Chieftains

'Yes, sir.' Inkester decided to think of something else; something pleasant. What was the name of that bird he had met in Bergen, in Angie's Bar? Irma The same as the one in the film…the musical…bloody bore that was…Had her didn't I, the night we were celebrating Weeksie's promotion; she wanted a Length Irma did, and she got it in the back of Weeksie's Volks! Wonder what happened to that? It wasn't a bad jam-jar. Nicked by now, or bloody full of shrapnel holes. Gone the same fucking way as my stereo, and all the tapes…and my civvy gear. Wonder if they'll pay us compensation; bloody should, we didn't start the fucking war.

God, Davis certainly came up fighting to defend Spink. Fancy him threatening me like that. Flaming charge. Bloody hell, for a moment he sounded just like my old man. Christ, Saturday nights in Scotland Road…beer and a punch up the throat, or a boot in the side of your bloody head. A bloody boot…God, it was a boot that got me here now.

'This is the second time you have been brought before this court, Inkester.' Bloody pompous old sod; just a butcher in a backstreet round the corner from Lime Street Station. Who the hell does he think he is? 'There's no reason why we should be expected to tolerate this disgraceful hooliganism. If you were a year older, I would have no hesitation in sentencing you to six months in jail. A few years ago, I would have ordered the birch. I am recommending a period in an approved school which I hope will bring you to your senses…'

It was his fault, thought Inkester. The magistrate's bloody fault he was out here now. Bloody old shit. No it wasn't, he decided suddenly, it was his own. He'd been a bit of a tearaway and he had been caught It was fair enough.

'Sorry Inkester, we can't take you at the moment. The army's not that easy. Prove yourself first. You hold a job down for two years, and re-apply. If you've got a good reference, then be can use you.'

Two years. It had seemed a long time. 'You'll never hold a job down two years, you little bagger.' His father sometimes worked in the markets, but was more often on the dole.

Where the hell did you look for a job that would last two years? 'Struth, it was on the way to a pension. Two years…and if he so much as batted an eyelid at the boss and got sacked, the two years would have to begin again. Bloody hell!

'You may as well piss up a wall, kid!' His brother was a year younger and still at school. 'What the hell do you want to join the army for? Someone must have hit you on the 'ead!'

'It's good; you can learn a trade. There's opportunity.' He had seen a recruiting film and sent off for all the pamphlets, before visiting the recruiting office. Even the sergeant who had turned him down had made it sound worthwhile.

'Opportunity! Look at our old man…a toolmaker until he gets called up for his National Service, then he's a batman and half the time in the glasshouse…hasn't bloody worked since. Army fucking ruined him. You've heard Mam go on about it.'

'Yeah…it's a load of cobblers. He doesn't work 'us he's too bloody idle.' Where the hell was he going to find steady employment; there weren't a lot of jobs around Liverpool. He tried a dozen different places before Woolworths. What if he were absolutely honest about his reason for applying for work there? He tried it!

The manager was sympathetic: 'Two years, Inkester? Normally, we prefer to train staff who intend to stay with us longer…young men like to go on to managerial posts. We can afford to be selective; there is a lot of responsibility in a company like this. What sort of work would you be prepared to do?'

'Anything, sir. Anything at all.' The man hadn't said no; it was the closest he had got yet to a job.

'In the warehouse? It's tiring and I doubt if I could promise any kind of promotion.'

'Would it last two years, sir?'

The man had smiled at his anxiety. 'It'll see you into the army young man, if you work hard…'

Two years in Woolies. Afterwards, when he had been accepted, it had felt like extra time on a sentence, but it hadn't really been like that. The two years had gone quickly. They had even held a small party for him the day he had left; turned out to be a good lot of blokes, and girls. It wasn't bad. Dickenson the manager had seen him right…first man who ever did. Not bad for a Wallasey poofter!

Catterick! Jesus Christ, the first weeks of training…the first two. He had cried at night, like a bloody baby.

'What the hell do you lot think you are? You terrify me…all of you! How am I expected to make soldiers out of you? Trooper! What the hell are you grinning at?' A face three inches from his own' Pull your chin in, Wacker…square your shoulders, you ignorant bloody maggot.'

'You with the big ears…weasel head…yes, you, Trooper. Swing your arms smartly down to your side, don't let 'em drift in the bleeding wind like a fairy…and don't bloody 'sir' me…I'm a corporal…what d'you call me, Trooper?'

'Corporal…'