Chapter 3

The corporal had the group all lined up outside the barracks, resplendent in the olive-green kebab-puke colour uniforms. There were thirty-four men there, and the corporal, and not one of them looked happy. One had difficulty breathing through his nose, one was rubbing his chin and yet another was hunched over a little. All thirty-five watched as the RSM marched across and escorted me into the barracks where I got quickly changed and put on the back pack which seemed inordinately heavy. The uniform was coarse and the shirt starched to within an inch of its life. A bit of my sweat might provide lubrication and I would soon be oozing that as the cloud cover cleared.

I joined the others in line. Our platoon was one man short of course and so the lines were uneven. I went to the head of one of the three lines and the corporal led the middle line. I felt a bit sorry for the bloke I’d given a broken nose to and took his backpack off and slung it over my shoulder. His was unaccountably lighter than mine. The RSM appeared at the head of the platoon, having spent time writing notes as he did a surprise inspection of the way we had left our bunks. I knew mine would be fine. My mother wouldn’t have tolerated anything less than perfect. She was so scary that wherever I went I wouldn’t leave anything out of place. I had been well trained. The RSM noticed that I was carrying two packs and rounded on the corporal saying that punishment was to be equally shared. The RSM came over and lifted both packs off me. He seemed a bit surprised at the weight differential between the two and gave mine to the wheezing man who was holding a bloodied green handkerchief to his nose. The RSM appeared to give a surreptitious wink to me as he made his way back to the front.

We started off at a double time march but no-one could get the rhythm right. However, we did stay together as a group until the corporal called us to a halt for the first rest stop. We’d by my reckoning covered just under a mile and so were less than a tenth of the way. The canteens we carried wouldn’t last the distance if we drank too much too quickly. We would also get a stitch and later cramps. I passed the word along when the corporal refused to say anything. He was still seething at having to do this hike in the first place. It was supposed to be a cushy billet and if he had done his job in the first place it would have been. He had no time for us and soon the feeling would be mutual. My words must have been having some impact because only a few small sips were taken by most of the platoon.

We headed off again and slowly developed a rhythm that probably wasn’t very military in style but resembled a slow jog like I used to have to do in cross country running at school. Gradually everyone adapted to the pace I set. The corporal wasn’t used to it and slowly he fell back through his line. We rested every mile and a half from then on. Water was eked out and some just made sure their lips were wet. I spoke to a couple who were breathing heavily in and out through their mouths as they ran and pointed out that they would end up with sore dry throats that way. Perhaps I did learn something from my sports teacher back at Croydon after all.

The scrub we ran through was pretty dry and spindly and there were a few semi-dry creek beds to cross. The track was pretty well defined and if this punishment did anything, it gave us a clear idea of what sort of environment we would be training in over the next few months. My three victims soon joined the corporal at the back of the platoon. At one point just after the first rest stop, all three stopped and called out to the corporal that they needed a piss. We all stopped as they headed into the bush. They thought they were out of sight when they took the rocks out of my former backpack, but I don’t miss much. The hike was tedious. It was exhausting but at the same time I found it exhilarating. I was reasonably fit and so were a majority of the group and we made good time early on. We backed off a bit later on to allow the stragglers to catch up and then when we finally could see the end in sight, we halted and reformed our lines so that we could return the same way we had left, in a tightly formed group. The corporal now up the front with me led the way. The gentle lope that had got us this far continued. It wasn’t a march so we didn’t look like a proper platoon, but the cadence was there and I thought we looked pretty good.

We arrived back, dropped our packs in the barracks and headed towards the mess hall. Today our timing was perfect and we certainly had an appetite. Despite the stiffness of the new boots and the high likelihood of blisters that we would assess and try to remedy later, not one of us complained. Exhaustion and hunger will do that to you. I had barely finished my meal when the RSM strode into the hall and walked straight up to me.

“Downs, the captain wants to speak to you more about what took place today. He will see you tomorrow straight after breakfast!” the RSM barked loud enough for the whole hall to hear. I certainly wasn’t going to be seen as the captain and RSM’s favourite, that’s for sure. “And right now, I will have a few words of my own. Come with me!” There went any thoughts of dessert. I got a few looks of sympathy from most of the platoon. The corporal and three others sneered when they thought the RSM wasn’t looking. I followed him out like a dog that knew it was due for a beating.

I stood at attention out on the parade ground not knowing what he was going to say. He also stood at attention and then said softly, “Downs this has got to look like I am giving you a dressing down just in case anyone is watching so you will stay at attention and focus on me with a look of fear in your eyes. I have a reputation to consider.” He then continued quite loudly but as there was no-one around, the words he spoke didn’t match the delivery style. “I watched the platoon a lot as it did its hike. Firstly, your offer to carry the backpack of someone who was going to struggle is commendable, but shouldn’t happen again unless that soldier is wounded in action. Everyone needs to pull their weight in the platoon. Everyone! Speaking of weight, it was probably he who put those rocks in your backpack. You didn’t make a fuss about it and that was good. That would have shown their prank had an effect. I just made sure it backfired. Was it you who set the example with the water consumption? Normally that is a rookie mistake all soldiers make. Drink too much too early and pay the price. Remember that for all types of drinking by the way. I watched and watched at several different locations and finally worked out that it was you setting the pace. I knew the corporal was useless. You are never to repeat that by the way. However, it took me a while to notice that the others were looking to you for what to do. I didn’t expect you to be back in time for anything but cold sandwiches that the cooks had already made up for you. Now when we go back in, you are being sent to the kitchen as further punishment. You will do dishes but it is also an opportunity for you to catch up with your mate, Mr Brown. When we go back in you are to look severely chastened. Dessert will be over by now and soon they will all be dismissed, so we had better go now.”

It was hard to equate the words of praise with the manner of in which he spoke. Angry shouts of kind words confused, but I did as I was told and was marched to the front of the hall where the RSM called for the cook. “Seems that we have another volunteer for you, Sergeant. Apparently, Mr Downs here has an appetite; an appetite for washing up. You could make do with him for an hour or so, couldn’t you? I don’t particularly want to see his ugly face over at the barracks for at least that long. You’re in luck because he is pretty pernickety. His bunk and gear were the only ones that passed muster when I went in there before. This other rabble had better move their arses and fix their disgusting messes in their barracks.” The corporal dismissed the rest of the platoon and they quickly raced to the barracks. The RSM leaned over to the cook and whispered, “Please make sure Mr Downs has had plenty of dessert before he starts. Can’t have him writing off to his mum saying he is having an awful time here.” He winked at the cook and soon I was facing a huge plate of lemon meringue pie. The RSM abruptly turned and marched out of the mess hall. He seemed to march everywhere almost as if his legs didn’t know how to walk anymore. That was his problem. Mine was to try and wrap my mouth around a piece of pie without getting some stuck up my left nostril.