A Humourous Background

Chapter 1

Squeaky Boots Jordan

Stories about Drill Instructors are plentiful in service and ex-service men’s conversations. Some are true, some are exaggerated by varying degrees, some are vastly distorted and spread about here and there, and some are a collection of downright lies. All these stories, whatever their description, have one thing in common – a squaddie type of humour, which can make a serviceman laugh, even when he or she is serving in very miserable and adverse conditions.

Our hero, Mark Hudson, or 'Mac' to his friends, has his share of stories about his military service, and Squeaky Boots Jordan is at the top of his list. Squeaky Boots achieved his nickname because his boots actually squeaked when he walked. Constant cleaning and bulling up with loads of polish and spit, and hours and hours of making minute circles with a clean cloth made them gleam up to and including the fifth lace hole. This dedicated attention made them creak and squeak like crazy when he walked. When his sacred parade ground drills began, one would hear the noise increase and sound somewhat like out of tune clarinets warming up before a concert, finally playing the Poet and Peasant Overture as a centre piece as he banged and stomped his feet.

Squeaky’s dress was always immaculate in every way. One could not see his eyes, because his cap peak hid them. This peak was so brilliantly polished that one’s own reflection jumped out of its surface and back. Highly pressed uniform creases that were so sharp they could cut, if one inadvertently got close enough to Squeaky. However, this would rarely happen, people would run and hide behind barrack blocks rather than walk past him and incur his wrath, for any obscure reason.

Unfortunately, this was something that Mac had managed to do on many occasions, without intentionally trying. Squeaky would find fault, even when one felt near perfect in one’s dress and carriage.

Mark 'Mac' Hudson was one of the few servicemen who, unlike Squeaky Boots, didn't have a nickname that somehow reflected his character. Mac seemed to be the most creative the men could find. Mac took the fact as a compliment, assuming to himself that he'd never screwed up bad enough to warrant a mocking name to begin with. Mac had climbed the ranks quickly; he was a quick learner and passed courses and promotion examinations in rapid succession.

Mac was also a good soldier, a natural leader, who led his men from the front and never asked them to perform any task he could not or would not handle himself. He received high decorations for his work and reached Senior Commissioned Rank. Our story will lead us through many adventures and memoirs of our dear Mac, but at this point in the story, we find Mac still a trainee Branch Commission Officer, wet behind the ears, and under Squeaky's influence and command. This background will give an idea of how Squeaky affected Mark 'Mac' Hudson's life, and still does to this day.

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     On one blustery day, a hardy band of fellows, Mac included, actually saw Squeaky Boots scolding some daffodils and hyacinths at the side of the Catterick camp road, because he had no humans at whom to punish.

     “Stand still! You yellow sickly looking crap hats. How dare you wave about in the wind when I’m walking past you?” He was shouting at the top of his considerably resonant voice.

“You bow your head in submissive subservience when I am in the vicinity, do you understand?”

With this question, he stabbed at the offending blooms with his varnished and brass-tipped pace stick, which was magic and with a mind of its own. Often, Mac would recall how he and his follow officer trainees had been subject to sudden pain when that stick had jumped out of Squeaky’s hand and hit them on the funny bone if their arms were not swinging high enough or straight enough for the shoulder height demand. When this pain occurred, Squeaky would discipline the monstrous stick in a very loud voice.

     “Now stick, none off that. You are not allowed to hit budding Officers and Gentlemen. They are The Cream, Stick! The bloody Cream! I know you think they are useless; you don’t have to tell me. I can see they are... useless is not a good way to describe them. Pathetic is better. You only want to hurt them to make them better. Of course you do, I feel the same way!”

Amazingly, this farce always made Mac and the men laugh, and they all worked harder trying to please the stick. The stick was human, and in charge, and had far more experience than the lowly little band of trainees, commonly known as Sproggs, Crows, or Smurfs, special handles for the Army recruits as they were often referred to by others in more exalted positions in life.

Mac knew, all too well, that sarcastic humour was a trained, standard asset of the Drill Instructor. “Am I hurting you soldier? I should be. I’m standing on your bloody hair,” type syndrome.

This ability to belittle fellow human beings under training is a carefully rehearsed skill.

Mac fondly recalls how Squeaky would practice the stance he used when giving orders in front of a full-length mirror in the barrack block entrance. Thick skin is required to make other people shrink in mental and physical abeyance when orders are given, and techniques are passed on from instructor to instructor.

The purpose is to channel massed formations of individual characters into a conforming bunch of instinctively disciplined men with good morale (mainly due to their friendship for each other) then turn them into a crew of non-thinking automatons who can be molded into whatever performing tool the Government may require.

Once achieved, the men can then be trained to meet any operations that may be essential during distinct developments of a war situation. Performing this important task necessitates the Drill Instructor (DI) should have brains to a limited degree, and understand an overall picture of the military situation. He needs to be politically shrewd and have a heart for the individuals whose lives he makes a misery. He must have personal courage to make himself a revered image of ridicule by thousands of men under training and carry this with grace. A difficult job, only a precise species of man can successfully carry it off.

Mac's instructor Squeaky’s personality fitted this overall picture, but with one added distinction. Squeaky had a dictionary of his own in his head, and the very original instructions Squeaky offered came from his very varied experiences and was not copied from others.

Usual Drill Instructor humour, often used by Squeaky, is all said in a very regimented voice and stance, and more often than not directed at a recruit that has performed in an incorrect way.

Looking back over the years, Mac could often reflect on the times he spent under Squeaky's command with a good chuckle. Some of Mac's favourites are:

“If you had another brain, Sir, you would possess an aggregate total of one.”

“Your mother obviously picked the wrong gene pile.”

