salute might be like, should the subordinate disdain to bestow one
on his superior. Which is what, Gawain reflects, unloading his
tray, I was doing to Blakey. Poor Blakey – shackled to his harridan
wife. Passing by their quarters, once, Gawain had heard them
hard at it – and she’s the very picture of a long-haired general:
a big, gawky woman in dated, dull clothes – calf-length skirts and
blouses with piecrust collars – who’s present at all the regiment’s
carefully orchestrated disco-dances and church parades, manning
the refreshments table or handing out the hymn sheets – sticking
her lantern jaw into everything, desperate to shed some light on her
husband’s prospects for promotion. Will it be like that for Fi and
me, Gawain wonders, pushing a small bow-wave of gravy across his
plate with a perfect hemisphere of boiled potato, the greasy wake
spreading out behind … But what’s ahead? Nothing but scraps of
overcooked roast lamb … quite indigestible. Standing outside the
Admin Block with the rest of the team and a few hangers-on,
Gawain waves as the Royal Welshers’ coach sweeps round in a wide
circle, whisking all the whey-faces away … There’s poetry in that,
Gawain thinks – poetry in most things if you stop to think about it.
Poetry and artistry in military manoeuvres as well … hard edge,
light touch. Artistry, too, in the cell Blakey’s placed on the overhead
projector’s lightbox – the original political boundaries having been
repurposed with felt-tip pens of many different colours. He steps
away from the lectern – and the Chief steps up, a fine figure of
leadership: strapping … he could beat me to a pulp, his features
razor-sharp, his laser gaze targetting far horizons. The Chief
doesn’t exactly drone on – but Gawain, his belly full, his muscles
dully aching, finds it hard to concentrate on all the divisions and
subdivisions: the Bosniaks and the Croats, the Bosnian Serbs and –
for all he knows – the Serbian Bosnians … Basically, the Chief
drones on, our job’s to keep the bastards apart – tricky enough under
the best circs, as those of you who were along for the Cyprus deployment
will know full well. But the situation in the former-Yugoslavia
appears – at least to me – wilfully complicated … The junior
officers at the front of the room stir, amused by this very typical
Chiefism – because Lieutenant-Colonel Roger Renfrew refrains
from the soldier’s habitually fatalistic attitude towards a world
which … refuses to follow orders. For him there’re no impersonal
shitstorms, snafus and embuggerations – only situations in which,
had the Fighting Rams been to hand, the malefactors would’ve
been brought to heel – which was another Chiefism, covering everything
from pacifying bolshie civilians to reducing Her Majesty’s
enemies to human purée … given each territory has its own
embattled ethnic minority – which is more often than not supported
by an ethnic majority in the adjacent territory, who in turn are
giving merry-hell to a different ethnic minority … Gawain observes
Lieutenant “Tizer” Townshend in the front row – must be tricky
being quite that big, makes it easier for you to be spotted when
you’re … grabbing forty winks. But it’s fair enough, really – Tizer
gave his all against the Welshers … as did we all. At times – and
this is one of them – Gawain indulges in the fantasy of living
entirely in a parallel rugby-union universe, where all his adversaries
are gentle-manly and play by the rules … Yet he can never sustain
this vision – he’s always out there, receiving a perfect pass, getting
his head down and charging – only to realise that the last defender
between him and the touchline has … long hair and breasts! It
wasn’t exactly repulsive, kissing Fiona, but it’s dreadfully cramped and
fiddly in there … so he smoothly re-enters this messy and chaotic
world, right on cue: Gawain, you’re responsible for the B Company
rota – have all the men cycled through? He smiles at his prospective
father-in-law and replies, Troopers McCruisken and Fellowes
still to complete, Chief … then Lieutenant-Colonel Renfrew smiles
back! Smiles so warmly his prospective son-in-law glows. It occurs
to Gawain – not for the first time – that the Chief actually likes
me. This isn’t the benevolent tolerance of senior-to-junior officer, but
genuine affection … Fair enough, Renfrew says, but see to it, there’s
a good chap – time is of the essence. Now: I know some of you will
still be thinking this’ll be just another Cyprus – but there’s tricky,
and there’s seriously bloody tricky … He lays his green felt-tip
pen down on the cell … In Cyprus we had a long-established
and completely secure base, hot-and-cold-running water – regular
bulletins from the bloody News Bunny, so far as I could make out.
But in Bosnia our billet’s going to be a little bit more … commando.
