stood still for so long since I’d won a musical statues contest at a school Christmas disco. On this occasion, I doubted I was going to win a stocking-shaped chocolate selection box. To my left, the DL was working himself into a nice lather.
‘What in the name of fuckety-fuck is going on here?’
It was one of those questions impossible to answer. To do so could only dig an even deeper hole. Sensibly, the recruit, a bigger and much older lad than me, stood silent.
‘Name?’
He was on safer ground with that one. ‘Elliott, Corporal.’
‘Do you know better than me, Elliott?
‘No, Corporal.’
‘Then why have you laid your locker out differently to how I told you?’
Another one that just couldn’t be answered. Elliott remained schtum.
‘You…’
A jumper flew through the air.
‘…can…’
A shirt followed it.
‘…stand…’
Elliott’s water bottle hurtled past my face.
‘…by!’
His webbing was kicked across the floor with an action that suggested the DL wasn’t in the Corps football team. He closed in to eyeball Elliot, who arched backwards. With his body off balance, the DL pushed him with his index finger – not violently, just enough for Elliott to fall back. Catching his heel on the foot of the locker, he fully lost his balance and disappeared inside. The locker swayed to and fro with Elliot trying to steady himself, but only increasing the momentum. Hopkins found it funny, as did I. Not just funny – hilarious. Vastly against our better judgement, we started giggling.
To be fair, we tried to suppress it, but everyone knows that when you try to stop laughing all it does is hold the laughter cells in a queuing system in your throat where they call their mates along for a go. We tried to stop – oh, how we tried. I watched Hopkins turn a deep red, tears streaming from his eyes. I could see something had to give, and it was his nose. Within seconds it was bubbling with snot. I realised, to my horror, that I looked exactly the same.
Elliott’s locker fell like a tree backwards, with the guy fighting all the way to keep himself upright. Green streams of snot were cascading volcanically down either side of Hopkins’ philtrum. He was desperately sucking the slime into his mouth to hide the silent giggling but his teary eyes were a dead give-away, swivelling left and right like an eagle-eye Action Man (which I’d longed for but never received) from the DL to me to the locker-clad Elliott, frantically trying to scramble free from his chipboard tomb.
Like a shiny-booted obscenity tornado, the DL laid waste to anyone and everyone’s locker. Seemingly bored of shouting, when he approached mine he simply stared at my snot-covered face and threw out all my belongings without so much as a courteous introduction.
Around the induction block, when the shiny floors weren’t covered in recruits’ clothing, everything was immaculate and ordered – a not-so-subtle hint for us to achieve the same. The walls were perfectly lined with pictures of Royal Marines participating in feats of derring-do, and Corps history posters; all well before the corporate world got hold of smug motivational posters with words like ‘teamwork’ below apicture of ants lifting a leaf or some other shite. These posters were there to invoke the esprit de corps , the primal glue that bonds together the men of the Royal Marines.
With us all packed tightly together, we got to know our comrades quicker. We were making the first steps toward camaraderie. This togetherness was underpinned by lectures about the history and traditions of the Royal Marines. The importance of these lessons could not be underestimated. We needed to know what we aspired to be part of and where we stood in the grand scheme of things.
Learning a new language was also included in splinter lessons. Although sat apart like a dog in a cattery, Royal Marines are officially part of the Royal Navy, so we learned ‘jackspeak’ slang to embed us
‘What in the name of fuckety-fuck is going on here?’
It was one of those questions impossible to answer. To do so could only dig an even deeper hole. Sensibly, the recruit, a bigger and much older lad than me, stood silent.
‘Name?’
He was on safer ground with that one. ‘Elliott, Corporal.’
‘Do you know better than me, Elliott?
‘No, Corporal.’
‘Then why have you laid your locker out differently to how I told you?’
Another one that just couldn’t be answered. Elliott remained schtum.
‘You…’
A jumper flew through the air.
‘…can…’
A shirt followed it.
‘…stand…’
Elliott’s water bottle hurtled past my face.
‘…by!’
His webbing was kicked across the floor with an action that suggested the DL wasn’t in the Corps football team. He closed in to eyeball Elliot, who arched backwards. With his body off balance, the DL pushed him with his index finger – not violently, just enough for Elliott to fall back. Catching his heel on the foot of the locker, he fully lost his balance and disappeared inside. The locker swayed to and fro with Elliot trying to steady himself, but only increasing the momentum. Hopkins found it funny, as did I. Not just funny – hilarious. Vastly against our better judgement, we started giggling.
To be fair, we tried to suppress it, but everyone knows that when you try to stop laughing all it does is hold the laughter cells in a queuing system in your throat where they call their mates along for a go. We tried to stop – oh, how we tried. I watched Hopkins turn a deep red, tears streaming from his eyes. I could see something had to give, and it was his nose. Within seconds it was bubbling with snot. I realised, to my horror, that I looked exactly the same.
Elliott’s locker fell like a tree backwards, with the guy fighting all the way to keep himself upright. Green streams of snot were cascading volcanically down either side of Hopkins’ philtrum. He was desperately sucking the slime into his mouth to hide the silent giggling but his teary eyes were a dead give-away, swivelling left and right like an eagle-eye Action Man (which I’d longed for but never received) from the DL to me to the locker-clad Elliott, frantically trying to scramble free from his chipboard tomb.
Like a shiny-booted obscenity tornado, the DL laid waste to anyone and everyone’s locker. Seemingly bored of shouting, when he approached mine he simply stared at my snot-covered face and threw out all my belongings without so much as a courteous introduction.
Around the induction block, when the shiny floors weren’t covered in recruits’ clothing, everything was immaculate and ordered – a not-so-subtle hint for us to achieve the same. The walls were perfectly lined with pictures of Royal Marines participating in feats of derring-do, and Corps history posters; all well before the corporate world got hold of smug motivational posters with words like ‘teamwork’ below apicture of ants lifting a leaf or some other shite. These posters were there to invoke the esprit de corps , the primal glue that bonds together the men of the Royal Marines.
With us all packed tightly together, we got to know our comrades quicker. We were making the first steps toward camaraderie. This togetherness was underpinned by lectures about the history and traditions of the Royal Marines. The importance of these lessons could not be underestimated. We needed to know what we aspired to be part of and where we stood in the grand scheme of things.
Learning a new language was also included in splinter lessons. Although sat apart like a dog in a cattery, Royal Marines are officially part of the Royal Navy, so we learned ‘jackspeak’ slang to embed us
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