Chase the Ace
This is not a story of dashing heroic adventure of dogfights and camraderie in the skies, but the simple card game played over a few hands before the real gambling games of poker or blackjack get underway. (Chase the Ace - Google it. A simple "one card poker" game. Lowest card loses.)

I was over at a mate's place catching up for the first time in a year since his joining the army. A handful of his fellow grunts turn up (full-kit no less. They obvioulsy take their killing and wounding SERIOUSLY).

Ends up being a night made of it - an ale or six and a couple of war stories, then we get down to playing a few games of cards. I intoduced them all to Chase the Ace as a warmer-upper before we got down to the real business of me lightening their wallets.

Well, we didn't get past playing Chase the Ace - they loved it so much that they wanted to keep playing and playing and playing. Then playing some more..... all EIGHT straight hours of it. And nothing else. Each one in turn would tell me how great that game is "cos you gotta keep thinking", "how much you have to think about the game" and "going through all the strategies on how to win" ..... WTF..?

Maybe if I showed them Old Maid or Donkey they would have struggled...???

As far as Girth goes, they had me beat hands down - there were none more thicker than those boys..!
(Sir Jester, Mon 27 Mar 2006, 5:00, Reply)

Filthy squaddies
When I were but a lad, me and me mum were walking through a quaint Dorset village on a nice summers day.

Its a pity that some pissed up squaddies thought it would be funny to shout 'GET YER NICKERS OFF' at my mum, in the middle of the afternoon in a busy village square.

I hoped my mum would roundhouse kick the mouthy fucker, but no such luck she just kind of dragged me away.

One day I'll find that squaddie and wring his neck. Your days are numbered mate.
( Pew Pew Pew! Lasers! wannabe Gong Farmer, Mon 27 Mar 2006, 1:19, Reply)

TA intelligence...
2 stories from the TA days:

American troop of reserves joined us for an exercise. Part of the weekend involved live grenades....

the first idiot tried to pull the pin with his teeth, and promptly pulled out his 2 front teeth. If this wasn't bad enough, there was a wall we all stood behind to absorb shock waves when and shrapnel incase a thrown grenade didn't get thrown far enough over the wall into the range....

well one bright lad pulled the pin, and dropped the grenade over the top of the wall...naturally we all ran for it, the wall was badly damaged and he spent the rest of the weekend cleaning out the karsi...

but the best must go to the leader who when leading his troops out of a helicopter, the chopper swooped down to survey the land for a suitable landing spot, the said idiot in charge thought they had landed and jumped to his death fro 50 feet up,

dirka dirka indeed...

thank god these people were only pretend soldiers, god help us if they were ever deployed into real combat..
(CUNextTuesday, Mon 27 Mar 2006, 0:38, Reply)

Scheize Bars......
one of my older brothers was an army lad for many years.

One of those lovely 'yarn round the fire' stories that he told never left me, even though i was only about eleven years old when i heard it.

It was the one about the long list of German strip joints he went to when he was posted in Germany......

Eleven years old is really too young to hear about minging German strippers shitting on eachother for the amusement of the general public.
(you_always_felt_like_suede, Mon 27 Mar 2006, 0:25, Reply)

Ooh Just Remembered Another Two!
RAF Swinderby 1988 ... absolutely bonkers rock ape (RAF Regiment) corporal named Cpl Tony Levy. Referred to everyone as "ladies" and instructions would go something like :

TL : Ladies ...
Us : Yes Corporal!
TL : On the word of command ...
Us : Shit!
TL : You will ...
Us : Leap !
TL : On the back of the four tonner with the speed of a thousand gazelle ... SHIT!

Top bloke.

Time there only spoiled by ballsing up royally but hey that's life. Ended up in the army (commissioned!) and from there Royal Marines.

At Keogh Barracks (army medical school) had an instructor called (no word of a lie - top name as well) Cpl Wolf Partenheimer.

Favourite quote (on our arrival) was:

"there you go lads a platoon of females who haven't been off camp in 12 weeks. Remember - d*cks in one hand, penicillin in the other!" (and with a completely straight face!).

