Stories!

[cirrrocco]

This one got to be added because it happenned here on the WAB.

The Brigadier and I were exchanging emails dealing with military publications. Inadvertingly, I used the term Indian "bellycrawlers." According to the Brigadier, that had him perplexed for a minute and he was getting a bit annoyed at this new Canadian being overbearing again.

Then, he figured out that I was using the term for army chaps. I did not get the impression that he was impressed at first but eventually, the term got to him.

At his Regt's Reunion, he started calling everybody a bellycrawler. At first, they were a bit insulted but by the end of the night, they were all using the "globblygook."

Most particular, he introduced the term to the Indian VCAS, a felllow Engineer and told him it was a Canadian Engineer. Now, the VCAS uses the term and everyone thinks the man graduated from the US Staff School.

Thanks to the WAB, an Indian General has graduated from one of the top military schools in the world without ever attending a class.

wickedly funny!!!it's gonna make it to the indian press in a coupla years and then we will all know how the wagons were circled

[The Chap]

When the currant King of Jordan was in the UK learning to march up and down he made a terrible error (this is true - even though I'm civy).

After a few wets the silly sod walked diagonally accross the parade ground.

Who should - sods law - observe this but the RSM.

"Get your fukin' wog **** off my square!"

An officer next to the RSM whispered to him that this miscreant was infact etc.

Flustered, embarrassed, the RSM barks:

"Get your fukin' wog **** off my square, YOUR MAJESTY!"



Dateline, oh, erm apartheid. Somewhere in Namibia. Or Angola. Curfew.

Deon and Eugene (shock) see some poor old sod cycling past their "Sowetto Land Rover" It's ten mins. to curf.

Deon opens up with his assault shotgun and turns the happless local into a red spray.

"Ach man!" sez Eugene " why the bloody **** did you mist the poor kaffir? I tell you man it's ten mins to go!"

Deon:

"Hey man, I've seen where he lives - it's a good fifteen minutes."

Well after that (my Uncle incidently) it was nice meeting you all

[The Chap]

I've just been back through this thread and noticed that some of you poor bastards have had the same bloody experience as my aquaintence/witness.

[Ray]

When the currant King of Jordan was in the UK learning to march up and down he made a terrible error (this is true - even though I'm civy).

After a few wets the silly sod walked diagonally accross the parade ground.

Who should - sods law - observe this but the RSM.

"Get your fukin' wog **** off my square!"

An officer next to the RSM whispered to him that this miscreant was infact etc.

Flustered, embarrassed, the RSM barks:

"Get your fukin' wog **** off my square, YOUR MAJESTY!"

LOL.

Its too much!

I wouldn't be surprised if it really happened!

[glyn]

LOL.

Its too much!

I wouldn't be surprised if it really happened!

Ray, trust me, it didn't. A chum of mine went through Sandhust on the same intake as King Hussein. The Academy Sergeant Major was introduced to the intake before the course started. When talking ( if a high powered scream is classed as talking ) to the king, the ASM would call him 'Mister King, Sir'! One classic was arms drill when the slight figure of Hussein was having difficulty with his .303" rifle caused the ASM to bellow "Are you sloping arms or cuddling that bloody rifle, Mr King, Sir"?

[Bill]

A minor story i may or may not have told here previously.

I remember one time when my platoon was manning a defensive position during a field problem at Sill in some brushland overlooking your typical flat OK plain country. Typical hot mid Oklahoma summer day, and im chillin' in my fighting position, feeling satisfied i've got the guys in my squad in good positions with overlapping fields of fire, range markers set at 100 meter intervals all the way out to 500 meters.

So as i'm admiring my tactical handiwork, i hear a ruckus off in the bushes to my left. I no sooner turn to face the noise, than a aardvark comes hauling ass out of the bush with not one, but TWO young privates from 2nd squad chasing it with their m-16s raised high over their heads, and with bayonets fixed, crazed looks upon their faces.

"PRIVATES, GET BACK IN YOUR FUKKIN' HOLES, AND STOP MESSING WITH THE WILDLIFE!"

God-damned rednecks...LOL.

We used to also have this guy from the backwoods of Pennsylvania that used to always patrol the hallways of the barracks on weekend nights to steal the semi-eaten crust out of peoples pizza boxes left outside their rooms. Snyder was his name, i think. Nasty fellow that one, didn't much like showering either.

