Water Parade

Sixty-seven weary-eyed men, some who can barely be called such, stand in columns three men deep. Thirty-four: twelve columns with two blank files on the right, and thirty-three: eleven, full columns on the left. The 'boymen' hold vapid expressions and even more vapid thoughts. Ill-fitting blue cotton T-shirts and shorts wrap their bodies, bodies that shiver invisibly with equal amounts of anticipation and dread. They clutch blue water bottles in their left hand, all sixty-seven in the same orientation: names on the left, indicators facing forward. Sixty-seven men stand in file at Charlie Line. 

Assigned to Charlie Company the day before, the sixty-seven of us have been told that "we are in the best company" and other dilute and superficial encouragements of that ilk: we know that the other three companies are being told the same thing. So how can all four companies 'be the best' simultaneously? The title of best can, by definition, only be conferred to one company. Some of us choose to believe it, it helps with the transition, others add it to their list of 'Flaws in the NS System, and Why I Hate It So'.

The morning of the day before, all sixty-seven of us were free. Free to choose what food we ate and when we ate it, or when we wanted to use our phone. Before, if we sweat, we could wipe it away at our own leisure -- apparently that is a privilege now. So too, is the usage of the beds we so meticulously make every morning: place anything on it or even touch it before dinner, and a deviously-crafted punishment is heading your way. Oh, and free to have hair.

3mm, or a Number 1, that is what the sixty-seven of us now have for hair. Most of us have finished grieving over the loss, but for some it is a little harder. They would never admit it, but you notice the difficulty with which they use the toilet, which requires crossing a mirror. You see eyes that drip with sadness when they catch a glimpse of themselves in the glass, hardly recognising the reflection that appears before them. "It's just hair", they repeat to themselves, hoping the mantra will lift their melancholic disposition. It doesn't, however, because somewhere deeper, below their surface-level thoughts, they know that their lack of hair is really a metaphor for their lack of freedom. 

Somebody scratches his ear with his shoulder.

"Your friend adjusted. You all half-right change!" the instructor bellows. "Carry on twenty," he says.

We put our water bottles on the floor and  lower ourselves to the floor, putting sullen, uncooperative muscles into work. "One," we collectively chant. Backs twinge as we lift ourselves off from the ground, making what would resemble a mini teepee from the side. Down again. "Two." Up again. Down. "Three." Up. 

"You never asked permission to carry on." the instructor explains. "Back to zero", he sentences. 

It is not painful, yet. It is simply, frustrating. We think of home, and what we might have been doing simply two days earlier. Perhaps watching TV lying spread-eagled across a couch, or enjoying a pleasant conversation with family and friends. Instead we are here, the sixty-six of us, being punished for something the sixty-seventh person did... A minute passes. Sweat gathers. We are still holding the teepee position. None of us know what to do, and nobody has the courage to raise a voice, to stand out.

"Before you carry on the half-rights, you have to ask for permission." the instructor matter-of-factly, condescendingly states. 'Are they dumb', he asks himself. 

"Permission to carry on instructor!" one voice rings out from the collection of teepees. Collectively, the camp of teepees lets out a sigh of relief. Progress. Progress is always something to look forward to.

"Are you a company? Why do I only hear one voice. Ask together!" the instructor's voice rings out. The teepees are confused. What do we do? This is something new. We have no precedent, and nobody wants to be the protruding nail, the nail that gets hammered down. The teepees are leaking now, miniature puddles form at every base. 

"In three, two--" the same voice attempts, uncertainty apparent in his voice.

"That's not how you do it. I'll explain once, OK? You say 'Whole lot, one, two', then ask for permission together. OK? Simple right? Can? Can you do it?" explains the instructor for the first time with the impatient voice of somebody explaining for the thousandth time. 

"Yes instructor!" we reply.

"Whole lot, one, two... Permission to carry on!!" we exclaim, wearing relief on our sweaty, short, blue sleeves. The irony of asking for permission to carry on a punishment for an infraction 66/67 of us did not commit is lost on us -- progress, any progress is good. 

"Carry on" the instructor allows. Down. "One." Up. "Two." Down--

"Do you have any manners? You must thank me for giving you permission. Back to zero." the instructor stabs at us with an indignant voice, as if offended. Eyes roll. Time passes. Puddles enlarge. Teepees waver. Straw is added to the figurative camel's back.

"Whole lot, one two... Permission to carry on!!" we attempt.

"Carry on." he replies. What power he wields.

"Thank you, instructor!" we concede. If we must thank him for punishing us lest we get further punishment, then so be it. One more item on the 'Flaws in the NS System, and Why I Hate It So' list. We do the push-ups, and get up.

"Never ask permission to recover?" he asks. We already know what is coming. "Half-right change!"

"Whole lot, one two... Permission to carry on!!" we confidently, pre-emptively demand.

"I never even told you how many to carry on. Carry on twenty" he concedes. Now, he too, probably  wants to get this over with.

"Thank you, instructor!!" we say with less-than-zero sincerity. We follow the procedure correctly; we do not have a choice. 'Learning by doing' really applies here since we do not get told how to do something until we do it wrongly, which is, of course, the most likely outcome.

Instructors and recruits both look around, trying to see if anybody will adjust, even the slightest of movements will result in repeating the routine. Sixty-seven now sweating, bald men stand still in file at Charlie Line.

Finally, it is time to do what we came here for: our first Water Parade.