The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [41]
‘Don’t waste your time on that waste of space,’ someone growled from over my shoulder.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The guy’s hopeless. You’re really better off leaving him to it. You’ll have enough to worry about.’ The wrinkles in his forehead creased as he smiled.
Geoff had been a regular soldier in the Eighties and served in the Regiment for several years. Now he was going through the system a second time. My Boy Scout instinct to help others at all times was too firmly entrenched to follow his cold advice. I finished sorting the guy out and returned to my poncho, which had sprung a leak in my absence.
The oilskin coat spread out to form a simple shelter. Geoff deftly inverted the hood, bent it back on itself, hooked the para-cord around the neck and tied it off to the nearest tree, instantly making it taut and waterproof. I thanked him and he retreated to his spot. We both watched the continuing difficulty my hapless comrade was having with his wash kit.
Geoff didn’t really strike me as a seasoned soldier. He was tall and lean, but seemed more like a geography teacher. He had floppy dark hair, a refined posture and spoke thoughtfully. He accepted his surroundings and they accepted him. The contrast with me couldn’t have been greater. I pictured a Drill Sergeant behind every bush, poised to leap out and hold a knife to my throat for having shit admin.
There were over a hundred of us out there that night, and I doubt anyone slept too well in his wank chariot, as the sleeping bags were known. We had no idea what to expect or when to expect it.
Reveille was at 0430, with breakfast in bed followed by ‘PT’. I surgically removed the roots of a tree from my back and broke into a carton of army issue compo rations to whistle up some culinary delights over a hexamine stove. After a lengthy cooking process, I succeeded in turning my aluminium pan black and a bag of Lancashire hotpot lukewarm. I eyed Geoff’s roaring mini gas stove enviously and he handed me some boiled dregs for my brew. Some people made pigs of themselves and gorged on food, which seemed short-sighted. I hurriedly stowed my kit into the limited space inside my bergen and reported for parade.
We formed up on the track and were notified of the course’s first casualty. The recruit was led away to receive stitches to his hand following a vicious attack by a tin of mystery meat. A few guys started warming up, for what I had no idea. My stomach churned. The tension was too much for one boy, who doubled over and spewed his breakfast across the Land Rover tracks, prompting a chorus of jeers.
‘Fucking crap hat,’ spat one, an insult that covered the whole of the armed forces bar the Paras.
The DS breezed past the steaming puke and handed out two sets of scales for weighing our packs. Each bergen had to weigh exactly 40 pounds. We opened our water bottles to prove they were full. A nondescript man in plain clothes appeared beside me.
‘Have you been on the course before?’
‘No sir, this is my first time.’
‘What is your profession?’
‘I’m in marketing.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
He nodded and walked away.
The DS barked, ‘Three ranks.’
We lined up accordingly.
‘When we get to camp we’ll march through in formation, not like we’re on some countryside bimble. Keep your traps shut and your shit in order. Let’s see if you ladies can at least look like soldiers.’
We slowed through camp and marched along the frosty tarmac road in an orderly fashion. As we reached the exit gate a young girl jogged up to ask in a thick Welsh accent who we were and where we were going. God knows what on earth she was doing hanging around an army barracks at five o’clock in the morning.
Someone muttered something about orienteering.
‘Well, watch out there, lads,’ she chirruped. ‘’Cos them boys at the front aren’t from this base and they’re ’ard as fuck.’
The DS marched us briskly out of the gate then back into double time.
The hundred or so trainees came