Since the sad demise of the shovel recce on a lot of UK training areas a far greater peril now faces the troops than simply falling back into it or accidently dropping one into the gusset. The Thunderbox! This innocuous blue and white box should have made our lives far easier, a handy place to rest and release the hounds, a free source of arse tinder, possibly a shaving mirror just waiting to be wrenched off the wall. Some even boast a novelty handbrake/conveyor belt combo! Alas it was not to be, the beauty of the shovel recce was the freedom, you could go wherever you wanted, within reason. The Thunderbox should have been a place of solitude, but itâs not they are always located in places where troops congregate, it reduces your spatial awareness to an area 9 feet square, with no other indication of danger than the sound of creeping footsteps and stifled giggles. These simple blue and white boxes bring out the cunt in people. These boxes have strict instructions inside relating to how many people they can service during a normal working week, I really donât know why they bother. On one 3 week exercise we had two of these things for eighty people. After about 8 days and not one visit to our desolate Scottish waste by the honey sucker, these boxes weren't looking pretty. It was now the norm to halt at said box, remove webbing, shake the box to flatten Poo Mountain before tentatively creeping inside. The sound of the lock closing invokes hyena like pricking of ears, the hurried grabbing of rolls of harry black, the clink of ratchet straps, somewhere in the distance the sound of a forklift starting. The nervous incumbent carefully lowers their strides and attempts to do the business whilst only touching the bare minimum of shite encrusted surfaces and to get the fuck out of there sharpish. Itâs too late though, as soon as theyâve had enough time to lower their guard, the trap is sprung. The door is swiftly barred from the outside. The Turdis, prisoner, now fully at the will of their captors. There is only panic inside, shouted threats, pained pleas, cried begs all going unanswered bar the evil laughs. The punishments are varied, they range from the feeble âTurdis shakeâ to the awe inspiring âpushed over door downâ which is only dished out by the jackest of ambushers. For pure fear inducement may I recommend driving a rover up to the door and revving the bollocks off it whilst gently nudging the door. Various counter measures can be employed, one unit I had a part in bullying took to sending another soldier to stag on outside and prevent interference, these can usually be disposed of with a couple of lads and a roll of maskers. Please bear in mind that this will in almost all cases result in the lack of surprise. My personal advice in surviving The Thunderbox; check arcs before commencing the movement, have a good serrated blade to hand (for tape and straps) and fight like fuck the minute the balloon goes up, if that involves battling your way out with trews round ankles, so be it. Ladies and Gents your Thunderbox stories please.