‘Just let me at you,’ Dennis the Menace said, waving one of his small surgical blades in front of Boney’s crutch. ‘The world’ll be a lot safer if you don’t have one, so let’s lop it off.’
‘Shit, Dennis!’ Boney yelled, jumping back and covering his manhood with his hands. ‘Don’t piss around like that!’
‘You think this is funny, Trooper?’ Sergeant Lorrimer said to Dennis the Menace. ‘You think we give you these items for your amusement, do you?’
‘Well, no, boss, I was just…’
‘Making a bloody fool of yourself, right?’ Lorrimer shoved his beetroot-red face almost nose to nose with the trooper. ‘Well, let me tell you, that where you’re going you might find a lot of these items useful – particularly when you have to slice a poisonous spike or insect out of your own skin, or maybe slash open a snake bite, then suck the wound dry and suture it yourself without anaesthetic. Will you be laughing then, Trooper?’
‘No, boss, I suppose not. I mean, I…’
‘Damn right, you won’t, Trooper. A joker like you – you’ll probably be pissing and shitting yourself, and crying for your mummy’s tit. So don’t laugh at this kit!’
‘Sorry, boss,’ Dennis the Menace said. ‘Hear you loud and clear, boss.’
‘At least I know you clean the wax from your ears,’ Lorrimer said, then bellowed: ‘Move it, you men!’
Once the squadron had been clothed and kitted out in order of size, they were marched back across the broad field, which, at the height of noon, had become a veritable furnace that burned their skin and made them pour sweat. To this irritation was added the midges and mosquitoes, the flies and flying beetles, none of which could be swotted away because every man, apart from being burdened with his heavy bergen, also had his hands engaged carrying even more equipment. When eventually they reached the barracks, their instinct was to throw the kit on the floor and collapse on their bashas. But this was not to be.
‘Right!’ Sergeant Lorrimer bawled. ‘Stash that kit, have a five-minute shower, put on your drill fatigues, and reassemble outside fifteen minutes from now. OK, you men, shake out!’
The latter command was SAS slang for ‘Prepare for combat’, but the men knew exactly what Lorrimer meant by using it now: they were going to get no rest. Realizing that this time they didn’t even have time to complain or bullshit, they fought each other for the few showers, hurriedly dressed, and in many cases were assembling outside without having dried themselves properly, their wet drill fatigues steaming dry in the burning heat. They were still steaming when Lorrimer returned in the jeep, but this time he waved the jeep away, then made the men line up in marching order.
‘Had your scran, did you?’ he asked when they were lined up in front of him.
‘Yes, boss!’ the men bawled in unison.
‘Good. ’Cause that’s all you’re going to get until this evening. You’re here to work – not wank or chase skirt – and any rest you thought you might be having, you’ve already had in that Hercules. OK, follow me.’
He marched them across the flat field, through eddying heatwaves, all the way back to the armoury, located near the quartermaster’s stores. There they were given a selection of small arms, including the M1 0.3in carbine with 30-round detachable magazines, which was good for low-intensity work at short range, but not much else; the 9mm Owen sub-machine-gun, which used 33-round, top-mounted box magazines, could fire at a rate of 700 rounds per minute, and was reliable and rugged; the relatively new 7.62mm semi-automatic SLR (self-loading rifle) with 20-round light box magazines, which had yet to prove its worth; and the standard-issue Browning 9mm High Power handgun with 13-round magazines and Len Dixon holster.
When the weapons had been distributed among the men, each given as much as he could carry, Lorrimer pointed to the Bedford truck parked near by.
‘Get in that,’ he said. ‘After the weather in England, I’m sure you’ll appreciate some sunshine. All right, move it!’
When they had all piled into the Bedford, they were driven straight to the firing range, where they spent the whole afternoon, in ever-increasing heat, firing the various weapons – first the M1 carbine, then the Owen sub-machine-gun and finally the unfamiliar SLR. The heat was bad enough, but the insects were even worse, and within an hour or two most of the men were nearly frantic, torn between concentrating on the weapons and swotting away their tormentors. When they attempted to do the latter, they were bawled at by the redoubtable Sergeant Lorrimer. After two hours on the range, which seemed more like twelve, their initial enthusiasm for the sunlight, which had seemed so wonderful after England, waned dramatically, leaving them with the realization that they had been travelling a long time and now desperately needed sleep, proper food, and time to acclimatize to this new environment.
‘What the fuck’s the matter with you, Trooper?’ Sergeant Lorrimer demanded of Pete Welsh.
‘Sorry, boss, but I just can’t keep my eyes open.’
‘A little tired after your long journey from England, are you?’ Lorrimer asked sympathetically.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘So what are you going to do in the jungle, Trooper, when you have to sleep when standing waist-deep in water? Going to ask for tea and sympathy, are you? Perhaps some time off?’
‘I’m not asking now, boss. I’m just having problems in keeping my eyes open. It’s the sunlight, combined with the lack of sleep. We’re all the same, boss.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Lorrimer said. ‘You’re all the same. Well, that makes all the difference!’ He glanced melodramatically around him, at the other men lying belly-down on the firing range, half asleep when not being tormented by mosquitoes and other dive-bombing tormentors. ‘Need sleep, do you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, boss!’ they all bawled simultaneously.
‘If you sleep before bedtime,’ Lorrimer explained, ‘you’ll all wake up in the middle of the morning, so you’d best stay awake. On your feet, Troopers!’
When they jumped to their feet, shocked by the tenor of Lorrimer’s voice, he ran them a few times around the firing range, which was now like God’s anvil, and only let them rest again when at least one of them, the normally tough Alf Laughton, started swaying as if he’d been poleaxed.
‘Get back in the Bedford,’ Lorrimer said, addressing the whole group. ‘You’re just a bunch of pansies.’
Breathless, pouring sweat, hardly able to focus their eyes, they piled into the Bedford, were driven back to the armoury, lined up for what seemed like hours to return their weapons, then were allowed to make their own way back to the barracks. There, in a state of near collapse, most of them threw themselves down on their steel-framed beds.
No sooner had they done so than Sergeant Lorrimer appeared out of nowhere, bawling, ‘Off your backs, you lot! You think this is Butlins? Get showered and change into your dress uniforms and be at the mess by 5.30 sharp. Any man not seen having dinner will be up for a fine. Is that understood? Move it!’
They did so. In a state of virtual somnambulism, they turned up at the crowded mess, where Sergeant Lorrimer was waiting to greet them.
‘Spick and span,’ he said, looking them up and down with an eagle eye. ‘All set for scran. OK, go in and get fed, take your time about it, but make sure you reassemble back out here. No pissing off to the NAAFI.’
‘The day’s over after din-dins,’ Dennis the Menace said.
‘It is for the common soldier,’ Lorrimer replied, ‘but not for you lot.’ He practically purred with anticipation. ‘You lot are privileged!’
They