Cast List :
Frank Johnson: thirties; Sergeant; stoic; unofficial father to his men.
Rob Atkins: early twenties; frantic joker; broken.
Nipper Reid: Sapper; early twenties; proudly Welsh; dreamer; cod philosopher
Willie Macintosh: Corporal; late twenties; Scot; tough and fiery
Bobby Wilkie: Lance Corporal; late twenties; Scot; Ying to Macintosh’s Yang
Ryan Carter: Sapper; late teens; baby of the group; best friend of Davey
Drayman: fifties; hardworking; honest
Pilot & several radio voices
FADE IN:
INT. AIRBORNE HERCULES TRANSPORTER PLANE. DAWN.
The rumbling sounds of the airborne Hercules fail to move SERGEANT FRANK JOHNSON sitting silently strapped to his seat in full dress uniform. He stares rigidly at an ornate coffin draped in the Union Flag. Five other men are also seated around the coffin. No words are exchanged amid the repetitive hum of the aircraft.
(silence)
The sound of the airborne Hercules immediately ceases and a sound not dissimilar to that of a man in freefall envelops the aircraft. Nobody reacts. This is as familiar to the men as the sounds of the aircraft in flight.
(silence)
Again the sound of a man in freefall breaks the silence.
(silence)
The sound of a single unseen fly now fills the aircraft. No other noise is heard. Some of the men start to react.
MONTAGE:
Johnson continues to stare intently at nothing but the red of the flag.
ATKINS frantically searches, with eyes only, for the fly, similarly rigid.
NIPPER is daydreaming, oblivious to the fly, the flag or the others.
MACINTOSH picks at the buttons on his dress uniform. Looking down for the noise.
WILKIE stares slightly upwards to where he thinks the noise is coming from, also picking at his dress uniform.
CARTER blinks repetitively, unable to shake the noise of the fly or take his eyes from the coffin
The aircraft intercom crackles into life and the noise of the fly instantly disappears.
PILOT
(voice only)
Royal Engineer Military Bearer Party Number One. Military Bearer Party Number One. This is Flight Lieutenant Amies speaking. We will shortly be landing at RAF Brize Norton where it is a cool 7 degrees centigrade and conditions are set changeable for the day. Estimated time of arrival is 0721 hours. Please secure all cargo for landing. Communication Ends.
Johnson glances up from the Union Flag toward his men. As one they snap their heads back to the front and ready themselves, adjusting dress uniforms and straightening ties and berets. The sound of the extending landing gears of the aircraft seems to synchronise with their preparations.
EXT. RAF BRIZE NORTON. 0720 HOURS.
The rumblings of the plane can be heard before it punches through the cloud. A reception committee of a single lone piper, chaplain and hearse awaits the landing, standing silently in the breeze just off of the runway. The kilt of the piper and the chaplain’s robes struggle with the wind.
INT. TAXIING HERCULES TRANSPORTER PLANE. RAF BRIZE NORTON. 0721 HOURS.
As the plane halts and the noise from its propeller’s slowly fade the Seatbelt Off sign pings as the men stand in unison and unclip themselves from their safety harnesses. Johnson nods to Atkins as they both silently unclip the coffin from the floor of the plane. Standing either side of the coffin the six men lift it onto their shoulders and stare intently at the vast, closed, cargo door.
EXT. RAF BRIZE NORTON. DAYBREAK.
The chaplain battles the wind and stands before the cavernous cargo door as it slowly opens. The lone piper’s rendition of Amazing Grace cuts through the air as sunlight battles through the clouds. The hearse is now on the runway and ready to receive the coffin, its tiny open rear door dwarfed by the vast mechanism of the airplane’s.
INT. HERCULES TRANSPORTER PLANE. RAF BRIZE NORTON. DAYBREAK.
Chinks of sunlight begin to cut through the interior of the plane as the cargo door continues the long process of opening. The men are as statues holding the coffin. The sunlight and piper’s lament now fill the plane. Johnson takes in the scene that awaits them on the runway and draws a silent single breath.
JOHNSON
Come on boys, let’s get Davey home.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN.
INT. BOLD DRAGOON PUBLIC HOUSE, CARTERTON, NEAR RAF BRIZE NORTON, LUNCHTIME THE SAME DAY.
The low groans and muffled mumblings of a busy lunchtime pub crowd see the same six men from the Hercules seated around a wooden table close to the bar. Their dress uniforms are as messy as the empty pint pots and half-finished lagers that fill the table.
ATKINS
(gulping his pint)
So where’s Davey gone now, Sarge?
