took over the troop. He was content just to be addressed as the informal ‘boss’, where Tom was never anything other than ‘Mr Chamberlain’ or ‘sir’.
Tom’s phone buzzed. He was delighted to see a text from Will.
‘Guess who’s back in town?! Got back to Brize a couple of days ago, now very much in the smoke, keen for a session tonight. Nuclear alcoholocaust. Keen? House party Wandsworth Bridge Road 9ish. Come along! Babes coming too. Get involved. Callsign Weakdrinker!’
Tom tapped back, ‘Oi oi matey, the wanderer returns! Defo bevvies tonight; we’re doing a captains and subalterns’ session in Ken High St so I’m fixed there until 2200.’
Will replied in an instant: ‘Ace fella; buzz me then and we’ll meet up.’ Another text then followed from him, this one suddenly less happy. ‘Thanks for this, mate … really need to speak to someone about it all. So weird to be back. Am properly darked out by this city for some reason.’
Tom frowned, put his phone back in his pocket and went to sleep.
Back in the mess they met the A and B Squadron subalterns, who had been back for hours and were champing to get into town. The de facto kingpin among the young officers, rakish, beanpole-thin Operations Officer Jules ‘The Menace’ Dennis, shouted at them, ‘Come on, slackers; minibus leaves half an hour ago; get upstairs, get your poof juice on, and let’s offski, schnell machen. Go!’
They needed no further encouragement, and soon they were on their way, twelve of them crammed into a minibus, chanting songs as they whizzed up the A3 into London, swigging cold lagers and laughing and singing.
They gathered in their usual pub, just off Kensington High Street. They arrived at eight, dived straight into pints of beer, and by nine they were tackling shots of vodka and tequila. Half an hour later three of them had already been kicked out, another two were about to be, and Jules Dennis was lying beneath the bar as Clive poured a bottle of sambuca with unerring aim into his mouth. Tom, who had tried with only partial success to keep a grasp on his senses, decided to make his escape by pretending to go to the loo and then slipping out a back door. As he left a hand grabbed his collar. It was Jules.
‘Where you going?’
‘Just for a piss.’
‘Bollocks. You’re pulling Op Cat Flap , aren’t you?’
It was no use lying. ‘Um, yes. I’ve got a mucker from my platoon at Sandhurst who’s back on R & R tonight, and I need to see him.’
Jules’ tone changed. ‘Why didn’t you say? Of course you’ve got to see him. Before you go though, I just want to say one thing.’
Here it comes
, Tom thought. Jules, who had already done two tours, one of Iraq and one of Afghanistan, both of which had seen heavy fighting, and who now as operations officer was the commanding officer’s right-hand man for the tour, was famous in the mess for telling new officers exactly what he thought of them.
‘Before I get too pissed, although to be honest I think I passed that mark some time ago, I just want to say that you’re doing an awesome job.’
‘Thanks, Jules. Er … that’s very kind of you.’
‘Shut up, crow. It’s not about being kind; it’s about being truthful.’ He dragged Tom closer and continued, conspiratorially, ‘Trueman was in my troop in Iraq. He tells me everything. And he likes you. Which is impressive because he’s one of the hardest NCOs to win over in the whole regiment. He says he’s never met someone who cares more for the lads. Good job. Keep it up, Tom.’
They were interrupted as a group of men swarmed past them on their way into the pub and they had to step back. Jules muttered under his breath, ‘Tossers.’
The two at the rear of the phalanx stopped, surprised and aggressive.
‘What’s that, mate?’ one said, burly and wearing a Harlequins rugby shirt.
Jules took a long drag on his cigarette and said, with innocence writ across his face, ‘Nothing, pal. Nothing.
Tom’s phone buzzed. He was delighted to see a text from Will.
‘Guess who’s back in town?! Got back to Brize a couple of days ago, now very much in the smoke, keen for a session tonight. Nuclear alcoholocaust. Keen? House party Wandsworth Bridge Road 9ish. Come along! Babes coming too. Get involved. Callsign Weakdrinker!’
Tom tapped back, ‘Oi oi matey, the wanderer returns! Defo bevvies tonight; we’re doing a captains and subalterns’ session in Ken High St so I’m fixed there until 2200.’
Will replied in an instant: ‘Ace fella; buzz me then and we’ll meet up.’ Another text then followed from him, this one suddenly less happy. ‘Thanks for this, mate … really need to speak to someone about it all. So weird to be back. Am properly darked out by this city for some reason.’
Tom frowned, put his phone back in his pocket and went to sleep.
Back in the mess they met the A and B Squadron subalterns, who had been back for hours and were champing to get into town. The de facto kingpin among the young officers, rakish, beanpole-thin Operations Officer Jules ‘The Menace’ Dennis, shouted at them, ‘Come on, slackers; minibus leaves half an hour ago; get upstairs, get your poof juice on, and let’s offski, schnell machen. Go!’
They needed no further encouragement, and soon they were on their way, twelve of them crammed into a minibus, chanting songs as they whizzed up the A3 into London, swigging cold lagers and laughing and singing.
They gathered in their usual pub, just off Kensington High Street. They arrived at eight, dived straight into pints of beer, and by nine they were tackling shots of vodka and tequila. Half an hour later three of them had already been kicked out, another two were about to be, and Jules Dennis was lying beneath the bar as Clive poured a bottle of sambuca with unerring aim into his mouth. Tom, who had tried with only partial success to keep a grasp on his senses, decided to make his escape by pretending to go to the loo and then slipping out a back door. As he left a hand grabbed his collar. It was Jules.
‘Where you going?’
‘Just for a piss.’
‘Bollocks. You’re pulling Op Cat Flap , aren’t you?’
It was no use lying. ‘Um, yes. I’ve got a mucker from my platoon at Sandhurst who’s back on R & R tonight, and I need to see him.’
Jules’ tone changed. ‘Why didn’t you say? Of course you’ve got to see him. Before you go though, I just want to say one thing.’
Here it comes
, Tom thought. Jules, who had already done two tours, one of Iraq and one of Afghanistan, both of which had seen heavy fighting, and who now as operations officer was the commanding officer’s right-hand man for the tour, was famous in the mess for telling new officers exactly what he thought of them.
‘Before I get too pissed, although to be honest I think I passed that mark some time ago, I just want to say that you’re doing an awesome job.’
‘Thanks, Jules. Er … that’s very kind of you.’
‘Shut up, crow. It’s not about being kind; it’s about being truthful.’ He dragged Tom closer and continued, conspiratorially, ‘Trueman was in my troop in Iraq. He tells me everything. And he likes you. Which is impressive because he’s one of the hardest NCOs to win over in the whole regiment. He says he’s never met someone who cares more for the lads. Good job. Keep it up, Tom.’
They were interrupted as a group of men swarmed past them on their way into the pub and they had to step back. Jules muttered under his breath, ‘Tossers.’
The two at the rear of the phalanx stopped, surprised and aggressive.
‘What’s that, mate?’ one said, burly and wearing a Harlequins rugby shirt.
Jules took a long drag on his cigarette and said, with innocence writ across his face, ‘Nothing, pal. Nothing.
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