Rednecks...LOL

[sappersgt]

A minor story i may or may not have told here previously.

I remember one time when my platoon was manning a defensive position during a field problem at Sill in some brushland overlooking your typical flat OK plain country. Typical hot mid Oklahoma summer day, and im chillin' in my fighting position, feeling satisfied i've got the guys in my squad in good positions with overlapping fields of fire, range markers set at 100 meter intervals all the way out to 500 meters.

So as i'm admiring my tactical handiwork, i hear a ruckus off in the bushes to my left. I no sooner turn to face the noise, than a aardvark comes hauling ass out of the bush with not one, but TWO young privates from 2nd squad chasing it with their m-16s raised high over their heads, and with bayonets fixed, crazed looks upon their faces.

"PRIVATES, GET BACK IN YOUR FUKKIN' HOLES, AND STOP MESSING WITH THE WILDLIFE!"

God-damned rednecks...LOL.

We used to also have this guy from the backwoods of Pennsylvania that used to always patrol the hallways of the barracks on weekend nights to steal the semi-eaten crust out of peoples pizza boxes left outside their rooms. Snyder was his name, i think. Nasty fellow that one, didn't much like showering either.

Rednecks...LOL

LOL. Aardvark? I didn't think they came that far north. Being a natural born Okie I have seen a truly amazing variety of wildlife in the area. Things that you would normally think of as "tropical" from Central America live there. I've even seen coatimundi (South Americas answer to the raccoon) in Texas.

Maybe you meant Armadillo, which has got to be absolutely the strangest looking critter I've ever seen, even in Africa! Armadillos love the southwest and in particular Oklahoma. They tell me they're good eatin' if a little greasy.

On the other hand there IS this guy who works at the Starbucks near me who really DOES kinda look like an aardvark. He has his head shaved bald except for three inch wide strip in the middle which is held up by a generous application of something I'm not sure of. For all his appearance he is a personable gentlemen and capable of intelligent if short conversations.

[Bill]

Yup, an armadillo it was.

[zraver]

Middle of the summer of 91 at the yakima training center converting form M-60A3 TTS to M1-IP rolling up to table 6. The tank ahead of us had the commanders machine gun barrel dismounted and stored in the turret. Thier gunner went to rotate the turret to warm up the hydraulics. The barrel fell over and slid outwar from the turret bottom acting as a pry bar ripping out several cables and boxes resulting in the tank needing a depot level repair (The turret had to be pulled)

Was at Ft lewis Washington and was assinged to a detail running the gas chamber. That is an incredibly fun job with lots of room for hijinks. First of all you get used to CS gas really quickly so you can demask in a cloud of the stuff and be fine and then when you have your visitors demask they al start gagging.

Story #1, An infantry company had gone through and the officers wher eht eonly ones left. I was sent to fetch them as they sit around grab assing. Not being noticed right away and having a devious mind i jsut stood there radiating fumes from my MOPP suit. As expected the wind shifted and suddenly I was the center of attnetion as they all started gagging and choking.

Story #2 Being at Ft lewis meant I could go home to mom on the weekends. I took my MOPP suit with me. My offere dot do laundry and asked what temprature setting. "use Hot Water mom" I called out. Half an hour later the washer buzzed and my mom went to put it in the dryer. Upon opening the lid all that CS gas that had reactivated due to the heat was released gassing my mom. She promptly went to sneezing, crying and cussing me out, I started laughing (devious mind thing again). The ruckus drew my brother and his best freind out of his room and they ran into the noxious cloud. They imediately sought escape and came down the stairs the wrong way in a mixed up jumble of flailing legs, arms, and snot rockets.

They took the whole thing in good humor, I thought it was a riot, my mom on the otherhand was not amused. She has never done a load of my laundry since.

[Rifleman]

Talk about stories, we had a feller named Kelly in my unit that never stopped talking.

We took off from Aviano Air Base in northern Italy once, enroute to Grafenwhor, Germany as the advanced party for a battalion deployment. As usual Kelly was talking up a storm, with a lot of hand gestures thrown in to emphasize his points.

I remember looking at my watch before turning the other way in the C-130 seat, leaving Kelly talking to anyone who would listen. The C-130 engines put me to sleep. Later, I woke up and glanced at my watch. An hour had passed. I turned back toward Kelly and the others just in time to see Kelly, with his arms spread wide in a gesture say "AND THEN!"

