It’s strange but true.
If I had any guts I’d shoot myself.
You may be interested to know I have an unlicensed Brno rifle and a side by side multichoke. My kitchen drawers are swimming in shells. So much for “Responsible Keeper.”
My best friend, now dead and buried in the ash pits of God-awful Lanarkshire, explained it to me:
“ He was too old, it was too much, he couldn’t start again.”
I am a first rate shot.
In the school’s corps in 1971 we were given WD 303s and two-foot bayonets. We loved it. We couldn’t run. We fell over our webbing and the bayonets were longer than our thigh bones and dug into our calves yet we were ready to shoot any bastard (German) that dared to take us on.
Another dead friend visited me out of the blue in 1980. He was RUC. Can you believe it? He had medals and a citation and a Colt 45 automatic in his pocket. I was on that long vac between first and second year at Trinity. I had returned in triumph. I didn’t tell anyone the truth. That it was shit; a disaster.
Easter and summer, I had come back to Perthshire , I was 21 and what a conquering twat I was .
We walked to a field and let off at the rabbits and rats.
Twang!
It’s a cross between bang! And twing!
The shell came out the side and hit me in the head.
I never understood it.
I thought he had shot me in the head.
Eight moths later he was “killed in action.”
They tortured him and booby-trapped his body with gelignite.
He was the Catholics’ Catholic.
You could not have met a bigger Pape.
They sent a robot out to collect his body. The robot cut the wires and brought him back.