War Stories

If you’ve never woken up in a forest, cold and wet, with blood on your hands…you really haven’t lived.

Thankfully I managed to tick that particular item off my bucket list, in the autumn of ‘92 - long before bucket lists were even a “thing” come to think of it. 

I still take comfort that back then my first thought wasn’t… who have I killed this time?

I’ll get back to the above in a minute or two, but  by way of an explanation I read a recent blog post about red caps, (Military Police) of all things, so in lieu of another load of AWI progress pictures (coming along nicely, thanks for asking) I thought I’d regale you with a few old war stories from my time holding back the might of the Warsaw Pact as a member of the 5th (TA) Battalion - Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. 

The red and white hackle of the RRF

I wanted to join the army straight from school but daddy didn’t want his only son blown up in Northern Ireland so he forbade it. As things were to turn out for him and I later…that was probably a mistake on his part. Anywhoo, the best I could manage, (a decade, two young boys, and a wife later) was to nip down to Stoney Lane in Brum and sign up with the TA. 

I think it’s fair to say that my time with the regiment was not a sparkling success and the only thing I can claim as an achievement was to be jailed by the military police more times than anyone else in my company. Let me give you a few examples so you can have a chuckle at my expense.

On the combat infantryman course in Catterick (oops sorry I meant Strensall - thanks Elenderil) they ran us so ragged that I had trouble remembering my own name - though not it should be noted, my army number (24945892). As part of the “break them down then rebuild them as the Army would like them” system, there was never a free moment to catch your breath. On more than one occasion I was forced to shove pork chops with gravy into my camo jacket pocket at lunch because the time allowed to queue up for scran then get back out on parade was too short for actual eating to take place. The accumulated pocket lint proved to be a lovely little garnish when I could eventually retrieve my meal after lights out. It’s character building I’m told.

Despite the semi ritualised sleep deprivation, and the routine faux outrage from the Corporals as they tossed our “disgusting” barrack hut contents out of the hut door first thing, I was usually turned out pretty well on parade. While the other lads were smoking and drinking into the wee small hours I was applying floor polish to my toecaps and pressing the pre soaped creases of my DPM (disruptive pattern material) until those creases were so sharp you could shave with them. No tram lines for me mate.

The morning of our first big parade I was pretty confident that my turn out would pass muster and I watched as the officer and noncoms came down the line adjusting a cap here and twiddling a button there. Finally they got to me. They looked me up and down but could find no apparent fault. Determined that something had to be wrong the Corporal asked if I had remembered to put my field note pad and pencil in a plastic sandwich bag for protection against the elements. 

Yes Corporal. 

Ahh but was it in my right breast pocket as per daily orders? 

Yes Corporal. 

Disbelievingly he unbutton the pocket and fished it out. Yup correct pocket. Yup, in plastic sandwich bag. But what was this?! With the stage flourish of an amateur sleuth unmasking the mystery killer he held up my pencil for all to see. It was of course sharp and ready for use…but it was not sharp at both ends as stipulated in daily orders.  

Instantly puce (I’m convinced they can do it on command) and almost incoherent with confected rage he introduced me to a whole dictionary full of new swear words. As an eighteen year old I would have ignored his spittle on my cheek and stared into the middle distance, but as a twenty something bloke who saw the whole performance for what it really was I muttered “@#£! off” under my breath. Well, not under my breath enough as it turned out. Big mistake. Before I knew what was happening I was being doubled across the parade ground in the direction of the glasshouse, my progress punctuated by screams of “get those F*%&ing knees up…”

I cant speak for other regiments but in the RRF we called the Military Police “monkeys” and I can assure you that those lads at Strensall certainly fitted the bill. To be fair they were more like gorillas than monkeys, but I digress. With more confected outrage, screams of abuse and slamming of things off things I was introduced to the delights of punishment callisthenics. After six hours of crouching bunny hops and muscle tearing stress positions my tears were no longer of outrage but mostly self pity.

“Hay hay we’re the monkeys…cos people say we monkey around.” 50 MP’s turn up to arrest an old rapper (judging by the bling).

They let me go the next morning after my “Beasting” had finished. The other lads took the piss but they all said I’d been unlucky, that the training team always found someone to dick about a bit, as a warning to everyone else. 

