Sven Goes to War. Part 7. Pictures of You.

Dearest Sven, Our Captain, Welshman from Caerphilly. His grandfather, piccolo player in 47^th grenadiers, killed by stampeding elephant in time of Raj (so he tells us) military in his blood. Other Boyz (2-Men) ragtag bunch; boxers, brawlers, inveterate sun worshipers, (over here mate, get your shirt off), self-acclaimed tattoo artists; a wonder what can do with  deconstructed Bic biro and hatpin. I have had name <yours>, under close supervision!, tattooed on my left buttock (no chance let them loose on penis). But they are  spunky lot. Last night (we) broke into local zoo, ZOO, stole elephant (elderly, tired, named Kalamazoo, after town in which rich American industrialist / philanthropist who donated elephant lived, Kalamazoo County, State of Michigan, (sad story, philanthropist died in baboon stampede North of Red Sea, Hamadryas baboon very angry kind of baboon, terrible tragedy)). But anyway, long story short, {elephant} we affixed, hangman’s noose, to Welsh captain’s bunk. His screams more high-pitched than any piccolo I have heard. Yours ever, Stanley. 

 

It was two long months before Sven received his first postcard. 

    On the front was the picture of a squat East German PT-76 Tank. Panzermuseum Munster, was written in tiny letters on the back, Stanley’s tiny words cramped right up to the address and around a picture he had drawn of himself, head cocked, eye winking. 

    

Dearest Sven, Have learnt to shoot gun, build dam from driftwood / biscuit boxes, crawl across desert terrain while being fired upon by Enemy Insurgents. Enemy insurgents (for now) played by neighbouring unit also under training but 2 weeks ahead. Yesterday they break Smithy’s jaw (nice lad, like him, mother works jam d-nut factory and now Smithy infirmary no more jammy d-nuts for us), so last night, cloud cover, quietly, quietly, we [my unit] break into n-bour barracks and drug other boys, set in pose of dance routine [naked pump & grind] like in sleazy gay bar and send photos to boys’ mothers & fathers. Not my idea. Being gay boy dancer better than off to war, head blown off, pissing through plastic tube after loss of dick etc etc. Yours ever, Stanley. 

 

Like clockwork the postcards arrived each week. Always on the front was the image of a piece of army machinery and on the back Stanley’s words, circling around a picture he had drawn of himself, not much of artist but this is me, thumbs up (my bum), always, Stanley. 

    In this way one year passed and then another and on the Nightly News^TM, nightly, appeared grainy images from War 73!, bivouacs, helicopters charging low over dunes, raids on windowless houses, skirmishes in market places, snipers on rooftops, soldiers sitting shirtless at fold-away tables, field radios as big as suitcases, hats pulled low, eyes and mouths covered with camo scarves, and then, more and more often, body bags, rows of them, draped in flags. 

    

Sven treasured Stanley’s postcards, stored them carefully in a shoe box, would read them at night under the covers of his bed with a torch, dressed in the yellow dress Stanley had given him, imagining he was Jean Arthur in Mr Smith Goes to Washington or Jean Harlow in The Blonde Bombshell, or Myrna Loy, even she started somewhere. With a single stocking I seem to remember…

    Then one week the postcards stopped.

    Every night Sven thought, tomorrow there might be a new postcard. 

    The next day there was no new postcard. 

    Nor the next. 

 

When there had been no postcards for twenty-eight days Sven skived off school, he attended Saltburn-by-the Sea Sixth Form College now, went directly to the station and took the Hadrian Wall Express to Poulton-le-Fylde where he presented himself at the National War Office, housed in a former ice cream factory, the faded letters of which could still be seen above the door, Evans Ice Cream, For When You Just Can’t Stop Licking. 

    “I have a request,” he said. Then, unable to say Stanley’s name out loud for fear of tearing up, he had written it on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk. 