JOHNSON
(sipping his)
John Radcliffe.
ATKINS
John who!!??
JOHNSON
(sighs)
Local hospital, their mortuary until Thursday then we travel up to Glasgow –
WILKIE
(cheering)
Glasgow. Come on!
MACINTOSH
(joins in cheering, holds pint aloft)
Aye, the City of Reality.
JOHNSON
(ignores them, continues)
We travel up to Glasgow on Thursday for the service on Saturday.
ATKINS
(dismissively)
Well, Davey’s got a pretty decent excuse for not getting them in but it’s not my round and I can still taste desert. Who’s getting ‘em in? Nipper? Nah! Not you, Boyo, they don’t do Welsh translations this far from whatever pit village it is that you come from. Wilko! Mac! They take Scottish Monopoly money in here, you know. Do you need a hand to open those wallets of yours? What about the boy soldier, Carter? You old enough to finish that, lad?
CARTER
(smirking)
Piss off Rob.
Atkins slams his empty pint pot down onto the table as if challenging or pleading with the group, casting his eyes frantically for a response.
JOHNSON
(rising slowly from his seat)
It’s my turn.
(sighs)
It’s always my turn.
Johnson slams his wallet down onto the table amid cheers from all of the group.
JOHNSON
Give us a hand, Nipper.
Nipper and Frank sidle up to the bar as Atkins follows them.
NIPPER
So what’s a Dragoon then, Sarge?
ATKINS
(butting in over Nipper’s shoulder)
Your mum, that’s who! She’s a right dragon so all the men in your valley tell me, very accommodating and –
NIPPER
DRAGOON! Not dragon, you prat. The name of this pub, see? The Bold Dragoon.
(musing)
Still, I’m very proud of the Welsh Dragon, me, very proud indeed. I’m proud of my mam too. Raised eight of us she did, all alone she was. Very proud indeed.
ATKINS
(winking at Nipper)
Couldn’t have been that alone if she had eight kids. What was her bedroom door? A revolving one?
(pause)
Failing to get a reaction from Nipper, Atkins greedily grabs his pint from the counter and heads toward the beer garden which is adjacent to the bar and visible through the French doors.
ATKINS
(swaggering)
Miserable bastards, I’m out for a smoke.
NIPPER
(ignoring Atkins, turning to Johnson)
The Bold Dragoon. That’s the name of this pub, Sarge, isn’t it? Why’s that?
JOHNSON
(listening to Nipper but studying Atkins as he leaves)
Why’s what Nipper?
NIPPER
What’s a Dragoon? And why’s it Bold? Now The Bold Dragon I could understand, red and fiery and the like, a bit like me on a Saturday night, mind you, it’s not just Saturday’s with me -
JOHNSON
(snapping)
JESUS! Nipper, man. Give it a rest will ya? What do I look like? Google!?
Physically shrinking at the rebuke, Nipper sheepishly grabs two pints from the bar and heads back to the table. Johnson grabs the other three and turns and stops to briefly consider Atkins through the glass of the French doors, alone in the beer garden, sitting silently for once and staring at a delivery truck that has just pulled up. As the sound of the air brakes hiss through the garden and filter into the pub, Johnson sees Atkins faintly flinch upon their application. Johnson notices that Atkins cigarette has burned through to the filter and is still being held, his pint already empty. Johnson turns to walk back to the table as the rumble of the beer barrels trundling off of the lorry mix with the mumblings of the bar through the barrier of the French doors. He arrives as Wilkie and Macintosh seem to be in deep discussion.
MACINTOSH
You pull the front down first, slide your fingers to the side and hey presto.
WILKIE
Rubbish. Always the back first, you work your way around to the front.
(sneering)
Amateur.
MACINTOSH
(snorts)
Aye, and what you know about women you could write on a G-string, pal. Your knowledge of the fairer sex, Wilko is –
NIPPER
(quiet and gentle)
I shared my birthday with him, did anyone know? Same year and everything.
(musing)
Though he was all of four hours older. Very important that can be. Four hours. An awful lot can happen in four hours.
(silence)
CARTER
(dispassionately)
An awful lot can happen in four minutes.
The group fall briefly silent in collective remembrance of the particular four minutes on a roadside in Helmand Province to which Carter is referring.
MONTAGE
Voice Only – various anonymous voices set against the silent image of the group in the pub, all briefly lost in the same memory.
