Armoured Farmer A Tankies Tales

[arthur3bums]

I was asked to put my book on here, so here goes.
The book will be out in July, I am just finishing the first proof read from the publisher and here is the cover. The title and any other red text will be changed to a Brunswick green colour.



Here is a snippet to whet your appetites.

Chapter 7.

‘MAD DOGS AND WESTCOUNTRYMEN’

By the middle of November 1976 the whole of 3 RTR had become UK based and we had settled into the normal routines associated with barrack life.
The first routine, which was new to me, was Cambrai day.
Within the RTR Cambrai day is a name synonymous with November 20th. On this day in 1917 the first successful and significant Tank action in history took place at Cambrai on the then Western Front. Our regimental ancestors in what was then the Tank Corps had sallied forth against the might of the Imperial German army and given them a damn good thrashing. To us, each year on that date we celebrated the great day when Tanks and their crews came of age. It has always been an opportunity as I say, to celebrate this battle honour but also to remember the fallen members of our ranks who had paid the supreme sacrifice in an attempt to secure the future generations.
I will now relate my first Cambrai day experience by the clock. Chronological occurrences vary little year to year but obviously the various stunts and pranks in between do!

First thing in the morning at ‘worm fart’ (it was he who beat the early bird!) we were rudely awoken in bed by our Sqn’s Officers and senior NCOs who were banging dustbin lids, blowing bugles and generally screaming the block down. This was the announcement of the days start known as ‘Gunfire’, lets face it however, all that noise was no substitute for the roar of guns. So as our room door was thrown open, a lit thunderflash careened across the floor and as it exploded our beds and bodies rocked with the shock of percussion! In came the culprits who included ‘Taff’ the SSM, between them they pushed a trolley with an urn of tea wobbling precariously on top. Around the urn were stacked full and empty rum bottles. The previous night we had each placed a mug on our bedside lockers ready for the tea. But it would be fair to say that I was not prepared for my head being pulled backwards and an over generous gush of rum being poured down my exposed throat. I then received a pat on the head and the praise “good lad” during which time my mug had been filled with tea from the urn and placed in my hand. I eagerly gulped the tea to wash the acrid taste of rum from my mouth, then I discovered that the tea was in fact more rum than tea. Faced with this fresh onslaught to my taste buds I simply gave up and drank heartily.

I should like at this juncture to explain the rum. When the Tank Corps was formed by our forefathers, the fledgling corps was held under the auspices of the Admiralty and not the Army. So if you see pictures of the first tanks you may see them with the initials HMLS painted on followed by the tanks name. These initials stand for His Majesties Land Ship echoing the nautical origins of the Corps. Our cap badge motto of ‘Fear Naught’ was nearly ‘Dread Naught’ until someone thought this Naval connection was ‘beyond the pale’. Indeed as the first guns found suitable for tank use were designed for ships a number of recruits were taken from the ranks of Matelots. So our Naval origins stuck, and some traditions such as the ‘tot’ before action. Certainly each of our SQMS’ stores had wax sealed bottles of rum ‘For war issue’ locked away while I served.
All this tradition served to make a rousing start to Cambrai day.
After ‘Gunfire’ we went to breakfast, returned to our room where our chum ‘Rabbit’ was dishing out bottles of beer. It was still not 8 o’clock and here we were drinking like fish. As we sat talking, a loud roar from outside grabbed our attention. We rushed outside onto the veranda walkway to see what was causing all the shouting. There before us we saw, on the grass outside B Sqn block, a white wooden horse with three ‘nigs’, naked, tied to its back. Other members of the Sqn were running from the block and throwing the contents of some buckets over the poor captives, I won’t describe the contents of the buckets, but leave it to your imagination.

