(this is very long, wrote it through the night. I hope it's entertaining as it's still raining here. Our 'wet pet' had become the 'soggy moggy' and won't even go out at the moment.
So there I am with nothing to do with all the rain and crap, when I read RoSy's reply and 'get to thinking' about the tons of stuff I have here and how it keeps turning up. My Hornby-dublo came from the USA, but so did yet another of my old sets of webbing which still contained the gas mask, and all the decontamination powder, detection papers and other stuff with it. This would have been from the dark days of the nuclear threat. There was also a tube of brown cammo face paint which reminded me how I had always found it to be extra sticky and preferred the green and the black. I took the top off and found it to be full. No surprises there then! another pouch had an SA80 rifle cleaning kit in it, oops!, and also one for an SLR (An earlier Self Loading Rifle). well at least the combination tools might be useful!
There was also one collins machete (1940) and a WWII American pilots knife. Also returned was my fathers old army chest with Lt. B.L. Taylor still stencilled on the sides. With great anticipation, I open it and found it was full of spares for a 1960's Kenwood food mixer. Oh well.
But that was only the latest 're-supply' of old stuff. It was the summer before and I had contacted an old Swiss German friend through facebook. He put me back in touch with another great friend that I had lost touch with, and we arranged to meet in the west county, mainly because his parents had moved there and he would be visiting them and also and quite by chance, I was going to be staying at a holiday home under 20 miles away. So the day arrived and we meet at the local pub (don't you always) and had a great chat. He had got himself a visit to the palace and a 'something of the British Empire', and was looking very healthy and good. We went round to see his parents who were also old friends and we chatted away. Eventually, I was getting ready to leave when my friend said, "I have a load of your kit in my storage lockup, do you still want it?". I had no memory of leaving anything, but he was due back home the next day, but would collect the stuff first thing and leave it at the house.
Next morning, I arrived to find that my friend had already left, leaving a ton of stuff including (no surprise) a set of '90 webbing which was not one of my favourites, and was superceeded a few years later, a set of boots which did not seem to be mine (so they got left there) a '90 bayonet/knife holder I had forgotten about, another Bergan (Backpack/rucksack type thing 100 litre), and various other bits and pieces. They all made there way back with me and have joined all the other obsolete stuff in the barn.
The only thing I am missing is an 8 feet long arquebus/rampart rifle which I intended to leave in the regimental museum (Or armoury) and I vaguely remember walking through the streets of central London with the bloody great thing slung over my shoulder. I don't remember the look on the sentry's face, but as it was me, it was probably somewhere between puzzlement and resigned acceptance. I must get around to sending an email just to see if they still have it. I don't need it back though. It was a matchlock, which meant it had a 'trigger' which when pulled, lowered a burning bit of string and set the powder off. (the thing was about 1778 or there abouts)I had used it a few times as well. 120 grains of power, followed by a carrot of bit or potato. Took it up the firing range once. All the signallers gathered round and watched, except for the fall guy who had a pair of ear plugs in, as the thing was so long and heavy, the only way to really get an aim was to use a guy's shoulder to balance it on. It doesn't go 'bang'. It takes longer for the powder to light and is more reminiscent of a firework rocket just as it launches, a sort of spilt second 'whoosh'. Anyway, great fun had been had as it smacked a few Whitworth nuts straight through the target and wooden supports as well.
Oh, there was one worrying moment with it. I had filled it a my friend's (same one) house and taken it into the back garden to fire. We had used a carrot this time, but the bugger would not go off. Could not get the carrot and powder out either, so tried another charge which didn't work. In desperation, I rammed the loading rod through the carrot and tipped a 'little' more powder in and took it out the front door. It was getting late at night and was dark. I smoked back then, and the plan was simple, finish my cigarette and chuck it, lit end first down the barrel which would give me a fraction of a second to get my fingers clear. I took my last puff, chucked it in, and promptly felt a breeze as the front door clicked shut whilst the rifle went off like some bloody cannon. The muzzle flash must have been 5 feet long! The lights started coming on in the street and curtains twitched whilst I banged on the front door with an 'impolite' and urgent request for entry. Even the Irishman came out who lived opposite, which was a surprise as we had only blown his 4 foot high plastic windmill up the week before. Some of the gnomes had gone with it too in the ensuing melting of plastic followed by a satisfying fire. I had previously told my friend that this type of fuse and the 'other stuff' would do the job, and the pyrotechnics had performed past even our expectations.
