RSM’s drill parade usually lasted about an hour. The key to survival was that you make sure you didn’t get singled out. If you were slightly out with your timing on a drill movement, your life was over.
The RSM would be breathing down your neck in milliseconds. Your drill had to be better than the moves on Strictly Come Dancing!
You could be the smartest soldier on parade, but the RSM would still find a reason to send you down the road to the guard room.
He had a habit of walking up and down the ranks saying, ‘jail him, haircut, charged, jail him, haircut, charged.’ He was always followed by a posse of regimental police, carrying out his orders like a bunch of trainee chefs, following Gordon Ramsey in Hell’s kitchen. That afternoon in 1976, I thought my number was up. He walked past me then stopped and walked backwards about three paces and ripped into the guy next to me.
He looked down his nose at this guy, as though he had just stepped in ****.
‘How can you be so ugly with only one head? While we are on the subject, of heads, what the **** is that on yours?’
He was referring to the guy’s un-shrunken beret.
‘You are supposed to stand underneath your beret, not beside it, sort it out.’
Suddenly his face was about three millimetres away from mine. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me?’ He started to go mental about the length of my sideburns. ‘Who the ****, do you think you are? ******* Elvis? I bet you’d like to keep those sideburns, wouldn’t you?’
I didn’t say a word. I knew whatever I said would be wrong.
‘I’ll get you a ******* bag to put them in, shall I? Those sideburns are far too ******* long.’ Then he took a closer look and smiled.
‘Wait a minute; they’re not sideburns. They’re just long strands of hair pretending to be ******* sideburns. How old are you soldier, ******* 12?’ Using his, finger he pushed them behind my ears. Then he started to laugh.
‘That’s better,’ he said, as he walked away.
I’d dodged a bullet. I was lucky, I’d made it, there was always a handful that didn’t. Even the married pads weren’t safe. Some of them would find themselves in jail for the whole weekend.
I remember one of the married guy’s wives turning up at the guardroom, demanding that they release her husband. She was approached by the RSM, who told her if she didn’t go away, he would jail her too, along with her three kids and the pet dog.
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From the book Bumpers & Bed blocks 1970’s 80’s.
Available on kindle also available in paperback
amazon.co.uk/dp/B0716FRJXH/r…