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
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
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