Then there was the stealing of our RSM's (Regimental Sergeant Major's) birthday cake. I don't know what our particular squadron had done, but we found at the door that we were off the guest list. The laughter, merrymaking and music from inside sounded great and we were very pissed off! There were three of us, and we walked on a little when we spotted an open window. It was obviously the hall or mess kitchen and apart from tons of food and glasses, there was a gigantic square cake which had to be over two feet square still in it's box, but with the lid off which was sitting next to it. There were two signallers fussing about inside the mess kitchen, but at that moment, the music stopped and an internal door opened, a head popped through and must have announced a toast or something that everyone was required to attend. With the kitchen empty, Mike got through the window and into the kitchen, popped the lid on and swiftly handed it out the window. Just at that moment, Alex, one of our mess stewards happened to be passing and we thrust it into his hands and said, "Alex, take this and RUN!" he paused to ask why, and got the answer, "we've just stolen the RSM's birthday cake!". I just had time for a split second glance at the expression on his face which was priceless, before he selected his top gear and made what seemed like 'Eleventy four' MPH across the field towards the MT (Motor transport) area.
Within minutes many red berets were to be seen moving about quickly and I don't mean the maroon para type, but the bright red of the Royal Military Police. We were stopped and with a wave of a hand one of them asked if we had seen anybody running in 'that' direction. We truthfully replied, "No." as Alex had in fact run in the opposite direction, and due to this oversight had made the cover of countless trailers, where quite by luck, he met a couple of our corporals who were sympathetic about our exclusion from the ceremony. There was a huge search going on the next day, but the cake lay undetected, in the bottom of a trailer covered by tarpaulins and radio parts. The squadron kept it quiet but it was decided that we could all fall foul of some regulations if we ate the thing, but accidental damage was ok, so with a fast speed camera whirring to capture the shot, the base of the cake was tilted at one of the first floor sergeant's mess widows, until it slipped off and underwent a marriage with gravity until rudely arrested by the tarmac of the parade ground below. The camera had captured 4 good shots that were stuck up in on the mess wall. Once again, our squadron was on the receiving end of endless extra duties, but we never minded too much as we were also the best. It was a balance thing. To get away with some of the terrible practical jokes we did, we also had to be the best, from shooting to drill, exercises, cross country trials, inter-regimental competitions, the lot. And we WERE the best, we lived hard and we played hard. Nobody could touch us.
Oh goodness, Pickett! Not the gate, but a good friend from another squadron. We had just been paid, and for some R&R (Rest and recuperation) we had actually been taken down the pub in a coach, YAY!
Pickett and I got ourselves sat next to the bar and getting in first, I ordered two whiskeys. I liked whiskey and fully intended to savour it, but Pickett swallowed his, looked at me and said, "Down in one then!" Still wishing that I could have actually tasted it, I downed the glassful. Picket ordered refills and off we went again. And again and again. One of the corporals had been counting, and everybody gathered around as the count went past twelve and into the 'teens. By now we had emptied one bottle and were well down the second. I was wishing like hell that this wasn't happening, but we were from different squadrons, and there was no way that I was giving in first. Of course, Pickett felt exactly the same, and as the others watched with anticipation whilst all counting out loud, I remember hearing "sixteen!" "Seventeen!" was the last I remember, but the time was up and we had to re-board the coach. I sat at the back with Pickett. He had 'Pizza'd' the floor even before we had got back to the barracks.
News had gone round fast and our sergeant turned up, and took charge. all the bedclothes and matress were ripped off our beds, and we were laid face down on the springs. The reason soon became apparent as poor Pickett chucked up a pizza for six, complete with what looked worryingly like blood. I also chucked up, but it was only a 12 inch thin-crust, and I thought I had got off lightly, until orders came in for corporal 'Steve' (who I really did not like), to take Pickett to a waiting ambulance. They pumped his stomach out! I was feeling quite out of it, but was still in enough control to complain when 'Steve' decided that I should go to the ambulance as well. I didn't want to go but he escorted me until we were very close, but he hated hospitals, so shoving me in the direction of the very pretty coloured light show, he then ran off in the other direction.
Well one thing you don't want to do in the army is disobey an order or lie, and I was no good at it anyway, but I didn't want my stomach pumped. I went up to the ambulance as I had been ordered and said, "My corporal said you might want to see me, That is my friend and I was with him earlier." I guess I looked a little tipsy, but fright had sobered me up somewhat. One of the guys looked at me and seemed a little confused before saying, "No it's ok, we don't need you." I asked if I could go and they said yes. GREAT! I had complied with my orders and got out of it as well. I got back to my bunk, was interviewed my my sergeant who didn't seem too pleased and my defence that I had continued drinking for my squadron's honour didn't seem to have the hero effect that I had expected. Worse, my head had started to rotate again, as I was made to clear up under both our beds. UUUGH!