The horse, it transpired, was the result of a ‘raiding party’ on the wire hut containing the Garrison’s Polo training equipment. The hut now lay on its side and the wooden horse was gone. The poor horse ended up dismembered in various locations around our barracks. This was another Cambrai tradition, raiding parties were despatched to all the neighbouring barracks, their mission being to steal as much paraphernalia from other units as possible. This caused much consternation among the various owners as absolutely nothing was sacred.
In fact when we had been in Fallingbostel a neighbouring Cavalry regiment had celebrated their battle honour day by sending in a raid overnight to carry out a prank. The following morning when our RHQ Troop opened their hangars they found two scout cars painted shocking pink. Well it was only natural that on the next Cambrai day a party had raided their barracks to repay the favour, the upshot of this escapade was that two days later the Cavalry units CO had his horse put down as it was suffering from lead poisoning due to the fact it had been painted silver. What didn’t help were the words ‘Hi Ho silver away’ splashed in red on its rump! Relations between our units were never the same again. But more on Cambrai raids later.
After we had stopped laughing over the now filthy ‘nigs’ below, we returned to our rooms to prepare for the mornings church service. This was our regiments personal act of remembrance and was a solemn affair albeit we were often still quite under the influence of ‘Gunfire’. The service over, we returned to drinking and got ready for lunch. Lunch was a quite fraught affair on Cambrai day, we Junior ranks would get to the cookhouse and await the arrival of the Officers and Senior NCOs who would serve us our lunch washed down with beer. The Officers and Senior NCOs would have also been drinking together in the Mess, so by now they too were in ‘high spirits’. Either way, served we were and during the meal the Commanding Officer would make a speech about the Third Tanks and what a crack unit we were and other morale boosting comments amid much banging on tables and cheering from us. God it was good being a Tankie.
After the speech we sat cheering and generally being very vocal. That afternoon we were to see the final of the ‘Tommy cup’. This was an inter squadron football competition the final of which was always reserved for Cambrai day. The final was between C and A squadron and we were fully prepared and let A squadron, who had bussed over from Warminster for the day, know all about it. Our shouting match soon erupted into the inevitable food fight. It started with a lonely ‘flicked’ pea. The pea didn’t stay lonely for long as it was quickly being followed by food including complete meals on plates hurtling through the air. The seventies were known for football hooliganism after all! The Officers quickly vacated the cookhouse leaving the NCOs to try and stop the fracas. The NCOs however, could plainly be seen searching for slit trenches in the tiled floor as they attempted to dodge the gastronomic missiles screaming overhead. The RSM turned purple and screaming, attempted to rally the NCOs into resistance. He didn’t meet with any success but eventually, due to a lack of ammunition and a fresh delivery of beer, a truce was called.
That afternoon the Tommy cup was won by the narrowest of margins by A sqn. The day then rolled on fairly uneventfully and was rounded off by the all ranks party that evening.

Before I finish this chapter I would like to mention the ‘Old comrades’ weekends we used to occasionally host at Tidworth. This was an opportunity for us to invite previous members of the regiment to visit us as our guests to witness the modern RTR and allow them to share their memories of ‘Tanking’ with us. These guys were great. I did wonder however, when one veteran of WW2 commented on his accommodation as ‘being little better than in 1944’. We met chaps who had even served in WW1, and my lasting memory will always be that whatever hardships they had suffered during their time, we were all linked by one passion, Tanks. The other thing that became apparent was the sparkle in their eyes and the wonderful sense of humour that only Tankies have. Everyone who met these men commented on what a great occasion it had been to share all their experiences good and bad.

[son-of-tiny]

Thanks mate looks like a good read, I can remember the painting of the horse and one day we can let on who they were . but not for me to say anyway top class can you put me on the list for a signed copy and how do I get the stickers from you
cheers pecker

[arthur3bums]

Pecker
Stickers - email me at [e-mail] I'll get them sorted for you. Currently working on a design for a fleece - similar theme to the stickers but, different badge etc on the back. My calculation is, the fleece should cost around £30 - £40 apiece direct from the makers.

