No, actually I'm NOT adhering to US spelling. I'm adhering to Jack's unique usage, a blend of UK and US spelling.

Can anyone tell me if the BREECH of a rifle is the BREACH? (In UK usage.)

Just two more to go, one quite long and hilarious. I'm saving it for last-- tomorrow (US time), as I burp turkey.

~S~

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THE FIRST DAY

1. "Would you like me to see you off at the station?" asked my father.

2. "You don't have to, Dad," I replied, but we both knew I really wanted him to; and so he did.

3. I had received my second letter from the King a couple of weeks before, in which he assured me that based on the recent investigation of my person. I was a perfect physical specimen adequately suited for his service. He also had included travel expence vouchers, instructions for finding my way to the town of Exeter in the county of Devon in southwest England, and documents to be presented upon my arrival.

4. The day of my departure started out badly. I had to abandon my bed over an hour before my usual time. Although I didn't know it then, awakening and arising in the middle of the night was to become my lot for the next several months.

5. It was tacitly understood that I would say my good-byes to my mother at home as she couldn't be trusted not to cry at the railway station—and sometimes crying, like laughing, can become contagious. So Mum and I hugged and kissed each other at the street door—and she cried.

6. Even the day outside seemed to be crying for me. A canopy of dark grey clouds, looking more like nightfall than daybreak, appeared to be resting on top of the surrounding chimney pots. A light, fine drizzle of rain fell on Dad and me as we made our way to the station.

7. We arrived on the platform where my train stood waiting, with almost 20 minutes to spare. There were about a dozen other young men of my age standing around, some with parents, some with friends, and a couple of them quite alone. A brightly colored poster of sun, sand, and sea caught my eye, exhorting London's residents to take a train to "glorious Devon" for their summer holidays. Well, I was certainly a Londoner, and I was taking the train to glorious Devon, but I had serious doubts about the holiday part.

8. Turning back to my father, we smiled at each other and he shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other.

9. "I, er, I expect you know all about the—er—birds and bees sort of thing...." he hesitatingly ventured and actually looked rather sheepish.

10. "No, Dad, not exactly," I replied, whilst looking earnestly into his eyes.

11. "You know," he said, looking up and down the platform searching vainly for help from any source. I said nothing, continuing to gaze expectantly into his face.

12. "I mean about girls and such!" he blurted out, looking more and more uncomfortable but determined to face his responsibility of informing his eldest son of the "facts of life."

13. "Oh yes, Dad, I know all about girls but I don't really know much about birds, or bees," I replied with a grin that let him know I was having fun at his expence. Dad clapped a hand on my shoulder and laughed, and his immense relief was obvious.

14. The train guard blew his whistle to tell us it was time to board, and everyone on the platform moved toward the train's doors. Dad and I embraced and said our good-byes. Climbing into the corridor of a carriage, I closed the door, turned, and lowered the window.

15. "Be sure to write to your mother," he called, and I promised I would write as often as I could. "I'll give you some free advice if you want," he shouted as he started to walk beside the already-moving train.

16. "What's that, Dad?" I loudly asked.

17. His face creased in a huge smile. "Don't ever volunteer for anything!" he yelled; as the train gathered speed we waved to each other. And I continued to wave as he became smaller and smaller, until I could no longer see him.

18. I closed the window. Making my way along the corridor, I entered a compartment already occupied by three young lads, and sat down.

19. "I suppose you are going to Exeter too," said a thin youth from his seat by the window. "If so, welcome to the club." I nodded and we introduced ourselves, settling down for the anticipated five-hour ride.

20. The conversation was fairly lively, as is often the case when people are taken from familiar surroundings and thrust into unfamiliar situations over which they have little control. We talked of the jobs we had left, of families, of girl friend, of chums, and of sports. We were regaling each other with horror stories of friends who had entered the armed services before us, when the train squealed to a stop in Exeter station.

21. Immediately a number of khaki-clad sergeants and corporals started striding up and down the platform, yelling to all Army-bound passengers to leave the train and line up by the station's exit. Here, some 80 to 90 of us had our papers checked against a list held by a young lieutenant, and were shepherded outside, and were loaded into waiting lorries. After about 20 minutes we found ourselves riding alongside a high and forbidding brick wall, until we reached a large iron gate flanked on either side by armed sentries.

22. "Looks like Wormwood Scrubs," I observed to the people riding with me.

