Lieutenant Santa Clause

“NAME!”
Jack looked over his shoulder to see who the man was shouting at. He was, however, the only one standing in the grimy little army office. He looked back at the sergeant. The sergeant glared back at him.
“I SAID NAME!”
“Do you always shout at people?” Asked Jack politely.
“NAME!”
Sensing no change to the sergeants adopted approach to basic human management, Jack supplied him with: Jack Mathew Ballenden-Green. This did not have the desired effect. Instead of the sergeant softening, writing it down, and jovially pointing to where Jack should go, the old bastard just glared harder at him.
“NAME!” He screamed again.
Jack looked blankly.
“You mean your name?” He ventured. Perhaps this was some kind of SAS training: Dealing with Difficult Administrators. If it was, Jack was sure an instructor was about to walk through the nearby door, failing him on DDA 101.
“NO I DON”T MEAN MY FUCKING NAME. WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE? SOME DAFT CU-“
“He means your nick… your call sign.” Said a lanky figure. Jack spun around to look at the approaching figure. He was unusually gaunt, and seemed to swagger. Shadows seemed to pool in his vicinity, perpetually cloaking him in darkness.
“So what is it?” Said the stranger.
“Hmmm?”
“You’re nick? What is it?”
“Oh… umm … Yanek.” Jack answered, relieved that this wasn’t DDA 101, and that there was someone here to offer testimony that Jack killed the old buzzard in a fit of pique brought on by the sergeant’s own actions.
“YANEK” The stranger said, pointing wildly at Jack, whilst shouting at the Sarg. The old man smiled warmly at Jack, dropped his head, and scribbled something down. Then, equally as civilly, handed a small square of paper over to him. Jack looked down, amazed at the transformation: From Satan to Father Christmas.
“Ah – no it’s Y A N E K, not YANKER.”
The stranger stifled a laugh, as Jack leaned over the counter to try to explain to the dyslexic Father Christmas his nickname.

After half an hour the whole thing had been sorted out.

“So, Yanker…” rejoined the stranger as they walked into the barracks, “what made you want to join?”
Jack idly fiddled with the temporary name badge. In the end he’d just grabbed a pen, scratched out YANKER and written, in small letters beneath it, YANEK.
“The reputation of the battalion, plus on tactical training in South Africa several of you fellows were there, and kicked our ass’s left, right, and center.”
The stranger, who’s name turned out to be Morbid, which Jack thought was a little … morbid in itself, turned the corner and opened a door.
“Right. You’ll bunk down in here. I think the other bunk is empty for now, so you’ve got digs to yourself.”
Jack smiled. That was good. There were things he preferred to doing alone… late at night, when other men weren’t around. Now with a room to himself, he could spend hours doing it, and no one would see him. Indeed… he’d be able to play his online games with gay abandon…he stopped and rephrased himself: ‘indeed… he’d be able to play his online games with manly abandon’.
“Lunch is in half an hour and then the captain wants to meet all the new recruits.”
“There are others?” Jack asked, it would be nice, he’d not be hazed as much if there were. Safety in numbers.
“Five I think? But I’m not sure if any of them will last long.”
“Oh why’s that?”
“We practice with live rounds. You’re either learn or you die. Simple. Captain doesn’t hold much with dummy rounds.” With that, Morbid, having lightened the mood to that of a funeral of a dead father and his beloved but equally dead dog, he left. Jack waited for a moment, replaying the conversation, trying to work out if the man had been lying or telling the truth. Eventually he accepted it as a lie. The alternative would be to run screaming from the barracks, and he doubted if he’d get far anyway.

The door to the mess opened, revealing several low metal tables, several soldiers, and a distant promise of over cooked, oily food. Jack stepped in, blinking in the darker light. He became aware of several pairs of eyes watching him. Then he became aware of the giggles. For a bunch of soldiers it was a particularly girlie giggle. With all the subtlety of a drunken belly dancer he placed his beret on his shoulder in such a way that it might hide his stupid name badge.
“Yanek!” Called Morbid, a tray in one hand, a fork in the other.
Jack nodded, happy to know someone. Even if it had been for only a few seconds. He moved down the aisle, heading for the food. Morbid nodded as he arrived.
“We got mashed pea’s, mashed ‘tatoes, mashed eggs, and flambé suet de Bonbon al Cerate for puds.”
“Puds?” Jack knew of the dessert, his family were particularly fond of throwing big balls for big wigs and part of Jack knew exactly which knife and fork to use, regardless of how many weapons of mastication were laid out in from of him.
“Pudding.”
“Ah… Dessert you mean?”
Another round of giggling. Morbid looked at Jack for a moment, concern, resignation, bemusement flitting across his dark features as if each were a personality disorder.
“Yeah, pud.” He said slowly.
Jack nodded, oblivious to the room now taking a delighted interest in him, their new source of afternoon entertainment.

