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As the first week ended, I began to learn how to march in a group with the rest of the class. I said 'Sir' a lot, got the top of my head knuckled a lot, saluted an enormous amount of people and I became quite proficient in doing that. My shoes and boots shone like mirrors, my gators were whiter than the heart of a virgin, my name was sewn into every item of clothing, creases in shirts and trousers could slice meat, my hair, though never long, was now cut in the pudding cut that would become only to familiar to me, I was shaving even though I didn't yet have a hair on my face (this may amaze those sailors with whom I served who only remember me for my full beards), my hatband was perfectly bowed even though I didn't bow it and all in all, things were going swimmingly, so to speak. I even began to understand how to make a bed and how to wash clothes without them forever coming back as unwashed.

The second week started with much the same. More marching, more saluting, more washing, ironing, mostly doing what we were ordered to do. Then I had to go to the dentist. I had only ever been to the dentist once in my life, in Mold, and I had gas and was incredibly ill afterwards. Mam said I didn't have to go again. But now the Navy said I did have to go. I went and discovered a very enlightened dentist. In the corner of his room of torture was a huge tape recorder and on the tapes, rock and roll. Chuck, Jerry, Elvis, Gary 'US' Bonds, the greats of our music, and it played all the time and took your mind off what he was actually doing in your mouth. In my case this was a good job, because when he looked in my mouth I swear he screamed. "What has been going on in that mouth?" he asked. I explained to him that because my Dad was killed in the war Mam had allowed me to go to bed every night with a sweety, right up until the day I joined up. These sweets, of course, had rotted my teeth. So began my almost daily visits to the dentist who tried to repair the damage. Today, when I visit any dentist, especially for the first time, they always comment on the number of fillings I have then they ask when I was in the forces, because those fillings I had in '59 are, mostly, still in my mouth.

There was a bizarre incident that involved the dentist. As part of our initial training it had been decided to hold a series of boxing matches involving all the boys of our recruitment, 25 recruitment actually, but instead of matching everyone up by height, they matched us up by weight, which meant little fat boys like me were put in the ring with what I considered to be giants. There were a series of elimination fights, and you have no idea how much I hated, and hate, boxing in all its forms, but I got through all my early fights by dint of the fact that all my opponents were more cowardly than me. They all fell flat on their backs the moment I landed the lightest of touches. I wish I had thought of it first. Bang, down they went as if they had been shot. So I found myself in the semi-final against a kid who was about six feet five inches tall, he may have been shorter, but it still meant that I spent a lot of time staring up his nose. Anyway, at the time of the fight I had a dentist appointment. Bloody Hell, but I was clever. No way I could fight and go to the dentist. I had just had the injection, I was getting used to the needle now after so many visits, my face was going nicely numb, when there was a knock on the door and a messenger entered to inform the dentist that I was required in the boxing ring. I knew, of course, that the dentist being a medical man that he wouldn't let me go. How wrong I was. He turned to me and blasted me for not telling him that I was expected in the ring, told me to get out of the chair and return when the match was over for my treatment. I tried to explain that my face was numb but only slobbered all over the place. Five minutes later I was in the corner with boxing gloves, shorts, shirt, plimsoles and socks on with my face becoming more numb by the second. Ding. The bell goes, I step out against this kid who is a giant and he hits me in the face. Never felt a thing! He hit me again, still never felt a thing! How good was this? He could hit me all he wanted and he would never hurt me. I was so elated that I swung at him. My fist missed him by at least six feet but he still crashed to the canvas as if I had connected with a piledriver to his chin. I stared down at the cowardly bastard and hated him with all my heart. I was in the final. As the final was later, I stayed and when it started I went down as if I had been hit by a piledriver, except in my case, I had. The kid I was fighting came out of his corner at about ninety miles per hour, throwing punches in an almost invisible whirl, one caught me at the side of my head and down I went. At least I had the sense to stay down for the whole ten count. After that it was back to the dentists. He congratulated me on reaching the final and let me listen to rock and roll while he drilled.