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  1. #1
    martin shaw
    Guest

    New Intake Gunner.

    Fifty pages in and climbing... this is the start of my novel NIG. Dont pull any punches.


    01/01/2009
    Arrival at my regiment after a year of training






    So I broke the mould. I actually managed to do something that had given me an identity in my early teens. I’d come from wanker to sucker in the space of a year, with the hollow shouting of training sergeants and their boozy ash tray breathe still ringing in my ears.

    My taxi pulled up on the main road outside the camp entrance. I paid the driver, grabbed my kit bag, and stepped out onto the icy tarmac. It was always bloody cold in those days, and when it was warm, you were probably sleeping, tired from a night time of gallivanting amongst cow @!#$ and rabid foxes in some European field.

    Two soldiers with peaked hats and wry smiles looked out of the safety-glass square wired window of their guard box. I was in fact expecting this new boy @!#$, and had dressed accordingly: with freshly cropped skin head, blue Harrington jacket, Levi jeans, and brogue shoes with half moon metal segs pinned to the soles. I walked towards them and the long tubular barrier they guarded. The taller of the two opened a narrow door.

    “You a NIG?”

    “What?” I frowned as he sniggered.

    “Yeah you’re a NIG…it means new intake gunner. Report to the guard room behind and sign in”.

    He shut the door and whispered something to his mate. I turned and felt them staring as I sauntered over to the main area, my shoes clacking and echoing as they scraped to a halt on a concrete slab outside a large blue Victorian doorway.

    “What the @!#$ are those you are wearing”? A voice behind me bellowed.

    “What huh?”

    “What huh?” Are you a ****ing Red Indian? I said what the @!#$ are you wearing?” A tall wiry man pointed to my shoes with a thick stick. I could see he was the orderly sergeant.

    “Shoes sir”.

    “****ing shoes. They sound like stiletto’s you ****ing puff; are you a puff?”

    “No sir”.

    “Then why the @!#$ are you wearing those ****ing shoes?”

    “Don’t know sir”. A small crowd of heads developed over the guard room counter. The sergeant carried on with his head tilted to one side, and waving his stick in my face.

    “Do I look like a poofy woofy officer to you Mr ****ing skin head”?

    “No sir”.

    “Then why do you wear those shoes and call me sir; and If I hear you say ‘I don’t know’ again, I’m going to ram my stick so far up your arse, that the bombardier in the guard room will dye your hair blue and use you as a ****ing pool cue”.


    I stood in a stony silence stumped for words, and felt my face burning with embarrassment. The sergeant moved even closer to me as his boozy vinegar breath wafted passed my nostrils.

    “Well?” he retorted. His head tilted to the side again, with eyes blinking slowly, like a budgerigar in some sort of food coma with its owner. He shrugged his shoulders for an answer and raised his voice.

    “****ing well then?”

    The bombardier in the guard room came and stood at the entrance, laughing in unison with the rest of his aunterage.

    “Jesus” he gasped. “You look like you’re going to explode: you’re redder than my bell end. For God sake just call him sarg, he’s just been promoted and he’ll love you for it”.

    I stood there for a second, embarrassed and angry at the audience, especially the tossers on the gate, who by now had left their post and edged towards us. I could hear them giggling at me like two little girls with circus-ground moustaches.

    I thought about walking home, and the tyre noise from the civilian road running behind us somehow felt like a safe haven. I mean you don’t hear of anybody being court marshaled nowadays just for going absent. My mind clouded over…

    Let’s get this thing out of the way and disappear. I can’t put up with this for the next three years.

    I grimaced and shouted back without thinking.

    “No ****ing sarg”.

    His eyes lit up.

    “No fu-ck-ing sarg. No-****ing-sarg. Are you some sort of kamikaze skin head?” He placed two fingers to his lips in a gesture.

    “Do you smoke?”

    “No I don’t sir: I err, I mean sarg”. He glanced into the air, then down at my shoes.

    “Do you think there is anything about you that I might ****ing like?”

    I paused…

    “It doesn’t look like it sarg”.

    “No it doesn’t does it”. I felt patronised as he spoke deliberately slowly.

    “What-is-your-name?”

    “Shaw Sarg”. He sniffed and put an index finger over one nostril, and blew with what looked like all of his might; then flicked his hand to get rid of the residue: like globules of jizz from a five knuckle shuffle. I presumed this was an effort of rudeness and contempt at me being there, and I daren’t tell him that he had a cling on boogaloo adorning his Christmas tree moustache which miraculously he retrieved with his bottom teeth.

    Wow that’s amazing, you dirty bastard.

  2. #2
    martin shaw
    Guest

    Re: New Intake Gunner.

    Just noticed that the format is out. Funny how you see things in different text that changes it completely.

  3. #3
    Janice W-D
    Guest

    Re: New Intake Gunner.

    I find critiquing first drafts pointless. When you write, THE END, what you learned about the characters along the way will definitely cause you to revise the beginning. Often, writers delete the first few pages or the entire first chapter.

    Best,
    Janice

  4. #4
    martin shaw
    Guest

    Re: New Intake Gunner.

    Being on top of the pile of poo you have poo’d has left you breathless in the stratosphere, but if you look down you will see I have marked an X on the ground with some pink toilet roll for when you land. I also have a wet towel ready to flick at the cheeks of your flubber bottom to leave a stinging blue kiss mark. Actually I think you will like that, and I think you know that I think you will like that, and because I know that you know that I think you will like that; you can play intelligent clairvoyant type games with me like Battle-ships and find the Microsoft word processor to outwit each other .

    Good day to you and the stained brown cleavage of your orange peel buttocks.

  5. #5
    sam albion
    Guest

    Re: New Intake Gunner.


    hehee.. orange peel buttocks...

    I like your characters, and can see them working, but there are a few annoying spelling mistakes and the puncuation needs tidying up. Reads like an entertaining tale, in my humble opinion... stick with it...

  6. #6
    martin shaw
    Guest

    Re: New Intake Gunner.

    Thanks very much Sam. You are right about the spelling mistakes of course; I'm working on it all the time when ever I can. I have a condition that stops concentration, and thats why writing is good for me. Too much info I know... sorry!

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