?
After leaving university, he spent several months searching for work. ‘WebExpert SW’ was the first company to make a job offer. Initially, he was relieved to have a proper job, until the reality of writing program code for a living became clear.
The idea of doing this until retirement made him want to jump off a cliff. There had to be something better.
The staff at ‘WebExpert SW’ benefited from a small kitchen. It had space for two tables plus a work surface with a basin, toaster and microwave. Its major redeeming feature was a window looking out on the local park where it was always possible to see something entertaining, such as teenagers pulling branches off trees, or stray dogs shitting on the footpaths.
Gordon entered the staff room, a little flustered. He had dashed into town during his lunch hour to buy groceries and now had only a few minutes left to eat his sandwiches.
“Hi John,” he said, panting as he grabbed his lunch box from the fridge. “Any tea in the pot?”
John was preoccupied with his Kindle, so seconds of silence followed before he responded. “What? Oh, sure. I made it about five minutes ago, should still be just about okay.” He didn’t bother to look up from his Kindle.
Gordon sat down at the same table as John and began rapidly stuffing his face.
John looked up. “What’s that smell?”
Gordon smiled. “Egg sarnies with sandwich spread, my favourite.”
“Ugh!” John resumed reading.
Gordon swallowed. “You ought to get out more in your lunch hour. Take a walk around the park, maybe? The weather’s lovely today.”
John glanced out of the window at the park. “Hmm. I prefer to read.”
Gordon peered at the screen of John’s Kindle. “What are you reading now?”
Again there was silence until John noticed Gordon was waiting for an answer.
“Sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying? Oh, the book. Yes, it’s interesting. About the Apache helicopter gunships in Afghanistan.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve noticed you reading military books before. Are you interested in that sort of stuff?” Gordon’s mouth bulged with a chicken sandwich, making his speech barely comprehensible.
“Yeah, I guess I am. I’ve been following military history for years.”
“Ever thought of taking it a step forward? Doing it for real?”
Gordon’s cheeks were now bulging like a hamster.
“What? You mean join the army?” John said.
“Yes. No… well, sort of… I’m talking about the T.A. The Territorials.”
John knew Gordon was a part-time soldier in the Territorial Army. There had been a couple of Monday mornings when Gordon looked half-dead at his desk. John had shown no interest in Gordon’s T.A. activities. His double rejection by the regular army was still an open sore, and the last thing he wanted was Gordon rubbing it in with stories of his exploits.
“What? Me become a weekend warrior? I don’t think it would suit me.”
“Why not?” Gordon said, unperturbed, as he forced even more food into his mouth. “You like to keep fit. You might take to it. Where else are you going to get paid to blow-up stuff?”
Where else indeed?
John had never considered joining the T.A. Surely, it was playing at soldiers rather than a serious business―one step up from paint balling? Still, beggars can’t be choosers and he would get to handle actual weapons.
Gordon took a huge swallow to clear his mouth. “Do you know what we were doing last weekend?”
“How could I?” John said.
“Firing anti-tank rockets on Salisbury Plain. I got to fire a live NLAW missile. They cost twenty grand apiece and make a hell of a bang! Tell you what. We’re recruiting at the moment. Why not come along to tomorrow’s training night and check it out? No commitment. Just have a look.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure.” John’s guts churned at the prospect.
“Come on, what harm can it do? Something unmissable on telly is there?”
“You seem keen to get me involved. Do you get a bonus for getting recruits?”
“No. Of course not. More’s the pity. I just think you might find it fun.”
John rubbed his chin but said nothing.
“Well, it’s up to you. But if you want to actually do something instead of just reading about it,” he pointed to John’s Kindle, “then come along at eight p.m. tomorrow night at the T.A. centre in Barracks Road.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Jeez, I need to go.”
He gulped the last of his tea and left, leaving a pile of crumbs on the table, which brought a disapproving frown from John.
That evening, John sat at his laptop and Googled the T.A. He found there was a minimum commitment to six weekends a year, plus an annual camp and weekly training nights. The T.A. and regular army had identical equipment and training standards. T.A. soldiers served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, and were doing U.N. peacekeeping duties. They received normal army pay, with a training bounty on top. That money would be useful, but it was the thought of actually getting to use assault rifles, machine guns and rocket launchers that excited him—and that didn’t happen often.
John slept poorly that night as an uncomfortable conflict of nerves and anticipation squirmed in his belly.
