Of Rice And Men (No longer being updated)

Chapter 3

It was three years ago that a rejection set in motion my illustrious military career. I was twenty one, just out of university and supremely bored with nothing to do. Sitting alone in my lounge, I sipped at a cold, badly made instant coffee, and flicked through the channels, seeing all the shit on TV nowadays. Since finishing my degree in Computer Science, I had sat here most days, going out with my girlfriend only on the odd occasion..

My father was a sailor, in the Navy a while ago but now a fisherman, catching his income with his mates. My mother was a stay at home wife, although she wasn’t a typical 1950’s housewife. She went out and did things with her friends; she just didn’t have a job, at least not until more recently, when she began working as a secretary at one of the offices in the town near our home.

When I told them I wanted to be in the Marines, my dad was fine with it, happy that I wanted to do a job on the water and serve the country, as he had done before. Mum however, was a little less pleased. When I told her, she went mad and gave me an hour long lecture on how bad it would be for her, how she couldn’t cope with losing a son. I had to take her thoughts into consideration so, much to the distaste of my father; I went to University doing a degree in computers. Although not as good as fighting terrorists on the sea, I did have a strong love of computers and a knack for knowing what was wrong with them, and always knowing how to fix it. My dad had once joked that I should work in a call centre, giving better advice than the usual “Turn it off and back on again.”

Metal screeched as my letterbox’s un oiled hinges were pushed up, and the letters pushed through onto my welcome mat. I turned my head instantly at the noise and knew what it meant. The letter, the one that could get me into a job I knew I would love from the very moment I started thinking about it as an option, after my mum told me I couldn’t be a Marine. Catching terrorists by using computers? The only thing better would have been if it was on a boat.

My now ex-girlfriend, Julia, shuffled in and sorted through paper, dropping my letters onto the coffee table in front of me. My palms were sweating waterfalls as I anxiously waited, anticipating the letter that could change my life forever. Finally she dropped it, a small, unassuming letter addressed to me with a small emblem in the corner. My fingers tore into the paper like a rabid dog on meat, ripping and tearing strips until I reached the precious, pristine white paper.

Slowly, like a presenter giving away an Oscar, I unfolded the sheet and gazed at it, bewildered at the small amount of words printed on it. I read it aloud to myself.

“We are sorry to inform you that your application to join MI5- the Security Service, has failed on the final intelligence and assessment test. You are welcome to re-try next year and we wish you good luck in the future.”

There it was, in less than fifty words my entire universe I’d built up, all my aspirations for the future, had gone up in flames, crumbled into ruin. I sat there, dumb-struck, shaking from the anticipation, the sweat still pouring from my brow despite my massive disappointment. I just stayed there for an hour, not responding to my girlfriends whining and nagging, talking about how she was going to leave me if I kept on like this. Ironic really, that her nagging about leaving me contributed to me leaving her later that day.

It was a simple text that ended it, nothing fancy. After she’d gone to work I’d packed up what little I had bought for the apartment and left to do the only job I saw fit. After being told by my parents that becoming a Marine was a waste and that my talents would be better used elsewhere, I went to University and applied for MI5, thinking it would still hold some excitement, even if it wasn’t on the same level as the marines

But now they had dashed my hopes of getting a high up job, directing operations so I marched straight to my parents’ house, dumped my stuff and strode over to the recruiting office. A couple of minutes convincing the recruiting officer I was the right kind of guy for the job and that was it. All I needed to do was attend training for a while and then I was in. Back there and then, the whole thing seemed like a cake walk. It turned out to be quite different.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by the Yankees barging over to our little haven and trying to have a chat with the SAS boys. They were having none of it and sent them on their way where they found me moping around on the ramp. Their attempts at a bit of light racist banter were met by some witty retorts.

“Ello, ello, my good chap, pip pip cheerio old boy. You having a fine morning chap?” said Dixon, making a feeble attempt at a stereotypical British accent.

“I’m Welsh you ignorant, lard-arsed prick, now piss off and have a big mac you Yank shite. Go and be racist to someone else, it’s one of the only things your redneck, obese, piece of crap country is good at.” I came back, making sure I got point across with as many stereotypes as I could think of. Needless to say, he didn’t take to kindly to my remarks and swung across at me. Swiftly, I dropped to my side and avoided the punch, before delivering a deft kick to the back of his knee.

He dropped to the ground like a stone and I stood up to walk away, but he clipped my ankles as I jogged off, planting my face into the peat bog we were camped on. Faeces and silty bog dripped from my face as he stamped it into the ground once more. A maroon sludge of mud and blood stung my eyes as I hauled myself on to my knees. A huge slice was cut in the side of my face, the sole of his boot imprinted like a stamp across the dirt and his grip, encrusted with the airports gravel, carved a gash across my face.

Fists clenched, he took a jab at my ribs and winded me but a quick punch to the kidney stopped him in his tracks once again, giving me just enough time to clamber into the Viking and take cover behind the SAS’ little corner. As he lunged across to hit me, Sam, the larger, bulkier SAS member, knocked his arm to the side and delivered an uppercut into his ribs, putting him straight on the floor.

“Get your shit together!” he screamed, clearly furious at our little scuffle. “What do you think you’re doing you little American shite! Someone makes a comment about your sweet home bloody Alabama and you go on a little rampage. For god’s sake man, pull yourself together and get on with it; in case you didn’t realise, we have something a little more important on our hands. Now get back over there in your corner.”

It was clear that there was a bit of animosity between us Brits and the Americans from the start but this really showed it. If it had been an impartial listener, he would have scolded both of us for being stupid and me for baiting him into it. Having a Brit there, even if he was English, meant I had a valuable ally against these Yanks. The tension could have been cut with a knife as we sat silent on one side and they sat silent on the other.

Glances from both sides swept across and occasionally locked eyes, glaring for a moment before turning back to the food or whatever they had at hand. We had little to entertain ourselves with as we slowly bored ourselves to death in the sweaty fog of the evening. The flies were especially bad at this time, drawn to our clammy, sticky skin as we gritted our teeth and bore it, grinding along just hopping that none of these little pests were carrying any diseases.

The night drew in and the clouds drifted across the star filled sky as I too drifted, in and out of a light sleep. The day had taken its toll and, weary and exhausted, drunk with fatigue, I stumbled onto the Vikings seats for a long awaited rest. My eyes closed instantly and I fell off into a deep, dream filled sleep. All of my energy, my strength, vigour and determination, would be needed to make it through the ordeal that lay ahead.