23. "No talking!" screamed a sergeant glaring in my direction. A few of my fellow recruits laughed nervously, apparently familiar with the prison walls at the Scrubs.

24. The gates swung open. Our line of lorries entered, made a sharp left turn, skirted a broad expanse of parade ground, and came to a stop before one of the office buildings.

25. "Everybody off and line up over here," instructed one of the sergeants; we scrambled over the tailgates and did as we were told, although with considerable confusion.

26. The sergeant strode along our ragged-looking line. "We shall teach you to move a bloody sight faster than that!" he roared. Several of us laughed, which only served to infuriate him even further. Then, we meekly stood and listened to an interesting description of our ancestry and of his misfortune at having to deal with a group of such low-caliber recruits.

27. Coming to the end of his tirade, he raised a clipboard and instructed, The following people bring your gear and stand behind me."

28. In a few minutes half of our number had taken their places behind him. After yelling some unintelligible commands, he led his charges down the road and out of sight.

29. Those of us remaining immediately started to chatter, congratulating ourselves on escaping the bad-tempered sergeant and speculating o our fate.

30. "You sound like a bunch of old washer-women," came a voice clearly heard above the din we were making. Suddenly quiet, we turned in the direction of the speaker and saw a sergeant of average height with broad shoulders and a pleasant round, open face—which at that moment was doing its best to look stern. He was smartly turned out in a perfectly-fitted uniform with three rows of medal ribbons on his chest, and wearing the badge and insignia of the Devonshire Regiment. But perhaps the most remarkable thing about this man was his apparent lack of a neck; his head appeared to be growing directly from between his shoulders.

31. "I'm Sergeant Parker, and I will be your Platoon Sergeant for the next six weeks," he announced. "And this is Corporal Tomkins, who will be assisting me," and he indicated a tall, gangly two-striper standing behind him.

32. "We have a lot to do this afternoon," Sgt. Parker continued. "First I shall take you to the Mess for a meal; then we must get your papers in order and be welcomed by the Company Commander."

33. With a wave of his hand the sergeant indicated that we should follow him—and follow him we did, like the children of Hamlin behind the Pied Piper. He led us around the perimeter of the Parade Ground, between two rows of one-storey wooden huts, one of which would be our home for the next six weeks. We continued along a road bordered on either side with rows of white-painted stones, and to the door of a large brick building bearing a sign proclaiming it the "Mess."

34. And a very impressive mess it was. Row upon row of wooden-topped tables scrubbed until they were white (which I was destined to know intimately), each table being surrounded by ten chairs. Along one side of the room was a long stainless steel counter containing large pots and pans of various foods, each one presided over by a uniformed cook in a long white apron. At the end of the counter closest to us were piles of clean plates and boxes of cutlery.

35. Already in line was the group of recruits who had been marched away by Sergeant "Loud-Mouth," and grabbing plates we took our places in the line to be served our first taste of Army food. Since we were not eating at a regular mealtime we were the only group in the Mess Hall. It was to be the only time we would be able to eat in relative quiet and to converse without having to shout above the incredible din several hundred Army diners can make.

36. The meal was wolfed down hungrily by grateful young men who hadn't eaten anything for almost seven hours.

37. Sgt. Parker then led his straggling charges to an office where we were each issued two identity tags on a length of cord, with the instruction that they be worn around the neck at all times. One tag contained name and Army serial number; the other announced our religious persuasion in the event it became necessary to bury us. We also received our paybooks which would serve as our official identity cards for the duration of our military service, and without which we could not hope to be paid.

38. With our documentation in order, Sgt. Parker assembled us outside on the road. "We are now going to meet the Company Commander," he announced, and I would really like it if we could actually march there instead of repeating the shambles I have been forced to witness so far. First I will give you the command "Fall In," and then you will form three ranks, one behind the other, of equal length." We gave him our complete attention; this was to be our first military maneuver.

39. "Fall In!" he roared. Immediately almost a hundred feet started to shuffle, propelling their owners into aimless motion.

40. Our first problem seemed to be knowing where to start the lines. We had as many as three false starts before a half-dozen people stood still long enough for the others to notice and stand beside them.

41. The next problem was the sergeant's requirement of three ranks of equal length. I looked around me and counted the start of five ranks, so I made my way through the milling group to stand in third row from the front that was forming. After what seemed an interminable time, the general movement slowed to a stop, and we all looked about us.

