At the time many of us didn’t understand the reasons why things happened in Basic Training. Especially with regards to being ‘fucked about’. Our seventeen year old mind’s hadn’t matured enough, or experienced enough of the world to realise it was for a purpose. The Bombardiers who administered the fuck abouts were masters of this craft.

We were shown how to clean, iron and polish, before we could march and shoot. It was said that if we got those basic, simple lessons right at the beginning then the tougher and more complex tasks would be a lot easier. Sleep depravation was one such subtle factor that preyed on you, the weariness and drain it had, whilst the pressure of performing and getting things to a Bombardier’s unattainable standards was sadistic and debilitating. Tranches of people would leave as the pressure increased.

Hospital corners and hand bumpers

We were taught how to make the beds, how to do the hospital corners and make sure that there were no wrinkles. The bed sheets had to be so tight you could bounce a penny an inch off the bed. The first mistake we made that second week was to actually sleep in the bed. The previous evening we’d used hand bumpers to polish the floors using yellow wax polish in white rag. We’d be on our hands and knees swirling the stuff on the floor and another wood be making a clack, clack, clack noise with the bumper as he struggled to pull and push it over the floor. If we were lucky enough to get the electric bumper then we’d be holding onto that like a vacuum cleaner. The mechanical brushes rotating with strips of itchy blanket to buff the floor.

Like any normal adolescent, we’d abuse the electric bumper and we’d have someone stand on the head of it while it operated. If you let go of the handle then the handle would spin and we’d have to grapple with it before it swiped one of us.

At 2 or 3 in the morning after we’d pulled our arms out of the shitter u-bends making sure they were spotless, we didn’t make a noise as we climbed into our beds. It was the sleep of the dead. It wasn’t a deep, meaningful sleep, but one steeped in trepidation, keeping you from going over the edge into the realm of deep sleep.

The buzz of the lights as they flickered into life is something I won’t forget. It’s burned into my memory – the rude awakening.

Love on the rocks

“Wakey, wakey, my love eggs!” I heard the shout from the entrance. Hob nailed boots tapping on the floor with each step, a man in a crisp, clean, ironed uniform with peaked cap stood at the end of the room. He had a menacing gleam in his eye. He was like a Rumpelstiltskin in a waking nightmare. “Well, come on then!!!” He bellowed picking up the polished bin. He swung it and let it arc silently through the air before it exploding into sound on impact.

We jumped out of our beds and made our way to the shower cubicles, unwittingly destroying hours of work.

Time was a commodity. It was in short supply. Ten minutes to shave, wash, brush teeth, get dressed, sort the dormitory out and the sort the toilets out. Of course we were never going to make it on time.

Bombardier Jameison-Caley or JC was the Section Commander of us and we were subject to his sadistic machinations. He said that if we ever heard Neil Diamond’s Love on the rocks, then there’d be hell to pay. On that morning we heard Neil’s dulcet tones drifting from the JC’s bunk. Oh fuck. We were waiting, stood by our beds. Through the window opposite me I could see calm and tranquillity – for a fleeting moment, I had a yearning to be out there in the trees with the birds, without a care in the world.

From the corner of my eye I could see something, a blip… I looked left and could see JC looking into the room, just his peaked cap and head looking right at us.

“Is this supposed to be an inspection?” A look of mock surprise on his face as he strode in comically. “I wasn’t planning on doing one, but if you insist,” he said and held aloft the pace stick. “STAND BY YOUR FUCKING BEDS!!” He screamed and we stood to attention. There was no real effort in that yell, and it looked like something he’d done before. He ran a gloved hand over the door. “Youse fuckers are taking the piss.” He said, examining his white, gloved fingers. He presented it to the nearest recruit stood to attention. “What’s this?”

“Fluff.”

“Fluff, what?”

“Fluff. Bombardier!!”

“That’s right. It’s fluff. It tells me youse lot have been doing fuck all. You probably went to sleep at 9pm, eh?” He spoke softly now. “And you can hear that, right?” He cupped his ear to the sound of Neil Diamond.

Bedknobs and broomsticks go aflying

He carried on through the room regardless. He threw items of clothing, mess tins and boots from the lockers for fabricated infractions or real. One unfortunate guy had his bed flipped. It actually did a whole revolution and clattered to the floor.