“I’ve studied your movements, Sir. Have you got your knickers stuck half way up your arse? You haven't? Then you had better come to my room at seven this evening for a hip replacement.”

“To cough is a military test to see if you have a pair of balls, stop trying to prove yourself and impress me. The next time you cough, I’ll cut them off.”

After a plea of innocence from the victim, “O.K. the cough is a cold, colds are allowed between 0001 hours and 0500 hours, after that time, any cough warrants a de-rollicking, understood?”

          “Yes, Sir.”

     “DO NOT call me Sir. I’m too intelligent to be a bloody officer, understood?”

          “Yes, Sgt”

     “Good! Now we are showing a modicum of intelligence, aren’t we? Well done!”

“It will take you years of practice to become thick officers Gentlemen.”

Mac recalls some comments during planning a training exercise:

“What is the most dangerous thing you can meet on this operation, Gentlemen?”

“Rebel tribes working outside of the Geneva Convention?”

          “No.”

          “Blow pipes and poison darts?”

          “No.”

          “Snakes?”

          “No.”

          “Anopheles Malaria bearing mosquitoes?”

          “Dangerous, but not the most dangerous.”

          “Vampire bats and Leeches?”

          “No.”

     “Calked Magalia flies and grubs incubating inside us?”

          “No, Smart Arse,”

          “Tse flies and sleeping sickness?”

     “No, well done. You tried Gentlemen, and you came up with some good ideas, however you forgot that Captain Simons is coming with us on this exercise as umpire. In this capacity, it will be necessary for him to carry a map and a whistle. That, Gentlemen, is the most dangerous thing you will ever see or meet in your career, an officer with a map, Gentlemen! A bloody Officer with a map! Remember that always. Do you see now, Gentlemen, what dangerous animals you are going to become when I’ve finished training you? You will be feared, Gentlemen, feared by all. Pick up a map and your soldiers will tremble with unadulterated fear.

"Fear is your major weapon as officers, show intelligence and you could start a mutiny, let your Senior NCO think they are running the show.

“Sit down. Shut up. Listen in; I’ve heard something on the grapevine. In other words, it has been officially leaked that you have all passed your course, and as of Friday this week, you will receive the Queen’s Commission. God help the Nation. Five days left for me to honour Her Majesty and try to make something resembling an officer out of you. I need your help! I can only do so much myself. The rest must come from you. Are we on the same wavelength?”

“Yes, Sgt!”

Mac fondly recalls what a cunning fox he was; he had the men sweating their cobs off for a whole week and on top of it they thought he was doing them a favour.  Mac and the majority of the men did receive their Queen’s Commission. When Squeaky was finished training Mac, he officially became an Officer and Gentleman, but Mac still felt that he was one of Squeaky Boot’s toys to play about with at his will.

Was that Squeaky’s intention? Or was Mac paranoid?

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Chapter 2

Squeaky Boots Legacy

Over the following years of service, in different parts of the world, Squeaky Boots was often the subject of conversation in the Officer's Mess. Just as students tend to remember the important teachers from their school days, so Mac remembered his military mentors. Squeaky Boots did very well in the promotion field, and it seemed to Mac that he had made exceptionally rapid progress to the ultimate rank of Warrant Officer. Upon reflection, it was, in fact, about five years, which was the normal expected progression for his trade group.

With this increase in rank, Squeaky received more power and command responsibility, and he developed an even more keenly sarcastic sense of bizarre humour and urine extraction of his students, if their stories filtering back to Mac were anything to go by.

One evening in a pub, Mac recalls overhearing this example of a Squeaky Incident. The story went something like this:

"Have you ever farted, Sir? Have you ever heard an Officer and a Gentleman fart, Sir?"

"No, Warrant Officer."

“Why do you think that is, you intelligent lump of shit?"

"I don't know, Warrant Officer."

"Because from birth, officers are born with a silencer stick up their arses, in case they inadvertently say anything intelligent or disturb their Mama and Papa shagging. Understood?"

"No Warrant Officer. What is shagging?"

"Shagging, Sir, is when a man and a woman make love to each other and make babies with no brains, like you boy! Have you ever had a shag?"

"No, Warrant Officer."

"Corporal Knowles! Bring out the rubber doll, gather all the unit virgins together, and we will have a shagging class at 14:00 hours. I don't want any man in my command going into action to die for Queen and Country still a virgin. If he's thinking about what it's like, he's dead; his mind is not on killing. Expedite immediate, MOVE!"

Mac had to chuckle again when he overhead this story, realizing that Squeaky had not changed all that much. Mac was sure that hundreds more episodes in a similar sort of vein were still floating around. Some would be funny, some very funny, and some sick, but Mac knew that they would all carry the Squeaky Boots hallmark.

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One Officer who joined Mac in the Middle East had fallen foul of Squeaky Boots, as Mac once had, and when Mac and this man began chatting, he had Mac in hysterics with narratives of the psychological torture used on him by the drill square vampire, whom Mac remembered so well.

"Go to the supply stores, Sir. Give the store's Warrant Officer my regards, and tell him I've sent you to collect a K. D. overcoat for yourself, a tin of striped paint for me, and a long wait. Understood?"

Now, here is the madness of that order. KD means Khaki Drill, and is a uniform issue for Middle East and Far East hot climates, so no KD overcoat exists. On cold nights in these places, one uses the standard UK issue overcoat. Number two; have you ever seen striped paint? Number three, the long wait is a urine extraction routine played by different Unit Heads of Department to see how long our trainee takes to realize he has been taken for a ride and do something about it.

Mac listened while his companion told the following story. Upon arriving at the stores, and finding the store Warrant Officer the following conversation ensued:

"Mr. Jordan's compliments, Sir!”

