My army corporal, was a real piece of work. Five foot five of pure unadulterated fury. I initially thought he was sent from the fiery pits of hell, we all did. This guy’s vocabulary consisted primarily of insults, punctuated by the occasional order to run until our lungs felt like they were trying to escape through our nostrils. Push-ups? Millions. He treated us like we were his personal playthings, his little army of highly motivated, terrified recruits. He considered our backsides government property. The only person I feared more was my mom, especially when she said, “Now listen carefully, my boy.” That phrase could curdle milk at fifty meters.
  Anyway, back to Corporal “Napoleon Complex” (as we affectionately called him behind his back). He had a flair for the dramatic, especially when it came to my clumsiness. Long story short, I nearly shot him in his backside on the shooting range. My punishment? Publicly serenading my rifle with declarations of love. Picture this: me, beetroot red, muttering, “I love you, darling,” to a cold, unfeeling piece of steel while my platoon tried to stifle their laughter (and probably hide their own rifles). Let’s just say I developed a healthy respect for firearm safety after that.
  Despite his unique teaching methods, the corporal actually managed to whip us into shape. We became fit, disciplined, and surprisingly good at avoiding death (a skill that, I’m told, comes in handy in combat). We learned to anticipate his every barked command. He also had this… interesting way with words. During survival training (which mostly involved getting lost and eating questionable berries), I somehow managed to achieve peak disorientation. He stormed up to me, his nose practically touching mine, and yelled, “Van Wyk! You’re as confused as a chameleon in a Smarties box!” Now, that’s just funny. Even I had to chuckle. Which, of course, resulted in a four-hour mud marathon with full gear. Because, you know, comedy is pain.
Lesson learned?
  Probably something about respecting authority, or maybe just never challenging a five-foot-five guy with a Napoleon complex and a penchant for public humiliation. Or maybe it’s just that Smarties are delicious. I don’t know. You tell me.

A Chameleon in a Smarties Box © 2025 Marcus van Wyk

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