Deepcut Blackdown Bks (1)
Deepcut & Beyond was formed on 11th November 2003 in response of nearly 50 families of soldiers that have died in noncombat situations in coming forward and joining together They have a common aim in finding out the TRUTH in how and why these deaths were allowed to happen, fighting for JUSTICE to hold to account and prosecute those responsible with a hope that CHANGE will take place to protect other families and prevent future deaths Over 1750 noncombat deaths have been reported in the last 10 years. This figure includes road accidents and genuine natural causes. Other deaths are not as easily explained and are not fully investigated by the MOD, and over 200 of these deaths are fire arms related. Deepcut, Black down Barracks, 1991 I feel the British Army through training and experience is the best military force in the world. The British armed forces is relatively small but are still one of the most active, effective and professional forces. Deepcut: A strange place with negative media attention over the last ten years. When I reflect back and give an honest opinion of my little spell at that camp. I look back with sadness for the younger recruits that had a difficult time. The Welsh Sgt Major sat us down on the cemented floor outside in front of his office. We were all passed out recruits on this warm sunny day. He began to tell us about little green men, that hide in cracks and under the floors, asking if we had seen them. He was making a point, the one that pre-school teacher would bestow on class. I was about twenty three years of age, finished school, and college, already worked for a couple of years. I had left home at the tender age of sixteen. I flew across the Atlantic, fended for myself; I could cook, iron, and badly manage finances, the basics of any young adult. I was now a trained professional soldier. I had already been thought the system and completed my basic training; I was a soldier and a young adult with more life experience than most around me. Including the training staff. This moment in time, sitting, hearing the verbal diarrhea from a mentally dysfunctional Welshman was not only irritating, but very mind numbingly frustrating. . I clearly remember looking around at the faces of others, some engrossed, some giggling from nerves, some just hugging their knees while looking at the ground. This moment sat on a floor outside made me think that I was indeed in an institution, but the white jackets and lobotomies were not as yet administered. This place thrived on control, for some fear, for others we just knew it was part of the bullshit until you move to a real working unit, or so we hoped. I must admit I did fuck up on my first day. I arrived in civilian clothes, with a suitcase a issued hold all and the indispensable Bergen. The normal protocol is to visit the guard room, display your paperwork, and wait for further instructions. Army life or army training life is relatively simple; it’s all in black and white every day of your life. Orders! Read, do, done. The only hardship is suffering the hangover at the crack of dawn. I had to wait for a while at the guard room, they looked at my paperwork, and I was offered a cup of tea. NATO standard, this comprised of two sugars and milk, “hot and sweet”. As I waited, I had a little chat, as one does, exchanging the usual or unusual. Since I was not any longer a raw recruit, commonly referred to as a “” Mong, a new recruit. Or a Sprog, a new recruit again. I was an ARAB, Arrogant Regular Army Bastard”. A passed out soldier. The guard NCO thought I was posted to the unit for duty. As soon as he found out I was only here for holding, he panicked, then asked me to stand outside and wait. He gave a apologetic look, and said he did not want to get into shit. I was a “BrewBitch” Fresh off the recruits course, making brews the soldiers first Trade. I understood, the day was gorgeous, so I took my bags and milled about the front while I waited patiently. I smoke, and outside is the only general smoking area. The tea hardly touched was already missing. It was odd that so many soldiers smoke and drink like fish when given the opportunity. You see smokers got given a break! A fact, if you smoked you got smoke breaks. If you did not smoke you lost out. Join the “Army and smoke, we encourage you”. I was semi grilled by a youngish soldier who was having a smoke; he asked me the routine questions, just the general small talk. I told him I was here for holding until my posting order came. I wanted Germany or Ireland. We all said that, as if programmed. I found out so was he, and he had been here six months. He commented that this place was a shit-hole, he was thinking of sacking the Army. I was a little shocked, six months, and his attitude in general seemed very negative. I on the other hand was rearing to go to a real unit and serve for queen and country. Later I cloned his ideal, like so many others. A shout came. “Oi, nig!” I knew what nig stood for, literally: “New in Germany” I suppose Geography was not his strong point. I looked over towards the guard room, at the same time the voice bellowed again. “ Fucking move, you fucking runt”. I had almost dazed expression, he was addressing me. I replied back. “ Are you talking to me?” At that point I got a barrage of abuse, from a fully starched, glass mirror booted screaming scull. “ Get your fucking arse here you piece of shit, fucking now, you waste of fucking space” At first I stood almost frozen, unsure to be scared or to react with more than what I was getting. I thought to myself ” who the fuck is this prick”. ,I thought a new unit meant training banter and abuse was over, apparently not. I bit my lip trying to contain my temper. The lad beside me was standing to attention, solid fucking rigid, not even blinking. I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and replied. ” Be right there, I thought you were talking to someone else”. I walked over, not slow, I was