on psychiatric grounds. Both Cookie and Harry joined the Second Battalion with me. Both are now out of the army and married with kids of their own.
We continued the training at Winchester until the summer of 1987. During that time most of us turned eighteen and began to educate ourselves in the art of serious drinking as most young men of that age do. By this stage our training programme had relaxed slightly. We were still getting the run around but it was a far cry from the earlier Shrewsbury days.
This respite was short-lived, however, when we received a new platoon commander who was to get us through the 'final fling' -a three-week exercise on the harsh Brecon Beacons culminating in a twenty-six kilometre march in full battle kit, immediately followed by the notorious one-mile-long Brecon assault course. This new guy's name was 'Mad Paddy' Powell, a real hard-nosed bastard whose mere name struck fear into everyone that wasn't one of his very select friends.
The first time I met him I literally ran into him on the parade square. I had been out on the piss the night before and was late for the morning parade. To top that, I had had a bit of a tear up with a couple of civvies down the town the previous night and was sporting the black eyes of all black eyes. That was it -not only had I knocked 'Mad Paddy' over on his first day, he had heard all about the bit of trouble down the town and now had first-hand confirmation that it was one of 'his lads' that was involved.
The exercise went well. The Brecon weather was 'kind' to us -it only rained for two-and-a-half weeks out of the three. It was split into three phases: a live firing phase, where we carried out various different section and company attacks on every manner of ranges with live ammunition; an offensive phase, where we had to locate and destroy various enemy positions; and a defensive week, where we had to dig trenches and defend them from various attacks. My memories of this exercise are a permanent feeling of dampness and the constant smell of the eye watering, choking CS gas, which was used to test our knowledge of how to survive a chemical attack but which lingered on our clothing for the whole exercise. We used the SF machine gun throughout the three weeks and by the end of it I had become quite an expert. As well as my own rifle, kit and SF tripod (which alone weighed 30 pounds), I carried one of the younger recruit's, Carl Gustav's, anti-tank rocket launcher for about ten miles. This act finally earned me respect from Mad Paddy and allowed him to forget about our first meeting.
In the summer of 1987 we finally passed out on a blazing hot day at Sir John Moore Barracks, Winchester. I felt proud of the fact that we had gone through so much and come out the other end as men. We had seen our ranks shrink by over half their size. It had been tough. We'd had to learn about discipline and respect. In almost two years we'd had to prove that from snotty nosed kids we were now worthy of joining the ranks of what I consider to be the finest infantry regiment in the world and certainly part of the best fighting force in the world. The fact that we were standing on that square meant that we were.
However, our training wasn't over. We had to continue training constantly to enable us to maintain the standards set by those who wore the same uniform and cap badge that we proudly wore that day, and if you know your military history you will understand that this is no mean undertaking. I don't think anyone can fully appreciate the feeling you get on such an occasion unless you have experienced the sheer physical and mental pressure that you are put through during military basic training.
Some of the methods used by the training staff may have seemed harsh and you might think they were bully-boy tactics, but I think they were needed and none of those standing on that square held any resentment for any of the staff. The fact of the matter was that they knew that the business
We continued the training at Winchester until the summer of 1987. During that time most of us turned eighteen and began to educate ourselves in the art of serious drinking as most young men of that age do. By this stage our training programme had relaxed slightly. We were still getting the run around but it was a far cry from the earlier Shrewsbury days.
This respite was short-lived, however, when we received a new platoon commander who was to get us through the 'final fling' -a three-week exercise on the harsh Brecon Beacons culminating in a twenty-six kilometre march in full battle kit, immediately followed by the notorious one-mile-long Brecon assault course. This new guy's name was 'Mad Paddy' Powell, a real hard-nosed bastard whose mere name struck fear into everyone that wasn't one of his very select friends.
The first time I met him I literally ran into him on the parade square. I had been out on the piss the night before and was late for the morning parade. To top that, I had had a bit of a tear up with a couple of civvies down the town the previous night and was sporting the black eyes of all black eyes. That was it -not only had I knocked 'Mad Paddy' over on his first day, he had heard all about the bit of trouble down the town and now had first-hand confirmation that it was one of 'his lads' that was involved.
The exercise went well. The Brecon weather was 'kind' to us -it only rained for two-and-a-half weeks out of the three. It was split into three phases: a live firing phase, where we carried out various different section and company attacks on every manner of ranges with live ammunition; an offensive phase, where we had to locate and destroy various enemy positions; and a defensive week, where we had to dig trenches and defend them from various attacks. My memories of this exercise are a permanent feeling of dampness and the constant smell of the eye watering, choking CS gas, which was used to test our knowledge of how to survive a chemical attack but which lingered on our clothing for the whole exercise. We used the SF machine gun throughout the three weeks and by the end of it I had become quite an expert. As well as my own rifle, kit and SF tripod (which alone weighed 30 pounds), I carried one of the younger recruit's, Carl Gustav's, anti-tank rocket launcher for about ten miles. This act finally earned me respect from Mad Paddy and allowed him to forget about our first meeting.
In the summer of 1987 we finally passed out on a blazing hot day at Sir John Moore Barracks, Winchester. I felt proud of the fact that we had gone through so much and come out the other end as men. We had seen our ranks shrink by over half their size. It had been tough. We'd had to learn about discipline and respect. In almost two years we'd had to prove that from snotty nosed kids we were now worthy of joining the ranks of what I consider to be the finest infantry regiment in the world and certainly part of the best fighting force in the world. The fact that we were standing on that square meant that we were.
However, our training wasn't over. We had to continue training constantly to enable us to maintain the standards set by those who wore the same uniform and cap badge that we proudly wore that day, and if you know your military history you will understand that this is no mean undertaking. I don't think anyone can fully appreciate the feeling you get on such an occasion unless you have experienced the sheer physical and mental pressure that you are put through during military basic training.
Some of the methods used by the training staff may have seemed harsh and you might think they were bully-boy tactics, but I think they were needed and none of those standing on that square held any resentment for any of the staff. The fact of the matter was that they knew that the business
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