The next morning I felt rather fine, but poor Pickett was still somewhat disorientated. We squared it with each other and had a quiet laugh, but I had to help him get all his kit, webbing and other items together and stuff it on him as we were shipping out that morning. (This is why we had the celebration the night before.) Good old Pickett. Mind you, I stuck to sensible drinking after that. Lesson learnt!
Then there was Cultybraggan. It was a prisoner of war camp in WWII for Germans. It seemed just as welcoming when we turned up there for exercise "Scottish something" It consisted mostly of nissun huts, which looks like the centre of a toilet roll cut in half and put on the floor to make two shelters. we would spend a few days at Loch Lubnaig as well, setting up for the inter-something "lets all run lots of miles wearing heavy stuff" competition. the first day we arrived was glorious. Sunny, there was a beach, where we put a couple of small boats, and having setup some yargies (Tv looking aerials on masts) and got the communications going, we were treated to a bar-be-que on the beach. It was just perfect. The next day I was given surveillance duty, and having found a large bush on the main track, squeezed myself in. Our Captain came past with a Lt. who had managed to get bad feet, and was being helped slowly up and down the track to get them working again (or whatever the hell they were doing). I kept my cover and let them pass me twice. I had to extra careful as I wanted a fag by now, but a smoking bush isn't usually considered as very good cover. Having 'sucked one in' and stamped on the end, I saw them coming towards me for the third time, but it was getting dark, so I screamed out a challenge, probably "Halt, who goes there?". The Capitan answered and came over to see where I was. He really couldn't see me, what with the failing light and all the bush, ferns and grass pushed into my webbing and stuff and I even had to move around before he did. He asked how long I had been there and I explained that I had watched him pass twice already. He asked why I had waited until now to challenge them and I explained that on the first two passes, I could see perfectly well who they were, but by the third pass, the light was failing and although I assumed it was them, I could not verify it and so gave out the challenge. He seemed satisfied with that. Later in the four man tent, I was just hiding inside my sleeping bag, trying to have a cigarette, (There was a no light rule in operation) and really not doing very well (choking) when we heard somebody come in. It was my sergeant who had been summoned by the Captain and then sent to tell me that he was very impressed with my performance. My Sergeant seemed very pleased too. I did manage to get some sleep after that, but it can be hard when the sleeping bag is not that big, you are dressed with your bloody rifle in there with you too. Not nice to roll over on!
Day three was an absolute bastard, and one which I remember so clearly. Ok, so it started well, bit of a run, install some single side band radio and cut the ariel to length, etc. But then we needed to start erecting the tents for the cross country running with kit and whatever competition boys who were due in that evening. Then it started to rain. I put my waterproofs on which rustle and have joins in the seams where the water gets in anyway. we spent all afternoon erecting tents in a real tropical type monsoon which didn't let up for a moment. I had transferred my cigarettes and lighter into my mess tin but didn't dare get one out as my fingers and rest of my body were soaked through. The next morning, I went down to the loch, only to find that the beach had disappeared underwater. the boats were still tied up at the tree line, but everything else was just water. The small and pretty brook had turned literally into a thundering torrent, and the radio reported that we had been through the worst rain since records had begun. I think the loch had gone up about 16 feet. Luckily the sun came out, and the enemy could have had a field day, as the best way to spot us, was the clouds of steam and vapour rising up though the trees from our uniforms as they dried on our bodies.
We visited Loch Earn and there is a shooting range somewhere around there. Quite often, you have a public footpath quite close, or the public can wander onto the ranges, so you send lookouts with radios for safety. well it had been a dry but bitter day, and we finally packed up, got into the MOD minivans and headed back to Cultybraggan. We all dismounted and after a minute or two a shout went round, "Where is Hillsden?". Well, Hillsden had been one of the lookouts up the mountain. "Who had radioed him in?"... Oh shit! somebody shot back there and managed to get him on the radio, still up the hill in his position, still in the bitter cold, heading for hypothermia, christ, whoever was in charge got hell to pay for that one. Hillsden was better by the next day, just a bit of a cold though.
