The Assessment

And about frigging time, too.
The car was hotter than hell. A total oven. Bloody aircon hadn’t worked since he’d bought the shitting box of rust, but at least the effing thing carried him there—eventually.
Jenks screeched the car to a halt at the barrier and killed the engine to stop the dark blue exhaust fumes fouling the otherwise-crystal-clear atmosphere. Then he waited as patiently as possible, forcing himself not to drum his fingers on the steering wheel. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping to chill, centre himself, but it didn’t work.
He hated screwing up. Hated waiting, too.
Although keen to make a good impression, he’d missed the start window by over half an hour, and he’d left home in plenty of time, too. Chuffing holiday traffic and road works on the M6 screwed him over, big time. Bloody M5 wasn’t much better, and as for the frigging A4103—a complete and utter joke. An “A” road? Bollocks. he’d driven over farm tracks with fewer potholes.
Fuming at the added delay, he stretched his lips into a pleasant smile and rolled down the side window. A blast of hot air scorched his face.

Jeez, it’s hot out there.
Way cooler than even a winter’s day in Helmand Province, though. He needed to remember to keep hydrated, especially as there were a yomp or two in store early on. “Be prepared for heavy exercise,” the assessment’s instructions said.
Yeah, well Big Jenks was always prepped and ready for action. Always was—always would be. The name of his game.
Movement inside the guardhouse caught his eye.

Here he comes.
A redcap, colour sergeant, all spit, polish, and bluster. The buffoon was heavily armed with a weapons-grade, military clipboard, ready to cause untold, physical damage.

Watch out for them paper cuts, Colours.
Jenks hid his smirk and a snort behind a raised hand, designed to cover the forced cough.
Redcaps never did take kindly to soldiers taking the piss.
The old boy carried a jellyroll of blubber around his waist, and he favoured his right leg. The scarring over his left eye and a cauliflower left ear announced him as either an ex-boxer or he played rugby back in the day. Either way, he’d clearly seen action, but not recently. The bloke must have been pushing fifty, fifty-five easy. Closing in on retirement with a mind-numbing security posting out in the sticks. Couldn’t blame him, really. Ending military service with a nice, cushy billet must have been every old soldier’s wet dream. Pity Jenks couldn’t have hung on for another twelve years to draw a decent pension, but the arseholes wouldn’t let that happen.
The powers that be had decided he were “Surplus to military requirements”. Yeah, him and a quarter of his brigade. Moronic, short-sighted politicians and their defence cuts hacking so deep. The arseholes basically told him to fuck off back to civvy street. Then they left him with nothing more than a “Thank you for your service” and a severance cheque barely big enough to cover a decent knees-up at the Royal Oak—his local boozer.

Them’s the breaks, Big Jenks.
On the other hand, the tasty barmaid’s contented smile in her bedroom the following morning made up for his lightning-fast demob into civvy life, at least partially. The woman’s responses to his ongoing, amorous attentions and her enduring gratitude for his skills between the sheets made him smile, too.
Yep, that was Big Jenks sure enough. Always ready for a little hand-to-hand combat.

Too bloody right!
But that were six months back. Hardly found a decent day’s work since. Government handouts didn’t do much more than cover the cost of bog roll, which was why he were there, in the back of beyond, cap-in-hand, begging for work at the only military contractor still hiring. Fucking economy in the toilet had hit every industry the world over.

Life is such a Goddamned ball ache.
Still, he was ready for anything the DefTech beggars were going to throw at him. Kept himself fit and healthy, he did. Big Jenks, they called him, and it wasn’t just because he were hung like a horse. Didn’t have no problem finding references, neither. All anyone had to do was ask the barmaid from the Royal Oak.

Ha! Now, let’s see what DefTech has in store for yours truly.
The colour sergeant pulled on his pristine, Royal Military Police cap with its red cover—hence their nickname, redcaps—and glanced in the mirror hanging on the back of the guardroom door. Checking it were straight before opening up and stepping out into the stifling heat. A wispy, silver moustache pushed out from his upper lip, looking like the slime trail from a slug. Not a great image if he wanted to impress. Probably just started growing it to build some kudos ahead of his retirement.

