Join the new world

It's early morning on a crisp winter's day. So early, in fact, that I'm still pissed from the night before, and only on my second pack of fags. But, when you're a sergeant in the Royal Navy, you have to make these sacrifices. The new recruits have arrived, and need thrashing into shape. At least the birds have stopped their godawful squawking.

I stride onto the parade ground, bottle of rum in one hand (normally it'd be a light beer at this time of the morning, but rum seems to fit with this whole 'navy' business a bit better), fag in the other, desperately trying to remember the Highly En-Moralising Speech I thought of before I crashed out. No joy there, so I'm forced to improvise:

"Right, you 'orrible lot!" That bit, at least, was simple, it's the traditional greeting of sergeants everywhere. Even in places they don't speak english, I'm told, though I have no idea how that works.

"I must be an 'orrible person! Do you know why I must be so 'orrible?!" Far too many hands go up, and I make a mental note to teach them the meaning of 'rhetorical' - as daddy always said, you can't be a proper soldier without at least a fundamental grasp of greek philosophical techniques.

"BECAUSE I HAVE YOU LOT AS MY PLATOON!" Oh yeah, this 'sarge' business is right up my street. Insulting people, making them do menial chores for me, getting hammered before breakkfast? Damn, it's like living with my parents again! I could get used to this.

Anyway, I'm just deciding beween starting with the classics, or just giving them copies of Zen & The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, when a messanger runs up: new orders! We're to travel to Lower Normandy immediately. And so, funds being what they are with the war on, we nick a bus, and, stopping only to 'requisition' some beer, are on our way.

I'd never thought about it before, but '99 bottles of beer' is actually a very bad travelling song for the Royal Navy - every verse, we'd only be up to 'Take one Down', and one of the privates'd be nagging me for another. We give up, and switch to generalised swearing and ranting, which suits us much more. We switch to ferry at some godawful little hole of a town, can't remember it's name, but there was a greasy spoon that didn't serve enough burnt bits with my bacon... Doesn't matter, port cities are all basically the same, bits of water, bits of land, with some stuff in between.

The sun's barely over my portable yard-arm (adjustable to fit your mood, great invention) when we get to Normandy. I can tell we're there by the lingering smell of burnt garlic in the air, and the general bombed-out look of the place. First thing to do, I decide, is to get the troops ready to fight, we could be called on at a moments notice. Actually, come to think of it, I probably should have got them kitted out before we left the barracks... Well, we make do with what we can find, and, soon enough, we're all in proper fighting gear - big black boots, ripped jeans, union jack T-shirts, and one standard-issue MP3 player with headphones (loud). I'm not totally sure this is the correct uniform, but the Major's nipped of to liberate Sweden (back in ten, he says), so I can't check with him. Anyway, it's what the best-armed force on my estate wore, so i'm pretty sure it's near enough. We head into what's left of the town for some basic Looting & Pillaging practice.

I've got to say, for their first day on the job, I'm impressed with these kids. The trip over's loosened them up nicely, and by now they're pissing up walls, vomiting, and swearing like proper sailors. I'm so proud of my little lads! (I don't care what sexes they actually are, the CO said i'm not allowed to shag them, so it's kind of irrelevant.) And thusly, a rather pleasant first day passes.

Evening arrives, and we decide to pay a visit to some of the locals. Truth be told, we've got the munchies pretty bad, and we're hoping we can talk a native into cooking something up for us. The family we choose to join for their evening meal is rather suprised at first, but, remembering what the CO said about 'hearts and minds' we give them a quick demonstration of the traditional english battle cry, much like the All-Blacks do that haka thing to make their opponents welcome before matches. Well, the CO was right, barely have we finished screaming 'You Looking At My Burd?!' and they want to be our friends so much they're handing us their own food!

Dinner is going nicely, the troops filling their faces, the family cooking away, when something strange happens: one of my men asks the mother of the family for some more food, and she replies "Genie Parley Angels". Well, right away, my carefully honed senses tingle: This sounds just like the "Whisky Tango Foxtrot" stuff they taught us back at base! I quietly signal the lads to move outside, and, having escaped without alerting these enemy spies, we proceed to firebomb the place.

And so, sitting round this rather festive fire, toasting baguettes and drinking beers, singing songs and thinking of our good day's work, we're happy. Our first day on the job and we rooted out a nest of enemy spies, single-handedly taking them down. And that was with half the day wasted getting kitted out and travelling: Just think of the great things we'll be able to do for our contry tomorrow!

Kitten
Royal Navy Sergeant (B Platoon)

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Any similaraties to any people or events, past or present, are purely coincidental untill i get my license back.
Please drink in moderation.
Smoking may cause death.
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