[Rifleman]

Once upon a time, there lived a female personnel whose nomenclature was Hood, Riding, Red, Little. She was a girl, little, happy. Her duty uniform consisted of the following named items:

1) Dress, red, cotton,shade 76, 1 each.
2) Cape, red, w/hood, 1 each

Her MOS was food handler.

One day Hood, Riding, Red, Little received a message from her Mother, Grand, old, who lived off post in a cottage, brick, red, capehart type, w/chimney, w/o TV, initial issue. The msg read as follows:

FM: Granny
TO: Hood

This is to advise you the morning report should read: DY to SK, confined to qtrs as of 0100 10 JUN. Went to sick call, confined for indefinite period. However, feeling somewhat better.

Love, relative type.
Mother, Grand, your.

Hood took the msg to the message center with the following 1st endorsement: basic communication complied with. ETA your station apprx 1600 hrs this day. Added unofficial: Please bake cookies, ginger type, w/nuts, w/o icing.

Hood then signed out in TAD log and departed homepoint hand-carrying the following items:

1) Basket, picnic, wicker type, w/o top.
2) Sandwich, salami, w/pickle and onion, w/o mustard.

While en route to TAD destination, pers concerned came to forest, thick, primeval. Suddenly out of the thicket, briar, emerged a Wolf, Bad, Big, brown, 1 each, who said, "Halt, who goes there and what are your last four?" Hood answered "4032, Hood, Riding, Red, Little, I am en route to TAD point and am looking for the house of my Mother, Grand."

"It is just down the road, 800 meters, turn left at building 2355," instructed the Wolf.

"How do you know where she lives?" replied Hood.

"I've pulled MMA duty in these parts," says Wolf, who then catches a bus to Granny's. Upon arrival Wolf, Bad, Big, swallows Granny in a single swallow. Wolf, Bad, Big then polices up the area, including butt cans, and jumps into the rack (initial issue type) and pulls on Granny's 146-92S.

(Hood enters) "Hello, Mother, Grand."

"The fool, little, stupid, does not know that it is really me, the Wolf, Bad, Big," chuckles the Wolf.

"What big EENT (ears, eyes, nose, and throat) you have," exclaims Hood, Riding, Red, Little.

"All the better to maintain maximum efficiency costs with zero defects," replies the Wolf.

Then...enters the Chopper, Wood, Handsome, 1 each, kills Wolf with one blow, performs necessary surgical procedures to remove Mother, Grand, from the stomach of the Wolf, Bad, Big. With allowances for quarters and rations, they all live after, ever, happily.

Negative as to the Wolf.

[zraver]

hahahaha

[Bill]

I love it, Hawkeye, of the people, Mohican.

[Ray]

THE KNUCKLE DUSTER AND LONG KNIFE GENERAL

A new Major General, General Staff (MGGS) had been posted at our Command HQs. There was none of the ‘introduction’ rigmarole since he was the ‘get down to the job immediately’ type of man. No ‘tamasha’,(circus) no frills.

I was the Colonel General Staff (Training) and two rungs down the pecking order.

As in Staff, working involved just pushing files with notings. Interaction was rare; unless the English defied comprehension or something was earth shatteringly wrong!

Life went on as usual.

Three days past when the MGGS’ runner (peon) presented the MGGS’ ‘salaams’ to me. That was the British Raj meaning that the MGGS wanted you to present yourself to him pronto. Chop chop. The Indian way was ‘X sahib ne apko yaad kiya hai’.

Something must have gone wrong with a noting of mine.

I went to his office.

Protocol perfect, I entered and saluted.

“Sit down, bachhe”, said the MGGS.

It was another of the British Raj condescending hangovers. ‘Son’ replaced by ‘bacche’ Now, I am allergic to this ‘bacche’ business. It is a favourite with the M&S officers – the makki ka roti & sarson da saag(corn flour leaven bread and spinach; a Punjabi delicacy (sic!)) folks. But then with a name like Inder Varma, what else could the MGGS be, but an M&S. Old habits die hard. Imagine a middle aged fogey like me being a ‘bacche’ (kid).

This was the first time I set my eyes on the new MGGS.

I found him rather handsome (even though he must have been on the wrong side of 55). He was also suave unlike some of the guys around. That was his saving grace!

