London, March 1990

Apart from Sutton Coldfield I hadn’t been far on any trains before. Going to London, I knew this was going to be a challenge due to the tube stations. I’d received my rail warrants the week before to turn up at Woolwich Station at 3pm on 5^th March 1990 to begin my basic training.

 Arriving at Kings Cross was the easy part. In fact it was nice looking at all the green stuff out the window turn to a grey, drab urban setting. A voice announced that we were about to get into Kings Cross.

 “Hey there fellah. Looks like you’re going on a little journey,” an old man said to me in a raspy voice. He grinned at me and raised a can of McEwans Lager in my direction. “Good luck to yer.”

 I thanked him and got on my way. There were hundreds of people milling about like they were going to a football game. I had an idea of where I was going, but instinct led me to follow this guy with a huge green rucksack. Must be military. Must be going to the same place as me. Luckily for me, he was.

Woolwich

Finally, I stepped off the train at Woolwich Arsenal. Some dude was staring at me. I could see cogs whirring in his brain, looking me up and down. He was in military uniform with a peaked hat. His moustache was a handlebar type like some 1970’s pornstar. His moustache bristled as he spoke.

 “You here for the Army and all that?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Right you are. Wait here,” he said and grabbed several others. One of the others I noticed, the one with the huge rucksack I’d know as ‘Spuggy’ in the future. He’d be going to the same Regiment as me.

 We were marched up a hill by some shops, a pub called the ‘Elephant and Castle’, another called ‘The Star’ (PIRA supporters pub apparently) and another called the ‘Kings Head’. The Kings Head was at the top of the bank and by the entrance to the camp. The camp was huge. I pulled my massive suitcase along with me and entered the barracks. I must have looked like a right twat because I was wearing brown leather gloves, a huge long, white jacket, a white frilly shirt, and trousers.

The Barracks

As we filed passed the ‘goldfish bowl’ guardroom, there was a roar of cheers. This didn’t look good. We passed another soldier who started to sing You’re in the Army now, by Status Quo.

The Royal Artillery Barracks was built in the late 18th Century and has been the home of the Royal Artillery until recently as Larkhill on Salisbury Plain now takes on that role and has done for some time now.

My memory’s not as good as it was. It was 34 years ago. 17^th Training Regiment Royal Artillery & Depot was based there and there were several batteries. Batteries such as 59 (Asten) Battery or, ‘59 ACIIIIIID Battery’ as one drill instructor shouted out on a drill lesson back then for a laugh. 59 Battery was mine and had three Troops. I was in Martinique Troop, named after that little island in the Caribbean. Then there was Colenso and Le Cateau. There was 24 (Irish) Battery which had Sphinx, Marne and not sure who else was there. There was Inkerman Battery which was the biff / back squadded Battery. A Bombardier (equivalent to a Corporal) led the sections, and he would sleep on the same floor. Mine was Bombardier Jameson-Caley or JC as he was known to the Troopy. The Troop Sergeant was Sergeant Myers, and he was a triathlon runner from 7RHA. The Troopy was a WO2 called Taylor. I remember him coming in one evening pissed up and chatting to the lads, much to the chagrin of the Bombardiers.

“You can fuck off now, if you like”

I remember the first week of Woolwich, and we wore wear civilian clothing that week. We attended lectures and shown how to iron our uniform and clean the toilets. The amount of emphasis put on Toilet Cleaning was a little concerning and the Bombardier calling the Spunk stains ‘fetch’ stains. There was some marching too. A few of the guys had already left, seeing that this wasn’t for them, which was fair enough. I had fuck all to go back for, so I had nothing to lose.

A couple of the lads left, who thought, ‘fuck this for a game of soldiers. The IRA was targeting barracks now, with the Deal Barracks bombing a year before it was at the forefront of everyone’s mind.

One morning JC got us out on parade and gave us one last chance before week two. “One last chance. You can fuck off now if you like. If you can’t hack it. After today you’re all mine,” he finished this sentence, and I could sense a malign edge to those words like some evil Bond baddie.

Scalped and sheared for  £1

We had to get our heads shaved after that first week. I thought the haircut was free, but the cheeky fucker charged me £1. I had to borrow from one of the lads and pay him back later. So, here we were all sat around in the barrack room, like a group of concentration camp victims, with our heads shaved. In walks the Bombardier and we’re still chatting, smoking (smoking was allowed back then!), and not even looking up.

“What the fuck is going on here!?” He screamed and we all jumped and stood up. “Whenever I walk into the room, you fucking stand to attention.” Then in a cockney accent, “You ‘orrible cunts!” He grinned then walked out.

We gave each other questioning looks. “What the fuck have we let ourselves in for?”