The Room Inspection

Deepcut barracks, June 1984. Around 6:30am and the barrack room had lads tearing around trying to get squared away. The room inspection would happen. And soon.  This was the British Army. So room inspections for recruits in training were the pinnacle of excellence. 

None of us slept the night before. We'd worked out a rota. Some of us were good at ironing, so we did all the ironing for the whole room. The creases down shirt sleeve could be used to slice fruitcake. Some were good at bulling the boots, so they sat there all night with tins of polish and cloths. The gleam from the boots confused aircraft overhead who thought they were landing lights. 

The rest got divided up doing things like: buffering the bogs and cleaning the floors. Or the other way around. It didn’t really matter. The rules were simple. If it looked shiny it had to gleam. If it had a white colour, it had to be so bright, it hurt your eyes to look at it. And the linoleum floors? You had to see your face in them. It took bloody hours. 

The rest of the time? Personal kit. making our beds with creases straight down the middle. A single crease. Sharp enough to cut your fingers on. Sheets and a top cover. No duvets. And bed blocks. Made from your pillows. Wrapped in a blanket. and in a perfect square. A PERFECT square. 

We didn't sleep in our beds. We slept on the floor under them. Some lads slept in the trees outside our window. it saved time.

We'd polish our razors. Our washing kit had to lay on the shelf in our lockers. Yes, they even checked the bristles on our toothbrushes. The kit we used? Locked away in a small canvas holdall that wasn't part of the inspection. Our uniforms had to hang in perfect order on gleaming coat hangers. The coat hangers were those thin steel ones. We polished them to they gleamed. 

“They're coming!” Our lookout shouted. 

We all legged it to our point at the end of our beds, stood to attention. Glancing in the mirror to make sure we gleamed as brightly as everything else. 

The sound of boots. Terrified glances exchanged. They were in the washrooms. Checking the cubicles. The showers. Comments came in growls that sounded like pissed off bears.

Then, they entered the room. Our platoon sergeant and his two corporals. They strode up to the first lad. Staring at his bed block. 

“Did you get taught what a square was?” 

“Yes Sergeant!”

“Well, where you’re from must be full of wonky shit. That bed block  ain't square.”

Mayhem ensued. One corporal marched to the nearest window. The other, picked up the bed block, and hurled it out of the now open window. 

“See? Weren't square. Didn't fly right,” said the sergeant. 

On to the next lad. He was shaking in his boots. 

“You know when yer ironed yer shirts? Did yer 'ave the fucker plugged in?”

“Yes, sergeant!”

One of the corporals scooped his shirts up out of his locker. Marched to the open window and out they went. 

Then, it was my turn.

“Good bed block, that, Hawthorne.”

I'd learned to stay quiet. My shaving gear passed muster. As did my clothes hanging in the locker. Then, the sergeant picked my razor up and stood right up to me. 

“That ain't been across yer chin this mornin' has it lad?”

“No, sergeant!”

No point lying. 

“No, I didn't think it had. Yer got bum fluff on yer chin. Sort yer fuckin' shave out.”

I breathed. 

They moved to the next lad. A small Glaswegian. He passed muster. But there was a steel bin next to his bed space. The sergeant looked at it. 

“Jock, lad, that bin. Did yer take a dump in it?”

“NO Sergeant!”

“Why does it look like yer did?”

“Don't know, sergeant!”

The sergeant showed the gleaming bin to one of the corporals. 

“What d'yer reckon? Big greasy Jock dump in that, or wha’?”

“For sure, sergeant!”

The sergeant then placed the bin on Jock's head. None of us dare move. He then rapped the bin with the brass end of his pace stick. 

BOINNGGG!! 

“See, Jock. I can tell by the ring. It sounds dull. Which means yer didn't clean the bin—”

“I did, sergeant, I polished the fucker til it gleamed—”

“Jock?”

“Aye sergeant?”

“Shut it.”

He rapped the bin with his pace stick again. 

BOINNGGG!!

We were all trying hard not to laugh. It wasn't working. Some of the lads shoulders were jigging up and down. 

“Nobody LAUGH! Nobody!” Roared one of the corporals, grinning his head off. 

“How do it it smell in there, Jock?” asked the sergeant. 

Jock stayed wise, for a moment. but then he spoke. 

“Aye, sergeant, it's not too bad. Smells 'o polish—”

BOINNGGG!!

That did it. We all erupted in laughter. The sergeant grinned and looked around the room. 

“Good effort, lads. This is the standard we want.”

And he and the corporals marched out of our room. Jock marched around — with the bin still on his head.