by Will Self
rejecting the call): Confiscated, Boss. (He grabs the canvas bag
and, opening it wide, displays its contents to COLONEL THOMAS.)
Nothing this lot love more than a good natter on the phone – look
at all these … latest models, some of ’em. THE CONFISCATED
PHONES (shifting about in the canvas bag as MCADIE pokes it
in a manner reminiscent of a doctor performing a scrotal exam):
Clickety-clackety, snickety-snackety … COLONEL THOMAS:
Bagsie. MAJOR MCADIE (passing the bag): What d’you want ’em
for, Boss? COLONEL THOMAS: No biggie, Marty, but I dunno …
What with that lot freaking out by the gate – and not really knowing
exactly who we’ve scooped up – I think a comms lock-down is
best policy. Tizer was meant to’ve collected up all sat phones on
establishment – any cheapo Iraqi ones the men’ve picked up in the
bazaar as well. I’m going to lodge them all with the Provost and
he’ll issue the chits in the morning. Radio silence ‘til rouse-up,
understood? MCADIE and CAMBELL (resentful of their own conditioned
obedience): Boss! COLONEL THOMAS: And make sure the
men from Bessemer’s multiple don’t come sneaking back over here –
no funny business, right? MCADIE and CAMBELL: Boss! COLONEL
THOMAS: You’re on your own time now – and I’d appreciate
some concrete intel’ at the end of it. I’m going to see what Major
Townshend is doing about the sitch on the gate. (Carrying the BAG
o’ PHONES, COLONEL THOMAS leaves the TeeDeeEff. CAPTAIN
CAMBELL watches him go, observing that, while the SeeOh has a
martial bearing, he’s cursed with round and womanly hips. Removing
the Biro from the clipboard he bought at the Ousegate Ryman’s,
CAPTAIN CAMBELL doodles distractedly at the bottom of the list of
Iraqi names … Gawain … Hay Wain … Haywain … Gaywain …
The SeeOh has stopped halfway across the compound, and stands
swinging the BAG o’ PHONES in one hand while he hearkens to the
eerie Ullalullalullaalullalulla! coming from beyond the main gate.
CAPTAIN CAMBELL, who’s done some bugling, appreciates the
Iraqi women must be breathing in even as they ululate, so sending
this stream of lamentation past their hummingbird tongues …
again annagain. The SeeOh moves on once more, stops, changes
direction, moves on again … he’s lagging and CAPTAIN CAMBELL
also wonders: Is he rich? A colonel in a line regiment would almost
certainly have some private means, but, judging by COLONEL
THOMAS’S dishevelled appearance when off-duty, and the clapped-out
Volvo estate he drives, he must have to survive on his salary.
And there’s no way he’ll promote out of command after this balls-up,
whereas he, CAPTAIN CAMBELL, might well be the man of the
hour: bracing the rag heads effectively – getting the vital intel’
the spooks need, and in the process meting out summary justice on
men who’ve been perverted by violence … This, along with “private
means” being an expression much used by CAPTAIN CAMBELL’S
mother, a Scots lady of a certain age, who’s dressed top to toe by the
Edinburgh Woollen Mill. MISSUS CAMBELL (in her son’s mind):
You’ve no private means, Davey – you’ll be out by the age of forty,
and what then? You’ll be an oddity – there’s no respect any more for
those who sacrifice their careers for the sake of public service. Think
of Mister Baines … (MISTER BAINES being a former Captain in
the Paras, who’s the Secretary at the links south of Nairn where
CAPTAIN CAMBELL and his mother often play a brisk nine holes.
Passing by the open door of MISTER BAINES’S cubbyhole office,
CAPTAIN CAMBELL once saw the Secretary stabbing at his own
hand, quite savagely, with a brass golf tee. A glass of neat whisky sat
by his jerking elbow – it was ten in the morning.) You see, Davey,
no private means, and perverted by violence … COLONEL THOMAS
shakes his head, separating this imagined scene into its component
parts: tweed skirt … golf tee … whisky … Such flights of fancy aren’t
my style – but he knows where this one took off: He suspects ME,
Cambell – really suspects ME … A slideshow clicks past COLONEL
THOMAS’S exhausted eyes: all the occasions on which he’s dodged
the accusatory bullet – or caught it deftly in mid-air, flipped it over
and sent it back towards his tormenter. But now … What’d
Jonathan always said? To maintain an effective cover story you need
constantly to rehearse its details – where you live, what you do – the
little private endearments you bestow on your “wife”. Your interrogators
will be looking for the slightest inconsistencies, so it needs
to be on the tip of your tongue … Semper Fi.) COLONEL THOMAS
(hefting the BAG o’ PHONES): But where’re the rest of the phones –
there ought to be more phones? (At last he moves decisively towards
the squadron lines: the men’s tents are ranged in four rows of ten.