Opened in front of him was a file I had sent. So, something dreadful must have happened! I felt a wee bit discomfited. How did he get the hang of things in just two days to perceive an error; with just two days in a new job?! Could be. These Punjabis could sometimes be smart!

I waited for his opening lines. Deep furrows etched his forehead and then he spoke.

‘Bachhe’, you looked educated but then I don’t think you understand English’.

I was thunderstruck! I was educated in an English public school and here I being told I did not understand English! Yet, I was most uncomfortable - his accent did not waft of the smell or the grunt of a buffalo like the normal true blue Five River sher de putts (offsprings of Tigers as the Punjabis love to claim; though being the rustic types, they keep the company of buffaloes and men are known by the company they keep!)

I thought I should show some lingual empathy.

“Sari sirrr, some prablaams?” I said in my best Punjabi accent of ‘Sorry, Sir, some problems?’

“No problem as such. But the English! Atrocious! Here is the sentence (having run his delicate fingers over the sentences). It should be ‘is’ and not ‘are’” and he showed me the file. He was right. But hang dang it, this was not earth shaking! This man was nuts!

He was rather green behind the ears after all. Soon the files in vernacular English from elsewhere would pour in. Then, the poor man would have to be carried hotfoot to the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) of the Command Hospital! No kidding. I however, kept my counsel.

He asked me more questions. I answered him in the guttural thet (genuine village) Punjabi accent, the rendition of which I was quite proud; as proud as South Indians and Bengalis attempting speaking Hindi.

“I say”, the General, said, “You don’t look a Punjabi, so how come you have this accent?” The way said it and the way he looked at me, it appeared, as I was some rat!

“No sirrrrr, since I thaught that you are Punjabi, I thaaught it be good to talk in Punjabi English so that you understood!” I said.

The General was livid. He was spluttering; spittle leaked in frothy anger from the side of his mouth. Almost like Kishore Kumar (a super film comedian) in Padosan (a Hindi comedy film). He was wild. He would have hit me, but the Army Act saved me.

“You stupid idiot. @#$%^&*. I studied in a premier English school in Calcutta and you have the audacity to tell me that!”

Calcutta? Premier? Well nothing could be more ‘premier’ to my school in Calcutta. Therefore, this was utter ********.

Since my school was being degraded, it was my turn to be livid; but you don’t get livid with Generals generally. Therefore, disguised sarcasm was in order.

Flashing a most charming smile with innocence writ all over my demeanour, I asked softly, “That is news (sic!), Sarr. If you permit the liberty of asking, which school?”

He named a school. I concede his school was the first English school in the country but for snob value, it as my school. Because his school was located at Kidderpore, which was near to the docks and mafia, we never gave them that aura!

Internally, I burst out laughing hysterically. Premier! Hah!

Before the General could say anything more, I rushed towards his side of his huge table and frantically started opening the drawers of his table and banging them shut!

Since this type of an action by a junior officer is unthinkable, the General was speechless and thoroughly confused.

Recovering his composure, he yelled, “Hey, what the hell do you think you are doing?”

Rushing back to the right side of the table, I said, “I was just checking for knuckle dusters, butcher’s knives and the like, Sarr”.

“Whatever for, you dumb idiot?”

“Sir, I am from X School in Calcutta and we don’t think that your school produces anything better than hoodlums possessing such weapon of the profession!”

You have to give it to the old timers who passed out from English public schools. Mention their school and they all turn into schoolboys ready to fight without realising that they are grown up men. Thus, he forgot that what I did warranted disciplinary action, and instead he started fighting like a little schoolboy!

“What ********”. Without realising, he hurled a filthy Bengali expletive at me, true to his school’s reputation.

“Your school?” he spluttered. “You are all girls. We are he men! Got that? You sissy”.

“Indeed, sir?” This time I spoke with clipped BBC accent. “Yes sir. We play Rugby and you play soccer. Indeed, girls do play Rugby that is supposed to be more dangerous”

That got him!

He spluttered some more and shrieked some more Bengali, English and Punjabi abuses and told me to get out immediately.

This I did.

The General was a gentleman (in spite of being from the school he mentioned). He never held it against me.

In fact, we became good friends (if I can claim) and lived happily thereafter.

[Ray]

THE CADET AND THE POSTERIOR

The English language has always been a problem with Indians.

Indians think they know the language, but then in actuality because of over confidence and a meagre grasp of the language, it lands them in a lot of hot water.