Second post - do I get a smaller "pop" for it?
(Seismologist Have patience. In time even grass becomes milk., Sun 26 Mar 2006, 21:23, Reply)

Not me, but my grandad
It all begins in early 1942, somewhere in North Africa, probably in Egypt. Tea had just been brewed when all hell broke loose. The Germans had bomabarded a detachement of C company, who were overwhelmed, taken prisoner of war. Two-thirds of the battalion were lost.

The POWs were marched 4 days with little food and water, then handed to the Italians. Transit camp (near Tripoli) had awful hygeine, lasted 4 months, and many men died.

Transferred to Naples, then a POW camp near Sforzacosta, there he and his mates stayed, as always, undernourished. News gets through - Allies land in the South, but the Germans started taking over Italy from the North.

Did I mention that my grandad was Jewish? Well, plans were made in case the Germans arrived first. The day came that the Italian sentries were looking a little agitated, so he and two mated bolted out of the open camp gate. They ran for two hours, into the hills.

People in the first village were helpful - gave them clothes (a Navy blue pinstripe suit in my grandad's case) food, and a map. The journey South was hard. Not everyone was helpful, some were Fascists. Paths were avoided. British commandos were met, but a rescue rendez-vous never came through. The German forces passed them, and help became rarer.

Reliable info about Allied forces locations led to a last ditch attempt to cross the front lines. The three men were to run across a valley, at 5 minute intervals, meet at a specified tree. My grandad was the last across, but he didn't meet his comrades. He found a NZ forward post who gave him a rather welcome cup of tea.

He returned home after rehabilitation. His two mates did make it back. He never, ever talked about this story - he wrote it down once. It all seems a bit Hollywood, but it's true. My grandad had to be a hero, just for staying alive.

Apologies not for length or girth, but for lack of humour.
(great_nymundo is not so great any more, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 19:50, Reply)

The name's Mr T.
In 1972, I was part of a crack commando unit which was sent to prison by a military court for a crime that we didn't commit.
Myself, and the others in my unit promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground.

Today, we're still wanted by the government, but survive as soldiers of fortune.

We're trying to make some money. If you have a problem - if no one else can help - and if you can find us, or better still, e-mail us - maybe you can hire us. Let me know, like.
( shadyron, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 19:31, Reply)

forces
i was an air cadet.... a lucky one too, i was a corporal, and got to do shitloads of flying and lots of shooting, the l-98 a1 rifle. a single shot version of the current army rifle. i looked like a gay in the uniform tho. oh and my mate vicki's boyfriend, lucas, is in the army, he's a driver. he's 19. he's a T W A T. he got pissed and started telling us how he felt bad because he squashed some paki kid in iraq. like i give a fuck.... lucas, your a twat mate.
(mr kyle he's a silly bastard, the one who posted before me, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 18:56, Reply)

I was in the canadian millitary
as part of an elite unit
everything was great until the bastards grafted adamantium onto all my bones and i started having creepy flashbacks

airport security has been a nightmare ever since
(scumbum, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 18:21, Reply)

foul mouthed squadies
Even as a teenage boy the squadies that taught us in the CCF still managed to shock us. I've forgotten most of it but this one still springs to mind "cleaning your rifle is even more important than cleaning the cheese off your bell-end for two reasons 1.your dick will still shoot when dirty and 2. that kid there looks like he would suck off the cheese if you clean his rifle."
(ghetto soldier, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 18:05, Reply)

The army eh?
I saw them all in a pub. They looked at my lass a bit funny. Then they spilt my pint. So i took them all outside and thrashed the lot of 'em.
(tinypod will never learn. Ever., Sun 26 Mar 2006, 17:10, Reply)

National Service
My grandad spent years trying to avoid National Service, his view was thats as he wasnt english he could work in England but avoid their army.

Anyways him and his brother, gave the Army the run-around for a bit. Until after laying pipes in front of some army type building they sent a letter home saying: haha they won't catch up with us, we were right under their noses...