Between them and the T-wall the Engineers built to shore up
the fourth side of the compound sit THE OFFICERS’ TRAILERS:
streamlined, off-white canisters jacked-up on breeze-blocks.) THE
OFFICERS’ TRAILERS: We’re cold but we’re old. We’re no kind
of hard cover, either – one or two eighty-ones, walked up the path
and lobbed over the garden gate – we’d crumple up like tin cans.
COLONEL THOMAS: That’s quite enough out of you lot. (He moves
between the tents, angling for THE TRAILER on the far left.)
THE TRAILERS: Bubble-bubble, groan-groan, scccrrrreeeaaal …
COLONEL THOMAS (musing aloud): Strange the men don’t resent
us having air con’ – then I ‘spect they realise those units are pumping
out bloody Legionnaire’s … THE TRAILERS: We’re diseased
death traps – you’d best believe it. (COLONEL THOMAS approaches
THE TRAILER at the end of the row, mounts its flimsy steps, knocks
on its flimsy door – which swings open. He enters, feeling the surface
shift beneath his boots in an unsettling way. It’s gloomy and
chilly in THE TRAILER, and as he advances the sweat on his chest,
back and arms cools unpleasantly.) COLONEL THOMAS: Tizer?
Tizer? You in here, mate? (A laptop computer, cracked open on the
worktop, catches COLONEL THOMAS’S eye. He picks it up and prises
screen and keyboard apart. A slideshow is under way: Tizer on
exercise in the Brecon Beacons, Tizer in the mess back at the Rams’
aitchqueue, Tizer on holiday in some tropical paradise – in all of
these photos the six-foot, fourteen-stone cavalry major is cradling
either a cute puppy or an adorable kitten, his expression guardedly
winsome.) COLONEL THOMAS (sensing THE TRAILER is occupied):
Wonder who he got to take them … MAJOR TOWNSHEND (who
sits on the floor between a storage unit and the foot of the folded-down
bed): Hnnn … Hnnn … COLONEL THOMAS (crouching
down): For Christ’s sake, Tizer, you all right? MAJOR TOWNSHEND
(his voice gruff, muffled by his hands): If they’re that bloody f-fat,
how c-can they wipe their arses? COLONEL THOMAS: What’s that?
What did you say, Tizer? MAJOR TOWNSHEND: I said, if they’re so
f-fat, how can they WIPE THEIR ARSES! COLONEL THOMAS:
How can who, Tizer? How can who wipe their arses? MAJOR
TOWNSHEND: Fat bastards, Greeny – those fat bastards with big
bellies and big buttocks, and those little chicken-wing arms stuck
way up on their fat shoulders – how can they reach to … wipe …
their … arses? How, Greeny? (He grasps the foot of the bunk
and hauls himself semi-upright, releasing a foul stench.) COLONEL
THOMAS: Oh, Jesus, Tizer – have you been drinking? (This isn’t a
query, although COLONEL THOMAS senses there are more powerfully
deranging forces at work here besides alcohol: MAJOR
TOWNSHEND has shat himself.) MAJOR TOWNSHEND: How could
I possibly be fucking pissed, when the SeeOh’s imposed a FUCKING
TWO-CAN RULE! COLONEL THOMAS (persisting with
the logic of the exchange, although he’s now realised his TwoEyeSee
has suffered a catastrophic mental breakdown): C’mon, Tizer,
old chap – y’know it’s only a guideline – I’ve certainly never enforced
it rigidly in the officers’ mess: you and that Kiwi captain did for the
best part of a bottle of Jay an’ Bee the other night –. MAJOR TOWNSHEND:
Not talking ‘bout booze, Greeny – talking ‘bout shit …
two cans of shit. Got two cans of shit … (He lets go of the bunk
and topples sideways on to the floor, where he lies, curled up and
sobbing.) I’ve shat myself, Greeny … I’ve shat myself … COLONEL
THOMAS: What’s got into you, Tizer – did something happen? Was
it the incoming when you were up on the gate? (He hears CAPTAIN
PETERSEN’S touchy-feely voice even as he speaks – she tried her
therapeutic banter on him during the pre-deployment flap: It’s
not a case of musts or shoulds, Colonel – we can feel very oppressed by