“Thank you for delivering them, Cadet Sir. Thank him for me when you return. Now, what can I do for you?”

"Mr. Jordan says I'm to fetch a KD overcoat for myself, a tin of striped paint for him, and a long wait, Warrant Officer."

"Good, that seems quite reasonable, let's see what we can do for you, what week of training are you on, son?"

"Second week, Warrant Officer."

“Are! Then you haven’t been measured for clothing here before have you?”

          “No, Warrant Officer.”

     “No problem, we’ll sort you out in no time, but first I’d like you to go back to WO Jordan and ask him which stripe colours he wants for his paint. We have broad white and narrow black or narrow yellow and broad black with just a hint of deep red on the edges. Away you go, there’s a good chap.”

A confused Officer Cadet rushes away, because God in the form of a Warrant Officer has spoken. He knows something is wrong, but can’t quite put his finger on it, running such high power messages between such high powered people has blown his mind; it’s not functioning correctly.

“You’re back. That was quick, and how did you go on, Sir?” quipped Squeaky Boots.

“Fine, Warrant Officer, the stores WO says thank you for your compliments. He’s going to measure me for my overcoat when I get back. He wants me to find out what colour of the striped paint you want. Black and white, or black and yellow, and stripe widths, and do you want a hint of red on the borders? And if you do, he’ll do it for you when I tell him what you say.”

     “Steady on lad, take it easy. You’ll blow your arse out of its socket if you rush about and babble on like that. Now let’s see, tell the stores WO I would like yellow and black in the bottom half of the tin, and black and white in the top half. I’ll leave the widths to his judgment, and I’ll have a slight tint of red in the top half. What do you think, Sir? That should look good on the curb stones shouldn’t it?”

          “Yes, Warrant Officer.”

     “Off you go then, Schnell!” Away goes one even more confused Cadet, turning rapidly to his left, when he hears a blood-curdling scream from Squeaky:

“Do not walk on my Parade Square, you stupid little, Sir!”

Back at the stores, the WO is very understanding, and is even quite pleasant and jovial, compared to Squeaky Boots. Mind you, no one would have a problem appearing more jovial than the manic parade ground fanatic does.

     “Well done, boy. That didn’t take you long, and rest assured I will sort out Warrant Officer Jordan’s order, whilst you are having your measurements taken for your overcoat. Go over to the cubicle, pull the curtains, and have a rest after all that errand running. The tailor will be with you shortly.”

Away goes one relieved Cadet, thinking to himself what a tremendously kind person the store’s God was.

Three hours later, the Cadet starts anxiously looking around the corner of the curtain. No one seems to be heading his way. Should he remind somebody he’s still here? No, he’d better not. The store WO had been nice to him and he didn’t want to upset him, after all it is a training camp, and they deal with hundreds of men like him everyday, so they must know what they are doing. Patience is golden, his mother used to say. Another two hours, still no action. Suddenly, our Cadet has a brainwave at last. He will ask one of the soldiers he can see working on the counter if he’d been forgotten. That way, he wouldn’t upset the nice Warrant Officer. Go for it, take a deep breath, and go for it. Two hours later, he plucked up courage and went for it. 

     Hundreds of Cadets have fallen for the long wait; our Cadet did not do to badly. He came away after seven hours, the record, we have been informed, stands at eighteen hours, and the training staff is sure that one day they will find someone stupid enough to beat that score. The soldier at the counter was sympathetic.

     “Yes, Sir? May I help you?” said with a sincere, genuine look on his face and oozing innocence.

     “Yes, please. I’ve been waiting to be measured for my KD overcoat for six hours, and I wondered if I’d been forgotten.”

     “No, Sir. You haven't been forgotten. You are having the piss taken out of you on what is commonly termed 'the long wait'. The store’s staff has been taking bets on how long it would take you to ask somebody what was going on. I’m in with a chance of winning fifty quid, because I said you looked intelligent, compared to most, and would possibly question someone in under seven hours, so I’m in with a chance. Any questions?”

          “Yes. What do I do now?”

     “Go back to your barrack block, have a shower, go for your tea, and laugh about it. You are not the first twat and you won’t be the last, so don’t worry about it.”

“What about the tin of striped paint for the drill Warrant Officer?”

“Tell him we’ve given it to a zoo to smarten up the zebra and tiger cages. He won’t say a word, I assure you.”

“Can I have your name in case he wants to talk to you himself?”

“You can’t ask intelligent questions like that. You’re letting your side down. Stay stupid. Now, piss off.”

Back to the real world scurries our little Cadet, but not to ridicule, his peers thought him brave that he dare ask questions after following orders from a Warrant Officer, and Squeaky Boots never said a thing.

These are just a few examples of hundreds of stories about our parade ground legend, our famous Drill instructor – Squeaky Boots.

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Chapter 3

Squeaky Boots Downfall

In the mid 1960s, began the second military re-organisation since the major post-war changes in the early 1950s. These changes were introduced over a period of two years. Tremendous cuts took place in the structure and personnel manning, plus there was an increase in the work amalgamation of military trade groups. This was a cost cutting exercise, which affected all of the services. Job descriptions, workload, responsibility, and tasks increased out of all recognition to previous work schedules. The changes carried no rank increase or pay rise.

This change was to be a masterpiece of money saving. Manpower management decisions were taken by the powers that be in the Ministry of Defence. A few senior officers received a knighthood at the expense of thousands of rank and file, previously dedicated, military personnel. After the shake up, most people found they had to sacrifice high standards and efficiency for a far lower, mediocre, final result in their work. It was not a satisfying situation.

     How did this shake up affect Squeaky Boots?

