Chapter 3

The Senior Warrant Officer stood erect at the edge of the shuttle park watching the shuttles disgorge a motley collection of individuals, most of whom the SWO assessed as being still wet behind the ears; it was his appointed task to turn them out at least a bit drier than received. His trained eye roamed over the group already making assessments. That one wont make it — shouldn't have left mother's heel. That one will have to be handled carefully — she is too aggressive but does have potential.

Then his eyes passed over and then swung back onto two men, men not youths, who were eyeing each other off behind the throngs who were struggling to locate and repossess belongings despite advice that a beneficent government would provide everything. That was another thing which marked them; the bigger one, built like an ammo bunker, had empty hands and the slightly thinner version had only an old style document carrier tucked into a capacious armpit. The two approached each other, said a word or two and then shook hands at which the SWO gave a spontaneous sigh of relief — he certainly wouldn't have enjoyed handling that pair if they had gone 'stallion'.

The SWO then cast the eye over the throng and found the slender brick outhouse was the tallest.

"Pay attention, now. All of you put your baggage onto the trolleys over at the side and come back here. MOVE!"

And as usual had to turn away to prevent laughing at the chaos he created. He noted the two men hadn't moved.

"That man, there, come here."

He indicated the slender outhouse who had a quick word with his new found friend, braced to attention and then marched with perfect cadence to stand in front of the SWO at a relaxed attention. The SWO fixed the recruit with a jaundiced eye,

"Where?"

"Sir, R. M. A. and M., Sir."

"Are we going to have trouble with you?"

"Probably not Sir" with just the hint of a smile.

"Name?"

"Sir, Recruit Hobson, Sir." And with devilment on his face and in his voice, "But you can call me TJ, Sir!"

SWO 'Tug' Wilson internally froze.

"Thomas Jefferson?"

It was TJ's turn to still as his mind raced and neurones flashed connecting threads,

"No, Senior; just initials. Tee Jay. And some time in the near future, I would like an explanation."

'Tug' Wilson delivered himself an all mighty metaphorical kick in his rear end; he had opened his mouth before putting his brain into gear and the boy had made connections — not surprising, considering whose son he probably was. He let the request go to the 'keeper and nodded at the doc carrier,

"Baggage on the trolleys, I said."

"Sir. Personal."

'Tug' waved a 'gimme'.

"Personal, Warrant."

'Tug' cocked his head at Hobson who handed the carrier across repeating

"Personal."

'Tug' Wilson appreciated the change in the terms of address at the recruit established that he did indeed know the rules. 'Tug' was allowing his curiosity to get the better of him and the recruit was tolerating it. 'Tug' peered inside and his eyes opened as the first manual was a paper copy of QR & AI.

"Light reading?"

"Sir, entertainment, Sir."

SWO returned the carrier with a nod. The throng had straggled back with a last few being sorted out by the POs at the trolleys.

"I am now going to introduce some Parade Drill and the first thing is to get you sorry lot into formation. When I tell you to 'fall in', the tallest will stand to the left of this recruit and you will size yourselves down to the shortest. Right. Parade ... Tallest on the right and shortest on the left. Fall in!"

Some few minutes later, his POs reported satisfied.

"There, now. That wasn't too difficult, was it? You will now number from the right calling out your number and you will remember your number. Number."

The squad numbered thirty six.

The evolution of forming the squad continued without any great drama. By chance, the other brick outhouse was second man in the front rank. As the SWO positioned himself in front of TJ and looked down the front rank, he noticed the yellow eyes,

"Name?"

"George Windsor but I answer quicker to 'Morg'".

With a look of mild disgust at Morg, SWO stepped back several paces and addressed the formation,

"Listen in! Your first lesson in protocol. You no longer have the forenames you came with. Your new forename is "Recruit"; we will allow you to keep your family name. So, when I ask you for your name, you will answer "Sir, Recruit Bloggs or whatever" and finish with another "Sir". We will now demonstrate."

SWO marched to stand two paces in front of TJ and demanded

"Name?"

"Sir. Recruit Hobson, Sir" came the disciplined reply.

SWO moved one pace to his right and demanded

"Name?"

and Morg obliged

"Sir. Recruit Windsor, Sir. But I'll answer quicker to Recruit Morg. Sir."

