“You were born to be a killer,” said the sergeant. “From your first day on earth, you were destined to be a soldier in the best battalion of the best regiment in the British Army.”
I shuffled about uneasily. As far as I knew I’d been conscripted to do my National Service in the East Lancashire Regiment. The fact that I’d signed on to do a little extra time, for a little extra money to send home, didn’t exactly make me a mercenary. All this talk of being some sort of psychopathic assassin was quite beyond my ken. A few weeks ago, for God’s sake, I had been quite happy as a shoe salesman. What on earth had this great black cloud of philosophical fatalism got to do with me?
My concern eased when I realised that these sadistic remarks were not solely aimed in my direction. There were twenty-nine other conscripts in the line. This raised my spirits no end. Of course, he must be talking to somebody else. Strangely, though, he kept looking very intently towards me. I shuddered. The thought of being responsible for the death of another human being, enemy or not, filled me with revulsion
As if reading my thoughts, the sergeant carried on with an air of implacable force. “One day, you may be walking down an empty street, or in a lonely wood, and suddenly, you’ll be face to face with him. THE ENEMY! Only the man with the fastest reflexes and the greatest skills will walk away. ”
Mentally, I disputed this. Even sergeants can’t get it right every time. I was quite certain that if such an occasion ever arose, my reflexes would be second to none. I knew that I’d be gone, long before ‘THE ENEMY‘ could even wish me “good morning.” My limbs tensed as if simulating flight.
The sergeant took several steps in my direction before continuing.”In the next few weeks, I will be instructing you how to kill with your rifle, your bayonet, a piece of cheese wire, or even just two fingers.”
I recoiled in horror. Cheese wire. Two fingers. What disgusting practices were these to bring about the death of a fellow man?
“Jones 01.” The sergeant was in my face, in some sort of inexplicable and demonic rage. In my experience as a new recruit I was fairly certain that all army sergeants suffered from some form of possession. Or perhaps they were mentally disturbed. Every single one I had encountered thus far in my limited service seemed to react in the same way. This particular sergeant's face was a deep crimson, and his mouth twitched in a most curious manner, like an over sensitive rat-trap. I had noticed such phenomena before, in previous conversations. Why on earth couldn’t he just discourse in a sensible and civilised manner? He frothed, “Will you stop jumping about like an over paid and over sexed ballerina. You’re on parade.”
“Sorry sergeant,” I braced myself to attention. “It was the thought of killing some one with two fingers that did it. It upset me a little.”
The sergeant clenched his fist and extended two fingers, tightly pressed together. He muttered darkly.” If I could only summon up the nerve, and avoid ruining my career, I would thrust these fingers into your septum. The impact would force the bridge of your nose into your brain. Instant death. Only it wouldn’t work with you. You haven’t got a brain to start with. Right! Show me two fingers. ”
I duly obliged. The sergeants crimson face took on a deeper hue. He looked hot enough to catch fire. His eyes bulged. Before I knew it, I was quickstepping down to the guardroom, with an escort in tow. As if I didn’t already know the way!

I sat in my cell and reflected. The army was creating great rough lumps in the smoothness of my persona. Had I really shown him two fingers? Too right I had. He had invited me to, hadn’t he?
Unfortunately, mine had been spread and facing in the wrong direction.

But at least, I was spared the horror of killing someone with them.

Copyright © 2005 Thomas Vaughan