Sergeants mess. Once a year, can't remember the occasion, there would be the table tradition. The sergeants mess had a huge antique Gillow or other famous makers table in it. You turned a handle and it got longer and longer, and you would just keep adding extra leaves until you had the length you required. On this day, having all got rather plastered, you would all get on the table and onto each other's shoulders etc. until you could reach the extremely high ceiling, whereby the event was marked by putting the year there with a felt pen. On this occasion, they must have left the table extended too far, as there was a bit of a 'crack' noise. They completed the tradition ok, but I think the table needed some repair after that night. Such are some of the traditions of a regiment.
Officer's mess. Once in a rare while there would be some bloody important do in the officer's mess. The first time it happened to me, we all got reminded of protocol and things like that. One of the rules is that nobody is allowed to leave the table before the commanding officer (or officer in charge) leaves. This didn't seem a problem. It was a long meal and superb. Probably the only time I got to try caviar, which I must admit I didn't like. The taste reminded me of a girl who 'wouldn't' unless the lights were out, but apart from that, it was fabulous. the wine kept coming, and that is where the problem started. I can't remember who was next to me, Cole, possibly, but I remember asking quietly, "I need a piss, what do I do?" He replied, "Well hold it. you cannot leave the table." BUGGER! so, for the next ten minutes or so, I did just that until it became unbearable. In distress I said again, "I'm going to piss myself" Quickly, another Sig who had heard, grabbed a wine bottle, emptied it into his glass and passed it to me. I looked at it, and then at him and said, "Oh no. I can't do that here?" Well, there was a low hanging table cloth, my mates around me to divert attention, and me with a pain that left no option... Having now produced the now magically half full bottle again, I waved the waiter over.
As the officers had sponsored the do instead of the army, they were using outside caterers who didn't understand the delicacies of mess meals. I signalled one over and handed him the bottle saying, "Please take this to the kitchen and tip it down the sink." he could see it was half full and gave me a funny look. I tried again, 'It's not good, you understand, don't give it to anybody, just take it straight to the kitchen and tip it away." he took a sniff and suddenly seemed to understand as a look of disbelief crossed his face. I didn't really care as I was feeling on top of the world again. That is, until he was passing the officers table and one of them signalled him over. With a look of panic the waiter managed to signal that he would be a moment and shot into the kitchen. As the officer had lifted his finger, I had nearly shat myself!, Mind you, afterwards the others said it would have been funny if he had wanted more wine.
The javelin. Well, it was actually an earth spike. About 4 feet long, it came with generator trailers and you would hammer it into the ground to get a good electrical earth. We had park in the area that had once been part of the camps railway system. I guess they had taken the rails up but left the wooden sleepers and covered them over, at least that would explain what happened. We were packing up the trailer but were having great problems in getting the earth spike to shift out of the ground. After a while out tech sergeant and another great Scottish guy came over to see why we were taking so long. we all levered it, heaved on it, everything e could think of, but although it moved around a little it would just not come up. In the end, the Scottish corporal decided to tie a rope between the land rover tow bar and the pole to pull it out. After a few seconds of tug of war, the spike lost and came out of the ground. The rope had been stretched and the recoil sent the spike through both skins of the back door and through the back of the empty passenger seat. We all stared in disbelief until the tech sergeant started shouting about something else. He had been waiting for his new computer to come from stores for about 6 months. He had only had it a week, and not wanting to get it damaged, he put it down while trying to get the pole out. Unfortunately, the land rover had just run over it and the whole thing was now banana shaped and it certainly was never going to work again.
The SAS. Well they decided that we should have some capture and interrogation training, and decided that the SAS would be the best to do it. Well, we soon put egg on their faces! They came into the barracks, rounded us all up, and kept us all prisoners in the drill hall overnight their plan was to get us onto army buses and take us to their barracks for interrogation. Whilst all waiting in the parade ground, two of our lot saw their chance, ran like absolute shit off a shovel, vaulted onto the bike shed, climbed up and jumped over the wall and kept running. The SAS guys tore after them but came back empty handed and looking rather annoyed and embarrassed. Of corse, our two were later given a right talking to for missing a training opportunity. Nothing was mentioned officially about what the SAS had said, but two of our lot had escaped from them and we were very chuffed about that! Once again, it proved that we were still the best in the regiment!
