Gun

Did I check that? Is it on? Quietly now. Pull it out. Fingertips, sweaty. Thank God for the chequered grip. Anyone watching? Heavy on the wrist. Rotate clockwise, quick look. On. Thumb it anyway – just to check. I should do NSPs. Normal Safety Procedures. Always hear this kind of jargon in Goon Show Army Speak. Sellers slumming in the East End or dear old Spike using an accent closer to his own:

'Self Loading Pistol, 9MM Browning, Aircrew for the use of.'

Inventories: everything back to front.

'Curtains, cotton-fibre, pattern various. Airmen's Married Quarter Issue.'

Slip the gun back in the holster, canvas, webbing item # 004356.

It shouldn't even be loaded. I'm indoors. In a converted store-room that houses the base guard force. Everywhere's on the highest alert I can remember since the Provos blew up Mrs Tebbit. Hijacked planes have wreaked havoc on the US of A and we're armed up and waiting for Jihad to strike rural Lincolnshire. Plain-clothes RAF policemen are on watch in front of the Indian outside the camp-gates.

The guard force are the usual varied bunch, a bitter 40 year old corporal supplier, cocky 20-ish aircraft technicians of either sex. Oh - and we have a cook - so at least we never run out of tea and coffee. Cookie offers me a cup. Creep.

'Come on then, let's 'ave yer.' I even do it myself sometimes, see. I'm the only one who thinks it's ironic.

The next two for 3 hours on the main gate get up ve-ry slowly. I'm aircrew, not a real sergeant. There's no point telling them I've got 20 years in and half of those as an airman just as chippy as they are.

We go out to the butts. Waist height pits filled with sand.

'For inspection po-ort, harms!' Even I'm convinced. The aged Corporal and one of the techies hold their SA-80's chamber-up showing they haven't got one up the spout. No-one wants an ND, a "negligent discharge", least of all me.

'Clear 'ee springs.' They let the working parts go forward.

'With a magazine of 20 rounds, LOAD!' The corporal fumbles getting the magazine out of a pocket. The techy's was lying on the wooden lip of the sand-pit, ready.

Corporal Clott gets it on eventually.

I'll have to show my face at the main-gate later. It's supposed to keep up morale, but everyone thinks you're just checking up on them.

'See you in an hour,' I say. 'Be careful out there!' This gets a laugh from the techy, but not the corporal.

I perform an illegal unload of my weapon over the butts. I rush it, but get the magazine out safely. On final check, it turns out I've had one up the spout for 3 hours. I pick the round out of the sand and jam it in the magazine. I'll need one of those cups of tea now.