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So I marched into the third week with better teeth and more skill. I now knew how to do eyes right, easy really, you just turn your head to the right whilst still marching. Mind you, I had to have a few goes at it, which earned more abuse from the Petty Officer, but you know, I was beginning to pick a lot of this military stuff up. Marching, saluting, ironing, washing, eating with a knife and fork and keeping your mouth shut whilst you did it, something a lot of other Sailors couldn't do. The one thing I had done successfully yet was lay my kit out for inspection. I didn't get walked all over on the second occassion, I just every article kicked all over the mess. Not only me, though, a few others had it happen too. I thought the Petty Officer probably came from a very unhappy family, all this banging Sailors on top of their heads and kicking their kit all over. He was a bit of state, was the Petty Officer, needed some hugging, but I wasn't going to volunteer for that. Anyway, the day arrived for a meeting with the Physical Training Instructors, the P.T.I's, the only men who dressed only in white and were the only branch of the Navy who were allowed to march with straight fingers. I haven't mentioned that, of course, but when you march you have to keep your arms straight and your fingers curled with your thumb straight. I could do that. Now. After a bit of practice. But P.T.I's didn't have to learn how to do it, they could march straight fingered. We all crowded onto chairs, I was in the front row next to Fergy, and in front of us was a vision of white, four P.T.I's who had come to advise us as to our physical betterment. We listened patiently for a while, then it got interesting. The subject of swimming came up (we had had a visit to the main camp, a walk around so-to-speak, we were Trogs to all the other Sailors in the camp, after Troglodyte, a low form of human life - I would of course arise above this title, I would become a Sailor, the lowest form of sea-life!), and on this visit we had visited the swimming pool, 33 and one third yards long, three lengths to the hundred yards. It was a terrific swimming pool, one of the best I had ever seen, and I'd seen a few. Twelve feet deep at the deep end, with a five-metre fixed diving board and a one-metre springboard. Tiled throught, and with a huge balcony that could hold hundreds of people. On the far wall there was a board with every different stroke and distance and the best time ever recorded for each. Fergy said to me, "See any times you could beat, Taff?" I nodded, "Yeah, Fergy, a couple." He nodded sagely.

We were in the room with the P.T.I's when they asked the question. Had we seen the times on the board? We all nodded. Was there anyone in the room who could beat any of them? A kid on the opposite side of the room jumped up, arm in the air. "I can," he exclaimed. "I can beat a few of them." Fergy turned to me. I sat frozen in my seat. I'd only recently got over complete shyness and had never before leapt to my feet to proclaim my greatness (it wouldn't last). Fergy nudged me. Still I sat. In the end Fergy jumped to his feet. "You can beat some of the times on the board?" the P.T.I. asked. "Nae," Fergy stated. "But he can!", and he swung his hand around to point at me. All four P.T.I.'s jumped to their feet. "We have a contest, boys!" one of them shouted. "We have two great swimmers. We will gather this afternoon and discover who is the best amongst them." A cheer went up. Fergy grinned at me and dragged me to my feet. "You can swim, I presume?" a P.T.I. asked me. "Oh, yes, Sir, I can swim," I replied. The race was on.