Before the changes, he trained drill; turn out, military law, and general standards to the good order and discipline of the Queen’s Military regulations and Geneva Convention. He also dealt with general administration, pay, ration returns, leave, sick parades, church parades, dental parades, etc. Altogether, it was a steady fourteen-hour day to achieve the best results for his men and the service.

     Under the new rules, the trade of Drill Instructor was one small part of a job description entitled ‘Ground Combat Training Instructor’ (GCTI) for Army Personnel, and ‘Ground Defence Training Instructor’ (GDTI) for Royal Air Force men. Each instructor would be required to teach Drill, First Aid, Fire Protection, Light Rescue from Buildings (heights and basements), Nuclear Biological and Chemical Warfare, which included respirator fitting and testing in a gas chamber. On top of that, Weapons training on all Small Arms, Conduct Range-Firing Exercises, Map Reading, Signal Procedure, as well as looking after their recruit’s normal administration and welfare were added to this list. In addition Leadership Training was a big part of their responsibilities. Reliability and Initiative Training, Survival Training, Field Hygiene and Living in a Tented Camp should also be added to this. It’s obvious that something had to suffer, and indeed it did, the outcome was inferior results across the board and less efficient servicemen and women.

     Courses were in abundance to prepare an instructor to fulfill the task set under the new policy. Cross service training became the vogue. Army, Navy, and RAF all attended the same courses in quick succession, and having completed training the men and women entered a teaching pool for allocation of postings. Cross service teaching was common, especially with the RAF Regiment, which had been using this policy for years, and had positioned GDTIs on every RAF station and recruit training school. With this established structure, it was easy for the RAF to include Army and Navy units to its instructor postings; after all, they all did the same courses.

     As a little trip down memory lane for ex-GCTIs and GDTIs, the compulsory courses to attend one after the other were as follows:

The qualifications required before starting training, were Substantive Corporal, five years service, Drill Instructor’s course with the Brigade of Guards, and eight weeks at Pirbright. The courses to complete were the First Aid Course; three weeks at RAF Freckleton; Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical Warfare; three weeks at Winterbourne Gunner; Light Rescue Instructor; four weeks at RAF Sutton on Hill; Small Arms Weapons Instructor; eight weeks at Hythe School of Infantry; Man Management and Youth Leadership; six weeks at the Army School of Education at Beaconsfield; Survival, Reliability and Initiative training; plus Escape and Evasion and Resistance to Interrogation. In addition, there were SAS, PARA, MARINE instructors and two weeks on the Brecon Beacons.

A pass in all these courses, and then an allocation of a teaching post, denoted automatic promotion to Sergeant. Occasionally a serviceman would start the course as a sergeant and remained a Sergeant on completion. 'Hard luck mate,' was the friendly cry.

Women had shown their worth in war-type situations throughout the Battle of Britain. They skillfully worked as Photo Interpreters, Map Plotters, Forwards Air Controllers, Radar Operators, Signalers, Parachute Packers, Caterers, Stores Organisers, Drivers, and the lesser known position of Aircraft Ferry Pilots. Thanks to their efforts all types of aircraft were kept flowing to the squadrons by road and air.

Women had been one of the deciding factors in fighter command winning the battle. The new defense White Paper gave a priority to increase the women's force in all three services, and this inevitably increased the number of female officers to train. Squeaky Boots was chosen to teach the Women's Combined Services Officer course at RAF Henlow.

     Teaching women can be a very rewarding job, as they are keen to impress a male instructor that they can be superior to men. Their efforts are therefore greater than the men's, and with the exception of the physical strength comparison, they normally end the course with higher overall results than their male counterparts. Because as they are so keen, everything they do is treated very seriously; there is little room for fun and virtually no sense of humour. Squeaky Boot’s style was doomed from the start.

     Many tales were repeated to Mac and the other men in relation to the way the women ganged up on Squeaky Boots, and they had no reason to disbelieve these stories, as the same stories came from many different sources.

    Remember the new job description?

Squeaky was teaching a first aid class, the subject being how to pick someone up in a fireman’s lift and carry them to a safe place. Squeaky had the class seated in the front rows of the station cinema, and he placed two girls on the stage as demonstrators. With one of the girls lying down on her back acting as a casualty, Squeaky began to demonstrate his actions, discussing each move he performed.

“Now then, my lovelies, this bird on the floor has been knocked unconscious by falling bricks during a bombing. The building is in danger of collapse, so it is imperative we move her to safety. There is nobody to help you; she is bigger and heavier than you are, but you can move her by following my demonstration. Any questions?”

This was the standard introduction of the lesson if he had been teaching men; he was soon to find out that it is different when dealing with women.

“Good, to continue, bend down on one knee, keeping the knee close to the top of her head as so. Now put your fingers in her mouth and ensure there are no obstructions to her breathing and that her tongue has not fallen back into her throat, a very common occurrence with comatose casualties.”

Squeaky followed his own instructions.

     “Now, place both arms down to her sides, keeping them as close to her body as you can. Move down to her feet and cross one leg over the other like so.” Again, he provided a detailed demonstration.

     “Are we all clear so far? Good, let’s continue. Position yourself back at her head, on one knee like before, and note this is the tricky bit, you see I've crossed her left leg over her right. This means I’m going to role her onto her stomach to the left. Now watch closely, I place my left hand on top of her left chest and my right hand under her right shoulder, and then spin her to the left like this.” With one easy flowing move, Squeaky spun the girl over on to her stomach with such ease he brought a gasp of surprise from the students.

