A Visit to the RSM
“Come
on Mark, GO on have a drink! You are on your last day. What is the worst that
could happen?” the chef said.
Almost 3 months prior
The orders of a
‘two can limit,’ were the orders of ‘The Man’. You know the one that pulls the
strings within the top echelon of any system.
‘Two cans’ was the limit and let’s say my friends and I ignored this
rule, and I got caught. I had to see ‘The Man’ himself. This was a visit to
which I was no stranger throughout my adolescence.
Every time I had
this visit, the same concerns would haunt me during the build up. Mark you have really done it this time! I
would think. Thankfully ‘The Man’ was
busy and the sentence was abrupt and delivered quickly.
“3 months drinking ban! Now get out of my sight”, or words to that
effect.
I was under strict observation and expected to screw up. ‘The chief,’ my
sergeant, had expressed the importance of not giving our ‘unit’ any more bad
labels.
Our sergeant! ‘The chief’ and the mother figure of our unit.
“I will be very disappointed Sapper
Brooker, IF you do not take this
warning seriously,” the sergeant said.
At the time I did think it must be
hard to be close to the lads and still have to play that motherly role. Instinctively,
considering that he had emphasised that he would be disappointed; not mad, not
angry, but disappointed!
For the majority of the punishment I had taken the warning seriously, observing
each successful day lift weight from my sergeant’s shoulders, for I was his
responsibility. That was something I learnt very quickly within the forces. Everyone
within the forces is your family and when one messes up the effects are felt by
all, no matter how insignificant one may feel.
My engineer unit were responsible
for the maintenance along sector 2 of the green line and occasionally had to
carry out patrols.
The green line was the border line which the United Nations controlled in
Cyprus . It was
a 112 mile line established in 1974 by the United Nations, following the
Turkish invasion of Cyprus .
My last day of my punishment and all we had to do was a few stags! I say
stag, but this was no boring patrol. A joy ride would be more of a suitable description.
A ‘112 mile’ dirt track, where time stands still.
I had got my best lap time yet, surely! I thought.
Everyone raced the green line.
Just imagine, a ‘4x4 L200 Mitsubishis,’ a dirt track very similar to ‘The
Rally Monte Carlo,’ and us, ‘the two soldier operatives’. The orders are for
the operatives to patrol to a check point about 12 miles away and back, in a
4x4 on a dirt track; people talk of dealing with temptations.
There are speed signs of 50 km, but no one takes any notice of them.
So yes, I was a little concerned when my fellow engineer companion, ‘the
co-driver’ of the 4x4 vehicle, said that he spotted in the rear view mirror, a
figure come running from hedge line waving his stick with the look of horror
emanating from his aura as I dashed across the open section of the course.
There are only a few characters that carry around pace sticks; I had met
one of these characters just shy of three months ago.
The other two were even higher up the pyramid.
This was not a good feeling my friend had created. On one hand my
companion could be lying and showing him any sign of fear would give him great
power over these emotions I currently felt scratching my stomach walls. On the
other hand, if this were true; well it could not be true; I did not even want
to consider that outcome. There was no way that outcome would infect my mind,
not this moment anyway. This moment I was a new me; I was on the yellow brick
road; the road to recovery; I was alert; I was, I was responsible? Nah! Surely
not, but then my superiors were looking at me with a different light, like I
had been saved from the dark wayward
waters of waywardness. ‘The Man’ was looking to me as the example of how
the right punishment can cause fruition.
I finished the stag and headed for my room.
I decided to ignore what my friend had said, in fact I was doing the
complete opposite of what my companion intended. Rather than dwelling on, ‘I
may of or may not have been caught,’ I was dusting the dust from my halo in my
minds eye. Three long months I had worked hard; I was soon to be the shining
example of how a soldier ought to act.
No sooner had I been dusting my halo, I was also pondering how I could
spend my last night being that all the other engineers were out on the lash. All
that remained in the blocks were a few others on a drinking ban; and the chefs.
The chefs cook our food, no defences needed, they keep themselves to
themselves. Everyone keeps friendly with them because they cook the food.
The chefs worked hours that meant whilst others were sobering up in their
beds, they were preparing breakfast and the meals for the rest of the day.
The chefs were the early birds.
My last night of punishment, the chefs decided to have a drink in their
room and had summoned me. I say that because the pressure led left me no
choice, such quips as ‘you are suppose to be an engineer,’ and ‘I thought you
engineers laughed in the face of fear.’
There was no doubt in my mind that I was caught by the devil’s hook. All
I had is was one day left. I had spent
the most of the 3 months rehabilitating and improving my abilities as a
soldier. I was the new example of how even the most rebellious of souls can be
transformed. Then there was still the fact I was representing my unit of
engineers. Engineers are well known throughout the forces for their drinking
games. I did not want to tarnish what it meant to be an engineer of the corps
deep down. I did what any true engineer would have done. I took the moment by
the horns and I went back into the wayward
waters or waywardness.
An engineer requires a clever balance in chemistry.
“Come on Mark, GO on have a drink! You are on your last day, what is the
worst that could happen?” the chef said.
So I did.
I met up in their room and remember the very first bottle of port opened.
That’s all I remember.
