Confessions 2

Having lurked for a while, it’s about time I stood up to be accounted for! This is a first post, and may well be the last if it is not found to meet the stringent ARRSE requirements (sex, flatulence and higher-ranks making d**ks of themselves). A word before I begin: I met some cracking blokes in my time, but they son’t make funny stories like the w@nkers do!)

The Location: Army unit, RAF camp, BAOR, 70’s

The Cast:
Lt.Col. Pussy-Whipped. Known as “The CO’s Husband”. This was before there were women in the army, so work it out for yourself.

“The CO” – If you crossed a witch with a scarecrow, and gave it the personality of a Gremlin, you would approximate to this woman. Can only suppose “The CO’s Husband” married her was because she ordered him to do it.

2Lt. Joe 90 : A long streak of p**s. Was having a NAAFI break when God handed out talent. But had finished his pork pie, and was first in line when God gave man the gift of running. And could this guy run. The CO’s Husband loved this guy so much, he would have kissed him where the sun seldom shines, if it wasn’t for the fact that the CO was already there, up to her elbow.

Flt.Lt. Stunning Wife. A Flt.Lt. with a, well um, stunning wife.

Miss German. Female youth worker, lived in the teachers bloke.

Miss Chubby. Female teacher, scorable.

JenJen. Goddess of a teacher. Tall, slim, beautiful and stupid.

2Lt . Joe90 and JenJen were a pair believe it or not. They were together whenever they could during the daylight hours. Because you see, 2Lt. Joe90 had the day shift. Who had the night shift then? It was Flt.Lt. Stunning Wife. Please do not ask how he swung it, but he did. The arrangement seemed to suit all parties, especially onlookers.

Well if 2Lt.Joe 90 was at least sniffing around someones honeypot, why shouldn’t 2Lt. yours truly? But who to target? No FFO’s at that time (Forward Female Observers). The choice fell on Miss German : I had helped her at the youth club a few times, and had a foot in the door – I was anyway in her room quite regularly. One the decision was made, H-hour sat and the start line crossed, it was all over bar the banging – or so I thought. Well into a kiss and cuddle session I tried to land base 2. “oh no, sorry I can’t – I’m in a relationship”. Great, just what I wanted to hear. “OK, says I, who is it?” Good reader you have already guess that it was Flt.Lt. Stunning Wife. I wish I could say that this part of the story ends with me in a compromising positions with Mrs. Flt.Lt. Stunning Wife, but it doesn’t. This part of the story ends with grope with Miss German before making an embarrassed exit to lick my wounds. Alright, have a pint and forget about the whole thing.

Next weekend, pretty p***ed off at not having any real action of the other sex variety, took a trip into nearest town. At some stage of the evening contact was made with a teutonic strand of the species. Not particularly attractive (but on the other hand she was talking to me), not particularly slim (but on the other hand she was smiling to me), not particularly good English (but there again she was drinking, and so was I) – so we end up back at hers. Details are not necessary to the story. I wake up in the early hours to point Percy at the porcelain, and before getting back to bed look at what has ended up in my net. Oops! Gets kit back on and scarpers back to camp.

Back in the comfort of my own room, begin to feel pleased with myself. Perhaps the losing streak is over? Begin to feel a little bit randy again, as well as pleased. Award myself a hand-shandy for a good evenings effort. Having just finished, and dried up etc. there is a careful knock on my door. Oh my God – who can that be? Didn’t I cover my trail ?

A little voice through the keyhole says she is upset and wants to come in. Open door, and there stands miss Chubby. She comes in, explains that she has been out all evening (???? Its now about 04:00!) with someone she didn’t really like, and would like some “comfort”. Oh my God. Scored once, w@nked once, and now a bint who wants a seeing to. I was seriously doubtful of my prowess, and details are unnecessary other than the deed was done.

Next evening I’m lying in bed, thinking about the evening before and chuckling. Loser streak over and out. Begin to get a bit randy again thinking about the evening before. Decide that if I ever deserved to play solo on the trouser snake it was now. Had JUST finished when there came a careful knocking at the door – Miss Chubby wants some more comfort.