The following evening found John parking his car at the Wyvern Barracks & Training Centre. His guts churned with an uncomfortable conflict of nerves and anticipation. Sitting in the safety of his vehicle, he glanced around the var
ious imposing buildings. Tall metal-spiked fences surrounded the barracks. In the car park, mean-looking military vehicles sat alongside civilian cars. A large sign proclaimed ‘Parking For Authorised Persons Only’. Was he an authorised person?
This was too much. It was a mistake. He grabbed the ignition key, intending to start the car and leave, when another car pulled up next to him. Two men dressed in combats got out.
“You here for the T.A. training, mate?” One of them shouted with a smile.
“Er… yes.”
“Follow us then, mate. We’ll sort you out.”
They took him to a room where several officers were sitting at desks doing paperwork. A lieutenant made him welcome and asked a few questions. When he found out John was a friend of Gordon’s, he escorted John to a large hall to meet Gordon’s section leader—Corporal ‘Smartie’ Smart. They only exchanged a few words before an officer shouted for the soldiers to assemble for roll call. “Take a seat while we do the admin bullshit. After roll call, stick with me. We’ve got a treat in store tonight.” He scooted off to line up with the others.
After the roll and a pep talk by the C.O. the company broke up into sections for individual training.
Smartie’s section went into a separate room with John tagging along.
Seven men from the section were present, including Gordon. The Corporal started out by reviewing last week’s training, then moved on to that evening’s subject—observation and fire control.
They watched a video of an infantry platoon crossing open ground. The viewpoint was a soldier’s eye view of the terrain. Smartie pointed out landmarks and gave them labels. Without warning, the platoon came under heavy fire and the picture paused.
Each trainee scribbled down the gunfire they had seen. John had a writing pad and pencil so he could take part.
After a few seconds, Smartie picked a soldier to read out his observations to the group:
“Right of trees, fifty metres, small arms. Left of trees, thirty, M.G. Left of house, fifty, mortar. Left of gate, ten, small arms.”
It took a moment for John to understand the code being used.
“Very good,” Smartie said. “Anything to add to that, Gibbons?”
“I got all of that, plus, right of gate, twenty, troops moving.”
“Excellent. Remember lads, don’t just focus on gunfire and smoke. We need to know all enemy positions—even if they’re not shooting. The movement Gibbons spotted could be a mortar or A.T. team setting up. Good spot, Gibbons. Davies, you got anything else?”
John realised he had missed several enemy locations.
Oh, God. Please don’t ask me to report to the group.
They repeated the exercise several times with different scenarios and John found he improved at spotting the enemy, but relief washed over him when the session finished without him having to speak aloud to the section.
It was time for a quick ciggie break. John found himself at a loose end since he did not smoke or vape. Not knowing what else to do, he hung around with the others outside in the dismal smoking shed, keeping his distance from the foul fumes. Gordon was with them using an e-cigarette, which surprised John as he never smoked at work. By this time, darkness had fallen and a persistent drizzle tickled John’s face and neck. The soldiers talked about girlfriends and football—subjects for which John had no wish to contribute. This reminded him of the dreaded school playground, standing alone—the outsider looking in. Perhaps coming here tonight was a huge mistake.
When Smartie called them into the main hall for the ‘special event’, John considered walking to his car and driving off, until one of the others acknowledged his presence. “Follow us mate, this’ll be great.”
For the last hour of training, the entire company assembled in the main hall. They had laid out rows of chairs for a talk. At the front, a tall, burly sergeant, who pulled his beret so low it covered his eyebrows, stood behind a row of tables displaying a variety of small arms.
“Okay lads and lassies. Settle down. I’m Sergeant Bailey from the Regimental Armoury. That means I get to play with all the good stuff. Now then, I’m sure you’re all kick-ass warriors and can handle Brit kit with your eyes closed. Otherwise, we’re fucked if we go to war.”
Pause for laughter.
“Colonel Braithwaite has arranged for a demo of weapons used by soldiers in armies less fortunate than ourselves. Being able to use these weird foreign buggers might just save your life one day.”
He picked up a mean-looking machine gun with a long barrel and bipod. John identified it as a Russian PKM.
“Who can tell me what this beast is?” the Sergeant asked.
John looked around the group at the bemused faces. Was he the only one who recognised it? Apparently so. He wanted to show off his knowledge, but nerves got the better of him, so he clasped his hands tightly together.
“Nobody, huh?”
“Looks Russian,” somebody shouted out.
“Well done, that man. If you ever come up against the Russkies or their allies, this is what’ll be hurling bullets in your direction.”