42. The front rank contained four people; the second rank about a dozen; the third rank over thirty. Obviously something was wrong, so about 20 of us in the rear (with the same idea) rushed to fill out the sparse front line, and the confusing movement started anew.

43. "Stop where you are!" came a voice bellowing through our concentration; but the command and Sgt. Parker were ignored. After all, this was our first attempt at being soldiers; the sergeant had explained exactly what he wanted, and in a very simple manner. Thus, it was a matter of pride. We should be able to do an elementary thing like lining up. And the shifting, shuffling, and confusion continued.

44. "Stop where you are, for God's sake!" roared the Sergeant again. He and Cpl. Tomkins moved among us, grasping individuals by the shoulders, forcing them to be stationary. Finally, all movement ceased, and again we looked around at the result of our efforts. There was no sign of one, two, three, or any ranks—we looked like a group of people standing around listening to a speaker at Hyde Park Corner.

45. Sgt. Parker's face as blood red and, could we have seen his neck, I am sure his veins would have been visibly throbbing.

46. "I have never seen anything like this pathetic display in all my life," he gasped, "and I hope I never do again." He paced back and forth in front of us in an effort to regain his composure.

47. At last he stopped his pacing and turned to face us. "Corporal Tomkins, will you please arrange these brainless individuals into three ranks!" he said. Tomkins quickly pushed and tugged us into the required three lines of equal length.

48. Sgt. Parker stood before us, his feet wide apart and his hands clasped behind his back. He slowly looked at each one of us straight in the eye in turn and, taking a deep breath, walked to face the men to his extreme left who were the beginnings of the three ranks.

49. "Until I tell you other wise," he said, "you three will take these positions whenever I give the order to Fall In. As for the rest of you dozey people," and he half turned to glare at the rest of us, "look to your right and remember the person standing there so that next time, perhaps you can all find your way to the same place. Do you understand?"

50. We assured him that we understood; after three attempts at "Right Face" and two tries at "Quick March," we marched toward our rendezvous with the Company Commander, almost in step.

51. In a few minutes we arrived at a small auditorium, quickly filing in and taking seats on the rows of folding chairs awaiting us. A sergeant appeared on a low platform facing us. Calling for silence, he introduced our Company's Commanding Officer—whose name and rank I did not hear and whose shoulder insignia were a complete mystery to me.

52. He was small man with a large moustache and a bored expression and, after giving us permission to smoke, he welcomed us to the Army in general and to the Devonshire Regiment in particular. The Captain, as I later discovered was his rank, then outlined the training we were to receive during the next six weeks. He spoke at considerable length on the history and battle honors of the Regiment, and ended his address with the traditional, "Are there any questions?"

53. One lone had shot up, three or four rows in front of me. The captain pointed to the owner of the raised hand. "Yes?" he said.

54. "Please sir, what is a platoon?" came the question in a broad Cockney accent. A groan went up from the audience and I was mortified that such a question could be asked by a fellow Londoner. But at the same time I realized that I didn't have the slightest idea what a platoon was and neither did the rest of us, judging by the rapt attention given the Captain's explanation.

55. The rest of our first day was occupied with drawing blankets and pillows from the Quartermaster's stores, being introduced to our cots and lockers in our new home, and receiving our first lesson in bed-making, military-style. We returned to the Mess for our evening meal and were completely awed by the deafening roar of nearly 600 soldiers eating and talking in that confined area.

56. By this time we were "Falling In," Right Facing," and "Quick Marching" with more enthusiasm than skill. This led Sgt. Parker to observe, "At least you've learned to walk; perhaps you dozey lot are trainable after all."

57. At last we returned to our barracks room and were dismissed for the day. Gratefully we stretched out on our beds, but our respite was short-lived. Sgt. Parker came into the room carrying a sheet of paper, which he pinned to the inside of the door.

58. "This is your address," he said, indicating the newly-posted sheet. "Cpl. Tomkins has paper, pencils and envelopes for all of you who need them. Before "lights out" at twenty-two hundred hours, you all will have written a letter home telling your loved ones how much you are enjoying the Army and how much you like your sergeant," he said. "There will be no exceptions!" he cautioned as he left the room.

59. We grumbled and complained; but in a short while we had received our supplies from the corporal and were engrossed in composing our first letters home.

60. "What the hell is twenty-two hundred hours?" asked a voice of the roomful of busy writers. The replies indicated that nobody seemed to have any idea. Finally someone said, "I think it might be ten o'clock." And at ten o'clock, with the letters just barely finished, the lights went out.