Territorial Army …
After the IRA killed Lord Louis Mountbatten in '79, my Mother was particularly upset. Neither of my parents were what you might describe as Royalists, however, they were of the age that considered the system to be a better alternative than dictatorship, without really understanding we could do just as well with neither.
She told me a story of when she was a child, being sent down to the Tyne shipyards by her mother with the pack-up her father had forgotten that morning. He was a riveter on the big ships ~ one of thousands ~ and as she struggled to find him someone spoke to her asking what she was doing there. Upon discovering her quest, they lifted her to their shoulders and walked round the yards until they found him. This man with the broad shoulders was Louis Mountbatten.
Understandably, he became a hero to her. (Fortunately she never read into his full history, so was unaware of his military record and the alleged atrocities that took place under his command.) Anyway, with this in mind, and with a little goading by my workmates, I decided to join the T.A., who were most locally based in Wellingborough in the shape of the Royal Anglian Brigade infantry.
Uniforms were cool, apart from the bloody puttees, which were a bleeding nightmare to keep in place. We did some drill, which I didn't mind, and used their .22 range, which I enjoyed immensely ~ particularly when I discovered I was a keen shot. The clubroom was good for a cheap beer after training and there was some pretty good company from a varied (by age and background) bunch.
My bosses weren't that keen on it, though, but did give their support ~ especially after they discovered they wouldn't have to pay my wages during the fortnight I would soon be spending carrying out my recruits cadre.
This was to be at Bassingbourne barracks and five of us were sent from our local centre to join with many others from around the region for a fortnight's basic training. One of our number, a 30s sales rep called Mike, gave me a lift there in his company car. We arrived in the area too early, so went to Royston for a beer first, wearing our dress uniforms. We wondered why, with it being an army town, we got so many dodgy looks. We discovered why at the muster parade ~ there had been an enormous set-to between squaddies and local lads the night before, and we were told the town was out of bounds for safety reasons. (I think even the coppers didn't want us there.)
The fortnight itself was crazy! After the first two attempts we sussed that as 'chocolate soldiers' we were despised by the squaddies (or 'grunts' as we called them), and would be harassed every time we went to eat in the mess or try to use their bars. For the rest of the time I fed myself from the Automat and lived off mostly sandwiches and soft drinks.
We were billeted in what were known as 'The Black Huts' ~ some leftover WWII mizzen huts with scant heating and few intact panes of glass in their windows. I shared a room with another, older, guy called Stuart and the other recruit who came from his area. Stuart was obviously a former full-time soldier, with more than a touch of the 'crazies' ~ his compatriot was a weak character who really wasn't suited to this life. A few days in, when some members of the predominant Hemel Hempstead contingent tried to give this weakling a 'regimental bath' to encourage him to perform better, Stuart held them off with the 2ft machete he kept in his pack. They didn't bother him any more, but I can't remember if they both managed to last the full course.
The gas chamber was an experience. Kitted up in our NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical) coveralls, with gas masks to boot, we were led into another mizzen hut converted for the purpose and told to jog round the edge while the doors were closed and the gas let off, to prove the equipment worked. Then, one-by-one, we removed our masks, gave name, rank, serial number and kept talking long enough so they knew we had a couple of good lungs full, before being led out into the fresh air. All eyes were streaming, some were vomiting, everyone was coughing like seasoned smokers, but to a man we were all pissing ourselves laughing! It sounds stupid, but we all wanted to go back in for another go.
One day we were all bundled into trucks and taken to the live ranges (I believe it was the ones at Salisbury, but couldn't be certain). Firing SLR rifles and GPMGs (General Purpose Machine Guns) I attained 'marksman' status with both ... not bad for a townie who'd never fired a gun until I joined the T.A., other than the bent-sighted versions at fairgrounds.
Most of the days were filled by weapons training, drill (but not too much of it), exercise, etc., all of which I enjoyed. There were nights out, but rather than the squaddie bars we used the pub just outside the base's grounds ~ the Antelope, which was mostly used by NCOs ~ as we weren't restricted to barracks being essentially civilian visitors.
One thing I did notice each time we went out was that although the barracks housed around 2-3k men ~ of which only around 50 were anything other than White, Anglo Saxon stock ~ every soldier on gate and guard duty was black.
Returning from the Antelope one night a few of us were generally farting around, running half-pissed through the poorly-lit officers accommodation, when I discovered a hole ~ where someone had removed a paving slab and dug around 18 inches down ~ probably as a prank to catch some officer out. I found it by running directly into it, chipping a bone in my shin and rendering me unconscious for several minutes. Thankfully my comrades got me back to my billet, where I woke the next morning with my leg covered in blood.
Of the five of us from Wellingborough, one had gone AWOL after a couple of days ~ we never saw him again. Another left through 'illness' shortly afterwards. Mike, who had given me a lift there, apologised, but said he'd found it wasn't for him, and left before the end of the first week. (He'd left the T.A. by the time I got back.) The other one declared himself sick after the first day, and was given reduced duties for the rest of his time there. He participated in none of the exercises, just basically hung around everyone else doing nothing. So, that left me as the only representative from my area completing the final test ~ which required us to run a certain distance within a certain time. Not being a good runner, I managed it by sprinting then resting, sprinting then resting, and made it with plenty of time to spare.
Before I knew it, the fortnight was over. Official pictures were taken, mounted on official board then handed round to your comrades so they could enter greetings and best wishes ~ and hopes to meet the next summer during the two-yearly exercises in West Germany.
If I remember rightly, I hitch-hiked my way back home.
At our next training night in Wellingborough, I obviously received all the plaudits for being the only one to complete the course. Shortly afterwards, I was summoned to see our C.O., who told me they were putting me forward for officer training. Although I explained my lack of interest, he told me they had to put forward their 'top recruit', so I had no choice in the matter, regardless of my protestations that ~ having just started the third year of a four-year apprenticeship ~ there was no way I could take the time required to complete such a course. It fell on deaf ears, so I had no option other than to resign.
I had enjoyed my time there, but the fortnight at Bassingbourne convinced me the Army life wasn't for me. I won't knock it, as I'm sure it works for many, but I know my own limitations and am sure I wouldn't have made the grade ~ particularly as an officer.