April 15th 2010 – Catterick – Awaiting Deployment

The lad from Liverpool was a quick worker. It turned out the drunk blonde from the Blackpool club had a tough home life. She’d been in care until she had turned sixteen. The two years since, had been spent in a series of gritty hostels and grotty bed sits. When she had sobered up by Christmas Eve, Stevie’s number had been discovered in her bag. The previous evening was just a haze, but the girl vaguely remembered his act of kindness.

After a brief phone call, she’d packed a bag and got a train to Lime Street. Stevie had been there to meet her and take her straight back to his mam’s. They’d been inseparable for the entire holidays. Stevie had never met anyone like her. She was beautiful, but tough and funny. She fitted straight in with his mates. He’d always been a bit of a nutter, but he had a crazy traditional streak. Must have been his Irish roots. Anyway, before he left for the return trip to the training camp, he had asked the blonde to marry him. And she had said yes.

The Army had moved with unusual speed and allocated them a small house in the married quarters. And it was in here, that Tom’s squad had gathered for a few last beers before the deployment to Afghanistan.

The evening had started with everyone in good humour. But as the clock ticked towards midnight, the black bin bag in the corner filled with empty cans of lager. The beer had filled up the squaddies and the conversation had turned more serious. Stevie had the floor.

“Look, it’s like back home. People will ask yer if you’re a blue nose or a red nose. Everton or Liverpool see? Everyone’s one or the other. And when you’re a kid at school, yer afta stand up for your own side. If anyone slags them off, yer afta fight. Doesn’t matter what they’ve said, or if they’re in the right.”

Biscuit was prone on the floor. He was struggling to get young Stevie’s point. He attempted to dig down into what he was on about. His broad Lancashire accent was in comical contrast to Stevie’s scouse.

“Fair enough Stevie. But what the fuck’s that got to do with what we’re going to fight for over there?”

“Well, look at the papers. And what’s on the Telly. They’re full of shit about when are the troops coming home? What are we doing there?”

Biscuit still couldn’t see where he was going.

“What’s that got to do with which football team you support?”

Stevie shook his head with frustration. Trying to clear away some of the effects of alcohol, so that he could make a clearer argument.

“Because we shouldn’t take any notice of why we’re fighting. Or who we’re fighting. All that matters is it’s us against them. Our side against theirs. Fuck what the papers or the Telly says. We just fight for each other. No matter what happens.”

The young lad from Liverpool stopped abruptly. The room was silenced. The others wouldn’t have believed he could have spoken with such passion. He’d probably surprised himself. But his usual personality resurfaced. He prodded Biscuit with his outstretched foot.

“Don’t be so miserable yer ginger get. Gi’ us another can.”