March 2009 – Training Camp

Tom was walking back to his room to get a spot of ironing done, before the afternoon drill. Well he was sort of marching really. He’d started to get into the habit of it. Bit of practice never went amiss.

The latrine block was at the end of the building. As he passed, he heard raised voices and shouting. During his forced years of attendance at secondary school, he’d walked by these incidents a thousand times. But at the camp, he’d gained a bit more confidence. And he felt a bit more involved in what was going on. So, executing a smart right turn, Tom ducked into the entrance and went in search of the commotion.

Three lads were stood in a line, outside a cubicle door. Two were leaning either side of the opening, and one blocking the exit. Over their heads, Tom could see a chubby face, framed by close-cropped red hair. The boy in the middle of the three was talking. Well snarling really, in a broad scouse accent.

“Yer fat ginger twat, what are you doing in our fucking army?”

The bigger trainee was pressed back into the rear wall, legs astride the toilet. He looked anxious, but not exactly scared.

“Well we don’t want you here, see. And we’re going to make your fucking life a fucking misery until you fuck off. Understand?”

Suddenly the boy on the left caught sight of Tom, and tapped the snarler on the shoulder. He wheeled round sharply.

“What the fuck do you want? Piss off! You’re not needed here.”

At any point in his life until now, Tom would have done as he was asked. And he would have pissed off. But something stirred within him. So instead, he took a step forwards. The three bullies changed their focus and surrounded him.

“Well I guess you’re life’s gonna become a fucking misery too.”

Tom just shrugged. There was a bit of a stand off, but he could sense there was an attack coming. He stood arms at his side, outwardly calm. The ginger lad had emerged from the stall and came to stand by him. Now he could see him properly, Tom realised he was a big guy. Maybe six three. There was a tense silence. Then a single snapped word, spat with as much venom as could be mustered.

“Right….”

Tom took a deep breath. It looked like action was going to be needed here, as well as words. Still he thought, it was two against three. The odds weren’t that bad, if the other kid could handle himself. He needn’t have worried.

As the scouser moved forward with an aggressive thrust, the other boy reacted with speed that belied his size. Stepping to meet his assailant, he plonked one of his size thirteen feet on the trainer moving towards him. Then, in a blur of red hair, he brought his forehead down and crunched it into his attacker’s nose.

The scouser crumpled to the floor. Moaning in low grunts, with his right hand clasped to his broken face. The other two Liverpudlians exchanged quick glances, turned, and made a swift exit. The big youth stepped over the prone body and smiled at Tom.

“Thanks for your help.”

Tom laughed.

“What help? Don’t think you needed any!”

The other boy grinned back at him.

“Maybe not. But it was a nice offer. I’m Ian, from Blackpool, people call me Biscuit.”

“Tom, from Barrow”

The two boys left the bathroom as friends.