[stallymaiden]

you can also put me down for one of your first signed copys also. just by chance does it mention stolly blowing up on range road Fally

Fear naught

[ironjon]

i would love to have a stickers also, will email you for request at the addy you gave. i must admit i love the drawings, they are fantastic m8. well done
fear naught
ironjon

[arthur3bums]

Pecker mate
Waiting as arranged
IronJon
Did you send a mail to [e-mail] yet?
There will be a second book - 'Armoured Farmer - Return of the Jelly' that won't be so much of a personal reminiscence as a collection of stories aswell. When the time comes I'll ask for offerings mates.
Cheers

[son-of-tiny]

hi mate sorry away till weekend will send chq when I get back has forgot to sign before I left sorry thread Art work now members as requested as flav as market stall in elland yorkshire selling loads of tank pictures only joking flav dont panic

[arthur3bums]

here is another snippet from chapter 2 - My first encounter with Chieftain in JLR.



Chapter 2.

The Beast.

Up until this point I have only spoken about our Infantry training or ‘Grunting’ as we called it. This I’m afraid is the Infanteer’s lot, the Infantry soldier was colloquially known as a ‘Grunt’ (General Recruit, UNTrainable) and therefore participated in the art of ‘Grunting’.
So here we were in The Royal Armoured Corps, and today would be the first day when we would get to smell, feel and even sit in our first real tank.
The morning started with the obligatory merry festive getting run off our feet, then back to the room, quick shower and change into our overalls. Our overalls were the green variety as worn by all units of the Armoured Corps with the exception of the Royal Tank Regiment who have always had the distinction of wearing black overalls. The R.T.R was where I was destined to be, I’d already chosen or ‘badged’ to the Third R.T.R as it recruited from the Westcountry and therefore was my natural choice. But for the moment I could only lust after my black overalls as I was still a ‘bleeder’ and we all wore the same uniform.
Anyway having got changed we all formed up for our daily ‘first parade’, which consisted mainly of our Troop Sergeants inspecting us and informing us of our inadequacies in wearing the Queens uniform.
“What the fcuk is that on your head son? A fcuking beret? I fcuking think not! It looks like you’ve done a wee in it! Yes, there, look a wee”.
With that the poor unfortunate lads beret was swiftly plucked from his bonce and the Sergeant ‘frisbee’d’ it across the landscape while screaming “WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
The beret came to rest in a suspiciously foul looking puddle and lay there looking unwanted and dishevelled.
Having sated himself at the poor chaps expense he then turned to the rest of us and made the long awaited announcement.
“Okay, listen up you crapheads, today is the day, yes the day when you start your transformation from tin to armoured soldiers. I have my doubts whether you’ll ever rate as tank men, but the curriculum says we will at least have a crack at training your miserable souls”.
With all that cheery repartee we just couldn’t wait for this next step in our adventure.
So off we marched to a date with destiny, well with a big cloud of smoke actually. As we neared the tank hangars all we could hear was a loud wail from an engine and a dense cloud of smoke drifted out the doors. Then, squeaking, roaring and belching smoke from its exhausts the beast known as a Chieftain tank loomed into view.
The Chieftain Main Battle Tank had first entered service in the early 1960’s. So by the time I first laid my sweaty palm on this one it had already gone through many evolutionary stages to become what stood before us now, the Mark 2. Little did I realise just how many changes were still to happen to Chieftain before it’s life effectively ended as it handed over the baton to its successor Challenger later in my career. Either way at this stage it was unimportant, quite frankly its very presence was at that time awe-inspiring. This leviathan was rated as the best MBT in the world. And boy could I sense it.

Our Instructor now turned to face us.
“Right lads it’s my dubious honour today to introduce you to the Chieftain Mark 2 MBT so without further ado... Chieftain Mark 2 this is C1 troop, C1 troop this is Chieftain Mark 2”.
He seemed to find this introduction amusing so we thought it best to politely titter along with him.
Having got through this formality he then, amidst much pointing and flailing of limbs, showed us the tanks salient points.
He slapped his hand onto the front of the vehicle, “this my lads is the glacis plate, no it hasn’t got bugger all to do with mints and polar bears, it is in fact the thickest piece of armour on the vehicle. It protects the front section of the hull, which is the name for the main body of the tank. Why, I hear you ask is it so important to protect the front? Well its because we, in British tanks do not, I repeat DO NOT show our arses to the enemy at any time, well, other than if we’re doing a moony, but not while we’re in a tank! The hole you can see in the glacis plate is the drivers hatch”.
Well that sealed it; I would be a driver then. The safest seat in the vehicle, just my cup of tea. I mean, come on, self preservation has to be the most natural human instinct, hasn’t it?
“Right then, one at a time into the drivers seat and I’ll show.........”
Stupid bloke there was no way he was ever going to finish that sentence as we stormed over him as one, all trying to get onto the tank first.
He quickly recouped, “AAAARGH, you bunch of barrstards, off the tank NOW and give me fifty pushups!”

