Short hair, buzzcuts so sharp you could slice a loaf. Green dungarees, oversize pockets, walking the parade ground with the megaphone sergeant major yelling at hurricane force. Legs pumping up and down. Endless drills , rifles , bayonets, clean your bed, check your locker, wipe for dust , any speck might mean a twenty kilometer route march. Sure enough somebody’s slipped so the whole  group dons 20 kilo backpacks and makes a move out past the lifeless tar of the parade ground out through the gates and into the surrounding forest – the predominant thought- kill the sergeant major- second predominant thought – kill that stupid bastard who didn’t organise their locker properly. 

The walk in the forest is not so bad – the pines on the breeze, gentle birdsong, the crunch of feet on gravel, until the Sergeant major orders a run for the next two Kilometers-. Running in full battle gear! A pack and a rifle is not an easy task, the momentum of the pack swinging on your back carries the force of a demolition ball, the souls of your feet seem to be sitting in a bed of knives in those thick lace-ups. You start to sweat and breath comes short , because you’re still new, not in the zone yet, still just a cadet, but they’re getting you ready , toughening you adding elements to your soul, so you won’t give up under extreme duress, under battle conditions, when bullets are whispering and whizzing overhead, when shells are catapulting and exploding in your zone, when you’ll obey an order no matter how silly or dangerous it may be. They’re breaking you, chopping down your tall tree of pride  and stubbornness so you and the team will be one, can complete any mission , so you can wear the Red beret proudly. 

It’s just basic training, but you’re dreaming of driving a tank, or a helicopter, getting your hands behind the levers looking down the shining gunmetal  and picking off targets in the distance, cordite and gunpowder filling the air, smelling the fear of battle already, eager for your opportunity to be on the front line. Happy, trigger happy, almost dangerous.  A member falls, others pick up his pack and carry him the last 500 – mate-ship, teamwork. Keep those lockers clean ….