Sergeant Bailey continued to demonstrate several assault rifles and light machine guns used by various armies around the world. John recognised them all from books and videos—but it was exciting to see them for real. He sat up straight, his attention focused on every word and movement the sergeant made. The atmosphere was relaxed, with the audience asking plenty of questions. For John, this was a real ‘kid in a candy shop’ moment.
As the American M4 assault rifle was being shown, one soldier asked, “Is it true they’ve got a reputation for jamming?”
The sergeant laughed, “All guns’ll jam if you don’t clean them,” implying he thought US troops were less fastidious in cleaning their guns than Brits. “Of course, the Russian AK47 over there never jams, ‘cos all the parts are so fucking loose.”
The audience laughed and John surprised himself by joining in. A poke at both the Yanks and Russkies—top marks.
After the talk, the soldiers were free to inspect the firearms, huddling around the tables. John mingled with the rest and they ignored the fact he was wearing civvies. He was just one of the lads. A standard British SA80 assault rifle sat among the other weapons for comparison, but the soldiers ignored it. John picked it up reverently. It fitted snugly in the crook of his arm, as if it was part of him. He inserted the empty magazine and cocked the rifle, appreciating the satisfying click. In his arms, he held a machine he had viewed many times on computer screens, but this was the first genuine encounter.
John had often wondered how he would react to holding a real modern assault rifle. Would it feel like what it was—a mass produced tool made from pressed steel and plastic? Not in the slightest—it was special. The weapon was lighter than expected. The grips felt warm and smooth—as if they were moulded specially for his hands. This object represented the culmination of hundreds of years of development. Light, reliable, accurate, deadly and comfortable. It was as if he cradled a religious icon. This must be what Beethoven experienced when he discovered the piano.
John then picked up the AK47—the assault rifle used by Russia and a favourite with terrorists. This particular model was a battered Chinese copy with a folding bayonet attached to the barrel. It seemed heavy, clumsy, awkwardly balanced, with a crude wooden fore-stock and butt. It even rattled when he shook it.
What a revelation! He could have quoted all the statistics about these weapons, but you could not truly understand the difference between them without holding them. It occurred to him he’d gained a greater understanding of these guns in the past hour than after years of study and research. Imagine being able to actually shoot them!
Gordon came up behind him. “What do you think, John?”
John was smiling. “Fantastic. Bloody fantastic.”
“So, you’ll seriously think about joining?”
“Oh, yes!”
“That’s great. It’s not like the old days when you had to sig
n your life away. Try it out and if you don’t take to it you just stop coming. Before you leave, go back to the office and they’ll give you a welcome pack.”
“Cool. By the way, I never knew you vaped.”
Gordon laughed. “I only do it here. Even the wife doesn’t know. It’s part of fitting in. Speaking of which, if you’re joining, you should think of a nickname.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I reckon we have at least four Johns in this company, so you’ll not be called that. Everyone has a nickname, even the officers, although they might not know about it. In our collection of John’s we have Jonny, Tall John, Jack, and Bricey. I’m Gordo around here. If you don’t come up with a nickname yourself, somebody else will. What do your friends call you?”
John didn’t have any friends. “Just John, I suppose.”
“Well, that’s no good, is it?”
John rubbed his chin. “Why is somebody with the name of John called Bricey?”
“It’s his surname—John Bryce. What about you? Can you make something from that monster surname of yours?”
John considered it. He hated being forced to make a decision on the spot, and his chest tightened. “Er… Well. Callaghan-Bryant. Bry? Calla? Cally? I know, what about just Cal?”
“Hmm. That works. We don’t have a Cal. It’s short and sounds cool to me. Think about it before next week. You have to get in first. Whenever somebody asks you your name, you tell them it’s John, but your friends call you Cal. Don’t give anyone else a chance to make up a nickname for you, or fuck knows what you’ll end up with.”
“Okay, right. Thanks for the advice. I will.”
For the entire drive home, John grinned inanely. Sitting next to him on the passenger seat was an information pack, including a DVD and the forms to enrol. Next week, a doctor would give medical screenings. Provided John passed, he could take the oath of allegiance to The Queen straight afterwards and become a real soldier. He even had a new name to go with it. He never really liked ‘John’. It was too common. If a teacher shouted ‘John’ in the playground, half-a-dozen boys would turn their heads. And as for Callaghan-Bryant—ugh!—so embarrassing. He always had to repeat it two or three times. It was a mash-up of his parents’ surnames because his mum would not take his father’s name. He liked ‘Cal’. It was short and sounded good. It would be a great name for a movie hero. Joining the T.A. was almost like taking on a new personality. Awesome.