THE YELLOW AMBER NECTAR

It had been along day, and it wasn't over yet. It was 2200 hrs., and time for a check of all rooms, and "engage' volunteers" as recruits were called. A nightly check was carried out, by the room NCO's, then the section NCO's, followed by the duty NCO, and the orderly Sergeant/Officer. We stood between the rows of double bunk beds, barely wide enough for us to fit in, shoulders touching the sides of the beds, one behind the other.

Fresh meat. Cadaver's, the orderly Sergeant took the appel, and just passed through to the next room, without stopping. Then the comedy started. Two corporals proceeded to do a Laurel and Hardy double act on us.

You were supposed to stand at ease, until the corporal drew level with the end of your bunk. At which point, you came to attention. Chest out, stomach in. Look straight ahead.(Tip for the day, try and avoid any eye contact, if possible).

I came to attention, and slapped my palms against my thighs.
"Tu est Le pesh ?", enquired the grinning corporal, followed by a poke in the chest.

Play dumb I thought, it wasn't hard really. I didn't know what the fuck he was on about . The question was repeated, followed very swiftly by a punch in the solar plexus.

As I crumpled to my knees trying not to vomit ,he leaned forward and pulled my head up by the hair(at this stage we still had a little bit left, but not for much longer). Our noses nearly touched. "Toujour le pesh". And off he jolly well went, to the next poor unsuspecting bastard.

I had virtually just managed to stand up straight again, when his mate "Ollie", came into the room (they must have had a set routine, of which bed they picked on).Ollie duly arrived at the end of my bunk, and I came to attention. Grinningly he leaned forward sticking his face mere millimetresfrom mine.

"Tu est fatigue?", he hissed.

In for a penny in for a pound, "Toujour"; I bellowed.

The problem is, that when they're that close, you can't see their arms move.
Smack.
Another one to the solar plexus, and back on my knees I went. Ollie leaned down and hissed "Jamias".

The first corporal, (Stan), had asked me if I had guts/spirit. To which, the response should have been, Toujour "Always". Ollie had asked me if I was tired, (a word that did not exist in the Legion's vocabulary). To which, I should have responded, "Never".

This was basically, the start, and introduction, of how I learned to speak French. A long drawn out, painful process, I'll tell you.

After weeks of doing press-ups, from our waking moments, at sometimes as early as, 0300 hrs, to the regular 0445 hrs. The stomachs were turning into nice little six packs.Punches to the stomach, were only happening, if you were totally unprepared . You had to walk about with your stomach permanently tensed.

The slap to the side of the face, or jaw, was the next one. People may pooh pooh, slaps, but I can tell you, that one slap in the right place, can either perforate your eardrum, or break your jaw. I've seen it done.

There were amusing incidents, as well, though. I remember when they let us out for a beer, to the Foyer, after we'd been there about six weeks or so. The best way to judge if you have a good intake, is to be in the Foyer, and see which side they go to. If they go to the right, it's probably going to be a good intake. However, if they mostly all go to the left, you're in trouble.

They sold the beer on the right . Chocolates and soap etc on the left.

You get a crate of 24, 75cl bottles of beer blonde. With all the tops off/popped. No sale or return, basis here. ( However when I was an Aide Monitor, I was to learn, that if I took a crate back to my bed space, and put it in my locker over night. It got stronger, and tasted just a little bit better).

Well, we'd had a couple of hours drinking, but we still had to be back in the rooms for the bed check. After going for a piss, we all assembled in our respective rooms. Well, not all had been for a piss, it turned out . One of the Germans who spoke very good French and English, was apparently bursting for a piss.

He hit on the brilliant idea, of pissing into his litre water bottle, and putting it back into his locker. Back as part of his locker layout, and display. It seemed he had solved his little problem .Then we heard the noise that an aluminium water bottle makes as it is thrown across a room and makes contact with the floor, coming from the room next to ours.

Panic, sheer terror, horror , you name it . It passed across our German's face in a flash. He had the bottle out of his locker and in his hands. If they found the bottle full of piss , he was dead . Possibly literally. If they noticed he didn't have a bottle in his locker, same result.

I tried to help him out . I suggested, that he could discreetly pour it out of the window. Down the side of the wall, as not to make any noise, or to dampen the window ledge. In case we got the blame for pissing out the window. He was more pissed than he looked.

Clutching the bottle, he ran to the window, and literally threw the bottle's contents, out into the dark night. We were three floors up. Directly below usm was the entrance to the armoury. A crym split the night's air .

Here comes mistake number two. The German then looked out of the window to see what the commotion was. Basically, there was a Sergeant standing at the door having a cigarette. When he was hit on the Kepi, and shoulders, by 1 litre of piss, which had travelled three floors to reach him.

The German leaned back in the window.Too late. By the time the German had reached his locker. Put the bottle back . Turned to face front. The door crashed open. Fit bastards . I tell you, fit.

The room sprang to attention, not a word spoken. But, out the corner of everyone's eye. We were watching the German. The Sergeant saw it. Looked straight at him. His face, said it all. Well gents he had the shit beat out of him.

The room corporal came in to see what the commotion was . Was informed of the proceedings by the Sergeant, who then left. At this point, the room corporal commenced to beat the crap out of him too. Well, you thought it just couldn't get any worse could you?. It did. The section corporal turned up, and he too, had his little fun with the German.

He was in a mess, but he was still standing. But only just. It was now time for the appel. He stood swaying on his feet, in severe pain, good chance of broken ribs, I thought. I could see the corridor from where my bed was. I began to feel immense sympathy for the German, as the orderly Sergeant approached.

It was the guy he poured the piss over. Ding-ding. Round two had just commenced.

The German got back squadded, due to the six weeks he spent in the infirmary after a night on the piss.

GiAjl