When I was contacted about taking part in The Weekenders blog tour, I knew I wasn't in a position to read the latest from David F. Ross as my reading mojo is still very hit and miss but I still wanted to show my support for the author and his publisher. So today I have an extract which you can read below but first a little about the book.
Glasgow, 1966: Stevie 'Minto' Milloy, former star footballer-turned-rookie reporter, finds himself trailing the story of a young Eastern European student whose body has been found on remote moorland outside the city. How did she get there from her hostel at the Sovereign Grace Mission, and why does Stevie find obstacles at every turn?
Italy, 1943: As the Allies fight Mussolini's troops, a group of young soldiers are separated from their platoon, and Glaswegian Jamesie Campbell, his newfound friend Michael McTavish at his side, finds himself free to make his own rules…
Glasgow, 1969: Courtroom sketch artist Donald 'Doodle' Malpas is shocked to discover that his new case involves the murder of a teenage Lithuanian girl he knows from the Sovereign Grace Mission. Why hasn't the girl's death been reported? And why is a young police constable suddenly so keen to join the mission?
No one seems willing to join the dots between the two cases, and how they link to Raskine House, the stately home in the Scottish countryside with a dark history and even darker present – the venue for the debauched parties held there by the rich and powerful of the city who call themselves 'The Weekenders'.
‘Hey, Jamesie … How ye, big man?’
Jamesie Campbell recognises the voice despite having spent limited time with its owner.
‘Aye,’ he replies. Languid. Indifferent. ‘How’s yersel?’
Michael McTavish sidles over. ‘Good. Bloody cauld though, eh?’ ‘It’s winter, int’it? Whit d’ye expect?’
‘Italy though. Thought it’d be sunny.’
Jamesie Campbell can’t decide whether McTavish is joking. Or a halfwit. Either way, he is the first person to have spoken to Jamesie with any civility in weeks. They are to be together for the time being.
The unopposed advance through the heel and up the lower calf of Italy began in icy winds and torrential rain. It has ended a week after it started, in freezing-cold blizzards. Jamesie has kept his head down. Apprehensive of those who might have heard about his history. The army’s version, as opposed to his own. The mutiny at Salerno. Shipped back to Algeria. Imprisoned. Court-martialled. Facing nine years penal servitude. Repealed at the last minute. Commuted to continuous duty in the frontline. And now, re turned to an operation he and 190 other mutineers had allegedly refused to join only two months earlier.
The massed troops of the Allied Forces’ Eighth Army hit German resistance near Campobasso. They attempted to cross the River Sangro. Heavy rain burst the banks and they are now forced to construct a new means of doing so. The exhausted ranks have dug in. They are occupying the buildings and outhouses of a small school and are awaiting further orders about the advance north. Jamesie Campbell, Michael McTavish and a handful of others are directed towards a block of toilets.
‘There you go, ladies.’ Their new sergeant is a thick-lipped, moustachioed bull. Like so many who occupy the rank, not one to be messed with.
The men file in. The tiled floor is ponding in the middle. They shuffle and jostle for the drier edges. Including one along the trough urinals.
‘Right, you dozy fucktards. Oh five hundred hours. Up and at these Kraut bastards!’
‘Sir, yessir!’
‘This should suit you down to the ground, Campbell.’ The ser geant points at Jamesie. He knows what coming. ‘A shitehouse for a fucking cowardly shitebag, eh?’
Too close to the bone. But Jamesie internalises the rage.
‘Sir,’ Jamesie acknowledges. The sergeant leaves.
‘What’s that mean?’ Jamesie hears it. Whispered but audible. Cat’s out the bag. His new comrades eye him suspiciously. Jamesie has the rank. His shoulder proves it. But the sergeant has just stripped him of his advantage. Only one thing for it. ‘Afore any cunt wants a pop, here’s the real story.’ Jamesie is still standing. Still wears full battle dress. Helmet on. Backpack on. Rifle – a soldier’s closest friend – by his side. Arms straight. Fists balled. Ready for a fight.