“Fine. Now the lift itself. Keep yourself positioned at the casualty’s head and place both your arms underneath her armpits. Clasping your hands firmly together behind her back, pull her up into a half-upright position resting her on your knee so that you can move your hand position for the final lift. Are we clear so far? Good. Now, watch carefully. Stand up yourself, and pull the casualty into an upright stance, with her weight leaning against you. Take her right wrist with your left hand. Bend down, so her body folds over your back. Put your right arm all the way through her legs and lift her up on your shoulders.” Squeaky made the smooth transition from supporting the body to carrying it in one easy move.

“Have we all seen and understood that move? Well done. All we have to do now is change over the handgrips, clasp her right wrist with your right hand. Good, that lets you carry the patient leaving our left hand free for climbing ladders or opening doors. It’s easy when you know how, isn’t it?”

Squeaky then organised the women into two person teams to practice. The students worked hard at their practice, carrying the casualties through doors, upstairs, down the air raid shelter slope, up and down fire escapes.

As the lesson progressed the students learnt to use the lift and negotiate hazards with an unconscious person on their back. The aim of the lesson had been achieved. That is success in a man’s world, but not in the world of teaching women.

“That concludes this lesson, ladies. Are there any questions?

“Yes, Warrant Officer.” This question was asked by a huge blonde sumo wrestler-type from the back of the class.

          “Yes, young lady, what’s your question?

     “The demonstration you gave used a woman as a victim, we practiced with women, how would we fare with a man your size, bigger bones and heavier?”

     “A good point, the proof of the pudding and so on. Come up here and use me as the casualty, show the class what you can do.”

Out of her seat came our student, rolling down the aisle and slowly climbed up to the stage, which was at least six feet of the ground.

“Right, young lady, you carry out a demonstration on me slowly, so all the class can confirm in their minds what to do.”

Mayhem followed, every deliberate move the girl made was greeted with loud screams, whistles, and yells of ‘sock it to him’ and similar suggested tortures. It was exquisite, epically stupendous, hilarious chaos. The crescendo came when our monstrous female cadet stood at the front of the stage with Squeaky draped captive over her shoulders, ecstatic at the calls and screams of, ‘Throw him off!’ She did just that. Turning to one side and dropping her shoulder she threw Squeaky, not dropped him...but threw him off the stage. His hip was somewhat badly bruised, not helping his regimental smartness when he moved.

     The outcome of this episode for Squeaky did not help his position at the school at all. Unfortunately for him, the three senior female officers in charge of the training wing were having a walkabout. Hearing what sounded like a rugby crowd at Twickenham screaming from the cinema, they peered in to investigate the noise, arriving just in time to see Quasimodo II posing, directly before throwing Squeaky off the stage.

     Later, they questioned the women cadets about the incident and drew conclusions from their replies that resulted in Squeaky being called up in front of a disciplinary hearing. A hearing of this nature fell short of being a Charge (a service summons by service law), it’s purpose was to decide whether an offence had been committed. If not, advice was given to avoid an individual coming close to the mark again, and to act as a recorded warning. If the panel of three women officers, one from each branch of service (nicknamed ‘The Three Witches’ by the rank and file) decided an offence had been committed, the offender was formally ‘charged,’ and they would follow the normal military path of discipline.

     Complaints against Squeaky were very petty, nitpicking things, but serious enough for the hearing to take place simply because the students were women. Squeaky had addressed the Cadets as 'Lovelies'. To Mac's mind, by the looks of some of these women, they should have been flattered.

Squeaky had called the demonstrator a bird. Perhaps he should know have known better, but it was not intended maliciously.

Squeaky had physically touched the demonstrator Cadet. This was wrong; he should have talked and guided the second demonstrator Cadet to do the actions. Again, this was Squeaky's ‘hands on’ way to produce the best results, no ill intent was meant. The Cadet demonstrator Squeaky touched stated when he was showing the class how to turn a casualty over; he had placed his hand on her left breast. Squeaky said he didn’t know breasts were on women's shoulder blades and collarbones. Other students supported Squeaky, so the complaint was ignored. The same Cadet objected to Squeaky ‘exploring her tonsils’, as she put it, with his fingers and claimed his fingers tasted of tobacco.

Squeaky rather lamely said he didn’t smoke. He should not have put his hand and arm through the casualties’ legs, as he was training women the correct procedure would have been around the back of their legs. Squeaky’s viewpoint was the victim was supposedly unconscious and wouldn’t know anyway. Certainly, he was guilty of placing his fingers in the student’s mouth. He would not even have stuck his fingers down a man’s throat. What made him do it?  Mac still wonders.

The overall outcome was a formal warning to:

Avoid touching students at all times.

Avoid language that could distress.

No charges were filed, but Squeaky had been brought to the attention of ‘The Almighty' and his every move would now be screened.

     Squeaky tried hard to conform, but his previous long and successful service of training men kept coming to the forefront of his teaching style, predominantly when he was enthusiastic over a subject.

Mac felt Squeaky should have been posted back to a male teaching school, for the good of everybody, and for his own protection. In spite of his efforts to be correct and play by the rules, it didn’t take long for his second blunder to occur.

     Squeaky was teaching first aid again, and the lesson was Nerve and Established Shock. Imagine female officer cadet’s faces as they listened to Squeaky earnestly explaining how dog muck could cause nervous shock:

“It’s easy to remember the differences between the two types of shock, ladies. Established shock is caused by a continuous loss of body fluid, for example, severe hemorrhage or excessive sweating caused by fever, such as which occurs in the cases of malaria and cholera or with diarrhea in dysentery. Unless this condition is quickly treated, it can kill, and often kills very rapidly.

Nerve shock, on the other hand, is usually not fatal. It is caused by something distressing any one or more of the human senses. If this occurs, it activates a drop in blood pressure; the blood drains from the extremities of the body into the deep organs. Any questions?”

