his
horn with excitement. I clenched my teeth, clicked off my Colt’s safety and
waved back.
A surprisingly spruce Zil131 roared up
and threw a cloud of red dust in my face as it juddered to a halt in front of
me. I barely had time to clear my eyes before the driver, his passenger and
about fifteen militia all started pouring out of various exit points and
swarming around me in an excited scrum. I could tell at first glance they
weren’t regular military. The togs were Russian Army and Navy surplus, Spetsnaz
cast-offs that had been given to Oxfam when their new strip had come in circa
1978, so I figured someone local had their own little private army.
Some Johnny in a second-hand Admiral’s
uniform seemed to be in charge of these boys, judging from the surplus of stars
and paraphernalia across his shoulders, so I came to attention and gave him my
best Private Benjamin salute. This took the Admiral back a step or two but then
he broke into a broad toothy smile and rebounded a couple of fingers off his
eyebrows in response.
“You a soldier?” he asked when he’d
stopped grinning.
“Yes sir,” I confirmed, pandering to his
ego to save us wasting ammunition.
“And whose army are you in?” he asked.
“I’m currently between armies, sir,” I
told him.
“You are between armies?” he laughed. His
men looked at each other and shrugged before a tall ebony lad off to the left
translated for them and suddenly they were all doubling up theatrically as if
I’d just told the best Knock-Knock joke in the world.
The Admiral continued to cackle too, milking
it for all he was worth, while the ebony translator just stared at me with ice
in his eyes. He would be the first one I’d put down when the laughing stopped,
but the Admiral was enjoying himself way too much at the moment to let things
descend to that.
“So tell me,” he continued, his English
good, but African-taught, “how are you here? And what is that on your clothes?”
“It’s shit, sir,” I told him.
No translation necessary this time, the
boys all took to their sides once more.
“Shit?” the Admiral chortled. “And why
are you covered in shit?”
It was a good question. I just wished I
had a good answer. In the event I told him; “I’ve had a bad day, sir.”
This did the trick and it made him boom
like kiddies’ entertainer until his ebony C3PO reminded him that this wasn’t
the Comedy Store and business was pressing, calling time on the day’s
entertainment. The Admiral wound down to a thoughtful smirk, then asked me
where I was going.
“I don’t rightly know,” I told him then
played my Joker. “Perhaps you’re looking for soldiers at the moment, sir?”
“Looking for soldiers?” he blinked.
“To serve in your army, sir,” I
elaborated.
“To serve in my army?” he repeated,
giving me some insight into how he’d learn English in the first place.
“Yes sir. A very good soldier I am sir,”
I told him, saluting once more to demonstrate my pedigree. “I can help train
your men, sir.”
“Train my men? Train them to do what? Get
covered in shit?” he asked, not unreasonably under the circumstances.
“Yes sir, when necessary.”
“Ness-sess-sary? And when is it
ness-sess-sary to get covered in shit?” he grinned.
“When all else fails,” I told him. “Sir.”
The Admiral’s expression changed from
amusement to one of genuine bewilderment and he obviously came to the
conclusion that I was far too interesting to shoot for the moment because he
had a quick word with his number two then invited me to join them in the truck.
“Er, no. In the back, if you please,” he
clarified, when the man covered in shit started towards the passenger side
door.
Now, there was one of two ways this day
could unfold for me. Actually, there were dozens, but if we lumped most of them
under the umbrella of “nastily” then we were left with just two. But when
you’re in the company of a 23-year-old African Russian Naval
horn with excitement. I clenched my teeth, clicked off my Colt’s safety and
waved back.
A surprisingly spruce Zil131 roared up
and threw a cloud of red dust in my face as it juddered to a halt in front of
me. I barely had time to clear my eyes before the driver, his passenger and
about fifteen militia all started pouring out of various exit points and
swarming around me in an excited scrum. I could tell at first glance they
weren’t regular military. The togs were Russian Army and Navy surplus, Spetsnaz
cast-offs that had been given to Oxfam when their new strip had come in circa
1978, so I figured someone local had their own little private army.
Some Johnny in a second-hand Admiral’s
uniform seemed to be in charge of these boys, judging from the surplus of stars
and paraphernalia across his shoulders, so I came to attention and gave him my
best Private Benjamin salute. This took the Admiral back a step or two but then
he broke into a broad toothy smile and rebounded a couple of fingers off his
eyebrows in response.
“You a soldier?” he asked when he’d
stopped grinning.
“Yes sir,” I confirmed, pandering to his
ego to save us wasting ammunition.
“And whose army are you in?” he asked.
“I’m currently between armies, sir,” I
told him.
“You are between armies?” he laughed. His
men looked at each other and shrugged before a tall ebony lad off to the left
translated for them and suddenly they were all doubling up theatrically as if
I’d just told the best Knock-Knock joke in the world.
The Admiral continued to cackle too, milking
it for all he was worth, while the ebony translator just stared at me with ice
in his eyes. He would be the first one I’d put down when the laughing stopped,
but the Admiral was enjoying himself way too much at the moment to let things
descend to that.
“So tell me,” he continued, his English
good, but African-taught, “how are you here? And what is that on your clothes?”
“It’s shit, sir,” I told him.
No translation necessary this time, the
boys all took to their sides once more.
“Shit?” the Admiral chortled. “And why
are you covered in shit?”
It was a good question. I just wished I
had a good answer. In the event I told him; “I’ve had a bad day, sir.”
This did the trick and it made him boom
like kiddies’ entertainer until his ebony C3PO reminded him that this wasn’t
the Comedy Store and business was pressing, calling time on the day’s
entertainment. The Admiral wound down to a thoughtful smirk, then asked me
where I was going.
“I don’t rightly know,” I told him then
played my Joker. “Perhaps you’re looking for soldiers at the moment, sir?”
“Looking for soldiers?” he blinked.
“To serve in your army, sir,” I
elaborated.
“To serve in my army?” he repeated,
giving me some insight into how he’d learn English in the first place.
“Yes sir. A very good soldier I am sir,”
I told him, saluting once more to demonstrate my pedigree. “I can help train
your men, sir.”
“Train my men? Train them to do what? Get
covered in shit?” he asked, not unreasonably under the circumstances.
“Yes sir, when necessary.”
“Ness-sess-sary? And when is it
ness-sess-sary to get covered in shit?” he grinned.
“When all else fails,” I told him. “Sir.”
The Admiral’s expression changed from
amusement to one of genuine bewilderment and he obviously came to the
conclusion that I was far too interesting to shoot for the moment because he
had a quick word with his number two then invited me to join them in the truck.
“Er, no. In the back, if you please,” he
clarified, when the man covered in shit started towards the passenger side
door.
Now, there was one of two ways this day
could unfold for me. Actually, there were dozens, but if we lumped most of them
under the umbrella of “nastily” then we were left with just two. But when
you’re in the company of a 23-year-old African Russian Naval
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