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By Charlie Pickering
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To clarify, at one time I could have been described as a little ‘machine gun curious’, much in the same way some boys were into spotting trains or could recognise a biplane by it’s landing gear. Like so many adolescent hobbies, that time has passed. Machine gun studies have gone the way of my marbles, footy cards and playing Leisure Suit Larry on my 386 computer with the dwindling hope of some kind of sexual experience. So many things that fascinate the mind of a young man are banished to boxes on garage shelves in order to make way for the real life concerns of being a fully-grown human man.
Dad stuck, instead, to making sure they had plenty of activities to fill the customerless hours. I don’t know many things in life to be absolutely true, however there is one certainty in this world of which I am sure: two men when left alone for any length of time will invent a game. It’s just what they are programmed to do. I once walked into an all-night bottle shop at one in the morning to find the two guys who worked there standing at either end of the wine aisle, frozen as though they had been sprung in the middle of some nefarious act.
The area at the front of the parade ground was of course reserved for the superior officers, who had now come running out of the shower block. They were wet and covered in soap, and though some had managed to grab a towel to hastily preserve their modesty, most of them were still nude. As they formed up in a line, facing the entire unit, the women reached the dead centre of things and Richard played his trump card. ‘Women’s Auxiliary Army . . ’ In perfect unison and without breaking stride, they turned their heads ninety degrees to the right and ostensibly saluted the genitals of the base’s superior officers.