Meanwhile… outside the Gymnasium, March 1990 – at 7.45am

We were all stood to attention, in three ranks, in our neatly pressed black shorts and red issued vests. A bloke with a huge scar down one cheek made one lad do 20 press ups as a tramline had miraculously appeared on his shorts. The recruit’s grunts could be heard amidst the calm, and patient Physical Training Instructor’s (PTI) counting of the repetitions – occasionally he’d missed a number or go backwards. I counted 37 press-ups eventually. The gymnasium was a mundane looking building. It looked like some processing plant, and in a way it was. It also looked like an abattoir.

Some poor bloke had to run around the car park shouting that he was a wanker. I think he had dirt on his road dappers. Christ, I thought they got rid of plimsols. I remember wearing them at Primary School.

We eventually got told to get the fuck in the gymnasium immediately and form up on the red line in 3 ranks. Naturally, we messed that up and were sprinting on the spot for 30 seconds.

The huge interior was cold, and it echoed with the shrill voices of the PT Staff. I could see the bombardiers laughing and having a brew with the QMSI. I wondered how long it would be before I’d be doing the same thing? Casting those thoughts from my mind, I had to concentrate on getting through week 2.

“I’m a Burnley lad and y’can stuff yer fuckin’ Army!”

Thirty minutes later and we were swathed in sweat, and silently cursing at ourselves, wondering if I would ever get through this. We were prone, struggling with our press ups. Heads turned, stunned gazes at a  defiant, solitary figure struggling to stand, and then walk out.

“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?” A PTI shouted, like some angry wife at her husband storming off to the pub one Sunday afternoon.

You could tell the young lad, was at the end of his tether. He was done. “That’s impossible is that is,” he said to the PTI staff, with a finger pointing at us, at all of ‘that’.

“It’s Staff to you, and get back in line, you twat!”

“I’m a Burnley lad and y’can stuff yer fucking Army!” he said walking out.

Fair enough. A Bombardier followed the lad out the exit and that was the last I saw of him. Absolute fucking legend, I thought. ‘I’m a Burnley lad’, I thought to myself, just before being told to do ten burpees.

The Queen’s Parade

Breakfasts were the most important meal of the day, and as such was classed as the Queen’s Parade. If we didn’t attend this then we’d be charged. The cookhouse, was just in front of Martinique Troops block and we queued up there. The bombardiers would be walking up and down the line briefing us on the nice stuff he had prepared for the morning for us. He pointed his pace stick in the air and at us as he did this. It was going to be a sunny day by the look of it, but the chill of March was still in the air and you see the frost melt on the grass from that evening.

One thing I found out early on, especially with old Lance Bombardiers is that they generally had a chip on their shoulder. One who worked in the cookhouse, a portly round fellow, jabbed a nicotine stained finger at a lad in the queue. “Get your fucking hands out yer pocketses,” he said with a lisp. I’m not entirely sure what his job was to be honest – he wasn’t Army Catering Corps, that’s for sure – he was Artillery. I think if he was ever seen in the Kings Arms at night, he’d get a kicking from someone. Not from me though, as I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag.

We didn’t have much time to eat our Breakfast. We couldn’t even savour the experience of the Queen’s Parade. It had to be done in record-breaking time. As soon as you got your beans, sausage, bacon, toast, egg (I’d swap this for a ration of Bacon) then you were at the table and wolfing it down. If you were at the back of the queue, you lucked out; best get that breakfast down you, sharpish!

The position and hold must be firm enough…

In the early weeks, when on Guard Duty we had to patrol Woolwich Barracks with Pick Axe helves. We weren’t ready to be let loose on the 7.62mm L1A1 Self Loading Rifles. They were safely locked away and the ammunition in another room. Instead we would be armed like cave men to bash the skulls in of any would be intruder. We would need to prove our skill first, and that would take Skill-At-Arms training.

The instructor had prepared the room prior to us entering. He’d stripped a rifle, its parts neatly displayed on the floor. He held a fully assembled rifle in his arms as he began the lesson, explaining what each part of the rifle was. He then moved onto the smaller parts. You could tell this guy wasn’t a Troop Bombardier, as he was a bit more approachable than the others.

We were taught some principles to learn, how to shoot well. Not only with this rifle, but with any rifle like this. They were the marksmanship principles. Repeat after me.

• The position and hold must be firm enough to support the weapon.
• The weapon must point naturally at the target without any undue physical effort.
• Sight alignment must be correct
• The shot must be released and followed through without any undue disturbance to the position.

If the instructor went out for a piss, we’d pose like Walts. That’s what you’d do as teenagers. Some of us (myself included) were only 17 years old and barely out of school. Seventeen years old and given weapons to train with. I don’t think any of us had any idea of what the next 22 years had in store for us. Especially the way the world was going.