The next letter started with the phrase "well its nice and sunny here in Malaysia"...my grandad fondly remembered his army days there
(Hot Lemon, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 15:27, Reply)

Jinkies!
My dad was an officer with the Canadian Navy; so was my mother. Dad's got some great stories involving abusive drinking games (something about a blindfold and a rolled-up newspaper), getting to issue the order to fire the cannons during an outdoor performance of the 1812 Overture, and my somewhat inebriated mother literally falling into his lap in the mess.

(As an aside, I'm told that before Quality Street chocolate was available in Canada, the boys used to bring so much of it back with them that it was used as ballast.)

Aaaanyhoo, many years ago, somewhere in Europe, a Canadian naval officer and two gents from the US Marine Corps got into a heated argument dock-side. An english-speaking local who was wandering past rightly pointed out to them that arguing so very publicly was hardly doing a favour to the reputations of their respective organizations.

Seizing the opportunity to bury the hatchet, they opted to sort the matter out over a pint or two. The Canuck bought the first round, the Marines bought the next; repeat ad infinitum...

The next morning, the Canadian officer woke up to find the USMC eagle tattooed from shoulder to shoulder across his chest.

Nice!
(Elle Toupee, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 14:45, Reply)

Hallucinations
As a newly minted Second Lieutenant in The USMC (Uncle Sam's Mis-guided Children) I had the honor of taking part in simulated combat training. This training took place over 8 days and involved leading a Platoon of Marines through a simulation involving calling in artillery, air strikes and all the other aspects of warfare one might expect in the modern conventional warfare theater.

It was a hoot...except for staying up for 8 days. Sure, there were catnaps, but in that state, you are terrified (especially as a Second Lieutenant wanting to make a good impression) of screwing up. So you stay awake...right up until the serious hallucinations start kicking in.

I was, apparently, trying to put a quarter that I had bummed off one of my NCO's into a tree that I was convinced was a Coke machine. My Sergeant said I told him I "needed the caffein."

My marks for the exercise? I aced it. :D

I have more of these, and honestly, just once I would like to make the first page...so I hope some of you will be able to put aside the knowledge that 1) I am a Yank and 2) that I served in the US imperialist war machine (and enjoyed it), and vote for my post. :)

Its not much to ask really...is it? I will even refrain from making the obligatory remarks about my size and prowess.

Semper Fi!
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 6:08, Reply)

Picking on the Yanks
While I was at High School in America, I often found myself having to defend my Britishness, cue one day where our millitary was being poked fun at- so i pointed out we had the SAS, who are some of the best soldiers in the world.

One guy had never heard of them and said that the US Deltaforce were the best in the world- so i thought i'd educate him and tell him about the SAS

I managed to convince him (and a large portion of the other people overhearing the conversation) that in the SAS......
They learn how to dodge bullets
They sleep on barbed wire as part of their training, and carry on doing it afterwards just for the hell of it
They must be able to run a 4 minute mile in full kit
They don't need food, water or rest for up to 3 days
They can kill a man using only their little finger
They can kill with a single sheet of paper
They frequently will make their "combat drops" (jumping out of a plane) out of jets traveling over the speed of sound
They can stop their own breathing and heart beat for up to 5 minutes, so they can avoid detection or play dead

and the best.....
They drink pints of vodka like everyone else drinks beer, as thats the only way they can even think to get drunk.