Chef was a woman.

Jack decided this after due consideration. He isolated the moustache as being definitely male. But the saddlebags hidden under the grease covered once-long-ago-was-white-ish apron belied breasts that Kathy Bates would be proud of. The nails were painted black, hinting at the feminine, but the cigar shifted towards masculine. In the end however, it was the hint of a once pink T-shirt under the apron that decided the matter.

“Thank you chef, it smells very …” He sniffed, his smile slowly sinking as his nose clogged up on the grease… “Very much like food.” It was a forced finish. His brain was claiming in favour of garbage, his nose was handing over its resignation, and his stomach suddenly issued: capacity full notices.
Holding the metal tray which sagged under the weight of the food he kept expecting George Bush to burst in and take it from him. The oil content alone could probably power Texas for a month.

Morbid didn’t seem to care when Jack sat down next to him. Then again, he probably didn’t care about anything. For a while Jack tried to eat his food. The fact that the pud had been slapped on top of the main meal of mashed mash spoke volumes. He could sense he was being looked at. He raised his head, and cast a glance around. Suddenly from across the room someone pointed a sniper rifle directly at him. With a yelp he ducked, sending his tray across the table. Laden with food and flambé, the tray, after years of being washed in oil enriched dish water, flew across the polished metal table, equally soaked in old oil. The effect was exponential and the Jacks food picked up speed.

“Major!” Shouted Morbid.

His call may not have had the desired effect. Afterwards Yanek was convinced Morbid had done it just to have the opposite. Major looked up in time to see Yanek’s tray come hurtling towards him. In one swift move he caught it on his knifes blade and flicked left. Yanek, still under the table felt the room go silent. The type of silence that develops when twenty people are waiting for the impending disaster to hit… its target.

“DW!”

DW, a brute of a soldier turned and caught the flambé in the face. But the carnage wasn’t over. The mashed eggs, being of a lighter consistency than say the potatoes whose consistency was that of semi-set concrete, flew past DW’s desserted face and burst across DareDevils. The room exploded into guffaws.

And then it was war.

DW and DareDevil united in an unholy culinary alliance, drawing stores from nearby allies and firing a volley of mash as their enemies. The retaliation was short but effective. Flambe traveling at forty miles and hour breaks up into several deadly missiles of egg and sugar. A single volley of well placed flambé took out half the opposition. But mashed potato has its own used. Rolled in the hand, the stuff becomes solid balls of death.

Grenades of mashed potato where lobed back and forth, the casualties rising.

Jack was pushed forward as Morbid climbed under the table with him.
“Not good, we need to get out of here.” He shouted, indicated to the only exit, the door.
Jack nodded and half lept, half sprinted for it.  He was half way across the open space then he heard someone shout: YANKER!
“It’s not Yanker, it’s Yanek you daft bastard!” Shouted Yanek, forgetting all his fear and training, and turning to face the name caller.

Apparently you can knock a man unconscious with fifteen pounds of mashed peas. Being the last of the arsenal left to most of the combatants, the peas were unanimously chosen.

Yanek turned and caught the brunt of the pea’s force.

The line sitting outside the Exec’s office was a sorry, if well nourished and oiled, one. One by one each man was called inside by the demented Father Christmas. Slowly he’d rise, shoot a look of hatred at Yanek, and then entered. Yanek sat at the back of the line, the battalions doctor assuring him he would live, and that he would regain his sense of smell once all the peas had worked their way out of his nasal tract. By the end of the afternoon, it was only Yanek left.

“YANKER!” Shouted Christmas.

