Drill is a pill, and it’s to be taken every day. Today, the bombardiers ensured that there was ample space in the guardroom for new visitors that morning. The new visitors were to be treated accordingly – with utmost cruel efficiency in dealing out pain and torture.

We were doing drill. Marching up.. and down the square…

“Ay-Bowt TURN!” We turned on one foot, raise the other, knee horizontal to the ground with it momentarily dangling there and then slammed it down. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Bdr Summers was right up to my face screaming at me. “What’s that on your lips?”

“Vaseline Bombardier.”

“What was that!?” He turned his head, and cupped an ear. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Vaseline Bombardier!” I yelled.

“You been giving blowjobs, fuckin’ Homo!”

So now we were changing step. “CHANGE STEP!” They shouted and we slammed that foot down till it started to sting. The boot’s polish starting to crack and peel in the sun. I could see a squaddie sat on his car eating a Mars Bar. He must have been from Inkerman Troop which was the back-squadding lot.

“D’yer want to join them?” Bdr Jamieson-Caley asked the young lad, who promptly refused and went off into his accommodation block. Oh, how I wished I was him at that moment… then again, probably better I wasn’t.

“Forward, MARCH!” We headed off, me on the wrong foot and colliding into Burrows, the huge man with a body like a monolith. He couldn’t march to save his life and I was surprised he hadn’t been jailed yet. I collided into the solid, rubbery mass of him, just as JC shouted, “HALT!!”

I sensed someone close to my head. “What the FUCK are you doing to my squad, DOUGLAS!?” I jumped. “You fucking imbecile!! Get Away! Get away! Get away! Take this fucking minion off my parade square!”

I vaguely remember someone kindly calling out the time for me. “Left, right, left, right, leftrightleftrightleft….!!!” What the fuck? I couldn’t even run that fast a pace, let alone march it. The drill instructor called out ‘Mark Time’ so it gave him time to catch up to me. There were two others behind me being equally marched like lunatics.

I was then handed over to the nice Provost Staff ushered me into the small central ‘punishment’ atrium. We were made to get into stress positions of varying degrees of pain, difficulty and nastiness. Any pilates instructors looking on this would have been impressed.

The following morning we were expecting some PT, not in the Gymnasium, but down the Dell. We hadn’t been to the Dell yet, but we’d heard rumours about it. Underwater tunnels, tall walls, mud and lots of pain.

The lights always buzzed before they flickered on. The cheerful shout of: “WAKEY, WAKEY BOYS AND GIRLS. We’re off to the park today! We’ve got a lovely surprise for you.”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The floor gleamed with a high sheen from the polish earlier that morning. I could see the other guys lying on the floor under all the other beds in the grey, itchy blankets. The air was edged with an icy touch – some fucker had left the window open, and I could hear the thunderous padding of bare feet on the floor as the lads rushed to the wash basins. The dress today would be boots, lightweights, green shirt, combat jacket, webbing, large pack – which wasn’t large at all, and helmet.

As I went to the washing area, I saw a slight smile on Bombardier JC’s face as he picked up 9 packets of Hob Nobs. The rule was that if we bought a pack of Hob Nobs, we had to buy him a packet. He must have had about 50 or 60 at home. He lived in a single room just off our dormitory. I heard he’d done six years in the Army and had completed a French Commando Course. Tales of him forward abseiling from a cliff sounded pretty exciting, and I wondered what I could get up to.

I queued up and had my shave quickly, brushed my teeth and ran back to my locker. The tops of our lockers didn’t need to be arranged for inspection but had to be tidy. The white locker on top had my spare combats and clothes. I quickly got into my uniform, and it felt good to be wearing green. My boots creaked, and I quickly gave them a once-over with the brush.

“Come on,” Clint whispered to us. He was at the door to our dormitory, all booted up for the PT session. He was the duty student today and had to make sure we were on parade on time else he’d get beasted. There was nothing worse than letting your mates down. I flung the boot brush into the locker, shut the padlock and remembered I’d left the key. FUCK!! No time for that. I ran out into the three ranks of lads, the yellowing light of the sun on their upturned faces. I ran to the left, then the right and got dragged into place. There was a place we had to be, and it was always that spot, but sometimes, especially at the start, you forgot. I stood at ease and looked up – everyone was looking up at WO2 Taylor, who was grinning down at us. He wore his number 2 uniform, so he wasn’t coming with us. Next to him was JC.

