Sharon Hadley-Ford
Writer

Private Ford - 24738484

At barely 17 years old, Private Ford stood crookedly to attention during his first morning on parade. The early August sun warmed the Fallingbostel air, tricking everyone into thinking they were abroad on holiday on that day in 1986. Below his Staffordshire Regiment beret one of his eyes were purple and half an eyebrow was missing. Ruminating, he recalls the poker-faced sergeant, with his pungent smell of an ashtray, questioning the soldier to his right. “New boy, where did ya get those bruises from?” After what felt like an hour of squirming, he explained that some of the other soldiers had gone into his room and attacked him in his sleep. The motionless sergeant stared and snapped, “in my office after parade.” Even though Private Ford knew that he was next in line for the interrogation, he couldn’t help feeling freer than he had in years, away from “the evil bitch of a stepmom who was back home in Cannock.”

A movie began in Private Ford’s mind, replaying how he had also got bruises last night; his first night at the battalion. He thought of his Manchester United bedding and remembered that he fell asleep while someone cried in their bunk in the crowded ten-man room. He recounted, “I woke up and tried to get up as I was being pinned down and tied to my bed. The three-foot metal frame was having bungee cords wrapped around it, holding me tightly in place under my quilt.” An inch of light fed him snippets of information as he tussled, while the shots of pain began landing when the pummelling commenced. Grabbing furiously with his flailing hands he caught hold of one of the weapons. His grip weakened and it broke free from his grasp, and the hammering continued. Confused and dazed, he later realised it was an army issue sock stuffed with a bar of soap. “Sprog, don’t say a word about this tomorrow, you sprog bastard!” A sharp bite down on the inside of his cheek brought a metallic taste of blood. Time was stumbling like his battered body. All around him was a frenzy of movement as the pack circled. A bolt of lightning struck his left eye, forcing him to halt his breath. He felt heavy hands on his head, along with scraping sensations and a low buzzing noise emanating from the piercing pain on his face and in his skull. Next came sharp light from the door opening wide; a swarm of low voices; then the wolves were gone.

Stillness followed, while Private Ford tried to piece his cluttered thoughts together and stop himself from falling apart. Strangely, he felt relieved. He was rigid from the burst of adrenaline, the spikiness of the anger, but he was mostly glad that it was over. He had heard stories about the tradition of initiations while he was in training camp, but he wasn’t sure how to separate the truth from the tales. Now that he had arrived at the battalion he knew the facts.

After minutes of quietness, two lads from adjacent bunks got up and stealthily began untying the cords that had held Private Ford a prisoner. They grabbed an arm each and hoisted him to his wobbling feet, before disappearing back into their bunks like retreating ants. They too were glad it was over, and guilty of being glad it hadn’t happened to them. Private Ford remembered getting to the bathroom and bending over the porcelain sink to find hair falling down his face. Rattled, he looked in the mirror, and took a short breath as he saw his left eye, angry and swollen along with patches of scarlet scratches on his face and neck. He splashed cold water to his cheeks. Mouth open in disbelief, he saw an asymmetrical face stare back as realised that the men had shaved off half of his eyebrow. With his head low, he began the shuffle back to his bunk with his arms, legs and ribs throbbing with pain.

“Where did ya get those bruises from?” spat the sergeant into Private Ford’s face, waking him from his recollections. “I sleepwalked and fell” he uttered. “And ya eyebrow?” questioned the sergeant, with a creased brow. “I always have them like this, sarge” was the reply. The sergeant grunted like a wild boar then marched on along the straight line of soldiers. Private Ford studied the baby blue sky and exhaled: whatever happens, it’s better than being at home.