Going Commando by Mark Time Read Free Book Online Page A

think it had. I’d read them pretty thoroughly, and I’d have certainly noticed the ‘c’ word.
    ‘No, it fucking doesn’t. It says wear smart clothing. So why have you come dressed as Harold fucking Steptoe?’
    ‘These are my best clothes, Corporal.’
    ‘Fuck me, you don’t even own a pair of trousers?’
    ‘No, Corporal.’
    ‘Where you from, Time?’
    ‘Leeds, Corporal.’
    ‘Ah, that would explain it then. Fucking pikey.’
    After each one of us offered our name and got roundly abused in return, we picked up our luggage and shunted through the single gate. He organised us into two files, thenproceeded to instruct us how to march as best we could weighed down with bags.
    ‘By the left, quick march! Eft ite, eft ite, eft ite …’
    With my experience of logic puzzles in my mam’s Puzzle Break magazine, I quickly fathomed his speech impediment was timing our step. I did as best I could, following others who looked nothing like smart guardsmen either. They carried suitcases, sports bags, and one had a half-eaten sandwich hanging from his person.
    We were led to a large block with the words ‘Induction’ above a huge globe and laurel motif, the emblem of the Royal Marines.
    Inside a cavernous room was a row of bed frames uniformly spaced around the four walls, each with a single locker at its foot. Searching around, we found the bed with our name alphabetically positioned, mine typically near the entrance to the toilets.
    As I had on my PRC, I compared myself to those who were undertaking the same journey. I had yet to say a word to anyone; the guy next to me, who was clearly older, decided to talk to the bloke the other side of him. It was evident we’d find commonality with those of similar age. Unfortunately, there seemed to be few other children for me to talk to.
    There was not an earring in sight as I watched people unpacking their meagre belongings. There seemed to be an air of quiet, possibly a nervous exhilaration or shock of capture that affected even the older guys who already had tattoos, scars and filthy vocabulary.
    One sweaty lad took off his shirt. Whether this wasto relieve himself from the heat or he just wanted to show off his Apollonian physique, I don’t know, but I stared in admiration at his chiselled body, one I’d dreamt of achieving while grunting and groaning in my cellar. He soon became the catalyst for others to follow suit and, before long, half of the group were topless. The more I saw these already-formed muscles and tautly athletic torsos, the more it occurred to me I was physically way behind most of these guys. I would have to catch up quickly.
    Before I could pop off to the toilets for some emergency press-ups, the DL caught our attention. ‘Listen in, gents,’ he said. ‘There are now fifty-two of you stood here, a number that I know will drop rather rapidly in the coming weeks. You are now the recruits of 299 Troop, part of Portsmouth Company for the first fifteen weeks of Phase One infantry training.’
    Shepherded to an office for administrative processing, we were subjected to more sarcasm by the most frightening looking man on the planet, who had the audacity to be a clerk.
    My first name would no longer be ‘Mark’, but ‘PO45739X Junior Marine’, which was definitely harder to remember. In fact, I was so concerned about remembering it correctly when reporting to anyone of higher rank – which at this stage of training was anyone inside the perimeter fence, including animal mascots – that I actually struggled to remember my surname.
    Most of that first day, the smell of varying cleaning products was never far from my nostrils. I ran around in a confused state, rarely saying anything other than, ‘Yes, Corporal.’ Seemingly everything we said had to end in the word ‘Corporal’, drawingthe ire of a sergeant in the bedding store when addressed as such by Andy Webb.
    ‘I’ve got three stripes, you buffoon. That means I’m a sergeant, not a corporal.