Chapter 11
Soon after leaving Sandhurst, I enlisted in the 7th Hussars, a smartish cavalry regiment, although, before I took to my duties, I was posted to a camp in Dorset, south-west of England, to acquire the specific skills I needed to drive the armoured cars and try and get the guns pointing roughly towards the target. A group of us, fresh faced young officers - one of whom I'd known at Sandhurst - arrived bursting with military potential like young pups, where we were quickly fed the basics of tank warfare. Nineteen years old, and determined to prove ourselves. The training was not nearly as strict as it had been at the Academy, and so we still found time to learn some of the more important life skills the army offered, such as male bonding, long drinking sessions and how to throw a jolly good party behind the commanding officer's back, with the young ladies from the village, and once or twice a flock of geese we'd smuggled up from the lake, just to make things more lively.
Once my training in Dorset was complete, I faced the greatest challenge of any new officer - standing up in front of my platoon for the first time. My nerves were racing as I finished doing up my boots, put on my beret, and strode in to the drill hall to meet my new troop. There they were - a bunch of privates, lance corporals, corporals and sergeants, soldiers ranging from boys still in their teens to roughened old scouts who had seen it all before. I knew most of their opinions of me would be that I was an inexperienced upper-class twit, who probably knew more about commanding a drinking squad than a troop of soldiers and needed to be shown his place as quickly as possible. But, chin high, and boots polished, I introduced myself to my new platoon. I thought that, as long as I made sure everyone knew what they were doing - half the time, I had no clue myself! - and could do it with a sense of humour, I'd be ok.
We were soon given our new orders. A simple peacekeeping mission in Northern Ireland. Scouting the perimeters, keeping an eye on national boarders and generally trying to prevent any vulgar brawls. For a first mission, it was an enjoyable experience. The orders were simple, the work not too difficult, it built up my confidence and the soldiers soon began to respect me. I even become friends with the crusty old colour sergeant, who'd, from the start, took me as naïve teenager, playing cops and robbers.
And at 1800 hours every evening, the rest of the young officers and I set out into town to cause chaos in the drinking arena - out of sight of the soldiers, of course, who thought we were all stiff upper-lipped wooden signs, whose fathers all owned half of Scotland. It was the ultimate work-hard, play-hard way of life. We worked our guts out during the day, only to drink them out in the evening. The towns people quite understandably took us for a bunch of foul youths, who could never possibly do any work because we were always drunk. But we took this lifestyle, because it was widely accepted in the army that everyday could be your last. We had to have a good time, to keep ourselves sane - because it was perfectly possible that the next day we could be shot. And so, my first mission paved the way for my later career in the army, both in and out of barracks. But then we received our next orders. We were going back to England to start training in urban warfare. Training was to become deadly serious. We were being posted to Iraq.