Going Commando by Mark Time Read Free Book Online

of the electric fire.
    All the preparation had finally ended. The months of training, the weeks of excitement, the days of trying desperately to lose my virginity before joining up… it had all led up to this.
    The day of joining would be the first day of my new life and the last day of the old. It was a momentous occasion, but one that passed my mam and stepdad by. They were too busy filleting fish to take me to the station, though Dekker did at least lend me twenty quid to get the bus to Leeds Central train station and for a bit of spending cash. It was the first and last time I’d ever borrow money from him, and the only money I had to see me through the next fortnight – despite the joining instructions suggesting sufficient cash to buy items necessary for the first two weeks of training.
    As the Plymouth-bound Intercity train departed Leeds, I realised there was no turning back, even though I’d forgotten to pack any spare pants. The Exmouth-bound train from Exeter St Davids seemed to have a few smartly-dressed young men on board. I looked at them furtively, from behind an old copy of Shoot football magazine. They were either very young businessmen, on their way to court, or, more likely, undertaking the same journey (both literally and figuratively) as I was. This made me feel even more nervous. I felt totally underdressed in my skanky cords, polo shirt and trusty Puma G Vilas trainers (which I’d at least scrubbed for the occasion). I didn’t even own a pair of shoes. I certainly didn’t own a tie – I’d burnt my school one in a theatrical liberation from educational servitude.
    I buried my head back in an interview with Chris Waddle in his ridiculous permed mullet, unsuccessfully trying to ignoremy butterflies. They only got worse, and by the time the familiar sight of Lympstone Commando came into view the lack of spare pants was certainly a worry.
    Awaiting our arrival was a moustachioed drill instructor (mystifyingly acronymised as ‘DL’) who would be our father, mother and torturer for the first two weeks of training. I got shouted at even before both feet hit the platform tarmac. I can’t recall his exact words, but I think the gist of it was that I evidently had some form of intellectual and physical disability. The shouting wasn’t the spit-in-your-face squealing you see in films depicting life in the United States Marine Corps. This was more of a calculated, reasoned raising of the voice, thus even scarier. I have to say it was all a far cry from my PRC, where that polite marine had opened the gate for us.
    I desperately tried not to draw any attention to myself, noting to my surprise that the DL had what some personal trainers describe as a ‘carb face’. He looked slightly overweight to be a commando, and his chin wobbled as he spoke, but in my youthful naivety I fantasised that he was an injured power-lifting champion.
    We lined up on the platform as ordered. He came by each one of us to ask our name and offer some sarcastic comment. The lad next to me was the first to be addressed.
    ‘Name?’
    ‘Andrew Webb.’
    ‘Oh, Andrew is it?’ the DL said. ‘Do you mind if I call you Andy?’
    Andy took this innocently, failing entirely to spot the concealed malice. ‘Uh, yep, that’s fine.’
    ‘Okay, Andy, this is what happens now: you get your fucking heels together and address me as “Corporal”. The day I call you by your first name is the day I like you, and at the moment that’s a long fucking way off. Surname only, you fucking scrote. Get it?’
    ‘Yes, Corporal.’
    ‘Name?’ He looked me up and down and I felt a little unnerved by even this small exchange. I hoped he wouldn’t say ‘fucking’ more than three times to me.
    ‘Time, Corporal.’
    He ticked his paperwork. ‘Did you get the joining instructions, Time?’
    ‘Yes, Corporal.’
    ‘So where on the instructions does it say come dressed as a scruffy cunt?’
    ‘It doesn’t, Corporal.’ Or at least I didn’t