Having duly exercised our biceps, we all stood up and cautiously waited our turn to descend into the depths of the drivers cab.
At last it was my turn, I lowered my legs followed by my torso through the opening until I came to rest on the seat. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I realised that the drivers cab was in fact fairly cramped. The instructor’s hand came in next to my face and began pointing out various features.
“On the left is the control panel for the Generator unit engine which powers the vehicle’s electrics. On the right is the control panel for the main engine which gives us our automotive power”.
Yes, things were becoming clear, clear as mud anyway! But wonder of wonders it had two engines. My immediate thought was just how confusing this could become.
“Down by your knees”, the instructor continued, “That long panel shows you engine revs, speed and a variety of warning lights and gauges”.
This really was becoming confusing.... pushbike to tank was a pretty big jump for a young country lad.
“On the floor you’ll see three pedals, right is the accelerator, centre is the brake and on the left the gear change”.
“Gear change?” I said.
“Yeah, look, up a bit, in the corner, yes that’s it, looks like a motorbike pedal. You hook your toes under it and flick up to change up a gear and put your foot on top of it and push down to change down a gear”.
“Oh, I get it”, I replied, “But where’s the clutch?” My thought was that this snippet of mechanical knowledge would impress him, but of course it didn’t.
“What fcuking clutch? This is a semi-automatic gearbox, so you don’t need a bloody clutch”.

How stupid of me, I should have known better. The rest of the troop clustered on the outside of the tank obviously did know better by the way they sniggered.
“Okay, on either side of you is a long stick, these are your steering levers or tillers as we call them. To go left pull the left one and vice versa for right. On the left on the floor is the handbrake”.
So far everything seemed fairly straightforward, and of course it was all new and exciting.
“As you are sat now is how the driver sits when driving ‘opened up’ he explained.
“ In battle we close all the hatches of course as we don’t want to die, now do we?” Much vigorous shaking of heads from all assembled ensued as the words ‘we’ and ‘dead’ sailed through the air.
“ The driver has to change his position so that he can close his hatch. He does this by activating these levers on his seat”. With that he reached in and pulled on a lever by my side and my backrest shot backwards at the same time as the seat dropped and I smacked the back of my head on the hatch rim as I collapsed with the seat. The result of course (apart from my sore head) was a massive guffaw from the assembled throng.
The instructor regained control of the group and continued relentlessly with his explanations.
“Look behind you monkey face, can you see a headrest flopped down behind you? Good!” Came his reply to his own question.
“ Now adjust it upwards until your head is supported by it and you can comfortably see out of the drivers sight above you.”
His words had become quite muffled now as I lay in the dark depths of the tank’s hull. I fumbled with the headrest and having grazed my head on some protuberance I managed to achieve the required position.
As I peered out of the periscopic sight in front of me, I could clearly see the instructor’s head and shoulders as he peered down into the hatch at the area now occupied by my groin.
“ Please Sarge, no blow jobs!” Came my witty remark, immediately followed by my witty scream as he punched me straight in my testicles!
“ Think you’re funny do you lad? Right lets have you out and give me a hundred push ups!”

[arthur3bums]

To you all
Firstly filthy lucre matters. I've not yet received [e-mail] requests for stickers other than Pecker who's gone somewhat quiet of late mate?!?!
Secondly - The book, the first proof corrections went off and the Printer's told me the 2nd proof should be with me this week!! I'm getting a bit well......excited now as the thing should be in print pretty soon!!! To mark the occasion here are my first memories of C Squadron in Fallingbarstool followed by the Quarterguard in London.

