The Loose Screw (5 page)

But we took it all in our stride. Those who couldn't take it were already taking the option to leave while they still could, proving that Squid's own unique methods of 'weeding out the wankers' was working rather effectively. I do remember one particular incident, which happened while we were carrying out fire picket duty. One of the lads, 'Nobby' Clarke, a naturally funny chain-smoking Geordie, tried to save himself a few quid on batteries by wiring his radio lead to one of the old bedside lights in the fire picket accommodation. He confidently flicked the switch and immediately there was an enormous bang and a flash of white light followed by every light in the camp going out. When the flames from the bedside light really began to catch we could make out Nobby, who had been thrown clean across the room, lying shaking on the floor with his face as black as coal and his hair standing up all over his head. He looked like something out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon or some old Ealing Studio comedy.

As we attempted to fight the rapidly spreading fire, as any conscientious fire picket would, Nobby's first words were, "Ahh bollocks, man. That was a fucking good radio that. Me mam's going to kill us." Not that I wish to take anything away from Nobby's mam, but the silhouette of a far more immediate threat appeared in the doorway, in the shape of Sergeant Johns the regimental police sergeant. This man stood about four-foot-and-a-fagend tall, but he was an expert in putting you through pain like you could never imagine.

This is what he did for the next three hours with the aid of some fire extinguishers, which we held above our heads while running on the spot with our knees up to our chests. Not to mention having to take turns in dragging an amazingly heavy old fire cart around the parade square. When he finally let us go we all felt that our lungs had fallen out, except for Nobby who was still sporting his frazzled hairdo. Nobby was amazingly fit considering he smoked about a hundred fags a day, and his first words once we were out of earshot of Johns were, "Has anyone got a tab? I could murder a smoke."

Strangely enough, we managed to muster up enough strength between us to jump all over him in appreciation for the last three hours. I think we remain to this day the only fire picket to set fire to the fire picket hut.

Finally, the first six weeks reached their climax with the staging of the 'beret' parade where those of us who had 'survived' proudly received our green berets worn by the light division in the presence of our families. I had lost so much weight that my own mum and dad walked straight passed me, after looking right at me, as I waited for them outside the accommodation block. The parade went well and I felt a proud lump in my throat as the commanding officer Captain Nicholson gave a speech about what we had been through and achieved over the last six weeks.

My mum seemed to be really enjoying it when I spotted her in the crowd. My dad, however, had positioned himself next to a group of officers, and seemed more interested in getting them to notice that he was wearing his modified air force officers' greatcoat. The parade over, we went off on a well-deserved long weekend bit of leave.

In no time at all we were back at the barracks to continue training. I had joined the bugle platoon and had to move over to their barrack room across the square from Corunna platoon. I was impressed with the flashy uniform and the fact that the bugle platoon was specially trained to fire the sustained-fire (SF) machine gun. This weapon is a general-purpose machine gun mounted on a tripod, which is capable of laying down an almost constant barrage of bullets very accurately on targets up to one thousand metres away. It was the best weapon I ever got the privilege to fire.

It was in the bugle platoon that I met another man who I came to respect a great deal. He was the platoon commander who, like Wilson, was a warrant officer class one who had worked his way up through the ranks. His name was Max Bygraves, like the singer, and he was another hard man -with a name like that you have to be. One of the first and most important lessons he taught us was that no matter how hard you think you are there is always someone harder round the corner. He also told us that the hardest men were often the quietest, as they had nothing to prove to themselves or to anyone else.

This was certainly true of 'Willie' Willoughby, one of the three training corporals in the bugle platoon. You couldn't meet a more placid-looking man, but when the shit hit the fan Willie would let loose like a Tasmanian devil. During one incident down town I witnessed about five or six coppers struggling to restrain him. His whole body used to tense up into one big mass of muscle, and once they had finally managed to cuff him and get him in their car he proceeded to try to strangle the driver with his handcuffs.

