Date: Mon, 19 Dec 2016 11:56:26 +0000 (GMT) From:
"rampage938@btinternet.com" <rampage938@btinternet.com> Subject: RAMPANT
RANDY RECRUITS - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 : Arrival Day

After a few hours sleep, everyone was harshly jolted out of their slumbers
at 04.00 hours by a deafening blast from an old, scratchy recording of the
ancient bugle call known as Reveille. It was a rude awakening, a cruel
introduction to the first day of their new lives. DC's thoughts and aching
balls could not forget the events of the previous night with Jim. He was
horny all through his ablutions, all through breakfast, all through the
tedium of being 'processed' before being allowed to board one of a fleet of
coaches waiting to take them to King's Cross sidings where their special
train would be waiting for them and from where it would depart. They were
not going to be allowed to have the luxury of departing from a platform in
the usual way. It must have been very obvious to most of the other guys
that DC was feeling his oats, because one of them shouted across the Mess,
"Hey, DC, didn't you get your end away last night then? Oh dear me, what a
pity!" Roars of lewd laughter greeted this banal sally at DC's expense. He
made a rude gesture with one finger in the guy's direction, boarded the
coach taking them to London and settled into a seat. Try as he might, DC
could not disregard the constant, persistent hardness in his groin.

On arrival at the King's Cross sidings they got their first taste of doing
things the military way. The coach came to rest near a very narrow raised
concrete walkway normally used by railway staff. Pulled up alongside it was
their train waiting for them. It was made up of a motley collection of
carriages which had been withdrawn from public use due to age. The sight of
them gave DC a chill as he recalled seeing a TV programme about a railway
disaster at a place called Quintinshill in which a number of soldiers
travelling to France during WW1 in a similar death trap were killed, some
were burnt to death while others were literally mashed to a pulp.

Nothing is simple to the military mind, oh, no! Instead of the lads all
piling off the coach, picking up their baggage and finding a place to sit
on the train, they were told to wait where they were. The coach driver left
them to it and disappeared into a shed, taking with him a huge manila
envelope, which contained all their completed paperwork. A few minutes
later, the coach driver came out of the shed minus the envelope,
accompanied by two RAF military policemen or 'Snowdrops' as they later
learned to call them. The MPs were wearing immaculate blue uniforms. Their
cap badges and buttons gleamed, the white webbing sparkled, and their
pistol holsters looked suitably menacing - whether or not they held weapons
loaded with live ammo no one ever found out. Their boots shone with an
almost unnatural lustre - DC was later to learn how that shine was
achieved. If you ask any ex-Serviceman how its done, he would rather be
shot at dawn than reveal that military secret! Some of the lads were
getting bored and frustrated just standing around doing sweet Fanny Adams,
waiting for something to happen. In the end, one brave lad declared, "Fuck
this. I'm not fucking around here. Let's go back to the station and go for
a beer!" He tried to open the coach door but he was not quick enough. With
a speed of movement DC would not have believed if he had not witnessed it
for himself, the two cops were on that coach quicker than it takes you to
read this sentence.

"And where the fuck do you think you're going?" growled one of the MPs
close up to the offender's face.

"We're just going for a beer, mate. Getting a bit tired of standing around
here."

"Oh, no, you're not." The MP planted himself firmly in the middle of the
aisle between the seats, his legs spread wide, arms akimbo. Very little of
his face could be seen as it was shaded by the slashed peak of his cap and
the fact that it was still pitch dark outside, save for a few paltry dim
station lights.

"Sit down!" The would-be rebel did not move - a most unwise decision.

"I told you to SIT DOWN! NOW !!"

The corporal's voice grated through the hushed, confined space of the
coach. The rebel's face paled, he audibly gulped and fell back into his
seat. The corporal unhurriedly sent his gaze around the now silent body of
men. They felt like rabbits confronted by a hungry weasel as his coldly
glittering eyes fastened on each man in turn. Then he came to DC. As he
stared at him, DC began to feel something with a million spidery legs and
feathery feet running up and down his spine. DC's morning hard-on had
vanished like the dew before the rising sun and DC cringed, wishing the
seat would swallow him. The two gazed at each other for what seemed to be
an eternity, but was really only a few seconds. DC knew, instantly, that he
had been marked down. Somehow, the corporal had sussed DC was queer, a
poof. No doubt he would bide his time, secure in the knowledge that DC
would betray himself sooner or later. DC was terrified - he had heard
stories about what happened to guys like him who were suspected of having
sex with other men in the military. This guardian of military law would
carry DC's image in his brain to the end of his days and he would get him,
of that DC was certain. He was on the point of collapsing with fear when an
extraordinary thing happened. The corporal came up to him and put his hand
on his shoulder. DC was aware the corporal must have felt it trembling
beneath his hand.