The other men are now seated. Prime spots already taken. It means he will need to bunk down on the deepest part of the puddle, but compared to what he has been through recently, that is almost literally just a piece of piss.
‘Ah was wi’ the Fifty-First, in Sicily.’
‘Were ye?’ says Michael McTavish. ‘Didnae know that. Me tae.’ Jamesie stares. Holds the stare. Daring another word. Silence. He continues. ‘Caught fucken dysentery. Sent back tae hospital in Tripoli. Then oan tae transit camp 155. While ah wis there, wi’ aw the injured, an’ the nearly deid, Wimberley shows up.’ ‘The major-general?’ A Scots accent. Northern. A proper fucking Highlander.
‘Aye,’ says Jamesie. Irritated tone elevated to head off any further interruptions. ‘Wimberley says that his men should be returned tae their units. We fucken believed him. Why would we no’, eh?’
Jamesie notices a couple of head-nods in the gloomy darkness. ‘We get fixed up. Joined the draft in the middle ae September. Shipped oot an’ headin’ back ower the Med. Only nae cunt had a clue where their regiments were. Jist that they were somewhere here in fucken Italy. Right up until the boats dock, naebody tells us fuck all. But it comes clear soon enough that we’re no’ gaun back tae the units we aw came fae. We’d been fucken lied tae. Half ae they poor cunts were barely fit tae walk, yet they volunteered for that fucken draft oot ae loyalty tae their mates. Tae the Fifty First. An’ aye, tae wee fucken Monty, the devious wee bastard.’ ‘Steady on, Jock.’
‘Naw, you steady oan, sunshine. Ah’ve bottled this fucken anger for long enough. If you want the brunt ae it, then fucken come ahead!’
‘Simmer down, fella.’ An Irishman. ‘Lookit, Montgomery’s been good to many of us here.’
‘Aye well, no’ tae me, son. No’ tae me.’
Jamesie rubs his mouth. Takes water on board. Screws the lid back. Continues.
‘We’re oan the cruiser. Nae cunt knows where the fuck we’re headed, but it’s no’ bloody Sicily, that’s for sure. The first that any ae us knew the true destination wis aff the west coast ae Italy when the message comes ower the ship’s tannoy system. Gaun tae the Forty-Sixth, fightin’ alangside the fucken Yanks at Salerno. Ah cannae believe whit ah’m hearin’. Nane ae us can. We’d been taken for mugs. When we disembarked, the new recruits were marched away, an’ the veterans like me, cunts that had been fightin’ non stop for fucken years … we were aw herded intae a field. Stuck there for three days like fucken sheep. Limited rations.’
Jamesie’s neck stretches. As if his head is trying to escape the rest of his body. He sniffs. Carries on.
‘We were convinced that some stiff fucken public-school chin strap somewhere wid realise that there had been an administrative mistake an’ sort it aw out. But naw. We get ordered tae parade.
There’s been nae mistake. We’re gettin’ telt tae prepare for the orders comin’ doon the line.’
Jamesie pauses. He’s out of practice. It is the most he’s spoken in weeks. He feels the rasping tickle that usually precedes a sore throat.
‘Captain Albert Lee.’ Jamesie spits the name out. One he won’t forget. One that might be getting a few visits paid down Civvy Street. If the dishonourable bastard lasts that long. ‘He shouts, “Fall in.” Hunners dae whit they’re telt. A few ae us decide we’ve had enough. Three times Lee commands us. Fuck that! Three times the cunt’s denied. A sergeant sits doon in the field. Soon every bastard left is sittin’ doon.’
Jamesie pauses. His audience waits, uncertain if the testimony has reached an end. Silence. A low-pitched chitter-chatter from the far corner fills it. The rats’ cover is blown. Nocturnal creatures: rats, and soldiers in wartime.