Who gave him permission to grow the daft thing?
The redcap turned the corner and marched past the barrier towards Jenks, trying his best to hide the fact he were nothing but a gimp. As he approached, he ran his right index finger down the form attached to his clipboard. Checking off names.
The old boy stopped alongside Jenks’ open window and sniffed as though Jenks were giving off a bad smell. Sod that, he had a shower that morning. Used deodorant and everything. In the aroma department, Jenks were okay. In the time-keeping department, though, he were a bag of excrement as far as the military were concerned.

Okay, Big Jenks, best behaviour. Smile, but don’t make it look too cocky.
“Corporal Stanley Philip Jenkinson, formerly of 16 Air Assault Brigade, I assume?”
He stared down his nose at Jenks, acting like he’d trodden on a steaming lump of dog turd, but his tone were bored and impatient, rather than aggressive.
“Yes, Colour Sergeant,” Jenks answered, keeping his voice level, non-committal but keen. It weren’t easy getting the right balance, but Jenks could have chosen a career in acting, if he wanted to. Might still do, if he failed this gig. Not that he’d fail, of course. Big Jenks never failed at nothing he really wanted.
“Good guess,” he added. “You must have my car registration on that form, right?”
“No, son,” he said, smirking and starting to take the piss, “you’re the last one to arrive. Black mark already.” He tutted, shook his head, and made a mark on the form with his pen. “The captain won’t be impressed with tardiness.”

Tardiness? Jesus. Been reading a thesaurus, have we, Colours? Send you on pre-retirement, education courses, did they?
“I’m betting you won’t last ’til lunchtime,” he said, after checking the time on his watch and marking it down against Jenks’ name—and making sure Jenks saw him do it.

Arsehole.
Jenks considered giving him the harrowing tale of the hideous journey, but why bother? He weren’t nothing but a bleeding glorified doorman. “The other candidates made it on time,” he’d have said. “You should have left earlier. No sympathy in this man’s navy.” So, Jenks kept his mouth shut and waited until he could toady up to the captain, whoever the fuck he were. The paperwork summoning him to the job interview didn’t give many details away. Date, time, location, and “Rough-terrain PT gear essential”. Bugger all else. The instructions didn’t even say how long the tests would take. At least overnight and maybe the whole weekend. No matter. Jenks were that good, if he got past the jobsworth redcap, and the “tardiness” tag, he were bound to make it ’til the end.

Good candidate, me. One of the best they’ll ever trial.
“Sorry, Colour Sergeant. My mistake for being late, but I’ve got a hundred quid that says I’ll be the last man standing. What odds are you giving?”
“Arrogant, little sod.”
The slug’s trail twitched into a stiff smile. Jenks was clearly getting to him, warming him up. The old, Big Jenks charm. Worked every time.
“I’ll take two-to-one,” he said to the old boy in the red-cap cover.
“No gambling allowed on the ship.”

Ship?
Jenks looked around, taking in the Royal Navy Shore Training Establishment, HMS Tillingford. It weren’t particularly impressive. Nothing but an ancient airfield, built for WWII, surrounded by a rusting, chain-link fence topped with shiny, new coils of razor wire. Seven single-storey buildings—some little more than wooden huts—and a large, brick-built, two-storey monstrosity, surrounded a concrete, drill square. Typical Royal Navy. How come they called land-based training bases HMS—Her Majesty’s Ships? This place were set in the foot of a valley surrounded by thickly wooded hills. No signs of water. Not even a lake or a river. No open water anywhere, but they still called it a ship?

Pretentious arseholes.
The old colour sergeant turned and pointed to a bunch of cars off to the right. “Park your jalopy over there”—his arm arced to the left and targeted the two-storey building on the far side of the drill square—“and then get yourself over to the main admin block, double-time.”
“Thanks, Colour Sergeant,” Jenks said.

After all, no harm in being polite, is there?
He reached for the ignition key, hoping the engine wouldn’t let him down, when the old boy leaned closer to the open window.
“Want some advice, son?” he said, lowering his voice and fixing Jenks with a pair of steel-grey eyes.
“Always happy to take guidance from my betters, Colour Sergeant.”
Jenks could schmooze with the best of them.
The redcap gave him a sideways look that said he weren’t buying it for a moment. “Don’t keep the captain waiting any longer, or he’ll tear you a new one.”
“Really?”
Some retired, rum-swilling, navy captain were gonna tear him a new arsehole?