There could be no better example than what happened when I was a Battalion Commander in 1991 in the National Defence Academy {NDA} , Kharakvasla. [NDA is where cadets of the three service train for the first three years].

Though the appointment ‘Battalion Commander’ appears impressive, it is actually a sinecure.

There was hardly much official work that could have kept me busy. The actual interactive level with the cadets was at the Divisional Officer level. The Divisional Officers were youngsters of the rank of Captain of the Indian Army and its equivalent of the other Services. Between the Divisional Officer and the Battalion Commander was the Squadron Commander, an officer of the rank of Major and its equivalents, who looked after the Squadron. Under his command were three Divisional Officers.

I was the No 2 Battalion Commander.

This story is about an ‘infamous’ squadron called Hunter Squadron. The name ‘Hunter’ has no connection with the underlining theme of the story. In actuality, it was ‘H’ Squadron. For radiotelephony clarity over the atmospheric static, internationally, all alphabets have a phonetic identity for clarity. In radio telephony, ‘H’ was ‘Hunter’. Whether they were hunter or hunted or not, only the NDA chaps can tell. I emphasise this because it is a story about a cadet’s ‘wonderful posterior’.

That being the background, lets get on with the story of the Cadet and the Posterior.

There was this cadet who otherwise was an excellent lad. However, like all humans he had made a mistake. The mistake was not serious, but then the Army can make the smallest of mistakes look awfully serious, depending on how the next person up the channel views it. Very subjective, but then that is how, unfortunately, the army runs. That is why civilians, the world over, feel that the Army is peopled by Colonel Blimps and chaps recruited from lunatic asylums!

The Deputy Commandant of the NDA was Major General RKM. He was very officious, though a good-hearted man. The good General had a booming voice. That made his demeanour even more self-important. He was a stickler for rules and demanded absolute discipline.

Now, this cadet has committed the cardinal sin of ‘skipping’ off to Pune without ‘liberty’ [naval term denoting sanction to go to town]. It was a military sin no doubt, but it did not warrant being ‘marched up’ to the Deputy Commandant. Marching Up to the Deputy meant a minimum of 14 days restrictions. This involved reporting behind the Sudan Block in FSMO [a heavy and cumbersome rig] at prescribed times, the last being at 2200 hours with an hour of afternoon punishment on the Drill Square. It also meant ruining of one’s record and consequently a poor order of merit during passing out or even relegation! Relegation meant losing six months.

To my mind, the cardinal sin was not the ‘skipping’, but being caught by the Deputy himself and, more importantly, trying to gyp the Deputy. The Deputy was from the Rajputana Rifles Regiment, but originally was an Artilleryman; the latter call themselves as ‘Gunners’ with much brouhaha and unconcealed glee and pride. The Gunners, also had this motto, ‘Once a Gunner, Always a Gunner’. Absurd, but anything can be expected of Gunners. Thus, in spite of being an Infantryman, he actually was a dyed in wool Artilleryman. One may wonder what’s so great about it. Well, actually Gunners, since they fire artillery shells in the indirect mode and at long ranges with the help of mathematical tables [they cannot see the infantry they are supporting] have to be very precision oriented and thereby they are very hide bound because accidents meant lives lost and a court martial. Thus, the Deputy was a strict bloke and to him rules were rules. Interpretation of such rules could cost lives, lives like that of this poor cadet in question!!!

Before a cadet is ‘marched up’ to the Deputy, it was incumbent on the Battalion Commander to check the Cadet’s dossier.

I called for the dossier from ‘H’ Squadron. The dossier came. I read it carefully. I was astounded!

The cadet had an impeccable record, but the dossier had one entry endorsed as ‘the cadet has an excellent posterior’. Posterior? Now, that was real odd, Hunter Squadron or otherwise. In the US Army the rule was ‘ask not, tell not’. In the Indian Army such things do not exist because we are straight-laced and yet the Divisional Officer was being a trifle explicit. I believe in democracy, but this was taking things too far.

I called for the Squadron Commander. He was a chap from the Deccan Horse called Major W, son of a Major General; not that it is a sin to be a son of a Major General.

Major W came in with the complete swagger and shake that only an Armoured Corps chap [tank chaps] alone can do. I was duly impressed. However, I was on ‘pigs back’ since the North Indians and Americans from the Stateside, in spite of all the supercilious superiority, aren’t too hot in English. I knew while Major W was quite good at spoken English, the written word in this foreign language – English, was not his forte or cup of tea.