On the other side of the coin we had Corporal Chris P. There wasn't anything Chris hadn't seen, done or been involved in. In later years Max's (Bygraves) philosophy was confirmed when we discovered just exactly what Chris had done, which didn't match his account. The third member of the bugle platoon's team of corporals was a tall, skinny Geordie called, wait for it, Tom Jerry. Tom had almost completed his twenty-two years' service so, although he had a wealth of knowledge and taught us very thoroughly, he had long since lost interest in the usual army bullshit that should have accompanied his current position.

The final member of the platoon staff certainly made up for Tom's lack of love for the army -Sergeant 'Pup' Coley from the First Battalion light infantry. Pup was certifiably insane. He was what you would call 'army barmy', and if he had served during the First World War they would have probably shot him. He would even carry out rigorous inspections of his kids' rooms and uniforms every morning before sending them to school. He truly was as mad as a March hare and was prone to 'loosing it' big time with us if we didn't do something to his exacting standards or we dropped him in the shit. He was, however, a great guy, a real character, and we all owed Pup a great deal. If we were ever in trouble Pup would bail us out every time, and back us up whether he thought we were right or wrong. He may have individually beaten us almost senseless later, but that was better than being stuck in the glasshouse or in Shrewsbury Police cells.

It was at Shrewsbury that I got my chance to step into the ring for the first time. The army is very big on boxing. I don't know if they still do it now, but one of our first PE lessons was 'milling', which used to be like the old cockfights. Basically we would all sit around the ring and a PTI (physical training instructor) would throw two pairs of enormous boxing gloves into the group. Whichever pair of recruits got the gloves would step into the ring for a non-stop three minute round. It may not sound like much, but I am sure anyone reading this who has boxed will agree that three minutes is a long time, especially when the gloves are so big it is as if being hit with a sledgehammer after your second or third go in the ring. It was a good character-building exercise, as you had to give it your all whether you were up against your best mate or your worse enemy, otherwise one of the PTIs would step in to have a go at you.

The next time I stepped into the ring it was to participate in the intercompany boxing tournament after Chris had told me some bollocks about how he used to be the battalion boxing team coach. It turned out that he had about as much idea as I did and, to my horror, I found out that I was to fight 'Wallie' Walcott in my first bout. Wally was a north London youth champion before he joined the army. I had known this because he was in Corunna platoon with me.

But in army boxing you just have to go for it flat out (which is where I thought I would end up after a couple of rounds with Wallie). I did all right. I lost the bout, but I went the distance and only hit the canvas twice (the rest of the time I just grabbed the referee to stop me from falling). I even managed to put Wallie on his arse once due to a lucky punch. This performance earned me a lot of respect. Everyone could see that I was totally out of my league, but I was a scrapper and I gave him a good run for his money. However, he made a hell of a mess of my boyish good looks. I couldn't eat solids for about a week, but I had proved my worth. I couldn't help but curse my dad in the third round for not letting me join the gym in Dagenham -it might have been a different story then.

We remained at Shrewsbury Barracks until they were closed down in the summer of 1986 when we moved to the new barracks at Winchester. By this time the platoon had shrunk to some fifteen of us and as a result we had formed a good bond together. My old battle partner from Corunna platoon, Andy 'Frog' Thatcher, was still with us. I had picked Frog to be my battle partner during the first six weeks due to the fact that he was the only one in the platoon smaller than me and he would have been easier to carry if the need arose. He was a good lad, an excellent soldier and a loyal and trustworthy friend.