“This fellah here is as close to God as you’re gonna get on this,” Taylor said, pointing to JC, “Bombardier JC is as holy as they come. Jesus Christ resurrected. Listen to him, take the punishment and see it as development. Dig in. Work hard and work as a team,” he turned around and looked back into the building, someone handed him a mug of coffee, then it was back to us. “It’s gonna hurt, but hey, that’s life. Persevere.” He raised his steaming mug of coffee to us in a mock salute and said something one crusty old Major has said to me months before in Durham ACIO, “Take the rough with the smooth.” He then disappeared up the stairs to the first floor, where his office was.

“Troop!” We jumped at this – it came from behind us. I could see JC smile from the window above us. “Troop SHUN!” There was a clatter of boots, and someone came in last. It might have been a milisecond out, but you can hear it a mile off.

“Oooohhh!!!!” JC yelled. There was a glimmer in his eyes, it was manic, and I could tell he was enjoying this. “Let’s try that again. Shall we?”

“As you were,” the voice behind us said. Then… “TROOP!! Troop SHUN!!” This time we made a resounding boot clash at the same time.

“Better!!” JC said. He was on the ground floor with us now. He had his beret on, which was a rarity. He normally had his twat hat on and number 2s.

We turned left and began to march to the cookhouse for the Queen’s Parade, which some of us would vomit back up again in about 40 minutes. Breakfast was a simple Bacon butty for me and a mug of coffee before standing outside waiting for the rest of the troop. I was usually one of the first, as I hadn’t much for breakfast. It was energy and fuel for the day, essential for the shit we would endure.

There was a mix of marching and doubling to the guard room before we were ‘about turned’ and made to double all the way down to the end of the barracks and back again when someone got the step wrong: in fact, nearly all of us who got the step wrong. We arrived at the guard room panting, wheezing and red-faced. We crossed the road, to the right was the Kings Arms on the corner. The frost hadn’t quite gone yet. We could see it twinkling on the edges of leaves and branches outside the camp. The route to the ‘Dell’, as it was known, was very scenic. We passed several dog walkers and a jogger, whom none paid us any attention. 

We got to an area centred on a lake and various obstacles around it. It was called an Assault Course in 1990. Nowadays, the name has changed to Obstacle Course – not sure why it has changed. We were given a guided tour of the obstacles and shown how to complete them. We had a crew of instructors there; Bdrs Banscombe, Summers, Jamieson-Caley and Sgt Myers.

We started attacking the obstacles, still cold and having major problems getting over some of them. Eventually, these became easier, and we worked more fluidly and people helping others up the 3-metre wall. The 3-metre wall was the prime test of teamwork and coordination, and leadership – we fucked up on this, as you’d expect, being our first round. I was the last minion and left dangling like a twat, feet pin-wheeling for grip and purchase, so I could get over. At that young age, I didn’t have much upper body strength, and after 50 minutes around this place, we were all fucked. JC grabbed me by my webbing and threw me to the floor in disgust. Not at me personally, but at all of us. He berated us on teamwork and what he would do to us later, or rather what the Bombardier in the gym would do. Oh fuck. All thoughts of my locked padlock evaporated; they paled into insignificance with this new development. A beasting in the gym at 7pm was booked.

We were brought to the water’s edge, and JC told us of the submerged tunnel. We were to get under the water and through the tunnel. Cool, I thought. The water looked fucking freezing. JC stood waist-deep in the water at one end and another bombardier about 2 meters from him. We were to duck under, get pushed and pulled out the other end. While we queued up, we were told about several soldiers were still under there, so we had to pass their bodies. I began to shiver as the icy water filtered into my trousers, boots and jacket. When it was my turn, I closed my eyes and ducked. My hands reached out, and I could feel the pipe I was to go through. I pushed and pulled myself along before being dragged out the other end. We were to jog back and forth to the 3m wall before assembling as a troop and doubling back to the Barracks. There was a gap in our ranks, and I later learned that one of the guys had run back to camp rather than do the underwater tunnel. I don’t know what happened to him.

Perhaps, in an ironic turn, he came back as an instructor, several years later? Who knows?