What do I do? I now don’t want to, but the lass has taken a shine. What did I do? I did what any gentleman would have down – I told her to feck off and wasn’t bothered again.


Miss Chubby married a Captain. I just love it when girls I have seen to marry someone I know.

The CO’s husband didn’t get a mention, why not? He is the star of another story, coming to your forum soon.
Nice one, keep them coming. :D

Miss German. Female youth worker, lived in the teachers bloke.
You sure? :wink:
Miss German. Female youth worker, lived in the teachers bloke.

Sorry to disappoint, she lived in the Teachers Block !
That's a pretty impressive start, Phil. Carry on with the good work. :D :D :D

:? If I had been dreaming it would have been JenJen or Mrs. Flt.Lt. Stunning Wife who needed pit service, and it would have been at a point of time where I was brimming over with excess juice. (Anyway, who the hell would brag about having a w@nk ????) As this was real life, it was Miss Chubby, and I promise you, that was nothing to brag about. I have a picture of her (on the knee of the Captain in question!)

If you need witness's, my next story can be collabrated by an entire Regiment - it will be about how I broke the Army record for extra orderly officer in the course of 6 months.
I am intensely proud every time I masturbate myself into a froth. In fact I may well boast about it when I finally get off the phone and off to the pub...on second thoughts I'll settle for here.

As for the likelihood of Phil's story being kosher, I can offer my own testimony that it is either no nookie or beating them off with a stick. My secretary used to control my sex life with a spead sheet at one time!!
Can anybody beat being orderly officer every other day (night) for 6 months?

Cast and Location as per Confessions 1.

As a YO I was a mess, my head was full of other things I wanted to do (which I later did, and make better stories, but this is ARRSE right? All stories have to be green right?). My real downfall was wine, women and not so much song. I have never drunk so much as I did then. Nowadays I don’t drink so much – I mostly spill it.

Heres some of the things which lead up to it:

Mess night. A lot of singly subbies. Getting bored. Drinking too much. The CO’s husband really getting stuck up 2.Lt. Joe 90’s @rse, and as such wasn’t going home anytime soon. "Now tell me again Joe, just how do you place one foot in front of the other?" -- "Very quickly sir " -- "Good lad". This could be a long night. As young gentlemen, we pursued gentlemanly pursuits like croquet before lunch at the weekends – suitably primed with Pimms first. So we decide to play croquet to pass the time, it’s dark so we play indoors. 2Lt. Yours Truly is well ahead, and goes all out for the finish. Demolishing the 2 metre high vases that adorned the south side of the bar. Oh dear. Had to leave the mess. Carried on the movement with the rest of the subbies in someones room. Can’t remember much, but I have pictures of us all giving a mop a shafting. 9 ‘o’ clock on the Monday and I’m standing in front of the CO’s husbands desk with my beret on. Extra orderly officers for a month, and my pay docked for the rest of my life, my childrens lives, and their childrens lives.

Open day: This rather narrows things down, but after 30 years it can hardly matter if the location is “compromised”. The station was to have an open day, the boys in blue were to show their hardware. Part of the display was to be an airborne assault (helicopters) on a “fort” to befrie a princess. It was great fun, I was OC “shock force” and the brief was to make as much noise, bangs, wallops, shooting as we could. It went like a dream, we fly onto the airfield, pile out of the choppers, thunderflashes, blanks and flares in all directions. A Walt wet dream come true. “Princess” whisked into waiting group of LR’s, and a lap of honour round the airfield to joyous adulation from crowd. Great was therefore surprise when invited to do the duck-@rsed shuffle into the CO’s Husbands’s office on the Monday. “Now then 2Lt. Yours Truly, I understand that you created a great deal of chaff on the airfield on Saturday” “Yes Sir” I said proudly “Followed the brief to the letter, felt it went rather well”. “Hrrm, well as you know chaff can be dangerous for aircraft so you can have 1 months extra orderly officer”. WTF ?????