Unlucky…yeah that was probably it. I’d try to be the grey man from there on in. The guy at the back who never achieves much but never attracts undue attention.

In the second week we were issued our SA80 assault rifles. Being constantly stripped and reassembled by a never ending stream of newbs, they were not in a great state of repair. Mine rattled when shook.

The British Army SA80. Crap then. Crap now. Note the change lever by the butt.

On the day of our first full NBC move and shoot, we ran around the firing ranges with our S10 respirators on and full noddy suits. The younger lads seemed okay but I was struggling to draw breath through the respirator and by the time we dropped to the ground at our pre designated firing positions my respirator was completely steamed up and my eyes were full of the anti chemical weapon Fullers Earth powder we’d been instructed to put in our masks. I couldn’t even see the ruddy target I was meant to be aiming at but that was the least of my troubles. 

This is what I should’ve looked like. This is NOT what I actually looked like at all.

I knew we were meant to be putting five individual rounds down range and having gone quickly through my drills I squeezed the trigger when I heard the command to watch and shoot. I didn’t realise it but the change lever on the butt of my SA80 was loose through wear caused by constant stripping and reassembly (later confirmed by the armorers) and in the process of me getting onto my belly it slipped from single shot to full auto. I hadn’t realised you could empty a full mag in 3 seconds, but it turns out you can. I couldn’t hear the nom coms screaming nor see their frantic waving to “end ex” but I felt myself rise from the ground like a toy balloon as two range officers lifted me up bodily by my webbing and Bergan. They were a little cross.

As it turned out I’d just committed the unforgivable sin of an ND (negligent discharge). The monkeys in the glasshouse were very pleased to see me again. Naturally there were tears, as much for the £150 fine as the beasting that followed. I had made the range bods look bad. Over the course of another 12 hours this matter was addressed in full. Before release I was made to write and perform a song of apology to the Staff Sergeant which had to include variations on “I am a total t&£t” in the chorus. Can’t remember the lyrics now (thanks to the counselling) lol, but I based it loosely on ELO’s Mr Blue Sky and I thought it was pretty good. I could’ve resurrected it and gone on X factor I reckon. Simon Cowell would’ve loved it.

Okay, I can see this post is getting a bit “leggy” so I’ll come back to my first paragraph and add a well deserved explanation to finish up.

While on exercise in the Brecon Beacons my company had been tasked with a 20k night march and a dawn assault on another bunch in prepared positions. Being on the Welsh border it rained none stop and I tore the arse out of my issue trousers climbing over a barbed wire fence in the dark. Rather than conducting the dawn assault in my underpants the Corporal gave me his rubberised DPM over trousers which were about three sizes too big. I held them up with some para cord. Man did I look stupid. Being on  exercise at night in the rain we naturally got lost, but bizarrely we somehow took some sort of short cut that saw us arrive several hours early near our assault start position.

The Brecon Beacons. Lovely until you are forced to spend 48 hrs running up and down them. 

The Corporal in charge of our section led us into a large stand of trees and told us to get a brew on and our bivvy bags out. A couple of hours rest was a welcome bonus. After a day tramping up and down hills in the wet we were all knackered. Naturally I was dicked to do the first stag, so with range card in hand I set off for the edge of the wood. Using red light I couldn’t see well and struggling to hold my makeshift trousers up I never saw the branch I tripped over or the rock I cracked my noggin on as I rolled down into a gulley full of wet leaves. 

It was the first rays of dawn sunlight filtering through the trees that woke me. I was frozen cold, wasn’t sure where I was and had blood on my hands - from a cut on my forehead not a killing spree (this time). When I staggered back to my oppos they were all asleep in their bivvy bags…even the Corporal. 

Meanwhile in a nearby field our Colonel and a group of officers were looking irritably at their watches wondering what had happened to the planned attack.

Suffice it to say I was not treated for concussion. 

Another “on exercise” scrape involving military police was as a result of me peeing off the back of a 4 ton truck while travelling up the motorway… (the driver wouldn’t stop)… which I should have received a commendation for to be honest because it’s ruddy difficult, one hand holding onto the truck tonno cover and the other holding onto…well you get the picture. Anyway the road behind the truck was clear of traffic when I started… lol.

Toodleooh for now.