The Our Clock

Time is their playing field.

He peered into his nearly empty thermal flask, admiring the coffee stained interior; perfect colour for a couch. The coffee was black, milk was for people who preferred the idea of coffee more than the taste. Sugar was simply unacceptable.

'Why not just have a hot chocolate with all the other girls'? There was an edge to Barry's voice as he mocked his Corporal for sweetening his brew. Barry was 24, hairline still AWOL, and in his last tour of Afghanistan. He had been a weapon technician in the RAF for eight years now. Eight tours, six hundred days of the middle east and it's almost unfixable dilemma. But he was nearly free. He knew his skills wouldn't translate to civilian street, not too many General Purpose Machine Guns to maintain in McDonalds.

'F**k you', Steve retorted with a smile, 'Why don't you go drink your bitter brew with the other old men'. Barry shared his smile, downed the last of his coffee and handed his silver thermal flask to Steve for a top up. Steve was 34, stocky and still with a full head of blonde/ginger hair that seemed to mock Barry's young, unfortunate coiffure. They both wore the new style, British desert combats. The green, brown and khaki colour of the shirt and trousers stood out against the red of their office walls. Steve's Magnum desert boots were stained at the toe from one too many wilderness pisses gone awry (he insisted on pissing outside despite the numerous porta-loo's dotted around the Joint Helicopter Force compound). Despite the Afghan heat, Steve always wore his shirt. A health enthusiast, he was was embarrassed with his portly midriff. Barry had no such hang-ups. His shirt hung on a hook at the rear of the office, he wore only a baggy khaki coloured t-shirt. His well earned beer belly easily seen bellow the cotton covering. 

Steve silently handed him his fresh coffee, and sat heavily onto the white, plastic garden chair next to the one Barry occupied. Two cot beds filled the back half of the office, by Barry's hanging shirt. The beds were used more for putting things on than actually sleeping on. On top of the beds were four bags labelled crash kit. Should one of the Merlin aircraft they worked on crash, one of the weapon technicians would head out with a team to recover it. Barry's bag was empty, he didn't take the threat seriously at all. Opposite where Barry and Steve sat was a desk. Atop the desk was where their television, playstation and various bits of paperwork called home. The television was on Q-music, taking a short musical interlude from the repetitive schedule of BFBS's programming. Their small selection of DVD's was poor. Barry considered the South Park season 13 to be an obvious highlight. But, as Steve said, everyone has hard drives these days. To the right of the desk was a fridge, it's face adorned with many a naked lady. Inside was full of various canned drinks. They sold them to the other trades that worked on Merlin Force for a profit. A pizza profit if you will. The naked lady pictures didn't stop at the fridge, the entire office was lathered with a thick layer of breast and eyes. Pictures they cut out from magazines, it more regularly led to sexual frustration than pleasure. 

There was a knock at the office door, a small ginger face peered through. Bellow a ginger moustache, a smile resided. 'Hello Boys', the welsh accent took away from the Chief Technicians authority.

'Alright Chief', Steve replied. Barry thought the Chief looked like a stereotypical leprechaun.

'Can I get some cans please', even as he asked, he began to gingerly pull two cans of Dr. Pepper from the fridge.

'Sure, help yourself', Barry and Steve exchanged a brief grin.

'Right, two cans… how much is that'? He put a dollar on the desk and waited for a response.

'It's one…', as Steve spoke the Chief began walking away, humming the opening theme to murder she wrote.

'Oh, yeah', the chief broke from his hum 'November's ready to be loaded. Toodles'. With that he was gone, the theme tune to Quantum Leap following in his wake. 

November was a tail number of one of the Merlin aircraft, it required flares before its flight. Barry rose wearily from his Garden chair, heard the slight click in his knees and put on his best Murtagh voice 'I'm too old for this s**t'!

'You're still just a pup, a sick pup but a pup none the less'. Steve joined him in standing. They both grabbed their head torches and Barry took the flare ISO key from the desks top drawer. 'I'll get a wagon, you get the tool kit'.

'Roger', Barry threw up a lazy impersonation of an American salute.

'And don't forget the no-love box'!

The no-love box was actually a no-volts box. A mk. 6 voltage detector that Weapon Technicians are supposed to use before fitting flares. The volatile nature of flares means that stray voltage could fire them off. But, like any Armourer worth his handsome paycheck, Barry had never bothered to use one. Procedure was just the official bullshit that tried to keep Barry from sitting down more often. But, just encase the worst should happen, Steve always ensured they took the box along. At least that way they'd get paid for their crispy faces if it all went wrong. And so, when Barry approached the tool stores and handed over the green weapon load tag he asked for 'The OTR kit and a no-volts box please buddy'.

'What does OTR stand for'? the young tool store man asked as he handed over Barry's request.

'I don't know, who gives a f**k'. Barry checked the contents of the kit, making sure all the tools were present, then signed the tool check sheet. He was entirely oblivious to the upset look and rather rude finger he received from the put out young tool store man. 

Outside he could hear Steve impatiently revving the engine of their transport. A battered green landrover that smelt of stale urine and various oils. The footwells were littered with empty cans from their fridge, the back was speckled with oil and a layer of greasy rags covered it's floor.