“Yes, Warrant Officer. Could you give us an example of the type of things that can make us have nervous shock?”

“Of course, Ma'am. You could receive a telegram containing very bad news, this is an emotional and mental invasion of your body, causing faintness, cold clammy pale skin, because the blood has drained away and many more symptoms we’ll learn about later. Anymore questions?”

     “Yes, Warrant Officer. You said one or more senses could be affected. Could you give us an example of what could cause this, please?”

     “Of course, my dear. Have you ever been walking along a street and come across a great big, hot, steaming pile of dog shit? I can see by the looks on your faces that you have. The revulsion you feel is because you’ve seen it. Number one, the sense of sight. Now imagine that you trip over on a banana skin, your balance is upset and it can cause fear. Another cause, but not a human sense. Imagine that when you fell, you landed with your hand in the dog shit and it had squeezed up between your fingers with a sickly horrible squelching sound. Our senses involved at this point are touch and sound. Your face was only two inches away from the flattened pile, the smell was colossal, and a squirt of the evil stuff had gone in your mouth and tasted revolting. Now we have involved the sense of smell and taste. Where does this leave us affected now? In one incident we have had a disgusting, mentally disturbing, shocking, sickening, and frightening experience, involving all our human senses and also some human emotions.”

Mac could just see the smug look on Squeaky's face when he had finished. Squeaky thought it a brilliant answer; his point had been made. He could see it, the way they fidgeted about and looked uneasily at each other.

“Of course you know the answer, but I’ll just confirm: we saw the offensive item; you touched it; it squelched when you touched it, so your hearing became involved; you smelt the horrible stuff; and finally, tasted the gooey, sticky muck. Are you all happy? If you were asked a question on your final exams to differentiate between 'Established' and 'Nerve' shock, could you give a correct answer? A show of hands please, for an affirmative. Good.”

Every hand was raised.

Mac knew there was no doubt Squeaky had taught them how to recognize nerve shock. Squeaky had actually induced nerve shock in them with his vivid, gory descriptions. However, this was not accepted practice. His return trip to the ‘Three Witches’ was initiated because a WRAF Sergeant overheard two Cadets talking about Squeaky’s lesson. Also, because of the fact he had said 'shit' a couple of times, without knowing the context of the lesson, she reported him. Mac knows, looking back, that it's true, Squeaky could have said dog manure or droppings; but his style was to go for an impact the student would remember.

A second, formal warning to conform to the School Standing Orders was issued. In particular, there was to be no swearing in front of students, or within earshot of students. Secondly, he had to teach exactly as per the formal term of reference stipulated for each lesson, for example, First Aid must be word-for-word from the St. John’s Ambulance Basic First Aid Book: no deviations, no inventiveness, no personal experiences to assist student understanding. All motivation for Instructors to prepare and give interesting retention assisting lessons were removed. No lesson planning was needed; one might as well just stand and read from the book.

Mac's reaction was to recall his instruction under Squeaky, and he knew the current method would be a dreary way to learn. Thinking back on his own stimulating training, Mac's could not help but think the new style must be mind-numbingly boring.

Again, Squeaky tried to follow the school’s dictates for teachers, but he was too experienced and proud of his work and results to perform under those unintelligent, amateur constraints for too long before falling foul of the system again, and this time with his favourite subject: Drill.

A wet, miserable day is always a good time to parade Cadets for a good, hard drill session. It’s a character test; a lot of concentration is needed to follow strict orders efficiently. A trainee must stay rock steady and still, without the slightest movement when called to ‘Attention’. They are required to keep a set drill stance, chin in, chest out, stomach in, for long periods of time, also keeping their heads up and eyes straight ahead, with arms straight down at their sides, fingers curled, with the thumb forwards and inline with the seam of the trousers. Between drill movements of ‘Stand at Ease’ and ‘Attention!’ One has to make sure that the final feet position is with the heels touching and the feet splayed at forty-five degrees.

All this attention to detail with cold fingers, freezing cheeks and lips, and a nose running its contents down one’s face, drags determination and discipline out of all and sundry on parade.

It was at this drill command that the problem arose. On 'Attention!' a female Cadet didn’t manage to get her heels together; in fact there was a gap of about four inches between them. Once the drill move has been made, it is important that if a mistake has been made that it is not corrected, the reason being, people will notice an individual movement when one and all are standing completely still, however they would possibly not perceive a mistake.

For example, a Welsh Guardsman dropped his rifle during a ‘Present Arms!’ command during trooping the Colour in the presence of Her Majesty the Queen. After his blunder he stood perfectly still and retrieved his rifle when movement recommenced on parade during a Right Dress Command. Instead of a punishment, he received unit commendation for his initiative.

Our luckless Cadet did the correct thing after making her mistake. She stood perfectly still, and she should have been ignored, unless she made the same mistake again. Mac realized, upon hearing this story that Squeaky must have been in a bad mood. He wasn’t enamoured to women students anyway, especially after his previous run-ins because of 'women' rules, and he reacted in the usual man-trainer Squeaky style.

He stood tall and imposingly in front of the rigid girl, (who was obviously aware of her wrong stance and feet position) his peaked cap hid his eyes, he jabbed his pace stick toward her wide apart heels with his white-gloved hand, and finally he spoke:

“The position of ‘Attention!’ in Her Majesty’s Services is with the heels together and the feet displayed at forty five-degrees. Get your stupid, bloody heels together and stop standing there in anticipation of a hot cock, Ma'am.”

That was it. The official wheels turned rapidly. The same afternoon, Squeaky was in front of

the Three Witches yet again. Squeaky was suspended of all teaching duties, whilst the powers-that-be decided his future. Within forty-eight hours he was posted to Watchet in Somerset as unit Warrant Officer to the ground-to-air Gunnery Range.