Lesley? – This is the cue for Major Hirst, the Adjutant, who
runs a hand through his sparse hair before taking his place at the
lectern: Well, Chief, it’s certainly pretty basic – and there’s been
pretty fierce activity in the immediate area, but I’m hoping it hasn’t
been used as a bloody mortuary. In a nutshell, chaps, the Unprofor
bods – in association with the local commander – have, out of the
goodness of their hearts, commandeered this highly des’ res’ for
us – he snaps off the overhead projector and snaps on a slide one:
a long, low concrete structure appears, sited on a densely wooded
hillside – which was, up until hosilities commenced, a … um,
paint factory. Someone in the back row whispers, With Dulux
once is enough, but the Chief, hands on hips, ignores this: We’ll
be on lock-down after dark – full stag, obviously. We may not be
able to undertake offensive ops – but we’re bloody well going to
defend ourselves. On that very matter, Captain Anselm is here from
EmmEye to give us some up-to-date intel’ on who the players are
and what capabilities they have – and for those of you thinking
there’ll be sod-all productive for us to do, Anselm’s brought a …
um, friend with him from London. Apparently – the tip of the
Chief’s nose grows – his, ah, friends’ friends – no Pinocchio he – are
keen to find out more about our Serbian chums … Lesley, will you
ask them to come in? In the corner of the briefing room, between
the desk with the projector on it and the door, rolled-up maps have
been deposited, together with the seats of broken plastic stacking
chairs. The seats of plastic stacking chairs have been deposited in
the space between the door and the desk with the projector on it,
together with rolled-up maps. All the Rams’ officers are looking at
the door – looking towards its little window of toughened glass.
Gawain thinks: That’s where I’ll always bloody be – not inside,
not outside … Always at the door, piled up with the rest of the
broken
stuff no one can be bothered to get rid of … The door’s pneumatic
arm whistles, summoning the knowledge that gives us strength:
Anselm, who looks like typical slime – a killer-nerd with blue-tinted
glasses and a conspicuous stain on his jacket collar … ally as fuck.
He’s an odd smile about his lips as he pushes the door wide open
so the man Gawain knows as … Mike! can enter. He’s wearing
a beautifully cut pinstripe suit and carrying an expensive leather
briefcase. He hesitates briefly – and Gawain sees him, standing in a
cloud of thistledown … lifting one slim white foot so he can lasso
it with the slim white loop of his … Calvin Kleins. Without any
preamble Anselm begins running through the dispensations and
strengths of the various forces: Essentially obsolete platforms …
Such-and-such artillery … Restricted mobility … and so predictably
on. Gawain’s aware of some of his brother officers taking notes –
but he can only sit, mouth open to catch the flies that buzz out from
Mike’s piercing pale blue eyes. He is, Gawain glories, so much better
looking than I remember … But as he stares – and Mike stares back –
a clamminess overtakes him, for fingertips … pencils –penises! are
rubbing the man’s perfect skin on to mine … transferring the decal
of his identity … to me! I’m pleased, Captain Anselm says, to tell
you we’ve someone here who knows a great deal more about Ratko
and Radovan than I do – Jonathan? The man previously known as
Mike takes his place at the lectern and snaps off the slide projector –
the former Yugoslavia is just that. Through the after-image of the
Balkans swim these fishy words, last heard in the South China Sea
of the Britannia’s bar: Okay, okay … don’t worry, I’m not trying to
muscle in – I’m just a weekend warrior, a gung-ho stab who’d
like the honour of buying the real McCoy a wet … By his kit and
clobber Gawain would’ve eyedeed him as ex-public school – and
quite possibly Oxbridge – but then there’s the odd colourlessness of
his accent – which was surely … Northern, I’m falling … Falling, as
undigested chunks of roast lamb rise up his oesophagus – falling …
no! Plunging into … the abyss: What’s he doing here? It can’t be a
coincidence – and who the fuck is he anyway? A friend? A friend
of a friend of friends? He’s certain bloody friendly … The situation
is fluid, as you’re all well aware – Colonel Blake tells me you’ll be
based at Vitez, but, with the AitchVeeOh and the Serbs now in
cahoots, it may no longer be possible for the Bosnians to hang on to
the Maglaj finger – which really, since the combined forces launched
their attack in July, hasn’t properly been a finger of territory at all,
only a finger of … fudge, which isn’t enough. – The junior officers
in the front rows chortle obligingly – not that the man calling
himself Jonathan is ingratiating, his is an unforced charm … people
say yes before they know what they’ve been asked to do. Listen, he
continues, we’re obviously not asking you to do our work for us –
that’d be in direct contravention of your peace-keeping status. But
in a three-cornered ruck like this … well, all sorts of interesting
stuff comes out of the woodwork … But why the fuck, Gawain
silently interrogates him, why the fuck have you come out of
the woodwork? He thinks back to that summer morning in Manchester
– consciousness dribbling into his gritty head along with
the cold water piddling from the duff shower rose. Tizer and
Shabba must’ve hauled him bodily from the bed, where he’d been
crumpled in his soiled clothes, and dumped him in the bath. As
Gawain spluttered into life … a cold start – too much choke, he’d
heard Tizer reading aloud in the next room: Hope you enjoyed
yourself, Greeny – and don’t worry, what happens in Manc’ stays in
Manc’ … cheers, Mike … Then Tizer had been standing in the
doorway, looking down at him: What the fuck, Greeny … sounds
like you met up with that bloke again – the stab. Also sounds
like you got up to some serious monkey-business – got laid, didja?