"It's OK, lad, I look after our own in this man's Air Force."

It was said so quietly that not even the guy in the seat next to DC could
have heard it, but those words dripped into his consciousness like acid. He
sucked in air, licked at his dry lips, and tried to clear his parched
throat. The corporal, who had returned to the door of the coach, turned
round and said, "Right, you lot. Get yourselves off this bus and form up
outside in columns of three." He produced a key and unlocked the
door. Those amongst them who had been air cadets or had some limited
knowledge of military drill, were able to show the greenhorns what to do
and what 'columns of three' meant.

Eventually, they sorted themselves out, retrieved their baggage and were
herded like so many cattle on to the train. With little or no ceremony, the
train set off on the long journey north to Lavington. Nothing of any note
occurred during the rest of that day and when they arrived at their
destination and left the train, they experienced the same thing they'd had
that morning in London, only in reverse. By the time they had arrived the
weather had changed for the worse and it was raining as only it can rain on
the North York moors. They had to board another coach to be taken to the
recruit camp and headed out on to the bleak, wintry landscape, eventually
finding their way to the large RAF base that was to be their home for the
next few months. If anyone really thought or expected they would enjoy a
'home from home' environment, they were about to meet with a severe
disappointment.

Just about everyone has seen those movies - particularly the American ones
- concerning life in 'boot camp'. You must know the sort of thing: new
would-be macho recruits arrive full of testosterone, until the Drill
Instructors immediately begin screaming and yelling at them. That was the
kind of reception our recruits got on their arrival at RAF Lavington. The
coach was not allowed to proceed through the main gates on to the sacred
and hallowed ground of the base, so they had to scramble off on to the edge
of a narrow, dark and drearily wet country lane. They were all thoroughly
soaked through by the time everyone's baggage had been off-loaded and
married up to its rightful owners. While this was going on, two sergeants
had arrived, both toting the ever-present clipboards with sheets of paper
attached to them and swagger sticks under their left arms. The soon to be
recruits stood around like so many drowned rats while the two NCOs made a
show of comparing notes and holding a private discussion about what to do
with them. They seemed to be confused why so many young male civilians with
baggage had landed up at the base. After a few minutes of this, one of the
sergeants suddenly barked out an order.

"Form up in columns of three!" Confusion reigned supreme as the tired, wet
and hungry young men tried to sort out their baggage and themselves. This
drove the NCOs to despair.

"What the fucking Hell do you lot think you're doing? Just get into line,
for fuck's sake." Some semblance of order was eventually achieved but they
had been kept standing about in the pouring rain for another thirty minutes
or so.

By now the coach had sneaked away so there was nowhere left to go but
forwards. They were marched at a smart pace through the main gates,
struggling to keep in step and holding on to heavy suitcases and whatever
else they had brought along at the same time. One guy obviously thought of
himself as a candidate for a pop group as he was encumbered by having a
bass guitar strapped to his back. Silly boy! Straight up the main road
through the camp they went. Just as DC thought they were going to march
straight into the façade of a long, low red brick building in front of
them, they were veered right towards a building with a signboard outside
clearly reading AIRMEN'S MESS. "At last," thought DC, some decent food" -
but no, they went straight past and were confronted by row upon row of low
wooden buildings coated with decades of preservative which had turned
black. It turned out that these were to be their accommodation huts. This
was where they were going to be housed, where they would do all their
bullshit chores, keep their uniforms well pressed and clean. It was the
most depressing sight that had ever met their gaze. It looked like a film
set reconstruction of a wartime Nazi concentration camp. The freezing rain
was still pissing down as they were halted in front of a large tarmac
covered square glistening with the amount of rain which had fallen on
it. They were soon to learn this depressing vision would be central to
their lives for the length of their stay at Lavington: this would be where
they would learn how to march and drill. The rows of huts had been erected
around three sides of the square, the fourth side also boasted a small
white dais and a huge flag pole, from which hung a dripping RAF Standard.