About eight neglected hours pass.
Sun light pierced the gaps between my curtains and amazingly I stirred in
my own pit.
“Get up!” My sergeant said, “The RSM would
like to see you in his office at 08.30 hours sharp.”
There’s nothing worse than suffering from slight amnesia after a binge
the night prior to awakening.
“The RSM…” I muffled all kind of tantalizing thoughts attacking me.
“The RSM would like to speak to you about how you feel that you are above
everyone and can treat the green line as your own personal Monta Carlo”
“Err Chris…I was speeding, but not travelling that fast.”
“The RSM’s said that the UN flag pole on the vehicle was bent and
parallel to the floor, not the flag! The pole!”
My stomach made a noise; my heart skipped a beat…I remember considering
the thought of having to spend the whole tour not even being allowed to visit
the island….next were the thoughts of the chance of being charged, a curse that
follows you everywhere.
“Relax!” the sergeant said. “You are lucky I have got your back. I told him I was already aware of it and that
I have punished you already.”
“Thanks,” I relieved.
I had no time to wash if I wanted breakfast; I squeezed a little
toothpaste into my mouth to disguise the smell of alcohol, got dressed and
headed to breakfast.
Whilst in breakfast, I felt an overwhelming sensation of paranoia, like
the whole universe was looking at me. I studied everyone’s face, there was
definitely something going on and it involved me. I considered that news did
travel fast and decided that maybe everyone knew that I was in trouble again.
As I was at the hot plate, I saw the two chefs I had been drinking with.
“I cannot even remember how I got to my room last night!” I uttered.
They smiled; the
body language was very false. Something was not running true.
“I been told I have to see the RSM. I hope he does not smell alcohol on
me,” I informed them. Sure, throw them a
little gossip, see their reactions, I thought.
“Really! Well good luck!” one of the chefs abruptly said, delivered with
a deceiving smile.
There was definitely something peculiar about their whole demeanour. I
decided not to read too much into it and headed away toward to the dining area
where all the soldiers sat to eat.
“Bye then,” I said.
I looked over to see my fellow engineers at our usual table by the coffee
machine, eating their breakfast. I sat down and began to eat. Everyone was quieter
than usual, so I decided to inform them that it was the RSM that had spotted me
speeding down the green line. They all simultaneously looked up, looked at me
then looked at each other. I studied their faces. Usually I would consider a
laugh or a little banta (forces word
for mockery) my way, but nothing.
“Ok…what’s going on?” I demanded, studying their every facial expression.
“Did you get up late this morning?” Gimp said.
Gimp was the fellow co-driver from the stag that initially informed me of
the figure waving the stick in the rear view mirror.
“Yes, in fact I did, Gimp! I squirted some toothpaste in my mouth and
came straight here.
They all looked at each other. It was like there was some kind of
conspiracy going on. I felt my face for stubble, as I had decided to sacrifice
having a wash to make it in time for breakfast.
“I can’t feel any stubble. Do you think the RSM will notice I haven’t had
a shave?” I asked.
“You look like you have… had…a…SHAVE, I wouldn’t worry,” Geordie smirked.
I thought that he was smirking only because I could get away with shaving
for a good four days. It was Geordie’s way of having a dig at the fact I did
not produce the correct levels of testosterone which left my stubble growing in
patches.
“Haha ha ha! We are not all cavemen like you Geordie and hit puberty at
the age of six,” I countered.
They all give off a slight but controlled humour.
“Whatever! You lot confuse the hell out me at times, constantly
conspiring against me.”
Paranoia was getting to me.
I looked at my watch.
I had 10 minutes before I had to
be in front of the RSM.
“I’ll see you girls later! I got a date with the RSM!” I laughed.
Not wanting to give away any indication of being at all bothered, when
inside all kind of chemical reactions were igniting, only made clear to myself,
as my body’s thermostat was malfunctioning causing me to have cold sweats.
I left them giggling to themselves. Soon as I left, I felt my ears
burning, but I had other concerns right now! I had a date with the infamous RSM
who everyone was scared of.
The RSM was notorious for dealing with all forms of discipline. This was one
of the very first things one learnt when filtering through basic training. I
was not too concerned though, as my sergeant assured me that he had my back and
that it would just be a verbal warning of the dangers.
I entered the HQ which consisted of a two floor building. The lower floor
was where all the clerks worked and officers that dealt with the politics; on
the second floor only rumours were known of what went on amongst the lower
ranks. There were only two ways a low rank would be required to walk up the stairs
in the lobby - for commendation or condemnation. To get any form of commendation
one had to do some serious butt kissing; so most, if not all soldiers only see
the second floor for a good verbal grilling.
The stairs were lined with yellow
lines. Crazy how the forces have to
comply with little health safety rules, I thought.
As I ascended, I spotted a full
body mirror at the very top. Perfect! This
would allow me to ensure I looked half decent, I grinned.
I briefly looked into the mirror, straightened my beret, and then knocked
on the RSM’s door. Hold up!
Something did not look right, the
symmetry of my face or something, I thought.
I looked back into the mirror and to my horror I had been robbed.
I only had one EYEBROW
“Come in,” said the RSM.
Those little devils, I thought.