Not content with this I added the fact there was the SBS (special boat service) who can do everything the SAS can do, but also do it under water

yep i conviced the guy they could and often did parachute under water

you know you like the length
(bignutter, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 4:57, Reply)

A friend in the Canadian Forces DART
(Disaster Assistance Response Team) went to India to help with the cleanup after the tsunami. He was walking through the trees at dusk and kicked something that felt odd. He looked down and was face-to-face with a kimodo dragon. He found out how fast he could run!
(ghettobooty, Sun 26 Mar 2006, 3:56, Reply)

older cousin in the army
stationed in germany, is driving down the autobahn in some tank or other, possibly a predator.

anyway, without any army knowledge myself, apparently the slightly-above-40 miles per hour it was doing was considered rather nippy for a tank, and if you're driving this fast moving mass of heavy metal, your braking distance is increased somewhat.

at which point some person decides to pull in front of him in a highly reckless way, forcing him to slam on the brakes. now apparently, on a tank, theres a bit in the front axle with a round hole in, so as you slam down on the brakes, a rod enters the hole and holds the axle still. jerky and abrupt, but nonetheless a good braking method.

unfortunately, this works best at slow tank speeds, such as 5-10 miles per hour, as when you try to brake at top speed, the rod tends to get sheared off, and you are left going at top speed.

somehow, he managed to hit the brakes at such a perfect moment that the rod slid in perfectly, and stopped the tank so hard that the back end flipped up to match the sudden jerk action at the front.

this resulted in the tank flipping forwards and bending the barrel, then falling backwards, only to pause with the rear end of the tank facing upwards at about 2 o'clock.

In nought but shock and amusement, cuz then proceeds to climb out of the hatch on top to discover a vw beetle underneath his tank, with a very scared woman sitting between two huge tank treads. apparently it was a good laugh, go figure..
(fantomex, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 23:48, Reply)

CCF? ha....
so we had the day out on the army base. guns EVERYWHERE! cool! tanks, planes etc. it was pure w00tage. signed up for CCF as soon as i could.

day 1: you dont get to shoot for another year til you have mastered marching and safety.

fuck that shit... quit after one day
aces :)
(quibble, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 23:38, Reply)

He loved planes more than me
Briefly went out with this guy. He was well into planes and in the ATC at our Uni. He had pictures of planes on his wall in his room and could spout about them for hours. That relationship didn't last long; I couldn't compete with those planes.

Lived in Hampshire for 6 years and know a lot of army wives and girlfriends and all the ones I've met are nice. :)
(Clarabelle is reverting to type on, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 19:45, Reply)

during some old revolution or other
a distant uncle of mine was carried off by the bolsheviks...

though what happened to his best mate was possibly worse he was dragged away by the cossacks
(Paul1574 dont mind me im just lurking...., Sat 25 Mar 2006, 18:57, Reply)

I was in the Air Cadets too
Which means I flew a plane (at 14) before I lost my virginity (16).
( cupboardy, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 18:55, Reply)

dont mention the war!
my grandad did a lot of work behind enemy lines during the war....collaborating mainly

and upon being asked if he had any WWII memorobelia he replied "well i've still got a bit of shrapnel stuck in my arse"

(some or all of this may be made up)
(Paul1574 dont mind me im just lurking...., Sat 25 Mar 2006, 18:33, Reply)

My attempt to get to fly shitty planes
I've only had one experience of the armed forces, and this was with the RAF when I was about 16 in lower sixth...

A nice pilot man came to talk at my school about being in the RAF. Somehow me and a mate were persuaded to go for an interview to get on this scholarship thing where you learnt how to fly a glider or something during the summer holidays.

Anyway to cut a long story short I got through the first round of interviews and was sent to Cranwell to go through some more tests. God knows how as I never actually expressed any interest in being in the RAF, and didn't particularly care for being high off the ground. Probably because I got to skive school for a couple of days...

So I got to Cranwell. First weird thing about this place was a random housing estate of about 12 houses in a cul-de-sac in the middle of a field. Distinctly creepy feeling about that place...like return of the bodysnatchers. Met the 30 or so other kids who I soon discovered had ALL been in the cadets and were OBSESSED with planes. They knew the name and specifics of every single plane/helicopter the RAF had ever had.I couldn't name one plane. So this girl helped me learn them all, all night.

Next day was the interview process. The medical was the best bit as we had to sit round completely naked in these dressing gowns that were so obscenely short they didn't even cover your arse - perverts. Piss test - passed (no drugs at that point), vision test 20/20...
Then came the bit where you had to test co-ordination. I got 1/9 cos I have the co-ordination of bambi when its just emerged from its mothers' womb, and I never played doom or suchlike.