Did I? Did I? Appalled, Gawain peers intently around the briefing
room, seeking out the faces of his Manchester companions.
Surprised? Yes, they are – obviously, but, apart from Lieutenant
Townshend, who’s sitting forward and staring hard at Mike’s
Jonathan mask, none of them appear that suspicious … – We suspect
there’re some players behind the obvious ones – but, given how
chaotic the situation is, it’s next to impossible for us to get intel’
in any of the usual ways. Now, I’m not claiming there’re Spetsnaz
commandos running around in the woods – but someone’s putting
the lead in Ratko’s pencil. They may be well on their way to becoming
a second-class power, but the Ruskies still regard this as within
their sphere of influence … Mike-and-the-Mechanics … Iron Mike
Tyson … George MIKEal … what’s his sphere of influence? As
he chats on – casual, laid-back – despatches keep on arriving at
Gawain’s aitchqueue, which are breathlessly delivered – they bring
indisputably accurate intel’ that must’ve been gathered by an eye in
the sky … How else to explain these satellite images that’re nonetheless
drugged me! Gawain on the dance floor of … a screamingly queenie
club, shirt off, chest wet – and, still more disturbing, Gawain, face
down in a patch of weeds, his buttocks naked and … raised. It’s
all as bad as bad can be – yet the utter badness of it is concentrated
into this explosive realisation which … shatters my mind: When
he thrust into me – I pushed back … – It’s a situation that may
indeed change as new players push into the Balkans – Captain?
Anselm’s been fiddling with the slide carousel, and now an image
wheels on to the screen as Anderson springs puppyish from his seat
to hit the lights. His ghostly face wood-grained, Mike/Jonathan continues:
This is just one of scores of crates the Dutch contingent
have intercepted during their deployment – you’ll observe that the
AyKays are of all sorts. Some old, some new. Some’re of Soviet
manufacture – others’ve been bodged up by metal-bashers in the
Kandahar souk. They’re crated and freighted by Macedonian and
Albanian gangs – but the consignments are paid for by the same
dissident Saudis who funded the Mujahideen in Afghanistan –
Captain? Another slide click-clacks into view, and he continues:
You can see here that the Kalashnikovs have been interspersed with
layers of these books. – The Rams see mauve-covered volumes,
strewn with golden tangles of Arabic script, and Second Lieutenant
“Shabba” Sharples calls out, Serve to Lead! – a reference the spook
effortlessly incorporates into: In a manner of speaking you’re right –
it is their manual of leadership, since the literal meaning of Islam
is submission – submission to the w
ill of God, or your SeeOh,
whoever’s closer to hand … I submitted to him, Gawain thinks,
does that mean he’s my god? … Anyway, we’re not entirely sure
which bothers us more – the guns or the godliness – but one thing’s
certain, with their adversaries in ‘Stan out of the way, these Saudi
fighters are looking for other Muslim populations to mobilise. This
is a serious matter, gentlemen – intelligence assessments can take
some time to analyse thoroughly, and this isn’t even necessarily
for Whitehall consumption, but at VeeBeeArr we’re getting all
sorts of credible intel’ which points to the same ugly conclusion:
Europe is going to be the new front line in their global holy war …
A global holy war, eh – this is enough to get every red-blooded warrior
in the room’s attention … and we all start fantasising. Gawain sees
illustrations from one of his old Ladybird books: in the first,
Richard, Cœur de Lion, cleaves an iron bar in two with the edge of
of his mighty broadsword – in the next Saladin bests him by slicing
a silk scarf into two shimmery and exact halves with his scimitar …
Half an hour later the briefing closes with predictably professional
questioning: Will there be a two-can rule? But by then Captain
Anselm and his personable friend are long gone … Spilling out
through the Admin Block’s swing doors, the junior officers spark up
and form a scrum round their match-winning flanker: Wotcher
reckon, Greeny – can’t be coincidence … Your spooky pal come to
look you up, hasn’t he … Yeah, Greeny – he’s got your bum under
surveillance … Time out! Round two, is it, Greenster? He stands,
head down and lowing pitifully in my secret barn … No Fighting
Ram, but a veal calf, kept in the dark for its entire life, then led
out to be slaughtered –. Aye, aye, lads, Lieutenant “Potso” Ponsonby
sings out, what’s this at ten o’clock? And they turn to see the
Chief, together with the EmmEyeSix man, rounding the corner of
the mess. The Chief’s face is a picture – albeit one executed by an
unofficial war artist: on its veiny canvas disgust and delight are
battling it out … Bit of a turn-up, Potso says as the odd couple
draws near, you, ah, turning up like this. The Chief grimaces: Ah,