And on Your Left... [Ben]

[Jack Johns]

Jack was feeling the tiredness that creeps into a body after a long day of journeying. It’s a weird thing that the body will become worn out from simply sitting on a plane or in an automobile for hours on end, it’s not doing anything but must know it has travelled many miles and feels it has an obligation to be tired. Jack was at the tail end of one such journey, an early morning flight out of RAF Fairford at midnight, to a French airfield early this morning and from there onto an airfield in North Africa. Him and the other replacements on the plane were loaded into a couple of boiling hot trucks and were now driving through the desert. The heat was beating into the truck and the hard seat bumped regularly as the wheel moved over the uneven desert floor, moving his rifle Jack looked up at the trucks occupants. He didn’t know any of them and they seemed like a dry bunch, he had started to spark up conversations with several of them at several different parts of the journey but had been unsuccessful; none of them seemed in the mood to talk. But then again most were travelling to a hostile zone for the first time in their lives, and Jack remembered what that was like, these men couldn’t be blamed, for being anxious.

Jack thought back to the boat he had been on many months ago, on his way to France to fight the Germans, at that time the Germans were only just rushing into France, The British Army was just a small professional force of 9 divisions and Jack was in combat for his first time as Sergeant. He remembered the fierce fighting against overwhelming odds in France, and finally receiving the order to retreat, he remembered witnessing the huge evacuation on the beaches of Dunkirk and the shelling that the boat he was loading onto received; giving him burns and cuts all up the his left arm and leg and breaking more than a few bones. The 6 months he had spent in hospital had seen the British Army change considerably. Huge numbers of people had signed up to fight the Germans and were given only the most basic of training compared to the training given to soldiers before the war, fighting started in Northern Africa and Germany and its allies controlled all of mainland Europe. Having been treated in hospital Jack had discovered that he was being reassigned to the 7th Armoured Division, or ‘The Desert Rats’ and they were becoming known; the division leading the fighting in Africa and by all accounts, doing a very good job.

Jack was still daydreaming as they truck eased to a stop; he came back to his senses and heard the driver conversing with someone, discussing where to go to drop Jack and the other replacements. Or at least that’s what Jack thought. Then the talking stopped, but the truck continued to be still, then a voice came from the back of the truck, “Sergeant Jack Johns, you in their son?” “Yeah, just here” “Out ya get son, you seen action before that right?” “Yes, in France…and Palestine” he added as an afterthought, he was already standing up and passing his bag to the back of the truck. He turned, grabbed his rifle and squeezed past the occupants himself; jumping from the back of the convoy truck and feeling his boots warm significantly as they hit the warm desert floor. Jack noticed the badges of a Captain on the shoulders of the man addressing him, something he couldn’t see from inside the truck. “Sir” he barked, legs coming together and armed snapping to his forehead. “Save it” replied the Captain leaning past Jack and banging on the back of the truck with his hand. The truck started to move away, kicking up sand as it went. “Right, seen as you know the ins and outs of being on a base you don’t need to go to orientations with those recruits, you can go straight on to the grand tour. Wait by that door, someone will be along shortly” the captain looked Jack up and down one more time before walking off down the tire-beaten track that ran through the base, probably off to sign some paper work before getting pissed up in the officers mess. ‘Ol’ Chap.’ Jack picked up his Bergen, lifted it to his back and shouldered his weapon with its strap, moving toward the door he had been instructed to wait by, waiting for whoever it was he was waiting for.

[Leon Farchester]

The sergeant strolled around one of the airfield's hangars, used for a field hospital unlike the other ones that had actual planes. The hustle of the medics were admirable, as was their ability to heal a severe wound. Very important to the morale of troops, they were regarded as angels on the battlefield and a good person to have as a friend. Head of the medical battalion, Walter Lawston, came walking up to the Sarge who was having a nice little smoke outside. The wind kicked up the sands a bit, stinging your skin when a big batch of it came by. Hearing the footsteps, Leon turned around with nothing but a curious stare.

"Wha'cha need sir?" asked Leon with more curiosity than a cat. The red cross displayed on the helmet, Walter took off his cap as he stepped into the African sun, not wanting to overheat. Squinting his eyes, Walter motioned his lips, "The Captain got some recruits coming in from London then landing in France before making their way over here. The orders are to go greet them and give'em a tour."

Of course, Leon had no problems with giving tour in the middle of the hottest sun on the planet, but it wasn't like he was too fond of recruits. They all thought they were badasses or some other similar ego trip, which Leon wasn't gonna deal with at all. The cigarette in his hand before accumulate ash, as he tapped the end of it with his thumb before taking a deep breath. Smoke filling his lungs and permeating through his body, Leon let out a train of smoke rings in amusement. Taking one more breath and looking back at Walter, pillars of smoke looming out of his nose.

"What, they too scared to explore themselves?" chuckled Leon with his teeth showing and an honest laugh booming out of his throat. The medic followed suit before continuing, "I know its a useless assignment but just do it so the boss isn't gonna complain," hands on his hips as Walton straightened up his back to look taller. Dropping the cigarette before stomping on it, twisting his foot left and right to make the fire was extinguished, another look was shot at the medic. "Any of them got combat experience or has gone through the process before?" asked Leon with a simple question. Rubbing his nose, Walton replied, "Only one of them. Don't know his name though, but I heard hes waiting by the Captains tent or something."

