“If it moves, salute it!
If it doesn’t, paint it!
If it breaks… blame someone else!”
That voice—
it lived in our bones.
Day in, day out,
rain or shine,
square or field,
he was there—
bellowing like thunder
over a troop of lads
still trying to remember
who they were before this place.
On the square—
boots striking in rhythm,
backs straight, eyes front—
someone missed a beat.
“If it moves, salute it!”
he roared, pacing like a storm,
and suddenly everything moved—
arms snapping sharper,
heads turning quicker,
fear and pride tangled together.
Later, in the sheds—
paint thick in the air,
brushes dragging across metal
that hadn’t seen war
but would still be spotless.
“If it doesn’t, paint it!”
again and again—
until green covered everything
and we laughed quietly,
because even the things
that didn’t need painting
somehow got done twice.
Then came the field.
Mud swallowing boots,
rain cutting through kit,
rifles heavy in tired hands—
and something always went wrong.
A misfire.
A slip.
A bit of kit gone missing
where no one would admit it.
And there he was—
like he’d been waiting for it.
“If it breaks…
blame someone else!”
We bit back grins,
shared glances,
because somehow
even in the telling off,
there was a strange kind of truth—
a rough-edged humour
that kept us going.
At the time,
he was just noise,
pressure,
relentless expectation.
But now—
years behind me,
distance softening the edges—
I hear him differently.
Not just shouting…
but shaping.
Each line drilled into us,
not just as orders,
but as lessons in pace,
precision,
and keeping your head
when things didn’t go to plan.
We didn’t thank him.
Didn’t understand him.
Probably cursed him more than once.
But we remembered.
“If it moves, salute it.
If it doesn’t, paint it.
If it breaks… blame someone else.”
Funny thing is—
after all these years,
I still hear his voice
whenever something goes wrong…
…and I still smile.