I think it was week 5, and we were meant to have a little ‘break’. We were off to Tenby. Bdr JC’s own Battery was based near Tenby. I think that was the main reason we went there in the first place. I don’t think any of us complained as it would mean we’d be away from Gus, the block and the beastings… or so we thought. We were told to pack our red t-shirt, black shorts and black road slapper plimsols. It’s the red t-shirt that puts the butterflies in my stomach, in anticipation of a beasting.

JC’s Battery (10 (Assaye) AD Battery) was of the ‘Air Defence’ flavour and they used the Blowpipe weapon. You’d hoist the thing on your shoulder and aim it at some flying object, and the rocket would be off flying by a wire which you guided the rocket with a thumb joystick. They used this system in the Falklands War of 1982 with a variety of success and failure.

We were to stay in Penally Training Camp, deemed unfit for human inhabitation 30 years later, ‘go figure’. The three day ‘interest’ period would involve being rudely beasted at 6 in the morning whilst recovering from a record breaking hangover. It was the beginning of a beautiful and destructive relationship.

April 1990 was not a particularly sunny month, to be honest. It pissed down for most of it. The coach journey had us driving through sheets of greying rain, gradually getting thicker as we approached Wales. An appropriate name for a country named after a huge mammal that lives in water.

The coach slowed and parked up near a lonesome house by some backwater colliery. Gonzo looked pretty excited as he walked through the bus, taunted and verbally abused as he went to the exit. He exited and entered the lone house, presumably his home. Ten minutes later he got back in with a massive huge grin on his coupon.

“What the fuck’s he been up to?”

“Is that a 10-minute knocking shop?”

“Nah, it’s his house, y’silly sod. He said hello to his mum.”

We were off again. We passed Cardiff, Bridgend and Swansea. Eventually, we passed the scenic town of Tenby and its sister town, Penally. If I remember rightly, the clouds did part for us on that Thursday afternoon. It reminded me of that caravan holiday I went to in 1983, seven years earlier, to Tenby. I got given a fiver. I exchanged it for 250 2 penny pieces and blew the lot in one hour.

Penally Training Camp was on the side of a hill with a wonderful view of the sea. It looked rather picturesque. We were on parade outside, and JC briefed us on what the weekend would entail. The showers and toilets were in a separate block, and the accommodation were in Romney huts (semicircular shaped). The cookhouse was by the guardroom. The jail was over there and it was highly unlikely that it would be unoccupied that weekend. If we fucked up, we were likely to go in it. If we were ever late, we would go in it. If we turned up pissed, we would go in it. If we forgot to shave… we’d go… you get the picture.

The next day we were at RAF Manorbier which was the Artillery Range. We had an interest shoot where a couple of 10 (Assaye) Battery boys showed us the blowpipe. One of the lads handed me a set of army-issue binoculars, which I duly looked through to observe the target drone being launched that morning.

“Has it launched yet, Bombardier?”

“I wish he’d stop fucking calling me Bombardier,” one of them said to his mates, then, “yeah, keep on looking.” I saw no aircraft. I had a guy beside me shaking with the blowpipe on his shoulder – it was shoulder-launched and fly-by-wire if memory serves me well. You get to control the rocket as it makes its way to the aircraft. It wouldn’t impact the target or just detonate nearby, and I guess there were areas best for it to detonate, like near the fuselage.

I lowered the binoculars. Looked at the rest of the lads, “Can you see the drone?” They burst out laughing. One spilt his coffee, and another tripped over. What the fuck!?

I looked down at the eyepieces and saw something smudged on the bits you put to your eyes. Boot polish came off when I rubbed them. Oh, fuck! The oldest one in the book, and I fell for it. I had two lovely black shiners ringing my eyes. Took me ages to get it off.

That evening we were told to parade at 6pm in civvies. That meant jeans ironed with a lovely crease down the middle – only joking, I’d never put a fucking crease down the middle of my jeans! White t-shirt tucked into jeans, belt, trainers, leather jacket – fucking sorted.

“Gentlemen. I am about to give you something.”

“Ooh err,” I heard someone whisper.

“It’s something I hold very precious. If you abuse it, then I abuse you. It’s my trust. I hold my trust dear; keep it close to my heart.” Bloody hell, I thought, he can waffle on a bit, can’t he?

“I’m going to trust you not to go on a mad, violent, drunken rampage in the beautiful coastal holiday resort of Tenby. You are to conduct yourselves in the unscrupulous manner that a member of Her Majesty’s Forces should do… do.” Oh.. stumbled a bit there. Nobody laughed, though; nobody dared.

“If you fuck up, then I’ll let Sergeant Major Blake look after you,” he pointed to the guard room where a tall man in Number 2s waved to us with his free hand; his other was on a pace stick. He had this aura about him like most Provost Sergeants had, and it scared the shite out of me at the time. He also grinned menacingly, like he fucking enjoyed what he did.

“TROOPS! Prepare to move!” Bombardier JC yelled to us, “Move now!!”

We fell out and scrambled for the awaiting Bedford truck. The truck growled into life, the engine would make the floor tremor, and you’d get these tiny vibrations on the tops of your thighs that would make them itch. We had to hold onto the benches, which were screwed to the floor, as the Bedford jerked away.

It was only a 10-minute drive, and we were already in the town centre. “GO! GO! GO!!” We all heard the yell as the Bedford halted, and we were bounding out like lunatics.

“RV at this location at 2330hrs, gentlemen. Emergency RV will be… there is no ERV. This is it. Extraction will be by Heli-Bedford!!” That was our instructions, and we were left to our own devices.

I hung around my own click of friends, and we drank beer, and I had countless Martinis. To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember much about that night, despite it being 28 years ago. I remember missing the rendezvous and having to stumble over a Golf course to return to the camp.

“Hey, it’s this way. The lights. That’s the sea. The full moon is in the west tonight, so we’re heading in the right direction.”

I brought up a load of beer; it was a reflux condition I had. There was kebab, beer and martini, and something else… Pernod and some egg liquor from behind the bar.

I fell and got helped back up. Mud on knees and sand in hair. We wobbled through the gates and presented MOD Form 90s for the guard. The barrack dorm still had its lights on. A group of lads were busy scrawling over an inebriated solder in biro and anything else they could get their hands on. Another emerged from his pit with a razor and a manic grin on his face – a single eyebrow would be removed, no doubt. I could see another recruit black-nastied to his bed.

I had problems the next morning. Saturday morning presented the first real hangover. One of many. I could hear but not understand what was happening. There was noise…. noise turned to voices…. voices turned to… “DOUGY! Wakey wakey! Come on, sweetheart!”

Another voice. “Let’s get him out of that maggot.” Unzipping noises, I’m being manhandled out of a wet, warm bag. It’s fucking freezing.

“We got PT in 30 minutes. Get him in the shower,” that was the section leader.

The next 15 minutes consisted of being stuck in a cold shower. I’m sure that helped, but it didn’t make me any more sober. I hung my sleeping bag in the drying room, where it began to drip like the Niagara Falls.

We jogged down onto the dunes, those beautiful dunes, tarnished with pain and retching. A dog walker stopped and watched us doing press ups in the sand and running up and down the dunes.

“If you’re gonna be sick, y’better do it on the run!!” I don’t think I’ll ever look upon Penally Beach the same afterwards. It was some thirty odd years later that some investigative body had found that the barracks were unfit for human habitation and would violate human rights. I daresay the conditions in those camps were much better than the refugee camps in the middle east.