My first evening in C Squadron started with a couple of chaps appearing in my room and announcing it was time to be initiated. My thoughts flashed through the nightmares ahead. Would it be strange secret handshakes? Dancing naked through the barracks? No, none of the above. I was directed through the door just in time to be greeted by the sight of a drunken body flying through a pyramid of empty beer cans on a table. That body hurtling through the air crashed to the floor amid much laughter and cheering from the assembled throng. The hero lurched to his feet howling and one of my escorts told me that was ‘Switches’. Everybody seemed to have some form of nickname. ‘Switches’ had earned his whilst driving and leaving the safety switch on in his cab. This switch meant that the turret and gun control equipment couldn’t be operated to the frustration of the turret crew. The shouts of ‘Switches!’ earning him his nickname.
The can pyramid was only one of many party pieces taking place around the bar. Two men were having a beer can eating competition while three men were on the bar top attempting a form of wild can-can dance. One common factor was that everyone was blind drunk. Scared? Me? Fcuking right I was. My immediate thought, faced with this vision for the first time was ‘fcuk me, I’m dead’. No, wrong, I was in fact marched to the bar. When I arrived there I was presented with a huge glass. In this glass was a double measure of every spirit behind the bar topped off with beer to make the glass full. Or at least that was the recipe explained to me. I try, even today, not to dwell on the contents of that glass. The initiation task was quite simple... drink the contents... in one go! Well, drink it I did, suddenly everything seemed to gain a rosy glow. As I drained the last drop a huge cheer arose from the assembled throng. Much backslapping and “well dones” later I decided I was a happy chap. Even better, my drinks were free for the rest of the night. But, most importantly, I was now officially ‘adopted’ as a member of the squadron albeit as a ‘nig’.

That night I also met Staff Sergeant Jack Moreton. I was stood at the bar when a hand clapped me on the shoulder and he introduced himself. I was then subjected to about an hours worth of ‘war stories’. These were however real war stories. Jack was a veteran, during an exchange period with an Australian unit he had even served in Vietnam. Within ten minutes his stories of napalm-injured children nearly had me in tears. But Jack had really been there, when he had parade dress on, his medals were an awesome sight. It would be true to say that Jack, Troop Leader 12 Troop was the last of a breed. And his party piece for all new recruits was to inform them of the horrors of warfare.
Many more nights of happiness would be spent under the hospitable eaves of our squadron bar.

Another watering hole I frequented with new chum, Lance Corporal ‘Charlie’ Chaplin, was a quiet pub in town called ‘The Friendship’. This was owned by Sid (a British ex-Artilleryman) and his German wife Rita; they served the most wonderful food when we wanted a change from our cockroach-infested cookhouse.

The Regiment at this time was in fact preparing to move station back to England and Tidworth in Hampshire. This meant that all our vehicles were to be handed to our ‘swap’ regiment the 4th/7th Royal Dragoons. Therefore I was quickly exposed to the joys of vehicle servicing and painting. . . . . . . lots of painting. One afternoon in SHQ’s vehicle hangars we were told to paint the Squadron Landrover. In fact the troop corporal Terry told us “if it don’t fucking move, paint it green and black”. That was it, Trooper ‘plod’ Easton that evening in the bar, was still sporting the remnants of a unique green and black paint job. He was, quote ‘not fcuking amused’ unquote.

Our Squadron Leader at this time was Major ‘Bruce of the galloping teeth’ Duncan. His nickname was earned one morning as we paraded outside the squadron block. As the SSM gathered us together the OC came running out the block door waving his stick frantically while shouting to the SSM. He opened his mouth exposing his magnificent teeth and shouted “S’arnt Major’ this was followed by a surprised howl as he left the top step. He then did a marvellous mid air running demonstration as if in a cartoon. As the realisation of his inability to fly dawned on him, he nose-dived like a gooney bird into the pavement.
“Bollocks!” Came his muffled retort as he picked himself up. He then wiped as much blood as he could from his chin and surprised us with a sheepish grin. Needless to say, our immediate reaction was to howl with laughter at his misfortune.
First parade as it is still known is the morning ritual to gather the squadron together, check everybody’s present and correct, and then any special tasks are doled out and any announcements are made which will affect individuals, Troops or in fact the whole squadron.
Quite quickly in Fallingbostel I came to realise that first parades were in fact sometimes a source of amusement. One morning on parade 10 Troop’s sergeant reported one man absent. When the SSM asked who was missing the answer “Trooper Brown Sir!” was barked out in reply. SSM ‘Taff’ Cousins promptly spun on his heel to face the squadron block and began a monstrous shouting bout aimed at the building to his front.