Heres the score eventually:

OK, so I’m orderly officer every other day. No problem, every morning I get up, and remember if I’m orderly officer or not (Z-cars type radio helps). The problem is in the evening when I spend all night either wandering about, in the guard room or in the mess. And when I’m in the mess I have a few lemonades – and by the end of the evening I’m drunk and have no idea who I am, or if the person who is indeed me is on orderly officer or not. Well, a couple of times I guessed wrong, and went to bed in my own bed, and what-ho, “no-one” can find me, because no-one answers the phone by the side of the orderly officers bed. (The radio was switched on though, could have tried that?). Awarded 1 months extra orderly officer, for forgetting I was orderly officer every time I forgot. Cheers and congratulations all round next time the orders goes up, and the whole Troop, Squadron, Regiment and camp have read them. Anyone would think I had done something heroic, everyone bought me drinks, which only made things worse.

OK, change of tactics, instead of trying to guess whether I was orderly officer or not (cannot read when drunk) decide on a pucker scheme. I will go to bed in the orderly officers room every night. Well it worked 50% of the time. Though I’m not sure all of my fellow officers liked me dropping into bed with them so much. I had no problems with being asked to leave – but I had to drop the solution as one time I was asked to stay. (No names, no pack drill).

OK, new idea. Round the other side of the corridor was a WAAF girl. Not any old WAAF girl, but OC WAAF. And she had A PHONE outside her room, so that all the little WAAFs could ring her at any time if there was something which made them cry. (Now you all want to know why I was more interested in her phone than her don’t you? Well the truth is, she reminded me of Matron at school (and that’s another story) – and as such didn’t really do it for me). But I digress. Here’s the plan, read carefully I shall write this only once. We had telephones in the troop stores, we had wiring in the troop stores, we had tools in the troop stores. Now, if I could rig up an extension to my room, I wouldn’t have to remember if I was orderly officer any more, because the guard room could ring direct to my room. Foolproof-ish. I had to make sure that I took the phone first before OC-WAAF, and the guardroom needed to be made aware of the “new” number to the orderly officer. Phone is now in place, I’ve informed the guardroom, and so off to the mess for some light refreshment. Get woken up in the wee hours of the morning by (at least) two people walking up and down the corridor, banging on ALL the doors EXCEPT mine. Thank God for that, if it was me they were after I would have been in trouble. Poke my nose out of the door to see if I can be of any assistance (and also see if I can stand up) to find the CO’s husband and Sunray Minor patrolling the corridor, banging as they went. Oo-er, it was me they wanted. 2 months extra orderly officers, jubilation galore. 2Lt. Yours Truly all time hero amongst everyone except adjutant upwards.
This is getting interestiger and interestiger, phibeck (sorry about my bone spelling of your name in "Confessions 1").

More of the same, if you please. :D :D :D

Great stories :D

Why not amalgamate both threads so that anyone who wants to hear about your exploits (I hope there'll be more?) can just go to one place, a la the Stumpy tales and Pardon My Erection? Just a thought.
”There can be no deed more glorious, no deed more honourable than to lighten up an Arrser ‘s day”

Well, the feedback was positive so I’ll bang on. I’ll keep on banging them out as long as the feedback is civil. Good suggestion GM-1000 to put the “confessions” in one thread. So they will all be here from as now. Apart from the first two.

“Confession 1” is here:
“Confession 2” is here:

I have derived a lot of enjoyment from many of the threads on the site, and whilst not pretending that I can write like some of the comic geniuses here, this is my effort to contribute.

They are meant to be amusing, so most of them put me, and those around me, in a not particularly good light! The reason for this is that nobody likes a smart arrse, not least someone who writes endless anecdotes about his wonderful deeds. I offer my pride at the alter of Arrse.

So much to choose from – where to start?

Summer camp in Scarborough (just to get away from BAOR for just a bit!). Decided to drive up (and claim mileage), and took 3 others from the Troop. Trying to be a good “host” I ensured that the stereo was well-fed with a non-stop selection of the heaviest stuff available then. (Allright, we’re only talking Purple, Sabbath and Heep that sort of thing). Having given it all I could, and all that the 8” speakers could push out, we finally arrived in Scarborough after 10 hours driving. Well that went OK says Mr. Phibeck, “Yes sir, but we don’t think much of your taste in music ”. Oh, not off to a good start then. Well the trip was only 10 hours.