such inflexible commands …) MAJOR TOWNSHEND: I’m just fed
up with it, Greeny … wiping your arse – it’s too far to reach,
mate … Can’t get up there any more, ‘sides, I was meant to …
THE TRAILER (rocking on its worn-out suspension): Crrreeeaaak-crrreeeaaak,
crrreeeaaak-crrreeeaaak! He was meant to be SeeOh –
you only got promoted ‘cause of your father-in-law: you crawled up
his daughter’s cunt to get into his back passage –. MAJOR TOWNSHEND:
… command the regiment – I was. Passed out from
the Academy above you – I was only just pipped for the Queen’s
Medal, wasn’t I … Did a sight better than you at Staff College as
well … COLONEL THOMAS (laying a hand on his shoulder and
speaking kindly): Listen, Tizer, I dunno about all that – what I do
know is we’ve an evolving situation here – I daresay the Jam and the
Badr bunch are equally pissed off about what went down today –
can’t you hear the women outside the gate? IRAQI WOMEN:
Ullalullaullalullaullalullullalulla! MAJOR TOWNSHEND: Yeah, I can
hear ’em, Greeny – what d’you want me to do about it? (He struggles
to rise, releasing more shitty gusts.) D’you seriously think
they’re gonna attack? COLONEL THOMAS: Shouldn’t think so – they
know the catfish air boys are within a few minutes’ fly-time. Have a
gunship overhead popping off perfectly targeted cannon fire be –.
(He stops short, overcome by the absurdity of discussing operational
matters with a big man who’s curled up like a baby, and who’s shat
himself … like a baby.) Listen, old man, we’ve gotta get you to the
rap – get you cleaned up. See what Gail reckons to it. MAJOR
TOWNSHEND: She wanted me – y’know that, don’t you? COLONEL
THOMAS: Who? Not Gail, surely? MAJOR TOWNSHEND (rolling
over on to his back and addressing his SeeOh formally): No,
not Captain Petersen, sir – Princess Di. COLONEL THOMAS: The
Princess of Wales? What’re you on about, Tizer? MAJOR TOWNSHEND:
When we were still at Catterick and she came up on an
official visit and stopped by the Wives’ Club – long before she palled
up with that grease-ball … Not that I’m bothered, ‘cause she never
done it with him – wouldn’t do that … Wouldn’t muss up her …
hair. PRINCESS DIANA’S HAIR (which hangs in the gloom midway
between the two officers, a disembodied nineteen eighties do, the
tips of which curl into whispering lips): I never let him touch
me with his oily Muslim hands – never let him run his soiled fingers
through me. MAJOR TOWNSHEND: You see it, Greeny, you see
her hair? COLONEL THOMAS (rising unsteadily to his feet): I …
feel … dizzy. THE LAPTOP: You spin me right round, baby, right
round –. MAJOR TOWNSHEND (singing): Like a record, baby,
round-round –. (He stops and speaks.) And you’re a poof, Greeny,
so you are. COLONEL THOMAS: You – you what? MAJOR TOWNSHEND:
You heard me: you’re a fucking woolly-woofter! You …
you … (laughs) … thinking no one in the regiment knows – that’s
gotta be the funniest thing ever, ‘cause everyone knows, Colonel
GAYwain. THE LAPTOP: Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, oh no …
COLONEL THOMAS (bending down and wedging his hand in
MAJOR TOWNSHEND’S armpit): C’mon now, Tizer, that’s enough –
I want the Doc to take a look at you. THE LAPTOP: Yeah, you
borrowed me last night – claimed you were gonna watch some
utterly bone film, but really you spent hours looking at Calvin-fucking-Klein
male underwear models – don’t you know anything,
you plank: when you surf anywhere on the web you leave a big
fucking spunky trail. COLONEL THOMAS (grabbing THE LAPTOP,
squinting at the screen and frenziedly manipulating its keys):
I’m gonna fetch Gail in a sec’, Tizer – get her orderly, too. Get
them to calm you down! MAJOR TOWNSHEND (sinisterly calm): I’m
perfectly calm, GAYwain – it’s you who’re in a poofy-fucking-tizzy.