“ Trooper Brown you barrstard, get your lazy fcukin arse out here on parade!”
This tirade lasted some five minutes as we all stood tittering awaiting the arrival of the miscreant. Eventually a loud “ Fcuk off!” emanated from a large bush in front of the block. “What’s all the fcuking fuss?” followed accompanied by the bush collapsing as Brown fell, naked out of the bush at the SSM’s feet. I say naked, but in fact Terry was wearing one sock, his tattoos and a party fez from the squadron bars festivities the night before. He was still clutching a can of beer in his hand, evidence that he was still ‘pisssed as a cricket’. As the naked vision before us attempted to stand up the SSM exploded in rage, “Corporal Berwick, get this fcuking idiot to the jail, NOW! I’ll see him at 18:00 tonight in best dress AND, HE’D BETTER BE FCUKING SOBER!” With that Brown was quick marched (wobbled is a better description) off to the guardroom to spend the day behind bars. That evening having paraded for the SSM and received 14 extra guard duties, he was back in the bar getting drunk with the rest of us. But discipline of this art worked very well in 3 RTR of the seventies because in a strange way we were being treated as adults. However had this event happened while on exercise or active duty the outcome would have been far removed from a ‘cooling’ period in the jail.

First parade completed, we would ‘fall out to our duties’ and head for the tank park. Quite a feat of endurance in its own right as it involved a lengthy walk across scrubland to reach the hangars.
The tank parks were laid out, each squadron’s hangars running parallel to each other with a concrete yard between them for working on. The hangars started with A sqn at the top, B sqn in the middle and ours at the bottom. The respective hangars did not face each other, so we could not watch the activity in front of B squadrons sheds and likewise they couldn’t watch us at work. The same obviously applied for A sqn.

As the warm summer days drew on to be replaced by the cooler pre- autumnal climate our preparations for ‘handover’ and our move to Tidworth became more hectic. Each day brought us a fresh batch of problems to play with. Somehow through the mayhem our sense of humour prevailed.
One day as we toiled on the tank park we suddenly heard muffled explosions echoing from the far side of B sqns hangars. Then, three steel helmets came falling from the sky crashing and rattling across the concrete. One however, made no noise whatsoever, this was because it hit Jack on the shoulder and knocked him from the top of a turret where he was working, to the ground. The cursing that ensued was surpassed only by the speed with which Jack disappeared off towards B Sqns Park. We could hear him ranting about how he’d “Stick my fcuking boot so far up some barrstards arse he’ll be able to undo my fcuking laces with his fcuking teeth!” for some time.

Meanwhile, with a shout of ‘mortar attack’ we were all galvanised into action. From nowhere bricks appeared, these were laid out in pairs across our park, about thirty helmets were produced from the hangar and placed with the rim of the helmet balanced on the bricks so that the helmet was effectively ‘aimed’ towards B sqn over the top of their hangar. Then loads of ‘thunderflashes’ (oversize bangers) were mysteriously produced and bound together in threes. A count down was then bawled across to us, as “one” was shouted we all simultaneously ignited our explosives and thrust them under the helmet in our charge. Suddenly the tank park erupted as a ragged volley of explosions thundered out and the helmets all took off and flew through the air and disappeared beyond B sqns roof. There followed an angry roar as a hail of steel helmets swamped B sqns men. Shortly after, Jack appeared at the end of our park looking pretty dishevelled as of course his own sqn had now also had a go at prematurely ending his career. The helmet salvoes continued until we all ran out of ‘thunderflashes’. B sqn came off worse of course because A sqn joined in the melee and B got caught in the middle of two barrages.

