The Hard Yards

June 1984, Deepcut in Surrey, England. Week nine of basic training in the army, and we were out on a warm day doing an eight-mile fast march. Full combat gear. 

“Keep going!” The DS (Directing Staff) yelled. I yelled the same in my head. But nah, I’m fucked. I can’t keep up. My webbing with twenty-five pounds of weight, my rifle, another fourteen pounds. We wore high-leg combat boots that came a quarter of the way up our shins. Bastard things. Fire burned my shins and the surrounding muscle. 

C’mon, keep up, I urged myself. You slacker. Hopeless bastard. They’ll bin you. No way do you want binning. All the way back to week one. Fuck that. But the pain in my shins. The heat, my head felt weird. 

Three ranks. That’s how we moved. Jogging. Marching. Jogging. Marching. Relentless. I took a swig from my water bottle. It tasted brackish and warm. I saw a member of the DS coming my way. He looked close at me. 

Out of nowhere, I felt wet on my face. Where the fuck did that come from?

—Keep moving, there’s fuck all wrong with you! He yelled. 

—Yes, Corporal, I said. 

It took a while to register. He’d spat in my face. 

I dropped back. The meat wagon (a support vehicle) revved behind me. No way. I wouldn’t be getting in that. I pushed again. No good. The line of trainees in front of me moved further away. 

—Get in the fucking wagon. That’s you binned, Hawthorne. 

—No, I’ll keep going—

—No you won’t. Get in the wagon. 

I got in the wagon. And got binned. Back to week 1. Meaning, by the time I passed out from basic training, I’d done 17 weeks instead of nine. 

But there’s a lesson here. The army taught me it. 42 years ago. If you set yourself a goal, you’ve got to pursue it like you mean it. Otherwise? There’s no point. I wasn’t fit enough on that day in June of ’84. Simple as. 

I got fit enough, though. And achieved what I’d set out to do. I’m now a proud veteran. But those hard yards still live in my memory. Like a guiding force. It sounds brutal. It bloody was brutal. However, I’m glad to have lived it. 

All the years later, I still get out and push myself. I set an expectation. And try to reach it. Yeah, it’s harder now. But I would rather not be binned.