Written on 14 November 2018
“What you got there?” D'arcy asked me in his chipper Irish accent, a mocking grin on his face.
“A picture of my daughter.”
“Jesus Christ.” He chuckled. “One. Get a phone. They have these amazing things called cameras on them. Two. We're just going for a training exercise, we're hardly being helicoptered into Helmand. Three. Stop being so bloody sentimental. Get your fucking head screwed on.”
“That'll do.” Sarge said from the front of the van. I folded my photo of Julie up and slipped it in my pack. Three weeks away with these dicks, pretending to shoot some platoon from Ayrshire or wherever the fuck.
Meanwhile, I miss Julie's play, Sally’s directorial debut, and what will I have to show for it?
“I'm sorry lad.” D'arcy said. “Just a bit pumped up you know.”
“That's fine mate.”
Here we were in the Scottish highlands and I can't even enjoy the view in this armoured fucking car. As soon as I'm out in the field, I'm volunteering for a scouting mission and finding the nearest pub.