About This Blog

This blog was originally started as a thread on the forum pages of an animal rescue site. Now it's here!

The articles you find in here are purely for entertainment (yours and mine) and (with one or two exceptions) are all tongue-in-cheek chronicles of the World (my bit, anyway) as I see it.
No disrespect is intended towards anyone unless I make a mistake and make it too obvious.

I hope you enjoy my offerings. Feedback and comments of any kind are welcome.

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

When The Jock Hits The Shi@

Lemme take you back again to the Crusader '80.

The Americans had just days before kicked our butts after landing (from the skies) in force and it was only a matter of one or two days before we exploded dead rats over them to extract our revenge.

Things had quietened down somewhat and the largest manoeuvre in the history of NATO was, for want of a better description, was becoming very, very boring.  The immanent arrival of the 51st Highlanders (TA) to act as our 'defence' company did little to raise our spirits.

On the day (it was a Friday, I believe) they arrived, we were all looking forward to a few days respite from sitting in those fox-holes or lying in shell-scrapes. We were all pretty much pi@@ed-off when they turned up, dumped their gear and legged it to the local pub ... a place we were banned from for the duration of the 'war'.

One of our most severely 'wounded' souls, Cpl 'Yorkie' Pountain, came up with a plan to get revenge on at least one of the 51st's finest.

Now, you must understand that sanitation on a military exercise is not of paramount importance.  Toilets tend to be holes in the ground with a tea-chest (with a hole on top, referred to as 'Thunder boxes') placed over it and a hessian screen around it.  Luxury is when there is a proper toilet seat affixed to the box and when there was still some bog paper left.

On this particular exercise, we had been in the 'field' for over two weeks and, due to one cock-up or another,   we had lost or left our tea-chests in another location.  So we dug our 'toilet' holes and put planks of wood across them; it was a case of  left foot on one plank, right foot on the other, squat and do the 'business' between the two.

We had two or three of these holes around our farm location.  One had been dug especially for our Scottish cousins ... but due to the fact that they had been allowed to go to the pub and we weren't, both of their planks , thanks to 'Yorkie', had been sawn halfway through.

It was just a case of waiting for them to come back from the pub.

We (those of us not on guard or working) congregated on the grassy bank that lead to the pig sty's and waited.

The exact time at which our poor, injured spirits were raised from the dead eludes me, but it was getting late.

To fully enjoy the experience, 'Yorkie' had rigged lighting over and around the 'toilet' and as we watched, partly hidden by bushes,  the first 'jock' decided he needed to dump.

He entered the 'toilet' and after several seconds we heard the first grunt as a bowel movement was encouraged.

Before a second grunt could be issued, there was a cracking sound followed by "What the f.......", SPLATT, "Ye Sassenach* bassa's!  Ah'll kill ye's aal!"

We legged it, pissing ourselves with laughter.

The next morning, the OC (Major McCormack) called us out on parade.

It was explained to us that something 'disconcerting' had occurred the previous evening and that he expected there to be no repetitions of the incident, or any other tricks, played on the 51st for the duration of the exercise.  He was smiling all the time, so I think he thought it a jolly good wheeze!

He also explained that Captain McKenzie (Mc- something, anyway) was not at all a happy chappie, as it was he who had fallen foul of the sawn through planks!  

Not only did we get even with the jocks's, but we got a Rodney to boot!

We had to wait another week before we could get a pint though.


I have dug and used so many of those holes and in a few thousand years time, someone is going to dig up one of those 'ancient' toilets and sift through it to try and find out what we used to eat. The thought of someone analysing my fossilised poo is unnerving.  

* Sassenach = Gaelic, meaning Saxon.  Scottish term for the English

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