chosen for the posting because of his experience as the regimental quartermaster sergeant.
Another board member, a slim captain who was considered the regiment's best polo player, spoke up. He, of course, is not a member of the officers' mess. I suppose the fact he receives a major's pay is compensation enough for being an outsider.
A complete outsider, the major added. Since accepting the commission, he can neither associate with the officers nor the noncommissioned officers on informal or social occasions.
Would you be interested in becoming the regimental quartermaster when the position opens again? the captain asked.
In the meantime, you would have to transfer from your company to regimental staff as a corporal to learn supply procedures. Then, you must wait for Major Brewster to retire. His place will be taken by the present quartermaster sergeant, of course. Then you could take his place when he retires.
All that would take some fifteen to twenty years, the major said. If you accepted a commission in one of the lesser regiments, you would quite possibly be captain or major by then.
I'll have to think about it, Archie said.
Another thing to consider is your manner of speech and deportment, Sergeant Sikes, the captain said. You will need polish on your grammar and etiquette even for a lesser regimental posting.
Archie was dismissed and told to put in his application within two weeks if he still harbored ambitions to become an officer. That evening Archie, despondent and disappointed, went into town, got roaring drunk, and was arrested for brawling in a local pub. This brought about a reduction to the rank of corporal and a cancellation of his appointment to officer training. Within six months, he was a private after being broken down again for drunken misbehavior, and he ended up in the regimental motor pool as an assistant mechanic. This was a misleading job title given to the poor sods assigned to wash and clean the unit's trucks and APCs.
Then the Royal Regiment of Dragoons was sent to Iraq.
Private Archibald Sikes' standing in his regiment was so low that he worked with civilian Iraqis assigned to the humble tasks of keeping the unit's vehicles cleaned up and topped off with fuel. Although he still had no friends among his fellow dragoons, one of the Iraqis became friendly with him. The Arab's name was Khalil Farouk, a thin, scholarly man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. He seemed to sense a smoldering resentment in the Englishman Sikes, and began engaging him in conversation. Archie at first resisted these overtures of friendship, until one afternoon when both were in the troop compartment of an APC cleaning up a hydraulic leak. They worked on their hands and knees, sopping up the sweet-smelling liquid. Even though all the hatches were open, the smell of the spill was unpleasant. Since the hydraulics were out, Archie couldn't lower the rear hatch to allow more fresh air into the interior.
Farouk, who spoke excellent English, dipped his cleaning rag into the bucket of water they shared for the task. As he wrung it out, he said, This is not such pleasant work, is it, Mr. Archie?
It's the bluddy shit, Archie growled.
Why do you do this? Farouk asked. Are your officers mad at you?
Archie's first inclination was to tell the Arab to mind his own fucking business, but he said, Yeah. They're good and mad at me. I told 'em to sod off. That's wot I did.
Oh, you were defiant to them, were you?
Archie stopped working and straightened up, still on his knees. Right. I wanted a fucking commission, yeah? I was a sergeant and a damn good one, let me tell you that straightaway, hey? But they wouldn't let me be an officer in this regiment. Suddenly, the words began tumbling out and he voiced all his bitterness at the system in which the enlisted men were not only considered inferior in rank, but also in worth. Everything that had gone wrong in his life, from school days to the monotony of the warehouse job, was gone over. The gist of his complaints was that none of this was his fault. He was never properly understood. He was a good man who was not being allowed the opportunity to perform at a superlative level; thus, he was unable to make a name for himself.
Farouk was sympathetic and fed into the other man's discontentment. For the next couple of months, he was always at Archie's side during the chores in the motor pool, listening to him and making subtle inquiries and probes to get the man to open up. When the Arab got the chance, he spoke to some of the other Brits, learning that Archie's description of his former status in the regiment was not an empty boast. He had indeed been an outstanding leader and NCO, and the inability to get a commission in the regiment he preferred had turned him into a disrespectful, sullen professional private.
Farouk had a reason to pursue the possibilities he saw in Archie. He finally got the chance he had been waiting for when the soldier's company sergeant major called Archie in and told him he was going to be kicked out of the Army as soon as they returned to England.
Farouk then made his move.
He told Archie he was in the wrong place. An able man like he was would never get the respect he deserved in the Western world. Islam recognized real men and gave them opportunities to go as far as they were able. It didn't matter about their families' status in society. Men were men, by Allah, and women were subordinate in Islam. They were chattel to bear children and keep their homes to please their husbands. If a man so desired, he would be allowed to marry as many as four of them. But Farouk wisely played down the religious side at this point. Instead he spoke of the holy war jihad against the unjust. Archie listened intently as Farouk explained that a soldier with Archie's abilities would be welcomed with open arms in the Muslim struggle. He would be a battle leader, eventually leading large units of mujahideen against the infidels.
Archie let the jihad aspects of Farouk's lectures slip past his conscious consideration. But the chance of being a grand field commander stirred those deep emotions he'd had when he first decided to become a soldier. The other matter foremost in his thoughts was that he no longer had a future in the British Army, thus no hope for great accomplishments in the UK.
Chapter 3
SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
6 APRIL
1000 HOURS
THE C-130 taxied off the runway onto the airfield proper, following a rather ragtag individual riding a battered Italian Vespa motor scooter. The aircraft's turboprop engines whipped up the thin dust layer on the hard-packed earth as it moved toward a hangar on the far west side of the facility. The weirdo on the scooter suddenly whipped off to the side. He pointed at the hangar, and the pilot took the transport over to a large cement parking area and came to a halt.
The SEALs inside the troop compartment noted the cutting of the engines with a sigh of relief. The eighteen men were crowded in an area packed with various gear, crates, boxes, and three DPVs, all making the flight from Station Bravo both discommoding and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, there was a bright side to the situation. The cargo was for their use only during Operation Rolling Thunder.
The loadmaster appeared from the cockpit, going to the rear of the aircraft. Within moments, a loud whine broke the silence and the rear ramp slowly opened and lowered to the ground.
On your feet! SCPO Buford Dawkins commanded. Grab your gear and unass the aircraft. The Brigands obediently secured their equipment and other personal belongings and filed down the fuselage to follow the senior chief out into the open. He quickly formed them up into two ranks and had them set their burdens down. Okay. We had to push those DPVs aboard, so it stands to reason we'll have to push 'em out. Leibowitz! Puglisi! Murchison! Miskoski! Malachenko! Dawson! You six on the vehicles. The rest of you see to the other crap. Do it!
The men trooped back into the aircraft to find that the loadmaster was already loosening the strap-downs. They helped him with the job, then the half dozen chosen for the vehicles pushed them down the loading ramp and out onto the parking area. With that done, they returned to help with the rest of the unloading.
Lieutenants Bill Brannigan and Jim Cruiser watched as the work moved into high gear. Now the Vespa rode up sputtering and coughing. The rider got off and walked up to the officers. He was a short, skinny kid in bad need of a haircut and shave, and he wore a blue T-shirt with a wordy announcement in yellow letters that stated:
IF GOD MADE ANYTHING BETTER THAN PUSSY HE KEPT IT FOR HIMSELF
He wore shorts obviously made by cutting off the legs of a pair of BDU trousers, and his bare feet were shoved into a pair of leather sandals. A round Afghan puhtee cap, tipped like a beret, topped off his garb. Cruiser frowned at the youngster's appearance. Who the hell are you?
I'm Randy Tooley, he cheerfully replied. You guys must be the SEALs, huh?