“Major W, Cadet X is to be marched up to the Deputy. I have gone through his dossier. How is it written that the boy has a ‘good posterior’?”

“He is an excellent chap, sir. He is a Squadron Cadet Captain [top gun] material. Indeed, sir, I can personally vouch that he does have a wonderful posterior”, Major W confidently answered, giving his left leg a swerve in a 45 degree angle and plonking it on the carpet as would a horse suffering from a bout of serious colic.

I wasn’t impressed. He could not browbeat me, even if he were an Armoured Corps chap or a superiority assuming Punjabi. He was possibly under the fond delusion that we, Bengalis, were docile, non-martial and were perpetually petrified of Sardarjis, as we maybe of ferocious animals in the Alipore Zoo . He didn’t know that I was the Royal Bengal Tiger.

“Do you know the meaning of ‘posterior’, Major W?” I asked him still rather incredulous.

“Of course, sir. Anyone who has learnt English would know”, Major W answered most patronisingly. His confidence startled me, Bengal Tiger or no Bengal Tiger that I thought I was.

This was indeed becoming a queer situation.

“I find that the Divisional Officer has endorsed this remark. Please call for him”, said I since I wanted to get to the bottom. I couldn’t let this type of a queer situation get queerer any further.

The Divisional Officer was a naval chap. They wear half pants. I find this exceeding obscene, especially if they have legs that are more hairy than a Grizzly bear. In winters, one can put on a blanket at night, but you surely cannot carry a blanket in the office on your legs, even if it is only human hair and God given. This naval chap was hairy and funnily, the hair was like the quills on the back of a porcupine. With lot of difficulty, I tore myself from the pastime of imagining what animal his hair on the legs resembled

The naval bloke gave me that naval salute where the hand flips towards Mother Earth in homage! They take pagan rituals too seriously about worshipping Nature.

“Ah ha, old chap,” I said cheerily. After all, if his inclination was what he had endorsed on the dossier was anything to go by, it was better to keep this guy on the correct side – up front and across the table.

“This dossier you have endorsed on Cadet X states that he has a good posterior”, I said with a condescending smirk as if to say ‘Gotcha’ in an official way.

“Yes sir, he has an excellent posterior. I assure you, sir, about the authenticity”, said this naval Divisional Officer.

I was incredulous. This man appeared to be a queer!

“That’s wonderful. Pray, where have you seen this Cadet’s wonderful posterior?” I queried. To be truthful, I was quite intrigued by this time. Both the Squadron Commander and the Divisional Officer had seen it and here was I, the Battalion Commander, deprived of the privilege! The Deputy wouldn’t like this. It was poor command and control on my part, the Deputy would deem. Unforgivable indeed!

“I saw it on the Drill Square. Not once, but repeatedly”, said the naval bloke with his confidence soaring by the minute.

“Drill Square?” I asked, “Do you know the meaning of ‘posterior’? If what you are saying about having seen his posterior repeatedly, may I request you not to indicate your inclination so openly and in writing? Can’t have personal experiences in the official realm, can we? ” I thundered as if I were Thor, the God of Lightning and Thunder himself.

This whole incident by then had got my goat. I had to put a stop to all this nonsense. I opened the dictionary to the word ‘posterior’ and showed them.

Both went red in the face and were immensely embarrassed. Inter alia, the dictionary indicated that it meant ‘buttocks’; not to be mistaken for the ‘buttocks’ that Baldev Singh, India’s first Defence Minister had seen in London. (Buttocks means ducks in Hindi).

“Sorry, sir, what I meant was ‘posture’. In Drill that is an important factor” said the naval Divisional Officer defensively.

“That I know. No matter how wonderful a posterior the Cadet might have, and no matter how many times you have seen the same on the drill square and no matter what your inclination might me, please follow the US way – Ask not, tell not…and further, write not. Just be Bapu ke bandars ” (Bapu ke bandar = three monkeys who see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil).

That stern caution ended the sordid mystery of the Cadet and his excellent posterior.

The Cadet was marched up to the Deputy. I was able to save him from the worst when he was marched up to the Deputy. Yes sir, the Cadet was saved. His posterior was saved!

I wonder if the Deputy, too, had second thoughts because the cadet had a wonderful posterior! Once a Gunner, always a Gunner, as the Artillery saying goes!