“Youse have all committed the cardinal sin of actually sleeping in your beds!” JC explained, “All your beds are shite.” He then told everyone to flipped their mattresses and kick the contents around the room.

After a minute of this wanton destruction JC yelled, “STOP!!!!” He shot his arms in the air as if to present an award and declared, “I feel like….. erm…. I don’t know.” He had a moment to consider, smiled and then, “I know what. I want you all in TOGA gear!!! You got 2 minutes to get into Toga gear and downstairs on parade. Starting… NOW!” He walked out in the direction of the stairs as we worked out just what the hell TOGA was.

“What the fuck’s TOGA??” Somebody asked.

“Romans wore togas.”

“Bed sheets?”

“Aye. Toga Party. I’ve been to one. Use your bed sheets!!”

We all scrambled to pull the white sheets from the strewn beds.

We made it in time – just. Panting and laughing at how ludicrous we all looked, oblivious to Marne Troop who were 5 minutes into this game and not having a great time.

“You lads look lovely,” JC said to us. He went over to another Bombardier who grinned at us. They whispered and chuckled. “Full combats. Three minutes.”

“What the fuck is this?” I thought.

JC brought his watch to his face, “Two minutes and forty-eight seconds!”

One of the lads made a dash for the block, which set us off. Soon we were in the room tripping over ourselves and our gear, swearing and laughing at each other.

When we eventually made it on parade, JC whistled silently and shook his head. “Oh dear. You’re late lads.”

Press Up Position. Down!

“Press Up position. Down!” Bdr Dean (Branny) Branscombe shouted to us. He was just off to the right of us, out of our peripheral vision. For maximum effect, it made us jump too. We were down on our faces and began to push them out to his timings of ‘UP’ and ‘DOWN!’ My arms were straining, and I couldn’t hold myself up anymore and came crashing down on my face.

“I want you lot back down here in 3 minutes in yer China Suit, gloves, head-over and erm…” That was Bdr Branscombe, he confided with Bdr JC, who shouted, “NBC Over-boots!”

We went back up the stairs and put the china-suit on – this was a padded undergarment designed to keep you warm. The trousers were padded too; you couldn’t do much in these except sleep in them. We scrambled out of the room, then down the stairs and outside. On our way, we narrowly missed a passing soldier who ducked out of the way. It was getting hot now, sweat was forming on my back and groin.

“Fuckin’ ell lads! You’re late again! Right! Get your arses around the square and back again. TWICE!”

We were off running and stumbling in our NBC over-boots which were not designed to be run in. I fell on my hands, and another landed next to me. It was Gonzo who panted and began to curse. “Come on. Get up, Gonzo mate,” I said and pulled him up. He was called Gonzo, because of his enormous shonker of a nose, like the one of the muppets.

Gus the Gorilla is back

“Ha hey hey haaaayyy!!” We heard the shouts and looked to our left and onto the 1st floor. A mattress flew out of the window. Bdr (Craig) Summers was the culprit and was having a great time.

“That’s Gus,” somebody in our ranks said.

“That’s right, folks. Gus is back, and he’s trashing your room right now. How many of you left your lockers unlocked or open?”

Mine was wide open. Fuck! I could see mattresses, and clouds of washing powder being thrown free from the room.

“NBC ROMEO BLACK!!!”

“What the fuck is NBC Romeo Black?”

“That’s everything on.”

Back in the blitzed room, we struggled to get our charcoal suits on. The S10 respirator, a fun item to wear, but not on this occasion. We then put on the Inner and Outer Gloves. This turned the heat on. We were cooking. Layers of clothing underneath were saturated in sweat. We fell about the stairs and trampled a couple of guys who were unfortunate to fall. It was a crazy stampede. On the way I saw the Graffitied word ‘Gus’, lovingly scripted using Gillette Shaving Foam.

The S10 respirator wasn’t designed for running in. I don’t even think the trials of the S10 involved people doing runs and press ups, star jumps or burpees whilst wearing it. Looking back from the time of writing, I daresay this would be classed as illegal nowadays. A bit like capital punishment at school. Anyhow, I digressed.

This torture continued until we stretched red PT shirts over our NBC suits. We resembled asthmatic Michelin men. Star jumps on the parade area, and shuttle runs. One guy fainted, and another was sick in his respirator. It was a fucking mess.

That was a changing parade, and it was pure torture.