COLONEL THOMAS (jabbing repeatedly at the backspace key and
watching the cursor eat a long string of letters, numerals and symbols):
I’m not in a tizzy … I’m not – I’ve got the sitch … under …
control … THE RAINBOW WHEEL (spinning on the screen): You
spin me right round, baby, right round … THE LAPTOP (joining
in): Like a record, baby, right round like a –. COLONEL THOMAS
(slamming shut THE LAPTOP): Okay, that’s enough – you’ve shat
yourself, Tizer, that’s how calm you are! (He strides the two paces
to THE TRAILER’S door.) THE TRAILER: Creeeaaak-creeeaaak!
Creeeaaak-creeeaaak! A single eighty-one round on top of me and
you’d both be brown bread – I’m not a military vehicle at all, I’m a
holiday home – same model as that buck-toothed twat who used to
be foreign secretary drags behind her on her creeeaaak-creeeaaak
hols! COLONEL THOMAS: I’m gonna lock this door from the outside,
Tizer – but you’ll only be alone here for a few minutes …
MAJOR TOWNSHEND: Yeah-yeah … Whatever – what do I care,
GAYwain. You done me now, boyo – you’ve unpacked my …
fudge. THE KEY: Screutch-eutch. THE LOCK: Ickle-snickle-snikk.
(COLONEL THOMAS stands on the steps staring
distractedly into
the mid-distance, to where the ceaselessly revolving RAINBOW
WHEEL slips in and out of the searchlights’ beams.) THE RAINBOW
WHEEL: Establishing network connection … Establishing network
connection … Establishing network connection … COLONEL
THOMAS (massaging his stinging eyes with thumb and forefinger
as he muses aloud): Well, this could well be it – could be all over …
Truth out – marriage over, career too … Prob’ly best for all concerned
if it were … Jonathan and I – we could go to Bardney …
buy the business off of Brian and John – make a proper go of
it … they haven’t even thought of getting a web site built yet …
THE RAINBOW WHEEL (still spinning in the maroon nowhere):
Don’t you looooove faaaarce … ? THE LOUDSPEAKER (bolted to
the minaret of a mosque three hundred metres south-west of the
compound): Myyyyy faaauuult IIIIIIII feeeeeaaaaar … ! COLONEL
THOMAS: Kids can visit at weekends – plenty of room for them …
Be a bit peculiar to begin with, but they’ll enjoy the old place – it’s
quaint … Make beds up for them in those little attic rooms …
Have to be a bit circum– well, Miffy still comes into our bed sometimes
… in the night. Fi’ll prob’ly be a bit angry to begin with …
THE LOUDSPEAKER: IIIIII thooouuught thaaat yooouuu’d waaant
whaaat IIIIII waaant … COLONEL THOMAS: Odd for Jonathan
as well – quite a change of scene … and pace. Still, he grew up
in a bit of a backwater, he’ll readjust – and we’ll have our love.
THE LOUDSPEAKER: Where are the clow-ow-ow –. SERGEANT
LANDON (arriving at speed, in helmet and body armour, and
carrying his rifle): Sir! (He salutes smartly.) COLONEL THOMAS:
What’s occurring, Landon? SERGEANT LANDON: Just been on
the radio net, sir … it … it doesn’t look like Bessie’s gonna …
gonna … COLONEL THOMAS: Pull yourself together, Landon.
SERGEANT LANDON: Sorry, sir. They got Bessie down to Main all
right, but he’d lost a lot of blood and they’ve been operating for
hours … They aren’t very ho-ho-ho –. COLONEL THOMAS: Don’t
worry … THE RAINBOW WHEEL (very faint but still spinning): …
I’m heeeeeere! SERGEANT LANDON: Thing is, Boss, men’ve somehow
got wind and they’re up and about again – in a pretty aggy