    The man behind the counter was wearing a lime-green hat, goat-skin gloves and a tie with 3 dimensional snails crawling up it. He told Sven that Operational Information about combatants in action couldn’t be divulged but if Sven wished to purchase a commemorative Evans Diecast model in the shape of a Matilda Tank to raise funds for our boys on the ground then it would help the war effort. 

    The tank was £8.99. It came with Genuine Firing Missiles (safe for indoor use) and a pack of 20 Enemy Insurgents that could be set fire to to bring about a realistic death. (Extra insurgents available in all good bookshops and convenience stores. 1p from each sale going to the War Effort.)

    Sven didn’t have the necessary funds for the tank having spent all the money he had on a Cheap Day Return.

    “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said, pushing the Return portion across the desk in the manner of David Niven in A Man Called Intrepid when he was bribing a German foot soldier for secrets of the Nazi High Command. “Stanley,” he whispered. “Capital ‘S’, one ‘L’, ends in ‘E’, ‘Y’. Between you and me. Nobody has to know.”

    “I have a season ticket,” said the man pushing the Return back towards Sven. “And a Frequent Breakfaster reward card. Once a week I get a free pain au chocolat and a cappuccino. So scram.”

    It was as he was leaving the building that Sven saw the Interactive Recruitment Diorama. 

    First he watched a short inspirational video. Two teenage boys are sitting on swings in a car park. They pass a joint between them. One boy asks the other what he is up to tomorrow. The other boy shrugs, points around him to the desolate park:

    Two old bums dance to a slow waltz playing on a portable phonograph.

    A mangy dog pulls at the head of dead rat.

    A heavily pregnant woman, with another child in a pushchair, drinks from a can of beer, puffing on a cigarette. 

   Another young mother, clearly drunk, drops her baby on its head. 

    In the distance, from the roof of a shabby block of flats, a young man jumps. 

    Then, [cue loud raucous music] a car packed with joyriders goes zooming past, car swerves, car screeches, then doubles back, takes out bums, takes out young mothers, dog and rat, crashes into wall, explodes in  ball of flames. 

    “Did you see that?” says first boy just as second boy is decapitated by flying hubcap from exploding car. 

    And now first boy, caught in a shower of blood gushing from his friend’s headless neck, shrugs, says, ‘I need to get out of this place.’

    Screen segues.

 

DON’T DELAY YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU*

 

[* terms and conditions apply. No responsibility accepted for injury, serious injury, or death]

 

JOIN THE ARMY TODAY

 

Montage of shots of first young man.

 

• Naked and buff and in shower with many other naked and buff young men. One young man turns to our young man says, ‘What a great toned body you’ve got! You must get loads of gorgeous girls.’ Thought bubble appears above head of our young man. Bedpost with army cap on it. Below army cap many notches indicating female conquests. 

 

• Young man leaps out of helicopter onto roof of burning building. He gathers two crying children up in his arms. He leaps from burning building onto roof of adjacent building. He leaps back into hovering helicopter. 

 

• Young man in sand coloured combat uniform. Fast forward of him crawling across miles of deserts. He comes to castle wall. He climbs castle wall. He surreptitiously kills many bearded armed guards. He picks lock of heavily locked door. He breaches room containing Prime Minister tied to chair. He unties Prime Minister who says, ‘What a hero. You have not only saved me. You have saved the country. You may even have saved world.’

 

• Young man stands on podium. General steps up to podium and pins large medal on young man’s chest. Young women in audience swoon. Thought bubble appears young man’s head. ‘Joining the army was the best decision I ever made. While I still masturbate because masturbation is a healthy and natural thing to do now I can always get girls and no longer have to take turns wanking off my stoned mates into a paper bag on a cold windswept car park. Happy Days.’

 

The video ends and a short questionnaire appears on the Interactive Touch Screen. Sven selects  No Death Wishand No Major Psychological Problems, agrees that he comes from a Disadvantaged Social Group with Little (or no) Future Prospects and finally presses the button to Sign on the dotted line………………………………..