the call up

Harry’s call up papers came through. He had been dreading them, but when they arrived he felt calmer, but had to put on his trifocals glasses to check dates and times. Aldershot Barracks in a week’s time. That would give him leeway to put his affairs in order. The worst part was the dog, a smelly mongrel that he called Jackie boy, more a mature canine gent that had lost most of its teeth, its back legs arthritic and shot, and matted fur that had merged with the rug beside the fireside chair, so it was difficult to tell with moulting wiry hair, where the rug started and the dog finished. Farting and sighing like a human, and a tail which wagged which, admittedly, wasn’t very often, were their usual means of communicating.

The vet, a stout man, Mr McLeish, up the top of the hill was good about it. Jackie boy seemed to know his time had come and his old eyes glittered through the glaze of cataracts when he was on the stainless steel table with an envelope of lime-green paper to prevent staining and infections, and the mongrel raising its head, looking up at Harry, and let out a farewell howl. It was for the best, Harry told himself and Mr McLeish told him the same thing, but charged him almost £2000, and wanted paid in cash. So it really seemed the best for man wearing the white coat, rather than the dog, or its tearful owner. The downstairs house seemed flat as a brown paper bag without Jackie boy. Harry felt glad when the week was up and he locked the front door and headed down to the station to get a connection to Aldershot. In his younger days he’d have drove, but was no longer up to it.

Sergeant Brown who manned the gate at the barracks dressed in combat fatigues sat in a wheelchair armed with nothing more deadly than an electronic pad listing all those scheduled to join up with D-division. He was bit deaf, but still had enough gumption to have a smile at hand for the new recruits. ‘Hallo,’ he said.  Make them feel special, even though they weren’t, was his and D-division’s motto.  For most of his working life he’d worked as the night manager in the Savoy Hotel. Checking in the new recruits was a more gentile affair. Harry Gardner was a promising recruit. He’d just turned eighty-years old and had most of his faculties, and even walked up the driveway, which was almost four hundred yards from the main road, stooped like the letter C, but, nevertheless, wheeling his own suitcase.

‘Reporting for duty, sir!’ Harry wore his best pin-stripe suit and matching grey coat that hung a bit loose. He straightened up as best he could and saluted the man in the uniform, but he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do, or not. His hand tightened on the handle of his suitcase, ready to bowl it forward and really needing to sit down somewhere. He yawned, covering his mouth and discoloured teeth. ‘Where do I go to and what do I do and who are we are war with now?’ Sighing, he squeezed out a fart, waiting a second to evaluate whether there’d been some collateral damage.

‘We’re at war with the gooks, young man.’

‘The gooks?’

‘Absolutely, the gooks. A new directive from the war office to stimulate war fever.’

‘Oh, I was wondering where the toilets were? I’m not sure I can hold out much longer.’ 

‘I’ll get on the blower and get a trolley to take you to the medical facility.’ Sergeant Brown was all business, picking up the phone, and dialling for transport. The wet bloom in the new recruit’s trousers meant that the seat on the trolley would need to have a plastic cover on it. But he looked fit enough to sit up, rather than be transported lying down as so many others were. The medical facility took up most of the barracks.

Two weeks before the Christmas holidays, Harry had his passing out parade and had accrued enough leave to go home. He travelled on the train to Glasgow with a younger recruit, seventy-five year old, Danny Thompson. Apart from two hip replacements Danny was everything the army needed in a new recruit. He was almost mobile and wobbled as he went to work every day killing gooks, but was never late and never asked daft questions. It was all algorithms and drones and being bored to tears. The human element was a legal requirement added to the Geneva Convention. Pattern-recognition software showed youngsters were more prone to be gung-ho and prone to interfere with the software. The older the recruit the less likely this was to happen. Less likely to do anything rash, or do anything much.

When they had settled on the train, Danny spoke first in the guarded way they’d grown into in the past month. ‘Aye, Harry, we meet ourselves in some strange places. And it’s not that we necessarily want people to die. We’re not that stupid.’

‘It’s either that or forced repatriation for those poor souls, which is the same thing, but starvation takes a bit longer’ said Harry, he had the window seat. With their uniform on, even though the train was busy, nobody else opted to share their carriage, with youngest passengers standing in the corridors, glaring at them.

’12 to 15 million on the move, it’s either them or us.’

‘Eastern Europe. Germany, France, Spain, Portugal; all the borders closed. European civilisation. European culture. Not worth a fuck. Let’s call a spade a spade. They’re expendable and when this is finished – so are we.’

‘The truth shall set you free,’ said Harry. ‘Us older folk have had our day. They hate us.’ He nodded towards those standing in the corridors. ‘Blame us for this mess. And rightly so. The strange thing is we’re safer in camp.’  

‘Aye, you’re right there, but at least the uniform offers some protection. Otherwise it’s open season. Nobody cares about a few poor old men beat to death. Their houses ransacked. I was wondering if we could get a nice cup of tea, or if the trolley’s been?’