The gas chamber. One of those thing you train for is how to survive gas attacks. also, there was the ever constant threat of nuclear war, but let's just stick to gas for now. I had a strange but useful very high tolerance to CS gas. one of the training methods to give you confidence in the equipment is to get you wearing the gas mask and send you into a room full of it. they make you change the filter cylinder which means breath in, hold whilst unscrewing old cartridge, try and get the new one to screw in straight and then when in, breath out hard. Another part of the training is experience of the gas, so after all that, you are all lined up and whoever has the next turn in line gets told to take this mask off and then gets asked a question. this is so you take a whiff of the gas and get to feel it's effects. having given and answer, you are then helped out another door to recover. It got to my turns and took my mask off as instructed. The instructor asked, "What is the name of my dog?" (one of those 'no answer' army type questions). I looked straight at him and said "rover" he replied "no' I tried barker, then something else I don't remember. After the forth answer, he just looked straight at me and with obvious annoyance said, "Oh get out!" which was excellent timing as by then, it had started to get me a little. Outside was a scene of misery. Soldiers throwing up or just looking very ill, laying down and rolling around. Me? I just lent up against a tree, took out a cigarette and lit up. one of the first guys who was recovering asked me how I could smoke after that. I just told him that it didn't seem to affect me much. He knew me well and just nodded.
Haircut. well sort of. It was another NBC (Nuclear Biological Chemical) training session, but I got sent out this time. It had been Cole's fault. I needed the hair trimming around my ears and so he offered and used the scissors in my swiss penknife. He had nearly finished when I felt a small pain in the top of my ear. The scissors were so sharp, he had slipped and cut straight through the top of my ear. It didn't seem to hurt much and he finished off but then he shouted that I was bleeding like hell. I guess we hadn't realised at first. We sorted it out between us and it stopped bleeding, and having had a bit of a laugh about it, we went onto other things. It wasn't until that afternoon, that it was going to become prominent again. The instructor shouted, "GAS! GAS! GAS!" and we grabbed our masks and pulled the straps over our heads. I must have caught the ear and opened it up again, but had felt nothing. After a few moments, the instructor shouted that there was blood running down my face and asked what had happened. Anyway I got sent off that lesson,and had a nice 35 minutes to myself! Thanks Cole!
We had another guy, and it seemed he was an aspiring artist, having been to art school. There was something that was always striking about him, vivid straw coloured hair and a two tone voice. By that I mean if you have ever heard anybody who's voice was breaking as a teenager, that is what he sounded like, only all the time. We actually admired this guy. He was abnormally fit and whilst we would come back and slump on our beds at the ends of the day, he would be filling his webbing with wet sand and going for a run. That was years ago. He is an officer now, and also an army artist and has done some great stuff too.
Two hats. were were away at Catterick Garrison, for training. I met many people there that i came to respect deeply. One was a Sgt. Sorley. He taught in two areas, fieldcraft and also drill. he was easygoing during the fieldcraft lessons. We never pissed about during these times, had a joke or two, but that was it. unlike school, we knew that this guy was instructing and also sharing his experiences which we payed attention to as we well knew that knowing this information could save our lives one day. But then there was the parade ground. Here, he wore his 'Other hat' as he later explained. He was the most strict, screaming sergeant you could have ever met. One of these sessions, along with the hat,, drill sergeants have what is called a swizzle stick. These are about 3-4 feet long, made of polished wood with a silver top and you can often see the guy at the head of any army march holding one. We were not doing well in his eyes and after about three attempts he lost it and really smacked the end of his swizzle stick on the ground. we watched as it snapped in two. We waited in sheer terror to see what would happen next. He obviously hadn't expected that to happen and he looked fit to explode. After a few second pause, he checked himself, picked up the two pieces and marched off. A minute or so later, (we didn't dare move and were still frozen there) one of the other sergeants, complete with their own swizzle stick came up and continued the drill. Understandably, We were very nervous about the next fieldcraft lesson, but after entering, the sergeant explained to us. We already knew really, but at least it cleared the air. He said that when we were in the classroom, he was just another soldier, training and explaining in a relaxed manner, but when he was taking drill, when he put his drill hat on, he became a different person. Oddly, we had already picked up on this, but his explaining it, along with his usual easy manner put us back at our ease. Later, on the last day of training he took us aside and told us how we had done. He and the other sergeants had been pleasantly surprised with our willingness to learn and long nights going over our notes. they had secretly upped the schedule and we had completed about three times the amount of training that had been specified. He and the other sergeants could see that we wanted to learn. As he said, "We weren't here to just do as little as possible and mess around like so many others before us."
He had been correct. As a tight knit squadron our own family as it was, striving to be the best in everything, we understood that knowledge and training helps towards a better survival rate when you get sent on a tour. Of course we had fun and were real jokers and often disliked by other squadrons in the regiment, but we also worked bloody hard to make sure that we could not be equalled in our professionalism, which negated much of the annoyance which we often caused to the others. Most (but not all of awards that the regiment had won, had been won by us. We were a pain in their side, but also the feather in their cap.





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