 "Right you lot," barked the first sergeant. DC decided he must be the
senior one as he seemed to be doing all the ordering about. "Listen for
your last three, respond by shouting out 'Sergeant', coming smartly - yes,
I said 'smartly' - to attention and I will tell you which hut you're going
to be in. Get over there quick, find a bed, dump your bags and be back here
in fifteen - yes, I said 'fifteen' - minutes. Clear?" A murmured "Yes,
sergeant" rippled through the assembled youths.

"I said, is that clear? "

"Yes, sergeant!" came the reply, loud and clear, as if bellowed by a single
voice.

"Better. Right, let us begin."

The sergeant began by barking out their last three numbers, barely waiting
for the response before snapping out the number of the hut and passing on
to the next man. DC's last three came up, he duly shouted out his response
in his best air cadet parade voice and received a look from the NCO which
clearly indicated his interest in this guy.

"You, 187 Cunningham, you are to go to Hut 14. Understand?"

"Yes, sergeant!" DC picked up his baggage and obediently trotted off, not
knowing where in Hell fucking Hut No. 14 was. His guardian angel must have
been watching over him as DC quickly found it and he crashed in through the
door, only to be brought up short by a bellowed "YOU! Stop right where you
are! What's your last three?" DC said afterwards when chatting with some of
the other inhabitants of Hut No. 14, "If I'd been a car, my fucking tyres
would have screeched and smoked at the way I came to a halt." A burly
corporal stood there, with yet another clipboard in his hand - how the
military love their clipboards!

"187, corporal!" Again, his air cadet experience was coming to his rescue.

"If you're 187 Cunningham you take the bed on the left, just inside the
door. You have been designated by higher authority to be Senior Man, and
you will report direct to me. I'm your beloved NCO in charge of this Hut
and everyone who occupies space in it. My name is Corporal Trafford and you
will address me as that at all times! Not, 'Yes, corp' or 'Please
corp'. Corp is not an official rank in the RAF and don't you forget
it. Clear?"

"Yes, Corporal Trafford!"

"Right then, fuck off quick and get back to the sergeant outside."

DC quickly found his bed, dumped his baggage and went back outside. The
rest of the occupants of Hut No. 14 were all lined up, ready to go. The
sergeant brought them to attention and then they set off at the double,
back the way they had come until they arrived outside the Airmen's
Mess. After a half-cold, semi-congealed meal of pig's liver and onions
accompanied by lumpy cold mashed potato, which they wolfed down to stave
off the pangs of hunger, an officer came into the Mess accompanied by the
two sergeants. In a most civilised voice and with an apparently friendly
manner, the officer began to address them.

"Everything alright, men?"  A couple of brave souls started to get up to
say something about the lukewarm mess they'd had to eat, but they quickly
sat down again when the two sergeants glared at them. The officer continued
as if he had not noticed the silent spat between the NCOs and the two men.

"Fine. I just want to give you an idea of what is going to happen for the
rest of today and tomorrow morning. You will now be taken by Sergeant Adams
and Sergeant MacLeish down to the main office in Station Headquarters to
complete the documentation processing. After that, you will be taken to get
a haircut and then be allowed to return to your barracks to unpack your
belongings, make up your beds and retire for the night. Reveille tomorrow
is at 05.30 hours and you will be on parade outside the barrack huts at
06.45 hours to be marched back here for breakfast. Good luck!" With that,
the officer turned on his heel, returned the NCOs salutes, and marched out.

What followed was a pure nightmare. To begin with, they all had to line up
at the far end of the dining hall in alphabetical order of their surnames.
Needless to say, there were Mac's and Mc's, St John's, Featherstonehaugh's,
and other unlikely names which caught everybody out. The terrible twins
Adams and MacLeish had a field day, yelling and shouting and barking orders
until their throats must have been red raw. All this was to achieve the
simplest of tasks: sorting the recruits out into two Flights: 'A' Flight
under the tender care of Sergeant Leo Adams and 'B' Flight under the
brutalising heel of Sergeant Edward MacLeish. DC, of course, found himself
in 'B' Flight.

Next: Chapter 4 : Untitled