SWO Wilson took two paces forward and stood eyeball to eyeball with Morg,

"Recruit Windsor, you answer to nothing but Recruit Windsor and if I hear another smart-ass comment, I'll personally run you around the Station in full gear until you drop. Got it, Recruit Windsor?"

"Sir, got it, Sir."

Having exerted his authority and thanking his lucky stars it had been as easy as it had been, SWO Wilson had his minions march(?) the formation to the clothing store where a preliminary issue was made. The Service Numbers on the paper given to them as they had boarded the shuttles were checked against the packs given to them. The formation reformed and moved was a better term, to their quarters which was a replica of a warship's layout with tiered bunks and small lockers for each individual and ablutions at the end of the hall. Each recruit was allocated a bunk on the basis of their squad position.

"Listen in. During this first week, you can change as you want to by mutual arrangement. At the end of the week, your bunking is frozen for the duration. Any arguments at the end of the week, I decide, period. Now, place your pack on your bunk with the side having your name uppermost and the loops towards you."

The recruits were then led through the intricacies of Naval issue and how to wear it. In uniform, they were introduced to the pleasure of institutional food and then marched back to the quarters. The placement of the items in the pack into the locker was accomplished and the information given that they could relax for the remainder of the evening until "Lights Out" and in reply to TJ's question of "Revielle?" the squad was told "Zero four thirty" and the Instructors departed for the day.

TJ immediately extracted his issue boots from his locker and with the issue kit began buffing them. Morg shamelessly aped his squad mate,

"TJ, I'm going to copy you and you can tell me what is going down as you know what you are about and I don't and I do prefer a quiet life."

"Morg," laughed TJ, "it doesn't matter how good you do, that lot are going to find something to pick on; this is run ragged time. Here, use spit and the cloth and when we finish we turn in, tomorrow is not going to be enjoyable."

At oh dark hundred, TJ ghosted out of his bunk and headed for the ablutions; Morg copied him. Still in darkness, they returned to the bunks and dressed to stand beside the tier just as the hall lights were turned up and two of the Instructors marched in, bellowing, removing bed covers from supine forms and generally offering advice on what the recruits were to do next.

DI Jonsen just looked at TJ and then at Morg,

"You learn fast, laddy. Webbing, LBE, water bottle and field hat. Rations are outside."

TJ gathered his gear, copied by Morg and they marched outside. TJ advised his 'oppo',

"Have a mugful of coffee, slowly, we've probably got a half hour and eat a quarter of the rats. Fill your bottle and the bladder on the LBE. Walk around a bit and check your boots are comfortable. Put the extra rats in a pouch. I suspect we are in for a short march until breakfast — no runs yet; most of them are not fit enough and the boots haven't been broken in. We probably will be carrying too much water for this time but sooner or later, a long run will be slotted in and there will be a lot without enough water."

So it proved, although Morg questioned TJ's definition of 'short'. After the meal which most of the squad turned down, there was "Drill" — forming the squad, turns and marching. The sun came out and the heat increased. Hourly breaks of five minutes near a water point were taken and Morg copied TJ in only swallowing a mouthful at each break. Those thirsty individuals who gulped copious quantities paid for it by examining the stomach's contents as it lay on the ground until being given shovels by unsympathetic spacers and instructed to clean it up. Callisthenics were added increasingly leading Morg to moan that he wanted to be a spacer, you know a modern variety of sailor — the people who were transported not walked. TJ pointed out that DNs were measured in kilometres and missiles were tens of tons. All TJ got in reply was a rude gesture.

By the end of the day, Morg was feeling the strain with reddened face and blistered little toes. He was among the more fortunate — most of the troops had large broken blisters. TJ produced a bladder of linseed oil which he poured into his boots after having assiduously repolished them,

"The oil plays havoc with the polish. Loosen up your laces and tomorrow wear a pair of summer socks under a pair of winter socks. Get a quick 'tub' and turn in. I'll pour the linseed into your boots later and then I'll stuff them with my spare socks — I'll spend the rest of the week getting the linseed out of the socks but the leather should be supple. To morrow will be another early start and most of the drill will be turns. Probably be issued sidearms and spend time on lectures."