On hearing of the punishment, Mac shook his head and pondered on the absolute waste of a professional Instructor that had cost hundreds of thousands of pounds to train.

One would have thought that the senior command, on seeing the warning signs and being aware of his dislike for teaching women would have posted him to more suitable work, rather than allowing the situation to continue and finally ruin his career.

Even with this unfortunate ending, Mac reveled in the stories of dear old Squeaky Boots, and remembered him fondly, especially when he himself was no longer at the brunt of Squeaky's verbal onslaught.

Some years later Mark Hudson was to hire Squeaky Boots as a civilian instructor in East Africa.

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CHAPTER 4

Civilian Squeaky

Some years down the line, after Squeaky had completed his military service, Mark Hudson hired him as a Field Operations Advisor in the Tanzanian Ugandan war. Fortunately for Squeaky, he was able to retire from the service as a highly qualified and very experienced Warrant Officer. He was selected to teach Tanzanian Army Instructor courses on a variety of subjects, and in line with this most important work, he carried out liaison visits to the local tribal chieftains.

The aim of these excursions was to gain information on anything that may act as a pointer to the war's progress, supply Mac with continuously updated intelligence to help in the bid to outsmart and defeat Idi Amin in the Ugandan War, and promote goodwill with the local nationals.

Mac had sent Squeaky to the Northwest to pave the way for their logistics guided and deliberate slow advance toward Jinja, and what the men hoped would be the final battle. One week after Squeaky departed for his mission, Mac arrived at a kraal. A kraal is a village surrounded by circular thorn hedges and internal thorn compounds for holding cattle, goats, and other livestock with even denser thickets of thorns enclosing the rondavels, or mud houses, thus protecting the villagers and their livestock from abundant wildlife predators.

Disease, in the local name of ‘sleeping sickness’ was rife in this area. Sleeping Sickness was a killer disease spread by a fly called the Tsetse, which fed on blood and waste from the cattle. The fly’s digestive juices acted like a poison. People could catch the disease by the fly biting them, eating the maggots, or indirectly by drinking the contaminated cow’s milk and cow’s blood, which they mixed with goat’s milk, making a mixture called ‘chowder,’ one of their preferred high protein meals. The unfortunate souls who caught this disease would develop a strong fever, vomiting and diarrhea, excessive sweating, and therefore general dehydration. Shock, coma, and death quickly followed. Strength, youth, and good health could delay the effects, but could not prevent death. No one had built up an artificial immunity against it over hundreds of years.

Armed with this knowledge, Mac was not surprised to see the villagers – men, women, and children – running around, completely naked, but covered in large, thick layers of cow manure and sludge to protect themselves from the close attentions of the fly. Mac thought that they looked like phantoms in camouflage, because some of the cow manure was dry and a whitish gray in colour, and some of it was wet, giving it a dark brown shade.

A cow shit shade, Mac bemused.

When Mac walked into the compound, a cow started to urinate and a stampede of children rushed at the beast to interrupt its business with squeals of delight.  Many of the children were clutching old rusty tins. The purpose of these classical containers was to catch the urine so they could use it to rub into the movable joints of their bodies: ankles, knees, hips, elbows, wrists, shoulders and necks. If they didn’t carry out this ablution on a regular basis, the manure dried rock hard, and they could not move. They had to keep their joints moist.

Water was at a premium, not for wasting on joint lubrication, so urine was the GX500 joint oil. To some, the practice might have seemed appalling.

As Mac noted, who was worried about piss anyway, when they were covered from head to toe in shit?

Fred Likili was the village headman, an acquaintance of Mac's over the past eighteen months. Previously, Mac and Fred had met in a small township where Fred's elder brother and family lived, just north of Entebbe. On that occasion, Fred had sworn to Mac his very sincere allegiance and help in anyway possible to assist in ousting Idi Amin from power. Fred had lost two brothers and a sister to the tyrant.

This was Mark Hudson's first visit to Fred's Kraal. Mac had visited other villages, so he was well aware of the customs and traditions that were necessary to follow in one’s presentation.

First, a visitor stood in silence, looked straight ahead with a large grin on their face, ensuring they were showing as many teeth as can be sported and with arms crossed over the chest. This showed the people that one did not possess devil's eyes and that his mouth was human in shape, neither did it contain animal-type fangs, as did Baboons, which they feared as the spirits of long past ancestors. Crossing of the arms meant one came in peace and would hold the villagers to their bosom if they needed comfort or help. They could also see that the visitor did not carry any weapons. After a suitable delay for close scrutiny, the headman signaled that he wished the visitor to follow him and proceeded to the large Acacia tree that stood in the centre of all of these Kraals. Indeed, the tree was selected as the centre piece before the kraal was built.

All decisions were made under this tree, hence its communal name, ‘The Thinking Tree.’ Beneath the tree was a homemade bench, facing the direction of the sunrise. Most of the thinking and decision-making took place just when the sun was beginning to show and the temperature was cooler. Any new orders dreamt up that morning beneath the tree could be passed on to the cattle herdsmen before they left to graze their beasts.

When they sat, the headman gave an almost imperceptible hand signal, seemingly to no one in particular. Instantly, two small but fat-bellied children ran out of a hut, carrying a folding flat table, which they rapidly erected in front of the Amasses, or big bosses. Following behind them, in a far more sedate and stately fashion, strode an older woman, whom Fred introduced as ‘Kate’, his first, or number one wife.

Kate placed on the table a rusty Peak Freen Biscuit tin, half-full of what looked like sand but turned out to be dust impregnated salt. Salt was the most important gift they could present.

