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We both volunteered for parachute training, and both got our wings and red berets on the same day. We celebrated at a local pub together, although legally I wasn't old enough to drink. We were an odd couple; he was about 5ft 8ins and built like a bull; I was just over 6ft, and as skinny as a rake. I filled out as I got older, but I've never been much heavier than 15 stone. Harry had been educated at Eton College and I had attended Plaistow Comprehensive. He was posh and I was rough. His accent was upper class Oxbridge, and mine was low class Cockney/Estuary English. On the face of it we had nothing in common, but there was always a strand of friendship between us, even before The Falklands.I was with Harry on Mt. Longdon; he was second in command (2i/c) of the Green Jackets attached to 3 Para, and he was the person who first came across me, still in deep shock, after I had bayoneted the Argie.'Well done Dewey. Now let's push on'.His words, and the clap on my back, were enough to. The interior of my apartment perfectly suited its exterior. The wallswere dingy, and the carpet worn thin and stained. My furnishings weresparse and cheap, sporting a couch with one broken leg propped up withbooks, and a couple large crates to serve as a coffee table and endtable. I even had a shitty little CRT TV mostly so that no one wouldwant to steal it.As soon as I was through the door, I tugged off my sling and walkedover to a cabinet in the kitchenette, pulling out a bottle of whiskeythat resided there. It was already half empty, but that just meant Istill had half of it to finish off. Popping it open, I took a swig,relishing the feel of it burning down my throat."Ah, it's good to be home," I sighed as I started toward my bedroomwith the bottle still in hand. In there, I flopped into my desk chairin front of my crappy old computer, sat my bottle on the desk, andclicked the power button. While it booted up, I dug through the drawerto grab some marijuana. Nothing goes.
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