There were only four Green Jackets left at this stage -me, Pete Mills from Ribble Road near Preston, Rob Cook from Leicester and Alex 'Harry' Betts from Harrow. Millsy joined the Third Battalion and the last I heard he was growing some things that 'aren't cabbages' on a relative's farm in New Zealand. He was a proper nutcase. His claim to fame was being elected leader of the Ribble Road gang before having to resign the position to Stinky Paterson so he could join the army. The last time I saw Millsy was in Gibraltar. He had gone absent without leave but couldn't afford a flight home, so he spent about eight weeks living in the water tank housing on top of the guardroom. When you think about it, it was the perfect hiding place, but it was proving more difficult for his mates to smuggle food up to him and even more difficult for him to pop out when he fancied a pint down the town. He gave himself up eventually and was discharged from the army on psychiatric grounds. Both Cookie and Harry joined the Second Battalion with me. Both are now out of the army and married with kids of their own.

We continued the training at Winchester until the summer of 1987. During that time most of us turned eighteen and began to educate ourselves in the art of serious drinking as most young men of that age do. By this stage our training programme had relaxed slightly. We were still getting the run around but it was a far cry from the earlier Shrewsbury days.

This respite was short-lived, however, when we received a new platoon commander who was to get us through the 'final fling' -a three-week exercise on the harsh Brecon Beacons culminating in a twenty-six kilometre march in full battle kit, immediately followed by the notorious one-mile-long Brecon assault course. This new guy's name was 'Mad Paddy' Powell, a real hard-nosed bastard whose mere name struck fear into everyone that wasn't one of his very select friends.

The first time I met him I literally ran into him on the parade square. I had been out on the piss the night before and was late for the morning parade. To top that, I had had a bit of a tear up with a couple of civvies down the town the previous night and was sporting the black eyes of all black eyes. That was it -not only had I knocked 'Mad Paddy' over on his first day, he had heard all about the bit of trouble down the town and now had first-hand confirmation that it was one of 'his lads' that was involved.

The exercise went well. The Brecon weather was 'kind' to us -it only rained for two-and-a-half weeks out of the three. It was split into three phases: a live firing phase, where we carried out various different section and company attacks on every manner of ranges with live ammunition; an offensive phase, where we had to locate and destroy various enemy positions; and a defensive week, where we had to dig trenches and defend them from various attacks. My memories of this exercise are a permanent feeling of dampness and the constant smell of the eye watering, choking CS gas, which was used to test our knowledge of how to survive a chemical attack but which lingered on our clothing for the whole exercise. We used the SF machine gun throughout the three weeks and by the end of it I had become quite an expert. As well as my own rifle, kit and SF tripod (which alone weighed 30 pounds), I carried one of the younger recruit's, Carl Gustav's, anti-tank rocket launcher for about ten miles. This act finally earned me respect from Mad Paddy and allowed him to forget about our first meeting.

In the summer of 1987 we finally passed out on a blazing hot day at Sir John Moore Barracks, Winchester. I felt proud of the fact that we had gone through so much and come out the other end as men. We had seen our ranks shrink by over half their size. It had been tough. We'd had to learn about discipline and respect. In almost two years we'd had to prove that from snotty nosed kids we were now worthy of joining the ranks of what I consider to be the finest infantry regiment in the world and certainly part of the best fighting force in the world. The fact that we were standing on that square meant that we were.

However, our training wasn't over. We had to continue training constantly to enable us to maintain the standards set by those who wore the same uniform and cap badge that we proudly wore that day, and if you know your military history you will understand that this is no mean undertaking. I don't think anyone can fully appreciate the feeling you get on such an occasion unless you have experienced the sheer physical and mental pressure that you are put through during military basic training.

Some of the methods used by the training staff may have seemed harsh and you might think they were bully-boy tactics, but I think they were needed and none of those standing on that square held any resentment for any of the staff. The fact of the matter was that they knew that the business of being an infantry soldier was not an easy or nice one.

They had to turn us into men who could operate in any condition and act with a totally unbiased attitude and who ultimately would engage, fight and kill any enemy we were put up against. My whole outlook on life had changed. I had discipline, respect, pride in myself and honour. Another lesson I learned was that real men who have all of the last four qualities didn't brag about what they had seen, where they had been, what they had done or how many other blokes they had beaten up, because they didn't need to prove themselves to anyone.