of being an infantry soldier was not an easy or nice one.
They had to turn us into men who could operate in any condition and act with a totally unbiased attitude and who ultimately would engage, fight and kill any enemy we were put up against. My whole outlook on life had changed. I had discipline, respect, pride in myself and honour. Another lesson I learned was that real men who have all of the last four qualities didn't brag about what they had seen, where they had been, what they had done or how many other blokes they had beaten up, because they didn't need to prove themselves to anyone.
I began to detest people who were full of themselves and spent all their time boosting their own egos by bragging about their various conquests, and I still do. The Prison Service is sadly full of this type of person and was another reason behind my decision to leave. My belief is that the ones who brag about their achievements to everyone they come across have actually achieved fuck all. The people who were really there don't want to talk about it and keep their memories where they belong -in their own heads.
Even though I feel it necessary to write this book at this time, I still have a lot of personal memories of my army days that I will not include in its pages for that reason. You don't need to know. There is nothing glorious about war or death or indeed beating another human being senseless with four or five of your mates while he is on the floor. Anyone who feels that there is and likes to brag to the world about their involvement is a wanker in my book. I've no time for bullies or insecure little men who talk about things they haven't a clue about in order to try to make themselves out to be something they're not. Anyway, I am drifting away from the plot again.
Standing on that parade square I felt a warm shiver passing through my body which was a feeling of relief, extreme pride, satisfaction and self-achievement together with a feeling of trepidation about what we could expect when we joined our respective battalions.
During our two years spent at the training depot we heard some real horror stories about life in the battalion. We had even seen some real-life battalion soldiers passing through, although we were not worthy at that stage even to look at them let alone engage in conversation with them. These were men who were already at the place we were struggling to get to. They had achieved all our hopes and dreams before we even donned the khaki uniform; they had already proved their worth. We had heard stories of brutal initiation ceremonies and nightly beatings from senior soldiers, even of mental and physical torture. So you can understand why my feeling of trepidation was justified!
Once the formalities of the passing-out parade were over, we bid each other farewell and set off on a couple of weeks' leave. It was a sad time because many of us would not see each other again for some time because we were all joining different battalions throughout the light division all over the world. Many of my friends were sent to the First Battalion light infantry and sadly some of them were to have their careers tragically cut short almost two years later when the bus in which they were returning to Omagh Barracks was blown up en route by the IRA. In a strange twist of fate, however, the bombers' success was short-lived as they were engaged and killed by an SAS team operating in that area on another assignment. It doesn't bring back the young light infantrymen that lost their lives, but it did even the score slightly. No one can ever be prepared for such loss and it is always sad to lose friends in such a cowardly way, but that was the game we were in and we just had to try to play it better than anyone else in order to survive. I always have my own private moment every Remembrance Day to remember those men and other friends I have lost over the years. I will never forget them.
The leave following my passing-out parade was one of
They had to turn us into men who could operate in any condition and act with a totally unbiased attitude and who ultimately would engage, fight and kill any enemy we were put up against. My whole outlook on life had changed. I had discipline, respect, pride in myself and honour. Another lesson I learned was that real men who have all of the last four qualities didn't brag about what they had seen, where they had been, what they had done or how many other blokes they had beaten up, because they didn't need to prove themselves to anyone.
I began to detest people who were full of themselves and spent all their time boosting their own egos by bragging about their various conquests, and I still do. The Prison Service is sadly full of this type of person and was another reason behind my decision to leave. My belief is that the ones who brag about their achievements to everyone they come across have actually achieved fuck all. The people who were really there don't want to talk about it and keep their memories where they belong -in their own heads.
Even though I feel it necessary to write this book at this time, I still have a lot of personal memories of my army days that I will not include in its pages for that reason. You don't need to know. There is nothing glorious about war or death or indeed beating another human being senseless with four or five of your mates while he is on the floor. Anyone who feels that there is and likes to brag to the world about their involvement is a wanker in my book. I've no time for bullies or insecure little men who talk about things they haven't a clue about in order to try to make themselves out to be something they're not. Anyway, I am drifting away from the plot again.
Standing on that parade square I felt a warm shiver passing through my body which was a feeling of relief, extreme pride, satisfaction and self-achievement together with a feeling of trepidation about what we could expect when we joined our respective battalions.
During our two years spent at the training depot we heard some real horror stories about life in the battalion. We had even seen some real-life battalion soldiers passing through, although we were not worthy at that stage even to look at them let alone engage in conversation with them. These were men who were already at the place we were struggling to get to. They had achieved all our hopes and dreams before we even donned the khaki uniform; they had already proved their worth. We had heard stories of brutal initiation ceremonies and nightly beatings from senior soldiers, even of mental and physical torture. So you can understand why my feeling of trepidation was justified!
Once the formalities of the passing-out parade were over, we bid each other farewell and set off on a couple of weeks' leave. It was a sad time because many of us would not see each other again for some time because we were all joining different battalions throughout the light division all over the world. Many of my friends were sent to the First Battalion light infantry and sadly some of them were to have their careers tragically cut short almost two years later when the bus in which they were returning to Omagh Barracks was blown up en route by the IRA. In a strange twist of fate, however, the bombers' success was short-lived as they were engaged and killed by an SAS team operating in that area on another assignment. It doesn't bring back the young light infantrymen that lost their lives, but it did even the score slightly. No one can ever be prepared for such loss and it is always sad to lose friends in such a cowardly way, but that was the game we were in and we just had to try to play it better than anyone else in order to survive. I always have my own private moment every Remembrance Day to remember those men and other friends I have lost over the years. I will never forget them.
The leave following my passing-out parade was one of
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