As we rounded the corner at the doorway the flashlight beam fell on a figure lying
on his side, knees drawn up, and rear end pointed toward us. What a sight. A
hemorrhoid the size of my index finger protruded from his posterior and he was
covered with some of the contents of the blocked toilet bowl.
We soon figured out what had happened. Tom, (not his real name), had gone into
the toilet, taken down his battle dress trousers, and had made the mistake of
sitting on a toilet that was plugged, full, to the brim!
His battle dress trousers, with their high waist and short suspenders, unbuttoned
behind, and up around the back of his neck, prevented him from straightening up
after he fell off the toilet.
on his side, knees drawn up, and rear end pointed toward us. What a sight. A
hemorrhoid the size of my index finger protruded from his posterior and he was
covered with some of the contents of the blocked toilet bowl.
We soon figured out what had happened. Tom, (not his real name), had gone into
the toilet, taken down his battle dress trousers, and had made the mistake of
sitting on a toilet that was plugged, full, to the brim!
His battle dress trousers, with their high waist and short suspenders, unbuttoned
behind, and up around the back of his neck, prevented him from straightening up
after he fell off the toilet.
Tom was a drinker, and had no doubt stayed too long in the wet canteen that
afternoon. Obviously, in his semi-conscious state, he had fallen asleep and had
toppled off the throne, a definite unroyal unflush.
Lance and I gingerly picked him up, still unconscious, and carried him to his bunk
in Eighteen Platoon, heaved him up and covered him with his blankets, clothes,
hemorrhoid, effluent, the works.
Poor guy, he was unable to keep up on parade, largely because of an old ankle
injury. He was discharged in Sussex, for reasons of, "Not likely to become an
efficient soldier." He went back to his home town, continued his drinking, and was
found dead on the beach some years later not far from his home.
afternoon. Obviously, in his semi-conscious state, he had fallen asleep and had
toppled off the throne, a definite unroyal unflush.
Lance and I gingerly picked him up, still unconscious, and carried him to his bunk
in Eighteen Platoon, heaved him up and covered him with his blankets, clothes,
hemorrhoid, effluent, the works.
Poor guy, he was unable to keep up on parade, largely because of an old ankle
injury. He was discharged in Sussex, for reasons of, "Not likely to become an
efficient soldier." He went back to his home town, continued his drinking, and was
found dead on the beach some years later not far from his home.
Drummed Out
One incident in my army life that left a lasting impression on me, was the
"Drumming Out" of a fellow soldier. "Drumming Out" is the most severe
punishment a soldier can get, short of the firing squad.
Pat, (not his real name), a fellow from a place not far from where I was brought
up, had joined the Royal Rifles about the same time as I had. He was a bit of a
maverick, and didn't take kindly to army discipline. He spent an awful lot of time
AWL, and most of the rest of the time in detention barracks.
"Drumming Out" of a fellow soldier. "Drumming Out" is the most severe
punishment a soldier can get, short of the firing squad.
Pat, (not his real name), a fellow from a place not far from where I was brought
up, had joined the Royal Rifles about the same time as I had. He was a bit of a
maverick, and didn't take kindly to army discipline. He spent an awful lot of time
AWL, and most of the rest of the time in detention barracks.
While we were in Sussex, in the fall of 1940 the powers that be decided that Pat
had gone far enough, and that his membership in the Royal Rifles of Canada was
no longer desirable.
At any rate, one dull, rainy Saturday morning, the whole Regiment was assembled
in a hollow square on the muddy Parade Ground. Pat was marched in, and his
crimes were read off. Then an officer stepped forward and ripped off his epaulets,
and whatever other insignia he wore and the sentence was read, "Dishonourably
discharged!"
What good did it do? I have always suspected that these same powers were
seeking some diversion, and reasoned that no further harm could be done by
Drumming the poor fellow out, rather than giving him a simple dishonourable
discharge. Pat, whatever personal shame he harboured for the rest of his life, died
only recently.
When I recently met my old Sargent-major, and mentioned the incident to him, he
told me that there had been no "Drumming Out" in the British Army since the
eighteen-hundreds. Maybe it wasn't a "Drumming Out" in the conventional
meaning of the term, but that's what we were told it was, and the results were the
same.
had gone far enough, and that his membership in the Royal Rifles of Canada was
no longer desirable.
At any rate, one dull, rainy Saturday morning, the whole Regiment was assembled
in a hollow square on the muddy Parade Ground. Pat was marched in, and his
crimes were read off. Then an officer stepped forward and ripped off his epaulets,
and whatever other insignia he wore and the sentence was read, "Dishonourably
discharged!"
What good did it do? I have always suspected that these same powers were
seeking some diversion, and reasoned that no further harm could be done by
Drumming the poor fellow out, rather than giving him a simple dishonourable
discharge. Pat, whatever personal shame he harboured for the rest of his life, died
only recently.
When I recently met my old Sargent-major, and mentioned the incident to him, he
told me that there had been no "Drumming Out" in the British Army since the
eighteen-hundreds. Maybe it wasn't a "Drumming Out" in the conventional
meaning of the term, but that's what we were told it was, and the results were the
same.