Joey was small compared to the rest of them. Standing shoulder to shoulder or head to head was not an option for Joey; for him it was always head to shoulder. It wasn`t as if they were Guards either; these were transport drivers, mechanics and the like, just ordinary blokes of what was considered, average height. The fact was that Joey could only be described as being shorter than average, and then only if you were a friend of his, he was just plain short if you were not. To those that worked with him, Joey was short. REME the sign above the gate to the compound said, and to Joey, unlike most of his comrades, this meant everything: The 'Engineers' was his only true friend – Joey was neither average nor normal.
He`d enlisted as soon as he was old enough, without waiting for National Service to come calling, and was trained as a mechanic. It was in the Far East that Joey saw active service, deployed as a recovery driver and mechanic in an area so different to home and so dense with jungle that the world he had once known disappeared. The war, the climate – sometimes wet; always sweltering - meant that most men struggled to make sense of it, but to Joey it was a place to matter. And it was there, in his Scammell Explorer that he mattered: that giant of a lorry with all its winches, chains, pulleys, derrick and enormous towing bars dominated everything around it. Like a man-made goliath it defied nature - engineered confidence commanding where everything else succumbed. Joey had found the place he wanted to be - one where he towered, while the world below fought for attention.
Joey walked as he acted, as if he were being continually measured. He looked like he was on his toes all the time, although he wasn`t, or as if he was wearing heels, which he wasn`t either. Joey just stretched his body to its full extent, implausibly squeezing out every last fraction of height. Chest out, shoulders back; he used every method he knew of to appear taller. He wrapped himself in the imaginary flags of attraction; those intended to create the illusion of `bigger`. His Scammell was decorated with a motif copied from a fighter aircraft he`d once seen in a magazine, much to the chagrin of his superiors, and in it, with his arm resting on a half open window and exposed nearly to the shoulder by a tightly rolled shirt sleeve, Joey strutted. To complete the image (one Joey imagined for himself) a side arm in a webbing holster hung from his hip. But only when away from prying eyes of the compound - it was unofficial, he told all those he met. He was glad of it, he would say, as it had got him out of many a scrape, out there alone, as he often was. They usually nodded, rarely believed him, and without fail, sniggered behind his back.
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From a recovery point of view, the job seemed straightforward enough. A Bedford four-tonner, heading back from a combat zone close to an enemy held part of the country, had gone off the side of a track about 10 miles out and needed pulling from a ditch. The trouble was the reason it was in there in the first place. A sniper had hit the radiator and in the ensuing panic the driver had left the road. His frantic efforts to get out of the ditch had cooked the engine and the vehicle, though, thankfully, not its occupants, was effectively dead.
Volunteers they called them, those that would brave sniper fire to rescue the four-tonner and its crew. No one, of course, came forward from the ranks that morning. The major scanned their faces but no one so much as flinched, or met his eyes, as he looked along the line. There was the company heavyweight boxing champion, at least six feet tall and built to destroy - the fit, the crafty, the lazy, the comedians and the new ones, they were all there, at eye level and staring blankly ahead. “Where`s Big Joey?” the major said, with a grin that was straightaway matched by all those who stood before him. Joey, in his usual place, under a lorry and covered in oil, was soon found and dispatched; his Scammell, trundling out of the compound, soon disappeared, enveloped in the green.
It didn`t take long for Joey to find the stricken lorry, and as he climbed from his cab, a weary looking and somewhat bedraggled figure ran towards him in a sort of half crouch, and with his head down. In his right hand the figure carried a revolver which was attached to his belt by a lanyard. Two pips were just about visible on the right shoulder of his sweat ridden battle dress. Other figures, equally damp and dishevelled, huddled around the vehicle's wheels, some kneeling, some laying but all with their rifles at the ready. Joey walked with the lieutenant back to his vehicle, their heads at the same height: Joey on his toes the other man virtually on his knees. “Keep down, for God sake”, someone called out, “He`s still out there”. Joey looked around him, the `he` referred to was nowhere to be seen, as far as he could see, anyway.
Joey tried to start the lorry but the information he had been given was right, it was completely unserviceable. “You blokes seen some action?” Joey said, looking at the small group of men in admiration. No one answered, they just looked at each other and then back at the surrounding jungle, warily, retaining their defensive positions. “Where were you going?” Joey tried again. “The pub then home for dinner”, one said, and they all chuckled. “Back to normality”, said another, “Away from this hell-hole”. “You wish”, the officer was smiling, “We`ve been pulled back for a bit of R `n` R, then it`s back up there, I`m afraid”, he said. The men muttered. “What I`d give to be back home, lovely safe job and a weekend away with the missus now and again, in a B `n` B by the sea”, someone said. There were a few murmurs of agreement.
Joey went back to the Scammell and returned with some rope, shackles and the end of the heavy wire cable from the Scammell`s winch. The others stayed put and looked on. It would be no good trying to pull the Bedford directly, as it was at right angles to the track, so Joey rigged a pulley system from the back of the Scammell, via a tree opposite the Bedford, and onto the Bedford`s front axle. To the wonder and considerable fascination of the small group hiding beside their lorry, he then proceeded to tie a number of the trees beside the track together, linking them to the one opposite the Bedford, the one to which he had previously attached a swivel block. Then, with Joey back at the controls, the Scammell`s engine revved and the cable tightened. The trees groaned and began to shift, straining on their feeble roots, but before long the Bedford was back up on the track; all be it still at ninety degrees to the required direction. After coaxing the Bedford`s driver back into his seat, and after instructing him to put his foot hard on the brake, Joey pulled the vehicle`s front round on its sliding, locked wheels and the Bedford was back in line. While Joey hitched it to the rear of the Scammell, the other men ran from cover and with great relief, climbed aboard.
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The lorry was soon in the workshop and the unfortunate group of soldiers back on their onward journey to some well earned respite. Joey, sweating in the humidity of a makeshift canvas cover, was getting stuck into removing the engine`s cylinder head to inspect the damage. The other mechanics went about their business not wishing to catch Joey`s eye and be subjected, once again, to the story of how he had rescued a ditched lorry and fought his way out of the jungle, under the withering fire of a hidden sniper.
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