That night, naturally we had to celebrate our victory in the squadron bar amid much laughter, even Jack was seen enjoying himself. We worked out that he had in fact found the ‘helmet culprit’ and attempted to rearrange the wretched individuals internal organs. A strange man indeed our Jack, as hard as nails but not as hard as the helmet, which had hurled him from the tank. He found the next day that he’d fractured his arm during the fall.

The handover drew ever nearer, but not for me. I suddenly found myself having to wait a further three years for a handover.
This was because I, along with numerous others was returned to England and Tidworth early to prepare for a ‘Quarter guard’. The guard was to be provided in London at the M.O.D to mark the retirement of an ex-Tankie in the form of Field Marshall Carver.
All the recent arrivals from Junior Leaders were included along with other ‘selected’ ranks as the ability to march in step was still fresh in our minds. But in the week before the parade our RSM ensured we got plenty of practice ‘just in case we’d forgotten’. A strange phenomenon occurs in Tankies once basic training has faded over the years in service. Marching in particular becomes something ‘the infantry do’. Infantry seem to do quite a lot of marching. But Tankies? “No! We bloody drive everywhere!” This would be the stock answer to any enquiry as to our prowess at drill. The Quarter guard was to be a one off.

Once the RSM or ‘grot’ as he was affectionately known was happy that our drill was to the accepted standard, he ‘square bashed us for one last time and pronounced us ready. The only thing left to do was finish bulling our boots, oh dear, did I say finish bulling our boots? Ah, well, in reality we hadn’t actually started bulling our boots! The 4th/7th to the rescue!
“ Not a problem announced one of my colleagues. I know one of the Dragoons here and he’s got contacts!” So in due course a chap appeared with a suitcase looking for the entire world like the ‘spiv’ Joe Walker off ‘Dads Army’. He opened the case and informed us what an Aladdin’s cave it was. We peered in side to find spray cans with plain brown labels and the word ‘cleaneasy’ on them.

He explained that in these cans was..
“Instant bull lads, not even the oldest Guards Sergeant Major would be able to tell the fcuking difference!”
We looked on sceptically, in training we had all experimented with false bull. The best results had been with ‘Klear’ floor polish, until it rained that is. Then we could all be seen with a bright blue haze on our feet. It also cracked and flaked in the creased leather under the pressure of our stamping of feet. Needless to say, the result had been pain as our instructors meted out the merciless punishments. So instant bull? Yeah, yeah we’d heard it all before. But, undeterred this bloke asked for a pair of ordinary working boots to demonstrate. These were duly provided and he went to work. Firstly he brush polished the boots and then with a flourish produced a spray can and covered the boots with its contents. A smell of plastic filled the air, but lo, the boots looked like mirrors! Bloody bright mirrors at that.

He then got us to follow him to the washroom where he bounced the boots off the floor a few times and then held them under running water in a bath.
“Jesus H Christ, flaming wonderful!” We exclaimed in chorus as the boots were placed before us for inspection. They looked great and were not disrupted by the test they had just undergone. That was it; we couldn’t get our grubby paws on enough cans of this miracle. The guy was back another two days running demand was so great.
Of course when we next did a ‘best boots’ parade the RSM was mightily impressed. Strangely enough his boots looked like ours too. The only drawback to this discovery was for the poor soul who had provided his working boots for the demonstration. You see, once the parade was over he had two pairs of high gloss boots. One of which were for tank park use. The amount of pisss taking on first parade was phenomenal and try as he might he couldn’t get the damn stuff off.
Anyway, duly polished and drilled we set off for London. There was to be no practice run, marching through the capital is a one-chance wonder. But the night before we walked the route to see where we would be performing. Just seeing Horse Guards and the arch we had to march under en – route to the Ministry of Defence made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Outside the MOD we were shown a manhole cover on which the leading men would halt, and then ‘left dress’ our ranks. Right, that done it was back to Cavalry Barracks, Hounslow where we were accommodated. Once there we embarked that evening on a massive drinking competition in Traditional Tankie style. We were undoubtedly a novelty that night in the NAAFI. The girls of the WRAC thought Tankies were wonderful, especially ones with West Country accents and seemingly limitless supplies of beer. They even competed against us in a game of ‘Pass it on’. This dubious pastime involved a very large glass of beer, which is passed once round the assembled group who each take a drink. On the second pass around having taken a drink, that person is allowed to deposit just what he or she wants in the glass. The first person that can’t or won’t drink from the glass buys a round of spirits. I can assure you that dead spiders and cigarette ends were the least of our worries that night.