Yeah, right.
“Don’t look at me like that, sonny-boy. Captain Kaine’s fair, but he doesn’t take kindly to malingerers wasting his time.”
“Big Jenks ain’t no malingerer, Colour Sergeant.”
He tapped his clipboard against his leather-covered wristwatch, telling Jenks time was a-passing, but gathering information were important. It might give him an edge and, as the old boy said, Jenks were already a little “tardy”.
“Captain Kaine? Don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. The captain isn’t one to seek publicity. Not like others I could mention.”

Colour me intrigued.
“This Captain Kaine. Tough cookie?”
“Tougher than you, son. Tougher than most.”

Bollocks.
As if there were anyone tougher than Big Jenks. He kept his face straight and nodded like he were taking the redcap’s warning seriously.
“I’ll bear that in mind, Colour Sergeant. Ta very much.”
“What are you waiting for, then? Get a move on. The other candidates are most likely in the gym by now, listening to the briefing.”
The redcap manually raised the barrier, and Jenks turned the ignition key. Thankfully, his luck finally held and the ancient Fiat’s gutless engine caught first time. He crunched it into first gear and pointed the bonnet towards the car park.
After hiding the embarrassing Fiat behind a top-of-the-range Audi A4 and making a mad dash across the drill square, toting his backpack, Jenks ducked into the nearest latrine to change. He’d brought along standard PT fatigues—green T-shirt, black shorts, black trainers, no socks. He didn’t need socks, because his feet never blistered. Then he hot-footed it to the gym, following the oh-so-helpful signs. Hand-written they were, real amateurish. What the hell had he let himself in for?
Before barging inside, he pressed his ear to the door panel. A bloke were talking, but his voice didn’t carry well, and he were too quiet for Jenks to hear properly.

Sod it, here goes nothing. Need this job, me.
The hinges squealed loud and harsh as he pushed his way through the double doors. Eight heads turned to find out who were disturbing them. The ninth, standing in front of the others, was still talking. He were short, slim—bordering on scrawny, the runt of any litter—and late thirties or maybe early forties. His face were kind of harsh, but some might call it handsome. Jenks wouldn’t, ’cause Big Jenks didn’t see blokes that way. The scrawny guy didn’t look in Jenks’ direction, didn’t break his rhythm.
“—all come highly recommended, and I’ve vetted most of you myself. So, I don’t expect anyone to find the assault course too taxing, not while you’re fresh. Just familiarise yourselves with the layout to begin with.” The scrawny bloke paused to scan his audience before carrying on. “Over the next two or three days, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to learn its special peculiarities, but for the first run, we won’t even be putting you on the clock. Think of it as a pre-trial exercise. A meet-and-greet. Competition will come later.”
Still in the doorway, Jenks snapped to a smart but silent attention. Waiting.
“You have thirty minutes to warm up,” the little guy continued. “After that, gather at the start of the course. Private Simms will lead the way. Dismissed.”
The five men standing in a straight line dressed right and fell out. Then they trooped into one corner and were taken through a series of standard stretches by the one called Simms—a tall, thickset guy in his late twenties. The candidates, Jenks’ competition, were well-muscled and look pretty fit. Each gave off a testosterone-rich vibe.
They may have been his competition, but they weren’t intimidating. Not in the least.
After a few moments watching and studying, Jenks had seen enough to know he could take each one of them with one hand tied to his crotch. One—the largest—might have caused him to break into a sweat. As for the other four? They were no hopers. Cannon fodder. A waste of space. Jenks didn’t know why they’d even bothered to turn up.
The other two men, one of whom were an absolute monster, a real giant, were dressed head-to-toe in dark blue, the same as the runt—T-shirts showing DefTech logos, long shorts, ankle socks, and trainers. They gathered around the little guy and were clearly the DefTech assessment team Jenks needed to impress.

C’mon now, Big Jenks. Best behaviour.
Finally, the three men in blue turned and fixed their beady eyes on him.
Runt were shorter than the other two by a good eight and ten centimetres. In fact, next to André the Giant, he weren’t far off being classed as a dwarf.
André must have been pushing fifty, and he were massive all over. Shoulders you could land a helicopter on, a full head of dark hair in a military buzz-cut, and a huge, black beard, navy style. Jenks guessed André were Captain Kaine. The bloke the redcap gimp said would be able to tear Jenks a new arsehole.