“For fucks sakes…” Jack swore, before getting up. This wasn’t how he’d wanted to be remembered: ‘Here likes Yanker. He liked to play with himself’. Damn it! He’d become a representative for all men. Gloomily he walked into the office. Sitting on the other side of a large oak desk were three people. He recognized one – a hero of the war, but the other two to unfamiliar.
“SIT DOWN!” Shouted Christmas from behind him.
“Thank you sergeant.” Said one of the three, whilst massaging his temples. Clearly not everyone liked Christmas…Yanek stored it away for future use. The life of an aristocrat made one learn how to use information to its full, conniving, advantage.
“Private Yanek – did you start the food fight in the mess, which is now, cook tells me, a total mess.”
One of the other officers sniggered. Yanek suppressed the smile.
“Not exactly sir.”
“Then loosely?”
“I may have lost control of my tray.” Jack conceded.
“LOST CONTROL! LOST CONTROL! KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO A MAN WHO LOOSES CONTROL OF HIMSELF SOLDIER? BIG FUCKING MESS EVERYWHERE!” Screamed Christmas. Jack couldn’t stop the smile. His mother had admonished him time and again. It was lopsided, and cocky. He couldn’t help it.
“Thank you Sergeant, please go and see if cook needs a hand cleaning up, and form a work detail.”
Christmas saluted and barreled out the door with as much importance as a cockerel visiting his hens.
The three around the desk burst into laughter. Jack began to laugh as well. Just as suddenly the three stopped, leaving Jack barking by himself. He shut up.
“Major Major and lieutenant Darkwing both claim that you threw your tray at them. Cook claims you complimented his cooking, and the doctor says the green stain on your face will fade with time.”
Yanek rubbed at his forehead. Several peas lost their grip and fell to their deaths on the floor below.
“So punishment will be … helping the Sergeant with his administrative duties for …” They looked at one another, vague smiles hiding about on their faces. “A month.”
“A month!” Wailed Yanek, then regretted it immediately.
“No you’re right, that’s not fair. It’ll take you a month just to get to know his filing system… so… yes, two months. Good point Yanker, well spotted.”

Yanker walked… he stopped. Shook his head, sending more stowaway legumes to their deaths. YANEK walked slowly back to his room. The door was open. He paused. Ah … ye old initiate the new guy by putting a bucket of paint on the door ledge. Although he wondered what difference paint would add to his present vegetative ensemble. He gingerly pushed it open, jumping back at the same time. No paint.
Slowly he looked around the door. A figure was in there, rummaging through bags!
“HEY – I say WHAT do you THINK you’re doing!?” Yanek demanded.
“Oh God!” He added, sinking into his chair, not caring about the strange rummager. “I’m starting to talk like him! And I’m using exclamation marks like him! Stop it… STOP IT!” He said, hitting his head against the desk.
“Dude…” Said the stranger, in tones one uses for a tiger who’s beating itself up and may just decide to beat you up instead if you interrupt it.
Yanek looked up, his eyes finding focus and locking onto the man.
“What!?”
“I’m new – just joined, are you my roomy?”
“ROOMY!?” Screamed Yanek seeing his late nights and their associated moments of joy vanishing like so many sheiks after Cooks oil reserves. But that was the least of his concerns. After two brief encounters with Christmas, he was starting to talk like him. He needed to get a grip, to stop using exclamations, and stop shouting.
“Sorry… sorry… My names Yanek.” Said Jack, holding out a grubby green hand.
“But it says Yanker on your…” He dared not finish the sentence. The tiger was whipping its tail about, looking hungry.
“My names Gabe. You can call me Gabe though if you like?”
“Have you checked your name badge recently?” Jack asked, sinking deeper into his chair. The enthusiastic roomy quickly peered down at his name badge. ‘GAY’.
“But … that old sergeant was so nice…”
Jack began laughing. Oh these fellows were good. Forget the paint, forget the midnight hazing, this was pure psychological mind warfare. It would explain the mysterious presence of Opticle with a sniper rifle in the mess, the well timed flick of the Major’s knife… Morbid calling out a warning… or more accurately … the ‘fire!’ command. And his sudden appearance under the table. Morbid wasn’t hiding. He was looking for Yanek. And then the well timed calling of his name, making him stop right in front of the light. Big fucking target called Yanker…
“Oh they’re good.” Jack said, as he reached for a towel.
“What are you going to do?” Gay... err Gabe asked.
“First, I’m going to have a shower. See if I can stop looking like an Orion slave girl. Then, I’m going to go and help Cook clean up.”
“And then?”
“I’m going to sleep.” He didn’t add ‘and then, I’m going to get even…’.
“Glad to have a roomy, I’d welcome you to Borg, but I’ve only just got here myself.”