Then came the interview:
RAF Man: Which of our aircraft do you admire most then?
Me: The chinook helicopter
RAF Man: Why?
Me: Cos it has two rotor thingys.

RAF Man: So have you any physical or sporting achievements that you are particularly proud of?
Me: Yes, I was captain of the swimming team and the hockey team at school! (Lie - I was completely shit at both)

Needless to say I didn't get in. Funny thing was that my grandad's mate ran the same plane flying programme for the navy, and upon hearing that the RAF rejected me, offered me a place on his programme without any of the interview shit!
I declined...one night at Cranwell was enough for me.
So I got rejected, probably wasted a bit of HM Forces budget, ah well that'll teach them to send Manc kids to Cranwell...
(wills84, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 18:32, Reply)

Cadet Darling.
I'll never forget meeting Cadet Darling. I'm sure you've all seen Blackadder. You'll know the amount of fun that can be had at the expense of someone with a name like this. It didn't help his case that he was the reincarnation of Frank Spencer, completely gormless.

The week involved all kinds of amusement derived from giving him orders (I was a corporal, this was air cadets, I was GOD). "DARLING, GET OUT OF BED!" "sorry corporal". "DARLING, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" "sorry corporal". "DARLING, WHERE IS YOUR BERET?" "sorry corporal". You get the picture.

Then Darling's wallet disappeared. He assured me, and a few staff officers, that he'd searched ever inch of his kit and he was sure someone had stolen it. We got all the cadets to search the area and all their own kit to make sure it hadn't got there by accident. No sign of it. As none of the cadets were going anywhere and it was getting late, we told him not to worry and we'd sort it out in the morning.

In t'morning, we got all the cadets lined up for a last "are you SURE you didn't accidentally pocked it" type inquiry before we started shovelling shit in their direction. General "no" type reply, as cadet Darling staggers out of his tent having found it in the suitcase he swore he'd emptied twice.

"DARLING!"
"sorry corporal"
( Noit happy baby orangutan, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 18:26, Reply)

This means war
It was that time of year when the services tour schools looking for likely victims - sorry, recruits. We'd heard that this year not only would we get a visit from a gaggle of smooth squaddies in a Transit but they would be bringing a real live helicopter. The tour started well on the other side of the county, pictures in the local rag and lots of excitement. Then, the smooth squaddies turn up but no helicopter. "Sorry, " says the top squaddie, it's been urgently recalled down South ." Lots of disappointment, of course, but that's life. What they didn't announce, for fear of rioting, was the real reason for its recall. During its visit to a school which was near enough for revenge attacks, some bastards had scratched their names on the side of it.
(The Jannie, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 18:21, Reply)

I've never been in the army but...
I remember once I went paintballing with a mate of mine. We got to the place and there was the usual crowd of people and this one bloke from the TA. Now I'm saying the TA is shit, but it is, and this bloke obviously thought because he was in the TA he was a one man SAS squad and tried his best to look hard in front of his girlfriend but ended up looking like a bit of a twat who didnt know what he was doing

Anyway the funniest part of this little experience was when he was on the opposite team to me and my mate and we had a kick ass defencive position. So along comes action man ducking and diving trying to look professional, he then procedes to 'take cover' in a ditch whilst me and said friend shoot him repeatedly in the head. He walks off the field looking like he's just been told he had penis cancer. HA!
(Absynth&Cheese Have you tasted my Jesus, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 17:47, Reply)

Please remind yourselves that i was 14 and it was cadets.
Drill Instructor - Get up the rope!

Me. - Sir, i cannot get up the rope, Sir!

Drill Instructor - Schmuck! I am ordering you to get up the rope. Are you disobeying a direct order.

Me - Sir. I cannot get up the rope, Sir.

Drill Instructor - What kind of yellow faggot are you! Did the doctor make a mistake and hand your mother her placenta sack or did she give birth to a boy!