After this, was a period of silence, no speech at all, which was called the ‘Contemplation Time’, and could last up to half an hour, depending on how much was to be said, the importance of what was to be said, and the severity of a wrong outcome of the meeting for either party. This ‘Contemplation Time’ lasted about ten minutes, but seemed a good deal longer to Mac.

On some unseen signal, fourteen children, aged between about four and ten, came out of the round mud and straw huts, each one carrying a bottle of White Cap Beer. This offering was clutched tightly to their bodies with both hands, as though it was the most reverent article on Earth, which, of course, to them it was, next to the salt. They lined up in front of Fred, and as each child placed the beer on the table, he would pat them on the head and indicated to Mac that he should do the same.

“These are my children from my four wives. They are all male offspring but one. The Lord has been good to me, and I have few dowries to pay for wedding my daughters. Come let us drink and talk our minds clear of the morning mists and sun’s haze that haunt inside us at the moment.”

Talk about skits of Shakespeare, Mac thought.

The reader must understand that Mac's retelling of this story is not literal, however, but rather the nearest translation of mixed English, Swahili, and bushman tongue that Mac can give.

“Thank you for the talk time. My great joy must show at the chance of seeing your family again, and I see new sons from since our last meeting. All are well, and you have no great problems, I think?” Mac queried him.

Fred replied, “You are true in your joy, and I see happiness in your face at my family. You are indeed wise to see they are all well, but I would like for some help with the Kaki and fever medicine you bring, I think?”

Mac knew that the Kaki and fever medicine was a mixture of saline morphine to stop stomach problems and fever dehydration and dysentery. This drink is a United Nations developed drink in a sachet to feed the children, containing a mix of everything they need in the form of vitamins, calcium, and other nutrients. Later on, Mac had learned that statistics proved this drink was a great lifesaver.

Mac said, “I have with me what you ask for in small quantity, but new tablets called Paladin Salts which you take by mouth, two, once per day in the morning cool. These will keep away the mosquito fever and salt dehydration. Is there more for me to know?”

The bushman paused for a moment, as though in contemplation, then quickly and quietly stated, very matter-of-factly, “I do not like your Squeaky Boots man”.

Mac was not surprised, and in fact, he had almost expected something such as this where Squeaky was concerned.

“We speak when we have calmed and had much to drink in our happiness.” Mac used a deliberate delaying tactic by that statement.

Fred's short ‘Contemplation Time’ before he came out with that potent statement meant that Mac had to be very shrewd about how he handled what was obviously going to be a problem.

Instead of continuing about Squeaky, the two men talked about the reports of ‘Swine Fever’ in domesticated animals spread by warthogs, the outbreak of Bovine Tuberculosis in cattle, and the import of dozens of European Vets to carry out tests on wild animals and establish a cause for the fever.

Also on Fred and Mac's ‘general calm agenda’ was the pregnancy rate of his wives, their ‘fruitfulness’ in comparison with his cattle. Things such as what were Fred's chances of managing to acquire another wife this year or should he buy more cattle and leave the new wife to next year?

Their ‘Contemplation Time’ and ‘Calm Time’ over, Mac knew now was the moment to broach the subject of Squeaky Boots. This man would not speak so openly, so quickly, unless his wife and her family had been nagging at him, or something had distressed the whole group and caused fear for the well-being of the village. It must have something to do with the mental health of the village or the financial position of the village-type worries, and therefore, Mac knew he had to find out what Squeaky had done to cause this.

With this in mind, Mac let himself in for Fred's answers by asking a question, a question that Mac need not have asked if he did not want the strain of conversation to continue.

"And what has Squeaky done to offend you, and how can I decide on his offence, if any?" Mark Hudson tentatively asked. Fred's reply was not exactly what Mac had expected. "You know we have the problem with the Tsetse fly?"

"Yes, I know you have the problem with the Tsetse fly in this sector; it is a pity for your people." Mac answered.

"We protect against the Tsetse. Our people cover themselves with what they can protect with from the cow."

"Yes, I am aware of your practice, and I think it is a very sensible practice."

Fred continued, "When your Squeaky came to look at our Kraal, we show him goodness and kindness and I gave him one of my young wives for his comfort and for his company during the cold of the night. You understand my thoughts and gift?"

"Of course, I understand. This is very kind of you and your people. You are very famous, and I hear much village talk during my travels about you for your kindness and generosity in this way." Mac was mildly amused by the man's relaying of the events, but he managed to remain as solemn as Fred's demeanor appeared.

"Squeaky-man, he takes my wife, and he desires to have comfort with his loins. He takes away the protection around her 'baby channel' and around her ‘baby feeding buttons’. He then make good comfort with great power. It is good for his comfort and for wife it is good; she enjoys making his comfort with her heart. She is very happy that they stay all night making comfort."

At this point, it was difficult for Mac to maintain his composure, but being the gentleman that he was, Mac managed to reply, "I am glad that he made good comfort with your wife, and I am glad that your wife was happy with this comfort. So your wife was happy, what has he done to have made the problem with you and your village?"

"Because he takes away the fly protection to make his comfort with my wife, but he does not cover the exposures on the baby channel and the baby feeder buttons with the protection from the cow when he has finished his powerful comfort. So my wife, she was bitten by the fly. He should have made protection for her by covering everything he had used for his comfort after he had made his comfort, do you agree?" Fred asked, with a look of sincerity and concern clearly written on his face.

Mac still managed to keep a straight face and solemnly nodded his head in agreement, but inside, Mac was hurting from restrained laughter at the thought of Squeaky plastering her ‘Mound of Venus’ and breasts up again with wet, sloppy, stinking, cow shit after he had screwed her all night. Mac knew he knew he would revel in the retelling