"Fuck the rest of the recruits, I'm gonna give this man the grand tour, haha!" a hearty laugh released itself from the black mans lips, Leon started walking away from hangar as the heat pounded on his body. The jeeps weren't too far away, taking only about five minutes. Putting in the keys, turning the jeep on, Leon kicked up a storm of sand and dust as he drove towards his desired location. Quick glances left and right to see what happening in the base, but didn't stop for anything.

Looking like a silhouette from only a few yards away, it was because of Leon's dark skin tone. Driving up to the captains tent as it was in view, the sight of the Sergeant wasn't anything too spectacular. Slowing down the vehicle, Leon looked at the white man with keen observation for about a whole 30 seconds, just complete silence. "Who the hell is you?" asked Leon in a calm tone with a chuckle following afterwards, lighting himself up another cigarette before blowing more smoke rings.

[Jack Johns]

Jack coughed as another truck drove past, kicking up dust and emitting smoke as it went. Jack looked around, nobody seemed to be heading in his specific direction, everyone just seemed to be going about their business; the usual stuff that happened on base. He wouldn’t be surprised if he saw a platoon or two run past shortly, in typical army white top and shorts PE gear. Seen as it looked like he had some time to himself he decided to spark up, lifting his case from his pocket, removing the cigarette, lifting it to his lips and lighting it in quick, fluid, well practiced motions. He hadn’t had a fag since France and it felt good to get some nicotine back into his body, taking a second drag he looked around the base in more detail.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, tents surrounding some accommodation blocks that had sandbags around the windows and doors, and AA weaponry fixed on top. In the distance he could see several hangers, looking to be about 4-5 minute walk away, beyond that he couldn’t see any buildings so assumed that there were runways on the other side of the hangers. Trucks and jeeps were littered everywhere and although Jack hadn’t seen any yet, he could tell there would be armour going around somewhere, due to the tracks that dug about 2 inches further down and where about a meter wider than those left by the trucks on the sand. The only real difference between this place and the base he had been at in France seemed to be the weather, the weather in France had been nice, it didn’t often rain and the sun was a welcome change to the Scottish weather Jack knew, but this was something else; like another planet.

At a guess Jack thought it must be about 40 degrees and it wasn’t even midday yet, just stood in his issue overalls and helmet he was sweating like he was on a 10 mile tab, although he guessed it was something you acclimatised to over time. Finishing his cig he threw the butt to the ground, and considered for a moment before lighting up a second, Jack didn’t consider himself a chain smoker but decided he could forgive himself after a 10 hour journey; at this rate he would need the nicotine just to keep him awake. Another jeep was making its way up the road and Jack turned his head and upper body away to shield his face form the blast of hot sand and fumes that wafted his way, only turning back a few second after the jeep had passed. As the dust settled he saw a PT instructor, or rather heard him, come round a tent up the road to his right. PT instructors were not of the timid variety and did all they could to motivate you or tell you how shit you were doing in the loudest voice possible. Back in England they used to joke that the PT instructors were nice as long as they were getting some off of the girlfriend or wife, it was not uncommon to hear someone saying ‘He must be having a barney with the misses” after a particularly hard training session. Always making sure they were out of earshot first.

But those days where a long way behind Jack now, back when he was a recruit, many years ago. That’s what the boys led by this instructor must have been, green as the grass back in England. They probably only signed their name on the dotted line a few weeks ago and here they were in another continent being ran around the desert by a man that, by the looks of it, hadn’t even seen his girlfriend in a good few months. Poor guys, but it was a necessity, they would still have a good few weeks of training left before they were posted, but not very long; and they certainly wouldn’t have as long to train as Jack had back in pre-war Britain. But in war you take casualties and you can’t take 6 months training up the perfect soldier, these boys would be lucky to get 6 weeks of training before setting off for wherever the fighting was at the moment.

Jack watched them run past and, not halfway through his fag he heard another vehicle coming from the left. Turning his head and body once again he listened to the engine, waiting for the waft of diesel smoke and heat to hit him, but was instead greeted with the sound of breaks and tires crackling to a halt on the sand. Looking up Jack was surprised to see a negro, sat in the driver’s seats and looking at him, Jack didn’t have a problem with blacks. But being raised in Scotland he never saw one until he travelled to England for his training all those years ago, he was surprised by the racism English people often came out with at first. But had grown accustomed to it by now, even black people just seemed to take it liked they deserved it, the only black people Jack had ever met were in the army and if they had the balls to sign up and could hold their gun straight then they were fine by him. The man looked at Jack for a while, seemingly sizing him up. Jack took the moment to scrutinize the man before him, looking from the stick of nicotine in his hand to the stripes on his arm denoting Sergeant rank, the same as Jack.

“Who the hell is you?” said the man after an extended silence. Without looking at him you could have told he was black, from the sound of his voice and the way he spoke. Jack smiled inwardly, with this man’s accent and his own strong Scottish accent they should make a nice pairing. “Jack. Jack Johns, nd yee? What da yee answere too mate?” Jack said as he was lifting his bag into the back of the jeep following this by chucking his rifle and helmet down on top. “Guessing your me ride then eh?” Jack said looking at the man with a smile before lifting himself up and into the jeeps passenger seat.