Me - Sir. She gave birth to a boy, sir.

Drill Instructor - Then get up the fucking rope, Schmuck.

Me - Sir. I really... I can't... the rope, Sir.

Drill Instructor - Well I hope your mothers proud. She's the parent and owner of a talking sack of shit. That's quite a feat. She should be in Ripley's believe it or not. She should be in the guiness book of records. I don't think anybody has ever passed a whinging turd before. Is your mother proud of you Schmuck?

Me - Sir, My mother hung herself three years ago, sir.

Drill Instructor - Oh. So the rope is reminding...

Me - Sir, Yes Sir.

Drill Instructor - Move on to the next obstacle.
(I'm a schmuck, i did a schmucky thing. is unlurking thanks to unemployment, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 15:16, Reply)

Confusion
Thanks to Furey´s post this came to my mind:

Downtown Prizren, Summer 2005. Our Captain and the one from the Medic Section thought it was nice to stage an accident happening while we were patrolling the streets so they could test the reaction time of the medics.
Due to the fact that both were each sporting 3 different radios, the normal one, a motorola and a satelite celly the whole thing went terribly wrong making the rest of us running through the streets in teams of 2 trying to find the medics and guiding them to the wounded comrade.

During all that I was ordered to pretend giving first aid to my comrade and had a chance to listen to the two captains talking to each other.
The medic cptn said one sentence that will be on my mind forever when hearing about radio communication.

"I just hope we manage to confuse the enemy as much as we confuse ourselves"

It´s so true...
(Leitnhax, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 15:09, Reply)

To all the naysayers
There seems to be quite a lot of negatvity towards the amred forces on here - I guess its a sign of the times, way things change. Thing is, it showed me a lot of what I could do.

I did my two weeks basic training (standard for the SAS - Saturdays and Sundays as we were affectionally known) and for my sins I was sent to do mine with the Royal Artillery at Woolwich. Out of the 72 squaddies on our course, I was one of the less competent shall we say. As I mentioned before, I came from a small Corps of Drums and didn't get much training apart from in music, plus I was unfit and generally a bit of a weed, and nowehere else did this show up more than on the assault course.

The one at Woolwich is a bastard, and the PTI's are bastards as well to people like me. You started at the first obstacle - a high metal bar. The PTI would instruct you how to attack the obstacle and off you would go. You were then introduced to the second obstacle - a low metal bar which you would have to go under. Again you were shown how to attack it, then you were sent back to the beginning to do the first then second obstacle. and on this went - each time you were shown, each time you went back to the beginning and did all the proceeding obstacles.

One of the obstackes was a 12 foot wall, which you were boosted up on to by another squaddie, Tony - a lovely bloke and the only coloured guy on the course. Anyway he boosted me up, but as I was already suffering, I came off the wall wrong - rather than hang by your fingernails and drop and roll, I just bundled myself over and landed on my feet, buggaring up my ankle good and proper.

No one saw me do it, and when I started limping back, I suddenly picked up from the Captain the nickname Mr Bean, a real confidence builder. By the time I had completed the land based obstacles I was in agony and exhausted. And also by that time at least one guy had given up and got RTU'd (Returned To Unit - aka failed). At this point I should have done the same, but I remember my mate who had originally got me in my unit in the first place offering up the advice that as long as you tried and kept going until you could not go no more, the army would appreciate that. So I decide to carry on.

We now got to the water obstacles - I say water, but this stuff was thick and black, and made no better as our bombardier proceeded to piss in the water whilst the PTI instructor gave us the overview of the obstacles. The first was a 10 meter concrete tube, not with the snags in (at least I don't recall there being any) as mentioned in a previous post, but still full of black, stagnant and filthy water. I did all I could to pull myself through it, and by now I was starting to lose the plot a bit. I was already last after the run and the last two obstacles were two ten meter man-made lakes - by the time I had got there they had sent back a couple of finishers to encourage you through. I jumped into this thick black shit to find the bottom was matted with fallen tree parts and vegetation, I remembertaking about three steps and falling face forward into the shit, and thye next thing having my head pulled above the water and being dragged to the other side by two squaddies, while a young bombardier hurled utter abuse at me from the side. They dragged me to the end and were ordered back to barracks, while the Bomb came over and hurled more abuse at me.

