Dinger's Aviation Pages
A short story. Published in the Birmingham Sunday Mercury, Nov 18th 2012. By J. Dell. © J. Dell

What's Your Name?

Smith had thought it might be easy now he had completed his basic training, but within half an hour of arriving from the training depot he found out he was very wrong. The Sergeants bellowed and shouted at them. They marched to the parade square and found themselves inspected by the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM). He didn't seem too pleased with their turnout. He walked along the ranks expressing his disgust. Finally he came to Smith.
"What's your name soldier?"
"Smith sir" he replied, his Birmingham accent rolling and extending the final syllable of his name.
The RSM smiled.
"How many Fs in that Smith? One or two?"
Quick as a flash Smith replied,
"Three Sir!"
There was a faint laugh that echoed down the ranks. For just a brief moment Smith though he saw the RSM smile. Then his face hardened into a stony stare.
"A smart Alec eh? Well I'll have my eye on you three-F Smith."

He was as good as his word. Over the following months as the regiment prepared for its tour in Afghanistan the RSM was always a familiar sight during the constant training. It seemed that whenever Smith did anything wrong, dropped his rifle, tripped on the assault course or turned up on parade with dirty boots the RSM. was always there to tear him off a strip. He would always start by shouting
"What's your name soldier?"
As the days and weeks rolled by it got to be a real burden. The other soldiers noticed the RSM's constant interest in Smith and when he entered the mess or NAAFI it was not unusual for there to be a chorus of "What's your name soldier!"

Finally they found themselves in Afghanistan. All the training now started to pay off. It all started to make sense. In that crucible of conflict Smith rose to the challenge. It became obvious to his comrades he was an excellent soldier and the teasing stopped. But still, in his frequent contact with the RSM there would always be that question.
"What's your name soldier?"
"Doesn't he know my name by now!" thought Smith bitterly.

Then one day Smith found himself sitting alongside the RSM on a supply run out to an outpost. They were in an open-topped Jackal fighting vehicle. Another Jackal with a two-man crew was leading the convoy with their vehicle following on behind with the three lorries behind them and another two Jackals bringing up the rear. They had been going for 45 minutes when suddenly the vehicle in front slowed and stopped.
"They must have spotted something." said the RSM "Keep Alert".
The crew of the leading Jackal had indeed seen something; a discolouration in the rough tarmac ahead gave away the location of a bomb buried under the road. Smith saw the reversing lights come on the Jackal. That same instant the enemy realised the bomb had been spotted and it was detonated by command wire. The surface of the road heaved upwards and then the full force of the explosion hit. Smith was hammered by the shockwave, the air was sucked out of his lungs and his eyes blasted by grit. His ears rang with the concussion, then pieces of tarmac started falling from the skies, big pieces that would kill a man stone dead if they hit him. Then the shower of death stopped and Smith realised he was still alive, along with his driver and the RSM He looked at the lead vehicle. It had been blown over by the blast, one of its occupants had been thrown clear and was writhing in agony in the middle of the road, the driver was still in the vehicle, motionless. Then Smith became aware of the rifle fire. The enemy were firing at them from a low hill on their right. He saw the dust spurt as bullets hit the road close to his injured comrade. What to do? The RSM had swung their machine gun and its heavy shield around to engage the enemy snipers. They were relatively safe from the enemy bullets behind the Jackal's armour, but their two fellow soldiers were sitting ducks. Then Smith saw that the thick dust cloud thrown up by the explosion was drifting their way, it would obscure the view of the enemy snipers for a few vital seconds. Smith was out and running. He sprinted to the soldier in the road. The dust cloud swirled around them, Smith grabbed the injured man by the arms and dragged him to the ditch on the left side of the road, away from the sniper fire. Then he ran back to the Jackal, he had to reach inside to unbuckle the driver's safety belt, then he pulled him clear and picked him up in a fireman's lift. He staggered towards the ditch. But the dust now cleared and rifle fire began to smash into the ground around him. His burden was slipping from his shoulders, so Smith came to a halt and with an almighty shrug got a grip of his load again. With one last effort he tumbled into the ditch with the unconscious soldier.

He only gave himself a second to catch his breath, then he was attending to his two comrades wounds, applying the dressings and giving morphine. The enemy rifle fire slackened and then stopped. Apache helicopter gunships appeared overhead. Then he became aware of the RSM next to him.
"A helicopter is on the way to evacuate these two." he said, then continued..
"Brave thing that - bloomin' brave." - then he slapped Smith on the shoulder.
Emboldened, Smith chanced back; "Sir, you didn't ask my name."
The RSM. looked at Smith for long seconds...
"Soldier, I don't need to ask your name. I know it. It's Tommy."
Smith looked puzzled for a second, then the RSM continued...
"Tommy Atkins."