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I'd heard him talking to my mum once about the army.
        He'd joined just before the Second World War because they were going to feed him three meals a day. And I knew they educated you because my mum had said so about my brother. Aunties and uncles would say, "John's away now." My parents would reply, "Oh, yes, make a man of him."
        I'd seen all the adverts for the army-blokes on windsurfers who always seemed to have loads of money, going places and doing stuff.
        And at least it would educate me. Why not do three years, I thought, and see what it's like? My brother had enjoyed it, so why not me? If nothing else, it would get me out of London.
        As soon as the interview started, I said, "Please, I don't want to be in the shit because I want to join the army. It wasn't my idea going in the flat. I was just dragging along. They told me to keep dog. Then they came running out, and I ran with them," And I kept on bubbling.
        I got put into a remand hostel for three days while I waited to go in front of the magistrates. I hated every minute of being locked up, and I swore to myself that if I got away with it, I'd never let it happen again. I knew deep down that I really would have to do something pretty decisive or I'd end up spending my entire life in Peckham, fucking about and getting fucked up.
        On judgment day the other two got probation; I got let off with a caution. I was free to carry on where I'd left off, or I could show everybody, including myself, that this time I meant business.
        I jumped on a bus that would take me past the army recruiting office. want to fly helicopters," I said to the recruiting sergeant. "I want to go in the Army Air Corps."
        I took a simple test in English and math, which I failed.
        "Come and try again in a month's time," the sergeant said. "The test will be exactly the same."
        I went down to the public library and studied a book on basic arithmetic. If I could master multiplication, I told myself, I'd never again have to hear the sound of a cell door slamming.
        Four weeks later I went back in, sat the same test, and passed-by two points. The sergeant gave me a pile of forms to take home.
        "What are you going in?" my dad said.
        "Army Air Corps."
        "That's all right then. We don't want any of that infantry shit.
        You don't learn anything in that."
        I was given a travel warrant and went off to Sutton Coldfield for the three-day selection process. We were given medicals and simple tests of the "If this cog turns this way, which way does that cog turn?" variety and did a bit of sport. We watched films and were given talks about teeth arms and support arms and where the army was in the world. I was loving it. The Army Air Corps seemed to operate everywhere; Cyprus and Hong Kong looked good for starters.
        As I was going through the tests, though, the terrible truth dawned on me that there was no way I was going to become a pilot. A lot of the other candidates were in the brain surgeon bracket, loaded down with 0 levels and going for junior apprenticeships to become artificers and surveyors. You'd have to be in their same league to go for pilot training, and I didn't have a qualification to my name. All the time I had wasted humping coal and lemonade flashed in front of me as if I were a drowning man. For the first time since I'd been old enough to do something about it, I was surrounded by blokes who had something that I wanted, but this time it was something that couldn't be nicked.
        At the final interview an officer said to me, "You can go into the Army Air Corps and train as a refueler.
        However, I don't think you would be best suited to that.
        You're an active sort of bloke, aren't you, McNab?"
        "I suppose so."
        "Probably fancy a bit of traveling, seeing a bit of the world?"
        "That's me."
        "Well then, have you