Next morning having filled our bellies with a hearty cookhouse breakfast we nursed our aching heads and paraded for transportation to the city. The RSM having got wind of our exploits the previous night decided on an impromptu bout of marching to shake up any vomit which might have later proved embarrassing. But, steadfast as ever we held on to our stomach contents and marched with vigour around barracks, amid much whistling from the WRAC block.

Off we went then, into the city, dismounted from the buses and got ‘formed up’ ready to march off on our route.
I explained earlier what we had to do, it sounded simple didn’t it? Ha Ha, nothing could be that simple for us Tankies.
The first error came as we marched through Admiralty Arch, we were to salute the Lifeguards Officer of the day mounted on horseback to our left, this we duly did except we should have been told right and ended up saluting a fcuking Trooper on his steed, a huge grin under the peak of his gleaming helmet. We corrected this on our return but later discovered we had saluted the Trooper again as the Officer had changed sides to try and compensate for our error. The mirth in their bars that evening could probably be heard for miles!
We marched bravely on as tourist cameras clicked as the spectacle of Black berets with Hackles swaying in the breeze, Sub machine guns and Tank Arm Badges passed them by. Tourist London has many wonderful sights including of course, the Guards resplendent in scarlet and bearskins. But that day I felt about ten feet tall, we were so different to the Guards, children ran beside us pointing at our Tank insignia.
“They’re Tank men dad”. Shouted a young lad.
“Too fcukin’ right” I thought as I increased my swagger to an alarming degree.
Then we arrived outside the MOD. We halted at the manhole cover as prearranged, but then had to ‘left dress’ some fifty feet to our right as it had been the wrong bloody manhole. We muttered about “Crap Guards S’arnt Majors” and their “crap instructions” under our breath. This was all made worse as many staff were peering from their office windows to witness this ‘unusual’ event.

I suspect the Field Marshall was just superbly tactful as opposed to blind not to have noticed our lengthy shuffle. Never the less he didn’t bat an eyelid, and proceeded through our ranks to inspect us, stopping to chat with relish to some of our number. My mind switched to thoughts of him, what had he witnessed in his military career? Did he remember our regalia with fondness? Did he see similarities between previous Tankies and us? I suppose I will never know the answers to those questions, but he certainly seemed to enjoy the experience of meeting us.
The parade over, we returned to Hounslow, got changed, trooped onto the buses and waved a fond farewell to the girls of the WRAC and departed.
Next stop, Bhurtpore Barracks, Tidworth in Hampshire.

[son-of-tiny]

sorry mate if quiet lots on like yourself mate still watching whats going on here and on the dark side

[arthur3bums]

Quick update on the book for you all. 2nd proof copy landed on my door mat this morning. I'll get it sorted asap so we can get te show on the road!!! I'll keep you posted.

[arthur3bums]

To all
Just a quick update on the book, I assume all have seen it's on sale through www.woodfieldpublishing.com but, when they launched last week the publishers were installing new print machinery, all was not well as they tweaked away at the cogs and nurksplingers therefore they do have a bit of a backlog due also to Postman Pat and his little black and white rat also going on strike - often. So, if any of you have ordered through the website - please be patient. On that note, Pecker mentioned some of you wanted to order signed copies from me? Please email me at [e-mail]. If you want to buy from the publisher for payment reasons - no prob I'll be at TC's Brizzel reunion in October with pprints books etc and, am happy to sign any you've bought then!!! I'll even be sober!! Cheers.

[arthur3bums]

All
An update on book orders. I've spoken to the publisher this morning, They've overcome their 'technical difficulties' and despatches will be going out this week so thankyou again for your patience they should be with you asap!!! If anyone still hasn't ordered due to the publisher's website having problems they have now also got www.woodfieldpublishing.co.uk to use so if you have problems with the .com - try the other one!!! Thanks.