We’ll see about that.
He were big, but old, and probably half Jenks’ speed, especially in terms of reaction time. Could Jenks take him?

Hell yes.
The third guy were a six-footer and lithe—another fit-looking dude. He had mid-length, blond hair and deep blue eyes, but his skin were smooth and wrinkle free. Damn it, the guy looked like he should still be in school—sixth form at best.
Jenks waited and watched them staring at him, and it didn’t take long for Jenks to realise that he were pissing up the wrong trouser leg. The way André and the schoolkid were deferring to the little one made it clear that he were the geezer in charge.

Bugger me sideways, Runt is Captain Kaine!
What were all the fucking bullshit? A puff of wind would have put the little guy flat on his arse.
Redcap must have been yanking Jenks’ chain. This were total bullshit. Jenks were half-expecting a TV crew to pop out of the woodwork and tell him he’d been Punk’d.
After a full minute’s silence, Captain Runt approached, frowning, all deep and serious, like. André and Schoolkid followed half a pace behind.
In the background, Private Simms were balancing on one leg, demonstrating a quads stretch. He’d angled himself so he could eye Jenks without turning his head. The candidates was pretending not to watch or earwig, but Jenks could tell they was.

So what? Let ’em.
“You’ll be Corporal Jenkinson?” Captain Runt asked, stopping three metres back, keeping more than an arm’s length away for safety. “Not impressed with your time-keeping, Corporal. Stand easy.”
Jenks stamped his left foot shoulder-width away from the right and clasped his hands behind his back, thumbs interlocked, palms open. Although standing at ease, he remained stiff-shouldered and tense, prepared for action. If this were all for Punk’d, he’d make it look good for the cameras. A real-life show pony, that were Jenks.
“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”
Runt stood still, brown eyes studying Jenks closely. Jenks couldn’t tell what Runt were thinking, which was weird. Jenks could normally tell what was going on inside people’s heads. His old squad buddies used to reckon Jenks were part psychic. Some tried calling him “Wizard”, but he’d soon stomped that out of them.

It’s Big Jenks or nothing.
“If you’re unable to make the assessment session on time, how reliable can you be? Tell me why I shouldn’t send you packing right away.”

Fuck.
“As I said, sir, I’m really sorry …” He worked through his explanation, struggling to strike the right balance between apologetic and keen, and finished with a plea, “I need this job, sir. Please give me a chance.”
During the explanation, André stepped alongside the captain.
“What do you think, Sergeant?” Captain Runt asked the big bugger. “Think he’s worth a second chance?”
André’s beard bristled as he creased up his face. “Not sure, Captain. Doesn’t look like much. Seems a little scrawny to me. Might not be up to it.”

Scrawny? Me? Say that to me outside, you giant bastard.
Jenks were ready to explode but, by force of control, held himself in check. Just about. If these arseholes thought they could wind him up, he’d show them how cool Big Jenks could be.
Captain Runt drilled Jenks with another appraising look before turning back to André. “Don’t remember reading his application, Sergeant. Who put him on the list and when?”
“Major Valence added his details yesterday afternoon, boss.”
“An afterthought, eh?”
André smirked.

I’ll teach you to smirk at me, dickhead. Just you fucking wait.
The captain nodded and turned to face Jenks again. His eyes were hard, calculating. Weighing up Jenks’ worth.

Time to pull my big nuts out of the fire.
“I’m no afterthought, Captain Kaine. I’m up to anything you can throw at me. Try me. I’ll beat any man here in any military test you care to set. Any man.”
Risky perhaps, arrogant probably, but he needed the job, and he weren’t backing down to no one. If the runt of a captain and his lackeys gave Jenks the chance to show what he were made of, they’d end up begging him to take the job.
The guys in the background had stopped stretching and given up all pretence at ignoring the scene. They were all looking and listening along with Simms.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age, Captain Runt nodded, said, “We’ll see,” and turned about-face. “Follow me.”
Jenks jumped to attention and fell into marching step behind him. No idea what he had in store for Jenks, but he could handle it.

Bring it on, Captain Runt.

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