Fall in! Fall out! Fall down?

Another stage of learning...

The weeks before the Army assessment centre gig, flew past, though I did fill it with as much physical training as I could, even given the:

Apart from the raw swelling where the stitches in my brow had been, everything seemed to be “ok”. I could manage sit ups, press ups, squat thrusts and 4 or 5-mile steady runs…what could go wrong?

The train journey across the country all went well and meeting up with the intake DI Staff (Drill Instructor - an umbrella term for the people in charge of “beasting”) wasn’t quite the scary encounter I expected.

A coach (not your aircon comfy seated entity of course) transferred us to the selection camp. In starting the initial training it was of course necessary to test mental and physical ability in order to place you in the right trade catchment once the basic training had been successfully completed.

The first 5 days consisted of being issued with basic “uniform” and classroom written exams…each day sparked into life at 0600hrs with a “beastmaster” shouting and banging a massive pole onto bed spaces as a wake-up call.

Being honest and blowing my own trumpet, I felt these went well, the better you did the more trade options would be open to you.

At the end of day 5 we were all ushered into a big meeting hall lined with hard-backed chairs, you know, the type that seemed like bakelite with metal tubing for the frame.

In the hall, there must have been around 200 recruits all vying for the best trade or their preference. The system, based on overall marks from the exams we took, was a colour-coded piece of paper…you would be called out (in alphabetical order of course) and given your paper, not knowing at that point whether pink was good or bad (mine was pink).

Next, once all of the slips of paper had been issued, the DI shouted out a colour and stated which trades married up with that colour.

To say there were many unhappy faces as certain allocations of trade training were called…

Pink?

“Any of you useless lot have a Pink slip?!”…at this point I am thinking, that’s it I am at the bottom of the bottom of choices.

Five or six of us raised our hands…

“Right, you lot! God help us…but you get to choose any trade training your simple minds desire!”

Shocked?

Yes!

Now my dear, now departed, father had served 23 years, attaining the rank of Warrant Officer (WO1) in the Royal Signals, so hey, I felt it my duty to follow in his footsteps and show I hadn’t turned out fully bad.

So, the die was cast and I signed on the dotted line for Royal Signal Trade training once I had gotten through the initial basic training. I have to say I was a pretty happy puppy at that point.

I already knew what the physical tests would be: 10 push-ups (I could easily do 20 or more), 8 (? strange qualifier?) sit-ups on a diagonal bench (I could do 15 to 20), 3 chin-ups on a horizontal bar (this was untested by me but hey) and then 3 dips on the parallel bars (again untested by me but meat pies and frequent heavy drinking sessions had not been my thing…then anyways lol).

Standing in the test queue my mind was already focusing on the day I would a) pass out of basic training and b) complete my Royal Signals Trade training and that day when I could visit my parents, whom I had not spoken to since I was 16 years old, perhaps this would be a turning point.

My name was called…well shouted!

Push-ups: done

Sit-ups: done

Chin-ups: done

Dips…

At this point the injuries I had sustained during the scooter accident decided to kick in…and I do mean KICK!

I got onto the parallels with no problem, dipped the first time, raised myself up and it felt like a massive industrial elastic band hand gone twang in my torso. I froze for a moment then fell to the ground.

One of the DI’s hovered over me.

“Get up! Get up! 3 dips and you're done!” he sounded pretty annoyed but the pain was raking through my body at this point and I assumed the foetal position which felt more comfortable, at which point I felt a boot in the spine…a bit of DI “encouragement”.

Nope, it wasn’t happening, the muscles I had torn in my torso had gone again, obviously not knitted together fully in such a short time span.

Eventually, the staff brought me to my feet and led me off the area.

Within hours I was listed for a visit to the Medical Officer, 0700hrs the next morning, just an hour after the 4in diameter wooden pole hit my bedframe.

The next morning, attending the Medical Officer and being checked over brought many a frown, especially when I revealed the source of the injury.

I was placed in a “holding cell”, not really a cell but a barrack room away from the active recruits. And another appointment was made…

0700hrs the Training Base Commander, urgh!

So, marching (as well as an untrained person could) into the Commander’s office, I stood before him in the manner you may expect from someone under sentence.

The result of this meeting was that the Commander understood the situation and felt, instead of being put in a holding “cell” until I fully recooped, was that I should return home.

My heart shrivelled…I am out and my aim to gain a worthwhile career and make good moves towards my parents was done.

The caveat to the Commander’s conversation was, however, encouraging:

“Go home, 6 months, get fully fit and we will hold the slot based on the pink slip so you can return, do the physical and then go into basic training”

That felt better.

I thanked him, turned on my heels and left the office. The Sergeant outside passed me a piece of paper, it was a train ticket back home, and said they would take me to the train station.

I have to say, it was a massively grey day for me, I had failed and am now, without a job and partially medically unfit.

The return journey seemed to take forever, a returning soul full of failure.

What happens next?

How do I support myself?

Will I ever reconnect with my parents?

See you next time!

I appreciate you reading this so far, and hope you continue to plus maybe suggest other people take a peep into the colour of my life which brought me to where I am now.

All the very best to you

Dominus Owen Markham

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