Fever (Flu) by Wayne Simmons

don’t want you to think you can half-arse your way through it.”
    The Sarge stopped and looked a particularly spotty young lad up and down, shook his head, then moved on. Ciaran stole a glance at Grady beside him. “Fuckin’ tit,” the other lad whispered. Stifled laughter filled their end of the line.
    The Sarge looked sternly in his direction, but Ciaran kept his eyes looking forward, his face straight. The Sarge stepped in front of Ciaran.
    “Something funny, boy?” he said.
    “No, sir.”
    “Well, why are you laughing?”
    “I’m not laughing, sir.”
    The Sarge held his gaze on Ciaran, sizing him up. He moved on, staring suspiciously at each man he passed.
    He reached Grady, stopped. “Something funny, Grady?” he said.
    “No, sir.”
    “Well, wipe that smirk off your ugly face then, boy. Cos I’ll tell you this—none of you cunts have anything to be laughing about.”
    He turned to address them all, then continued. “It may have bypassed you clowns, but it’s getting pretty ugly out there, and you’re going to be dealing with it sooner rather than later. It’s my job to make sure that when you’re faced with a tough call to make you’ve all got the strength of character and bloody fucking training to make it. Cos a laughing solider is a nervous soldier, and the army is no place for nerves. You hear me?”
    “Yes, sir!” Ciaran called in unison with the others.
    “Good,” the Sarge replied, sizing the men up as he paced the line again.
    “Now, I’ve got something very special in store for you ladies today,” he boomed, marching down the line again. “This exercise is known as Fighting In Built Up Areas. FIBUA for short. We’ve kitted the range out with makeshift buildings and obstacles. It’s not exactly Baghdad; a little imagination and improvisation might still be required on your part...” The Sarge stopped at Polish Ron, the new recruit standing proudly, eyes straight ahead, wearing the white boiler suit he had been given as a uniform. “But you bozos know all about improvisation,” he added then laughed.
    “In your hands is an SA80 assault rifle,” he continued. “Standard weapon of the British Army. Let me remind you that this is your gun. She belongs to no one else, so I want you to look after her.”
    The Sarge stopped in front of a young lad with blonde highlights and earrings. Ciaran didn’t recognise him. He wore a white boiler suit like Polish Ron’s. His eyes were watering. A gun rested awkwardly in his hands, like it might explode any minute. The Sarge looked at the lad with disdain, shook his head then progressed on down the line.
    “I ain’t gonna give you any bullshit about this rifle being your best friend, your lover or any other war movie bullshit,” he continued. “But you need to become familiar with her. You will need to strip, clean and reassemble her and do it quickly.
    “Most of you already know some of the basics. You’ve taken her for a walk, marching around this godforsaken camp like a pack of queers. Some of you have even been firing live ammo on the range. But today, ladies, is a very special day. Today, you’ll get the chance to actually use your mother-fucking gun.” The Sarge’s eyes widened, a smile breaking across his lips. “Does that excite you?”
    A low murmur along the line.
    “I can’t hear you!” roared the Sarge. “Are you ladies excited?!”
    “Yes, sir!” the recruits returned.
    “Good!” The Sarge barked back.
    He reached the end of the line, turned and proceeded to walk back down it.
    “Now, on the muzzle of your SA80 you’ll notice an attachment. This is to stop you idiots from killing each other. You’ll be firing blanks for this exercise, not live ammo.” His voice lowered as he added, “Thank God.” Another low murmur throughout the line, this time amusement. “You’ll be dealing with all kinds of shit when you’re out on those streets,” the Sarge boomed, “and I don’t want any of you jokers