carrying a huge bag, with all my issued kit and civilian cloths, but apparently not fast enough. The screaming scull had a pace stick under his arm, and his peaked cap hiding his eyes, he launched himself at a rapid pace towards me. His ammo boots clashing down the steps then onto the sidewalk, while pointing his stick towards me and shouting hysterically. ”At the end of my stick is a piece of shit, who is about to get a beasting”. A beasting is a form of physical exercise that does not include any enjoyment, just sweat and at times pain. I kind of enjoyed a good beasting. In basic I was given 20 push-ups for every joke I told that did not make a chuckle. I told four of my best gags and what can I say, apart from the humor was far above the intellect of my audience. I was told to push out 80 push-ups. This was all in good fun, but when I asked on which arm, I found myself wearing a chain with half a brick attached for the whole day. This included a 5 km run. I did the 80 on my left arm to prove a point. I saw eyes peeping out of the guard room, the faces lost behind shadows and fear but some filled with some kind of cynical joy. The rigid lad that was having a smoke was now a stone statue, my hair was standing on ends, I was adrenaline charged. I dropped my bag and gave a lippy reply, one problem I always had, being a smart arse. “ Not at this end, Sgt, must be on your end” Fuck me, I wish that did not just come from my mouth, I had heard this line many times in jest and never thought I would get the opportunity to practice this one liner. He stopped dead in his tracks, almost like a cartoon halt, his face went “puffer fish” and scarlet red with pure rage. The next few sentences did not make any sense, it was deafening and followed by sprinkles of spit, I just remember; “ Knees up, Knees up you little cunt” and then. “quick march, mark time, quick march, mark time”. Before I knew it I was quick marching, then stopping to mark time, raising my knees to waist level. I was in shit already! This lasted about five minuets, and I was to coin a phrase “ball-bagged”. The sweat was pissing out of me. I was told to stand to attention, and that I did. Have you ever felt that even your hair was sweating? Well this gives you that phenomena. The words “ Stand to attention” are a god send, even on a arid breezeless day seems refreshing. Having been given the nickname since childhood as “Smiler” I was grinning, it’s a natural thing for me to do. So I stood getting a further ear bashing. I must admit a smiler winds me up. “ Do think I’m a fucking comic, do you want me to wipe that smile off your sprog face” I don’t know if I had graduated from “nig” or regressed to “sprog” either way both are not compliments. All his one liners came out, this is where I learned about three men that would rid me of my grin (Again) as part of his repertoire. Jeff Wright, Abo Turn, and last but not least, Mark Tyne.My grim increased, I had met the three gents before, many times! For the unprivileged that have not had the privilege, you will know the following men as movements; Left right, about turn, and mark time). Yet again I was doing drill for a further ten minuets, however this time the pace was increased to frantic. At this point a very nervous young lad came out the guard room, he walked over and came to a halt, it was almost dainty, I started to laugh, this was a reaction that I had developed during basic training, and it took the heat away from one. The lad looked terrified, and in seconds he was marching up and down halting at the command of the screaming scull, until his foot could be heard banging the ground. The screaming skull seemed please and very softly asked: “ Now daffodil, what do you want?” When the had finished panting, he uttered a reply screaming at the top of his lungs “ It’s the HQ Sgt, they want Pte Skinner to go to the office” The scull screamed back in a rage. ” Why the fuck did you not tell me this, you fucking little pansy, now get away before I stick you in jail” The lad turned left then right, in a panic, he totally forgot his drill, and started flapping, I could not help my grin, I had a flip top head from my broadened grin. The scull turned, glared at me and shouted one last command before mumbling more obscenity’s to whoever was passing. “ Skinner, get you fucking act together, and get your arse to the office, sharpish! I will be seeing you later”. I got my bag, stood for a few seconds a little lost and it just popped out of my mouth “ Meat balls, not crystal, where is the office Sgt?”. I just wanted a hole to appear and swallow me, why did I say that? The scull just looked, he gave a little smile, “You,” Pointing his pace stick like Moses “take him” The stone statue turned to life, he could have passed for a terracotta Japanese soldier reincarnated. Later on I found the Sgt to be a good egg, he was just playing the part, and he seemed to like my lip that day. One NCO I respected even though a tough bastard was Cpl Wilson, just his eyes told stories, but he had people skills. Even after a harsh physical beasting from Wilson that would make your whole body shiver and make you feel like throwing up, you would not feel an ounce of resentment. I arrived at the HQ office; it resembled portable cabins. The young terracotta lad told me to leave the bags’ outside and go in. He hastily turned and ran back with amazing vigor; I thought they must have a ten second rule here, or he wanted to polish off my cup of tea. In the office was a lumpy jumper. That was a name given to WRACS or female soldiers, among other names. I said hello, and told her why I was here. Again I was told to wait, but I did not mind since I was still rather warm. The phone came to life, she looked at me up and down in a disconcerting manner, and said go through to the office. I looked at the door, gave a little tap, and a welsh voice boomed “ Come in boyo”.
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Copyright © 2005 Kevin John Skinner |