Immediate Action Read Online Free Page A

army finals, and I won the welterweight title. As far as I was concerned, my future was sealed: I'd go to 1RGJ, the boxing battalion, be a boxer for three years, then get out. What was even better, 1RGJ were off to Hong Kong.
        A lot of the other blokes resented us sports people.
        Maybe it was the color of the tracksuit, or maybe it was because we were allowed straight to the front of the dinner queue as a privilege.
        The boxing team swaggered in one lunchtime, went to the head of the queue, and started slagging off the other blokes.
        "You think you're fucking it, don't you?" said one of the Glasgow boys.
        I answered with a smirk and walked on to the front and waited for the doors to be opened.
        A Glaswegian mouth came very close to my ear and said, "What's the difference between your leg and maroon tracksuits?"
        Ishrugged.
        "None," he said, "they're both full of pricks," and with a massive grunt he rammed his fork straight into my thigh.
        I staggered back a pace and looked down. The fork was embedded in my leg right up t'o the ends of the prongs. I grabbed hold of it and pulled gently, but my leg muscle had gone into rigid spasm, and I couldn't get the thing out. I wrenched as hard as I could and pulled it free. The prongs were red with blood as I did an aboutturn an. d marched from the canteen. There was no way I was going to say anything.
        It wasn't until I got around the corner that I covered my mouth with my hand and screamed.
        Boxing finished. I went back to the platoon, still with at least six months to do with the same intake. I was way behind. I'd done the weapon training, but I hadn't had time to consolidate it. I was really brought down-to-earth; they knew a lot more than I did. But I worked hard at it and even got a promotion. For the last three months we were given ranks, from junior lance corporal to junior RSM. It meant jack shit really.
        On Friday mornings we had the colonel's cross-country over a six-mile course in and around the camp. The whole battalion had to race. If you came behind the colonel, you had to do it again on Sunday, whether you were staff or a junior soldier After that, we'd go to a training area to practice being wet, cold, and hungry. I enjoyed it; at least we were away from the camp. I got better and better at it, and it made me feel good.
        There was a ritual. The provo sergeant would come out of the guardroom and greet everyone back. It was the first time we had been given any respect. We would be staggering back as a platoon, with our silly tin hats on, kit hanging off us, stinking, our faces covered in cam cream, and he would come out and give praise.
        "Well done! Keep it going!" he'd boom.
        It gave me a sense of pride that I'd never felt before, especially as he spent the rest of his time bollocking us.
        Then came the weapon cleaning, which took until the end of Saturday or Sunday morning. Then the weekend!
        We couldn't go home, and we were allowed out only until ten o'clock-and only to the local town. To the lads in Folkestone we were a nuisance because we had money. You could show a girl a really good time on three quid a week. I met a girl called Christine at the Folkestone Rotunda, and we started to see each other as often as we could.
        I really started to enjoy it all. I'd finally got to grips with the system of "bullshit baffles brains": just do what they say, even if you know it's a bag of shit, and it keeps everybody happy. And the more I enjoyed it, the more I didn't mind working at it, and the better I got.
        The exercises started to get more and more intense.
        We'd be out one or two nights a week, culminating in a two-week battle camp where all the different phases of war were practiced, with live firing attacks. Now, at last, I started to understand what I was doing.
        Before, I had just dug a hole and sat in it.