It was then I just looked at him, completely dropped the soldier facade and said like you would to a pal down the pub that I could not go on, I had done my best but my ankle was royally screwed and that it was time to RTU me. But he wouldn't have it and ordered me in to the second lake - I just droppped in, falling under as I did and the abuse came again - how he was going to kick the shit out of me if he had to jump in after me. I looked at him, managed about two steps before I went under again. The next thing was him picking me up by the neck of my coveralls, hurling yet more abuse and dragging me to the end of this pit of shit.

I was dragged out of the pit by the now drenched and very pissed off bombardier, and I was ordered to complete the run back to the base - 3 miles, and I still don't know what happened but even through the pain and complete exhaustion something inside me switched, and I just started running. Well I say running, it was more of a spastic limp, but I just somehow knew I was not going to give up now. At this point the Bombardier had noticed I had not been lying and that I was in extreme pain and he offered me to rest up - I declined - I had just got it into my head that I was going to finish the course or it would finish me, and as I approached the barracks guard house I was joined by a few people who had already finished to egg me on all the way back to our block - you have no idea how much that can really lift you, and as I approached the block a load of people were there cheering me in - I had finished a clear 10 minutes after the person before me and quite sometime after the superfit lads. When I got to the block they had to strip me as I was so exhausted I could hardly manage. But I had - I'd done it - apparently 4 other guys had given up and I swear if it hadn't been for the bombardier seeing something in me so would I. I came last by a bloody mile, but because of my guts and determination was treated like a hero.

About an hour later I was back in my room, showered and back in my drill kit when the bombardier came in to see how I was. I explained that I had really screwed my ankle up but did not want to go to the doctor until thursday, as if you got signed off of duty for more than 2 days, you automatically failed - I knew if I could wing it for a couple of days I could still pass out with my colleagues. He agreed and then as he walked out of the room, just said as he went "That's one of the bravest things I have seen from a Soldier this morning" - It was then I realise just how far I had really pushed myself.

I lasted the course - just - I had to be pulled out of the fitness test after 3 laps of the parade ground at Woolwich, and then the saddest thing was being noticed that I couldn't stand to attention properly as we practised for our passing out parade. The final day, as all the families and friends were out on the parade ground, I had to open the doors and watch all my colleagues, all done up to the nines and proud as fuck marching out to pass out, knowing I had done so to, yet couldn't share the glory. Yeah I cried, I don't mind admitting but when you realise how much you have been pushed, what you have accomplished and just really what you can do, and not get the recognition for it, you'd probably do the same to.

The other thing was getting nominated for most improved recruit and getting a rousing round of applause in a class one day towards the end - No I didn't win, but amongst the competition I was in, the nomination was truly amazing.

Don't every time you hear about abuse cases by British Troops in Iraq, or violence out in Colchester pubs or similar think all squaddies are idiots and the Army is a bad thing. It introduced me to some of the most amazing people on whom you could be completely 100% reliant without even knowing their name. It made me realise that my own pre-defined limitations were not true, and that I could accomplish so much more, and that the Army made me truly proud of myself and gave me the confidence to attempt many things through life. The guy who is writing this would not be the same guy if he had not had this short time in the army - and my only regret is that I never enlisted full time.

Army? I fucking loved it.
(Waynster James Joyce is fucking my sister!, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 14:46, Reply)

Back 'tin day
I was in the army. Fightin in World War II, I tell ya. Those bloody germans and there banana cannons, well, it just right took the piss up the avenue. One time, I was having a wank, and I got shot in 't willy, leavin' me infertile.

Eventually it got gangree and dropped orf, but thats another tale for another day..
(getdown is not spanish, Sat 25 Mar 2006, 14:40, Reply)