Papa Tango One. Papa Tango One. Request immediate Med-Evac, co-ordinates are 534 –
(radio static)
Davey! Davey! Stay with me Davey. Hold on –
(radio static)
This is F.O.B. Angus, F.O.B. Angus, repeat, I say repeat those –
(radio static)
Sarge. Sarge! We’re losing him here. Please tell them –
(radio static)
Rob, draw that fire. Rob, Rob, Rob, Rob –
(radio static)
I can’t see them. I can’t see. I can’t see –
(radio static)
WILKIE
(proudly, breaking the silence)
We were born in the same town.
MACINTOSH
(incredulously)
Same town, my arse! You were born in Airdrie, Davey was from Coatbridge. Chalk and cheese pal.
WILKIE
(pleading to the group)
Three miles!? That’s the same town in my book
MACINTOSH
(scoffing)
Ha. Like you’ve ever read one.
CARTER
(talking to himself, the group listen)
We passed bricklaying together in Chatham. Were gonna set up a nice little construction company when we got out. Had it all planned out apart from the name. Carter and Howells Limited sounds so much better than Howells and Carter Limited, doesn’t it? Has more of a ring to it, doesn’t it?
(closing eyes)
Well, I mean, it did.
(opening eyes, raising voice)
It did!
(blinking, whispering)
Did.
Johnson leans over towards Carter and silently nods. A gentle smile is returned by Carter. Johnson checks the rest of the group and stands again, moving towards the French Doors.
EXT. BEER GARDEN. BOLD DRAGOON. LUNCHTIME.
Atkins sits alone in the beer garden. Motionless. The noise of the beer barrels rolling from the ramp of the lorry seems to hold his attention. A sweaty DRAYMAN struggles to push a barrel over the cobbled stones of the beer garden toward the open door of the cellar, situated to the side of Atkins. Once the drayman reaches the cellar door he kicks the barrel down another ramp and it is swallowed by darkness. Atkins remains silently transfixed by the process.
(silence)
The imperceptible sound of a man in freefall once again fills the air. The drayman continues his delivery, oblivious to this noise.
(silence)
The sound of a freefalling man returns.
(silence)
Atkins slowly stands. The drayman walks toward him roughly kicking the barrel along the cobble stones. Atkins blocks the path of the drayman, thus blocking the barrel to the cellar drop.
ATKINS
(quiet menace)
Oi. You. This is my fucking beer. Not yours.
DRAYMAN
(confused, taken aback)
Er, yes? Hello. Are you signing for this lot then?
ATKINS
(through pursed lips)
These barrels, these beers. They’re not yours.
DRAYMAN
(nervously)
OK, then. If you say so. Can I have a signature then?
ATKINS
(a single tear forms in the corner of his eye)
These barrels you’re chucking about. You need to take more care.
DRAYMAN
(sympathetic)
Whatever you say mate.
(studying Atkins dishevelled uniform)
I’m not sure, I don’t know. What do you want? I’m sorry. This is my last delivery. I just need someone to sign for this drop and I’ll be gone. I’ll leave you alone. Look, I just want to get home.
(silence)
A tearful Atkins faces the fearful drayman. Atkins glances toward the French doors. The hustle and bustle of pub life continues from behind the glass but not a sound can be heard. Johnson is standing behind the glass of the French doors, observing Atkins but not moving. Atkins glances at the last barrel lying before him, ready to be pushed down the cellar. The drayman shifts nervously from foot to foot. The silence is replaced by the familiar sound of the buzzing fly. The sound of the buzzing increases. Atkins frantically looks toward the bar, then looks to the barrel, then looks to the drayman. Atkins clutches his pint pot even tighter and smashes it down onto the table, onto a single buzzing fly, squashing it and smashing the glass and cutting his hand. The buzzing instantly ceases as the blood starts to trickle over the fly, onto the table and onto the cobble stones. Broken glass and blood sprinkle the last barrel.
ATKINS
(smiling, chuckling)
I can’t sign for them, now, can I?
(raises his bloodied right hand)
I need another pint.
The drayman stands there. Stunned by Atkins immediate return to calm and confused by the situation, he cannot draw his eyes away from the bloodied hand.
ATKINS
(noticing the drayman’s stare)
You wanna go home?
The drayman can do nothing but nod in mute agreement to this request.
ATKINS
I’ll put this barrel away. I’ll put it away carefully. We got a deal then?
DRAYMAN
(confused)
Er, I really don’t, I, well…
The drayman watches Atkins turn towards the table.
ATKINS
(Looking at the squashed fly)
Gotcha.
FADE OUT
Performance Time – 35 minutes and 45 seconds
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