CHAPTER 2

Training at Catterick

On arrival at the Infantry Training Centre at Catterick, I found a real mix of characters of whom the majority were from the north of England with only around four or five of us coming from southern counties. I was initially nicknamed the ‘posh sounding bloke’ or on occasions something less polite. As we got to know each other during the first few weeks, I became more widely known as, ‘Soap Dish’ because I used to put my cigarettes in a soap dish to stop them getting crushed or wet in the rain. I suppose everyone has to be called something. I thought it was a brilliant idea, but it did not catch on and everyone else thought it was funny.

Training did not prove to be particularly tough for me, nothing like that shown in films such as Full Metal Jacket, for example, which depicted basic training in the 1960s US Marine style. I do remember that it was initially a bit of a shock to the system sharing a room with three or four other guys for the first time in my life. This strange experience was further compounded by the fact that for the first six weeks we were not allowed to have any luxuries at all. We were not permitted to go home or allowed to wear berets at this stage, wearing what were known as ‘crow caps’: peaked combat caps which signify the newest batch of recruits who know nothing.

At this early stage of our training the only proper contact we had was with each other. I do remember our section commander literally ordering us to write a letter home. His name was Corporal Hindmarsh, a proper Geordie who was really quite an amusing guy and who, fortunately for me, took a shine to me. He really knew his stuff, was fair and did not muck any of us about. We liked and respected him for his knowledge and skills although, to be fair, all of the corporals really knew their stuff as the army tended to pick the best of the bunch from the infantry to be instructors at Catterick. The standard of training was high and after completing a two-year posting at the Infantry Training Centre, instructors were either promoted, if already qualified for the next rank up, or sent on a promotion course.

After the initial six weeks training, things became a little easier and we were allowed to have just a few of life’s luxuries that had been lacking up until that point. These were just simple things that you would normally take for granted in normal life – televisions, DVD players and being permitted to put up posters. This extended to being allowed to have duvets, whereas previously we had to make our beds in the old school way with sheets, blankets and ‘hospital corners.’ The latter, along with literally every aspect of our kit, were inspected almost daily and I lost count of the number of times my bed was torn apart. In fact, it became such a frequent occurrence that I decided to save time in the morning before an inspection by making my bed perfectly the night before and sleeping on the floor in my sleeping bag. At one point we were actually shown how to shave; looking back on it now, I suppose we were all still very young at that time and I think I had only actually shaved twice in my life up to that point.

Our training was conducted stage by stage, and we carried out day and a half long exercises with rifles that contained no ammunition, so we could simply get used to the feel of them while performing these tasks in full equipment. We then progressed to three-day exercises and then ones lasting up to a week, which I think was the longest at Catterick. I enjoyed the bayonet training which lasted all day, two days being devoted to this in all. I remember it particularly because it was different in the sense that it was adrenalin fuelled training all through the day. We were normally woken up at 5.00 am each morning; on this particular morning we were woken at 4.00 am. This was not a gentle ruffle of the hair and an, ‘OK sunshine, time to wake up.’ On the contrary, it was like a bomb going off in the room. The lights were snapped on and the instructors came in banging things, kicking the bins, punching the doors, throwing the duvets off us and literally dragging us out of bed without warning. I remember all of us leaping out of our beds as the room echoed to shouts of, ‘Stand by your beds! Stand by your beds!’, feeling dazed and not quite with it. Corporal Hindmarsh shouted that we had five seconds to tear apart each other’s lockers.

We really did not want to do that because we all knew just how long it took to making our bedspaces perfect. But we did, following which we were dragged out in to the freezing corridor in our boxer shorts, not permitted to say anything or look at anyone. All the while we were subjected to a constant stream of verbal abuse, being accused of not taking care of our kits and bedspace areas. There were taunts of, ‘You’re nothing! You want to be soldiers? You’ll never be soldiers!’ After that we were sent off to get dressed but not to look at or speak to anyone. Woe betide anyone who was caught even making eye contact, let alone talking to anyone, the punishment being made to do countless press-ups and similar exercises to the point of exhaustion.

We were then marched down to the armoury where the instructors drilled us with shouts of, ‘what’s a bayonet for?’ and, ‘what’s it made of?.’ In return, we would respond with shouts of, ‘cold hard steel!.’ The instructors were winding us up as much as possible. They were successful, and I for one understood the aim of the exercise.

We were running across a football pitch, falling to the ground when a whistle blew and then jumping to our feet when the whistle blew again. It was pouring with rain and the ground was waterlogged, so we were covered in mud and soaked through. It was also very slippery, and running around carrying rifles with fixed bayonets in such conditions was deemed too dangerous; consequently, due to health and safety regulations, we could only run without our weapons. Eventually, utterly exhausted, covered in mud and soaked, we were marched through to a field where the instructors had erected a number of dummies with red paint balloons inside them. We were ordered initially to walk up to the dummies screaming our heads off, ensuring we stabbed them a couple of times. If anyone did not attack the dummies with sufficient aggression or scream vigorously enough, the whole platoon was ordered to run to the farthest tree on the training field and back in the driving rain. While we did this, cursing the man in question but laughing all the same, we had to drop to the floor as the whistle was blown and then jump up again. This went on for a further four or five hours. To finish off the day, the dummies were laid out in a circuit and we were required to crawl along with our rifles, stabbing like mad men each time we reached a prone dummy. When we reached the last dummy, we unfixed the bayonet from the rifle and used it as a knife to stab the dummy.

We finally finished and were marched back to the barracks for something to eat, being allowed to talk again and treated as being human again. Bizarre though this may seem and despite how it sounds, at the age of seventeen it was actually one of the most fun things I had ever done and I really enjoyed it. I must admit to looking back at that day often and, in hindsight with an adult perspective, often chuckle while remembering how at that time I was having the time of my life and loving every minute of it.

At the end of twelve weeks of training, Corporal Hindmarsh left us to do the senior Brecon course to qualify him for promotion to sergeant, before rejoining his battalion of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers because his two-year stint as an instructor at the ITC had come to an end. He was replaced by another Geordie called Corporal Norris, who also proved to be a good guy. At this point I was transferred to another section commanded by a mad Irishman called Corporal Cree whom I also liked and, more importantly, respected. Subsequently, I was transferred yet again to another section because of various injuries that occurred and was required to go through the process of, ‘back squadding’ for failure to make the grade. My last section commander wore the same cap badge as me, that of the Royal Anglian Regiment, but seemed to be prejudiced against those due to go to the 1st Battalion (known as The Vikings) rather than his own unit, the 2nd Battalion (The Poachers). This was disappointing, but I put it down to being all part of the real world and politics.

Our training continued on through all its stages, including the Annual Personal Weapons Test, which we had to pass, and on through more skill at arms training with assessment, including shooting up to 400 metres with our SA80 A1 rifles. I achieved marksman level on this assessment and was awarded the prize for best shot in my platoon, which was a sign of things to come. I still have that little tankard with my name engraved on it to this day. In fact, I always have a pint out of it on Christmas Day as my own little tradition as another member of the family that has been awarded for his marksmanship. It always makes me smile.

Eventually, at the end of twenty-four weeks, I completed my training and on 26 September 2003 I passed out of ITC Catterick with the family there for our passing-out parade. I remember the day as being really nice and sunny, which was a fitting end to an enjoyable period and a great start to my first two weeks leave.

On 6 October 2003, at not quite eighteen years of age, I joined the 1st Battalion The Royal Anglian Regiment and was posted to No. 9 Platoon, of C Company, which was for me at the time absolutely living the dream.