Jamesie breathes deeply. Inflated, he continues. He needs to get it off his chest. They will think differently of him then. ‘Three fucken days. Stuck in a coo’field. Nae food. Nae shelter. Gettin’ barked at fae every C.O. cunt there. Whipped across the face. Battered and booted fae heid tae foot. Two hunner men, near enough. Aw got arrested for disobeyin’ orders. For refusin’ tae fight. But we wurnae refusin’ tae fight. We just wanted tae fight wi’ oor ain comrades.’
More neck stretching. More involuntary sniffing.
‘So, you’re one of the Salerno mutineers?’ A quiet Midlands voice. Its owner sounds impressed.
Jamesie nods. Still unsure of his audience.
‘Marched tae a POW camp. Locked up alongside fucken Krauts. Shipped back, tied up. Fucken Algeria again.’
He scans the shelter. Eyes have adjusted and he can see them all. Even the rats in the darker corners.
‘So that’s ma story. Any bastard in here says ah’m a coward, they’re gaun tae be oan the other end ae ma bayonet.’
‘Your pork bayonet?’ The Irishman.
Sniggers follow. And it breaks the ice. The sniggers turn to laughs. And Jamesie laughs too. For the first time in months. It is not only when faced with an enemy that soldiers learn how to survive.
‘Fair enough, Jock,’ says a Cockney accent.
‘Tough break, cocker,’ adds a Lancashire one.
‘Gor any chocolate?’ Liverpool this time. It brings another laugh. Any tension there might have been condenses and vanishes along with Jamesie’s breath.
Jamesie smiles. Then laughs again. Relieved. His commanding officers can think what they like. Only the acceptance of his com rades matters.
‘Aye,’ says Jamesie. He opens his backpack and throws a tiny square wrap into the dark corner where the Scouse accent came from.
Jamesie puts his pack down. Two inches of it disappears into a broth of sludge and pish.
He takes the helmet off. It makes a seat on top of the sodden backpack base.
The soldiers don’t sleep. They rarely sleep. Minutes stolen here and there. That’s it. They do not yet know it, but those who make it back home will never sleep soundly again.
The soldiers sit up. In the darkness. Distant church bells ringing. Even more distant gunfire. The Bible and the bullet. Italy’s dissonant bedfellows.
Jamesie’s confession has loosened lips. They keep it low. Whis pering. No-one wants to be up on a charge. They talk of war experiences in the present tense. Chapters they will not return to once the madness is over. If it ever ends. No-one else would under stand. Only comrades.
Life during wartime: only comrades matter.
Jamesie Campbell is learning the value of comradeship. And what – when fully exploited – it can achieve. He first understood its power when in the field in Salerno. Despite the knowledge that it would lead to court-martial, and, for the officers at least, the likelihood of facing a firing squad, a stance taken against perceived unfairness was a powerful galvaniser. Without leadership and di rection, it would have halted at gossip in the ranks about the idiocy of the current orders. For most of the mutineers, disloca tion from their own regiments – their comrades – only exacerbated their sense of injustice. Many simply bottled up their anger and accepted the order. But some remained seated. Defiant.
Jamesie watched all this unfold with interest. He had no desire to be returned to his regiment. He’d had his fill of war. He had killed, and almost been killed. Several times in each case. Any duty he felt towards the British military and its allies had run out. He wanted to go home. To whatever that concept even meant. Time to look after number one. So Jamesie stayed in the field as one after one, 191 disobedient men – including him – dropped to their arses. Immovable objects. Theirs, Jamesie considers, was the victory. There is power in a union.
Jamesie Campbell has a new union now. There are only ten of them, the toilet-block outcasts. But Jamesie has assumed control. He is the oldest. He’s the most experienced. Regularly demeaned by his sergeant, he has used that brutal treatment to build loyalty. To demonstrate leadership. Just as the sergeant who sat down in protest did.
Seven weeks pass. Seven weeks of military stalemate. Seven weeks hunkered down in a freezing, rat-infested outhouse. Seven weeks incorporating Christmas Day and Hogmanay, the birthdays of Jesus Christ and Jamesie Campbell; indistinguishable days save for an extra tin of bully beef from the dwindling compo ration crates. One tin to be shared between two.
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