The Long Weight

Warning: Contains Strong Language; Homophobic attitudes

‘Go down the store and get us a long weight, some glass-fibre welding rods and a tin of tartan paint.’

‘What for, Sarge?’

‘You’re gonna build a raft to get your sorry arses over this lake, so use your fuckin’ initiative, Sapper.’

Fucking moron. I’m not sure if I was thinking this, or Sgt Browne was bellowing it, but the phrase rattled around the inside of my skull as I headed off.

The store was a ten-minute walk away, across the vast, tarmacked expanse of the parade ground, behind the burnt-umber, creosoted Nissen hut called Spider 13, past the concrete water tower, along the outside red-brick wall of the 50-metre rifle range and beyond the volatile fumes and diesel smeared pumps of the POL station. But I was a rookie - in the Royal Engineers we were called sprogs - and sprogs didn’t “walk” anywhere. You either marched – walked like a teddy bear with a broom handle thrust up its arse – or you doubled. I opted for the procto-rectified soft-toy ambulation.

‘At the double!’

Okay, that sounded like an order. I picked up my feet and began to trot. Not too fast, just enough to make it look like I was complying. I was in no hurry.

‘Shift your fuckin’ arse, Sapper. You're mincing like a poof running for a bus.’

I’m not sure at the time this registered as homophobic motility shaming - this was the mid-1970’s after all – but I do remember thinking that this can’t be the most beneficial way to motivate your troops.

Once I’d negotiated the corner of Spider 13 I was out of view; I slowed to a walk. Anyone with any sense never normally ventured beyond Stalag 13, the perimeter fence ran along the back edge, and beyond that was nothing. Well, obviously there was something, but there might as well have been nothing, because we weren’t allowed out of the camp until we’d finished Basic; twelve weeks of bullshit and Brasso, and currently I was in Week 2. 

The G1098 Store was another creosote-encrusted, wooden Nissen hut, identical to all the others, apart from a large, pale-blue sign beside the double, framed-ledged-braced-and-battened doors, which had a big colourful Royal Engineers (RE) logo above the black stencilled words “G1098 Stores”. So I knew I was in the right place.

When addressing someone of higher rank you just had to remember what the insignia meant. No one above the rank of Sapper [a Private in the RE] had a name. So Sergeant Browne was “Sarge” – as was anyone else with three chevrons on their arm. Two chevrons was a Corporal, who you called “Corporal” – never corpse – one chevron was a Lance Corporal, who, confusingly, you also had to call “Corporal”; three chevrons and a crown was a Staff Sergeant, who would get very snotty if you called him Sarge. I say “him” because there were no women in the Royal Engineers when I joined up. The Staff Sergeant you called “Staff” – okay, I’m going to confuse you all now. When doing foot drill, all ranks above your fellow sappers were called “Staff”. I don’t know, I didn’t invent this nonsense. – Anyone else you called “Sir” – including civilians.

So, when I entered the G1098 and saw a man, ruddy-faced and with a magnificent set of handlebar whiskers, sitting on a wooden box smoking his briar pipe, I looked to his upper-right arm. No stripes!

‘Hey, pal, can I have…’

‘I ain’t your fucking “pal” sonny.’ He proffered the lower part of his arm towards me, it had the badge of a Crown and laurel leaves against the olive-green of his ribbed jumper.

‘Oh! Sorry, Sir…’

‘Not, Sir, either. You moron. Call me “Q”.’

I looked at him blankly.

‘Short for QMSI – Quarter Master Sergeant Instructor. Don’t those fucking drill pigs teach you anything? So, what the fuck do you want?’

I recounted my shopping list. He smirked and sat back down on his box. Leaning backwards, he shouted into the storeroom behind him. ‘Corporal Sinclair, we’ve got a sprog here who wants a long weight, do we have any?’

‘I’ll have a look, Q.’ the disembodied reply echoed back from the bowels of the hut. I could have sworn he was stifling a laugh.

‘If you just want to stand over there, sonny. Cpl Sinclair will be with you soon.’

I stood to attention in the corner of the waiting area. From where I was standing, I could see right into the depths of the store. It was an Aladdin’s cave. Jam-packed with every piece of kit you could imagine. Ladders, hand tools, petrol generators, what looked like gardening equipment; spades, forks, pick-axes, wheelbarrows. Along one, dimly lit wall I could see rows and rows of paint tins; in the gloom, they all looked a bit green. I hoped they had the tartan paint, I’d never seen tartan paint before, I was rather excited.

After about ten minutes, Cpl Sinclair came through from the back scratching his head.

‘Did Sergeant Browne say how long a weight he wanted, Sapper?’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘I think ten minutes is long enough, don’t you, Q?’

‘Yep,’ the QMSI replied, and they both laughed. ‘Now, fuck off back to your squad, you pratt.’

I remember thinking as I trudged back to the lake. I suppose it keeps them happy. You’ve got to do something here to keep yourself amused or you’d go AWOL. But I did feel like a gullible twat.

*

I realise this is a story you have probably heard before, if it was a practical joke back in the 1970’s it was probably extant for generations before that and no doubt gets an airing even today. I post this as a warning to anyone who possesses the naïveté to fall for tricksters who want to benefit from their misfortune. There is a serious message in here; in the army you are not allowed to, but the message is – always question what you have been told.