We shuffled across the dirty wooden floor of the lecture hall, getting splinters and black feet and God knows what else, it didn’t seem very sanitary, then when our time came we climbed the five steps up to the stage to be inspected. It was quite theatrical. People whistled. Some of the lads turned round and waved or took a bow. Others were shy, blushing furiously, the flush going right down their necks and over their chests. This was particularly the case with the blonds and redheads.

My turn came, and I walked up trying to look confident. Nobody whistled. I stood before the nurse, who wasn’t bad looking, in a Jack Lemmon kind of way, at least from what I could see, because he never looked above belly button level.

‘Name?’

‘Medway.’

‘First name?’

‘Michael.’

‘Number?’

I gave it.

‘Any trouble passing water?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Any rash discharge swelling or smell?’

‘No, sir.’

He took notes and ticked boxes.

‘Drop your drawers.’

I did so, just at the front. Some of the lads pulled them right down to their knees and showed their arses.

‘Pull your foreskin back.’

I did so.

‘Right. Good.’ Tick, scribble. ‘Now I’m just going to … Mmm-hmm. Ah-hah. Okay.’ He broke a little wooden spatula out of its paper wrapping – it looked like a lolly stick – and lifted my cock up, pushed it to the left, to the right, raised my balls. I stared up at the ceiling, and thought about Mum. Anything to avoid getting a stiffy. He threw the spatula in the bin.

‘Now I’m going to inspect you. This won’t hurt.’

His left hand – the one with which he was not writing – was sheathed in a rubber glove. He felt around my balls, around the tops of my thighs, his fingers gently poking and prodding. I thought of Granny. Finally, he picked up my cock between thumb and forefinger and squeezed the tip.

‘Good. All clear. No discharge.’ Finally he looked up at me, with the hint of a smile. ‘You can put it away now. Get dressed and report to the CO.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Next …’

I returned to the pile of clothes that I’d left on a bench near the door. I was buttoning up the itchy shirt when there was an outbreak of wolf whistles and catcalls from those still waiting in line. A pale, skinny figure, looking like something out of an Egon Schiele painting, had mounted the stage, thin arms crossed over his sunken chest, knees clamped together, toes delicately pointed out like a ballerina’s. His hair was cut short, of course, like everyone’s, but somehow he’d contrived to keep a lock or two at the front, and they fell over his forehead. His face was white, apart from two bright red spots on the cheeks. His shoulders were bony, and his ribs stuck out. There was not a single hair on his body. Oh, he’s going to have a rough ride, I thought, and felt relieved that there was an obvious one to draw any unwelcome attention away from me.