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Three Units

Three units are in the same camp on training, the Paras, the Royal Marines and Navy. At the end of the training day, all three units gather in the NAAFI. After eyeing each other with wary professionalism, the three RSM's tip some of their sprogs off chairs and sit down together for a beer. After trading shop-talk and discussing their various stints at Brecon, Sandhurst and Lympstone, they eventually relax and undo the top buttons of their shirts.

Three hours later, they're all rat-arsed. The Marine sits forward and slurs:
'Guys, I know, let's work out which of our units is the hardesht. PERKINS!'
A sprog on the other side of the room springs to his feet and wobbles over. 'SAH!'
'Perkins, be a good lad and double away to your block. Come back with full CEMO and two jerry cans of water. Then I want you to yomp up that hill and back in less than an hour'. The Marine RSM points out of the window at Snowdonia, which looms in the distance, rain-lashed and forbidding.
'SAH!' Perkins sprints away. The three RSMs watch through binoculars as the little green beret shoots up the mountain and back again. He wobbles past the guardhouse and collapses in the NAAFI entrance, shaking with fatigue.
'53 minutes, SAH!' he shouts, before passing out and being dragged to the medical block by his plastered oppos.

'Thatsh nothing,' says the Para RSM, struggling to focus on the other two, ' JONES!'
A tom springs to his feet and races over, then snaps to attention. 'SAH!'
'Jones, I want you to beat that cabbagehead. Get to your block, get full CEMO, two jerry cans of water, a GMPG, a LAW and three hundred rounds of link. Then do it in less than forty five.'
The tom sprints off, and again the RSMs watch as a little maroon beret zips up the mountain and back down again, before collapsing at the NAAFI bar.
'42 minutes, SAH!' he shouts, before shrugging his kit off, taking a sip of his pint and falling off his barstool. He too is dragged away to the medical block.

The Bosan of Navy smirks, and says 'Lads, that's fcuking nothing. My boys are the hardest in here, and I'll prove it.'
'We'd like to see you try!' say the other two in drunken unison.
'WILSON' screams the Bosan at the top of his lungs. A sprog on the other side of the room gets slowly to his feet, saunters across the room and comes to attention in front of the Bosan. 'Yes sir?' he says.
'Wilson, I want you to beat those two previous efforts, to prove how hard we are. To the top and back, full CEMO, three jerry cans of water, two GMPGs, two LAWs, five hundred rounds of link, and I want you to drag one of the log-run telegraph poles behind you.'
Wilson looks at the mountain, looks at the mounds of sweaty kit dumped by the previous two efforts, then looks at his Bosan.
'Fcuk off sir.' he says.
The Bosan of Navy turns back to the other two with a smug grin.
'Now THAT's fcuking hard'.

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