Most of the other squadron officers were on this 2 week “camp”, but I have no recollection of seeing them at any time, apart from Capt. Suave (2IC), once (more later). Capt. Suave and I were to share a house. A married quarter. A bl**dy big house with bedrooms and kitchen. The sort of thing that normal people live in. The sort of thing you might invite ladies back to. Hmmm. However, I would like to make one thing clear from the start – I did not in fact share the house with Capt. Suave – I shared the house with Capt. Suaves clothes. At no time did I see him in the house, apart to unpack. “Carry on Phibeck” he said shortly after unpacking and changing – and leaving the house.

The first evening was drawing near – and Sgt. Scottie kept muttering “About time you took your turn in the barrel Sir!” Sgt. Airborn kept coming over to me and saying “You will remember that you’re invited to the Sgt.s mess this evening won’t you sir?” Now Mr. Phibeck was about half the age of everyone in the Sgt.s mess, in fact I felt about half the age of the children of everyone in the Sgt.s mess. So this “invitation” and the barrel were in some way connected I felt sure. I was equally sure that it wouldn’t end well for Mr. Phibeck.

I was certain that it was better to live to fart another day, than to indulge in any of the “bonding “ that the Sgt.s might have planned for me. So I steered well clear of the Sgt.s mess (yeah, I know, the story would have been better if I had gone right? Wrong, read further dear fellow). Well, I went to bed when all young ruperts should, and focused my thoughts on my tasks in the weeks ahead. I hadn’t locked the door (you never know, Capt. Suave might have come back), and the Sgt.s hadn’t forgotten our appointment.

I was awakened by a large object falling on the end of the bed. “’Kin ‘ell!” It was dark so I had no idea if I should kill it or at least hit it. Oo-er, maybe Capt. Suave had taken a left in the corridor instead of a right. Better not do anything then, so turned on the light. I don’t know how old she was, but I think she was even older than the Sgt.s. She was short, round, had horn-rimmed spectacles, and sat with her hand-bag on her knee, looking at me with that expectant look, only old, fat, ugly bints can give you.

The tittering and whispering from the corridor rather revealed where the hell, if not hell, she had come from. “We’ve promised her you’ll give her a seeing to sir, so we’ll stand here until you’re finished” came through the keyhole. ‘Kin ‘ell. ‘Kin ‘ell again. Time for negotiations. And dear reader, a deal was reached. I could retain whatever cherries I had left, and Ugly Bint would be removed provided that I presented myself in the Sgt.s mess pronto. Message received.

OK, quick change and I’m over there, feeling much better once a can of Scotlands finest is placed in my hands. Look around, and discover that there are now 2 bints, and the Sgt.s are so preoccupied with them that they seem to have forgotten the barrel game. (So this story’s not THAT good!). Ugly Bints girlfriend actually looks as though she might have been born at ground level. Indeed, SSgt. Barman I think has actually fallen in love. I definitely saw him buying her drinks, and putting his arm around her shoulder instead of up her skirt.

But now it was show-time – and the act was as polished as only an act which has been performed many times can be. And just about everyone knew what was coming. (How many times had the Squadron been to Scarborough ???!). Ugly Bint wobbles up to a table. At least 5 Sgt.s are required to get her up on the table. Then, by some strange contradiction of the laws of gravity shes upside down. And then shes’s standing on her head, with her feet straight up in the air, and her skirt around her t*ts. She was rock solid. No swaying or anything, completely still. And then she starts doing “scissors” with her legs. Slowly and gracefully, forwards, backwards and to the sides, lower and lower. She is obviously not happy about the lack of freedom of movement because she reaches (up) and starts fiddling with some poppers in the crotch of whatever she was wearing. That too falls down and round her t*ts. The show starts again, with more revealing spreading now that the freedom of movement is increased. But, no. She is still discontented with her performance so reaches (up), and still on her head, removes her kacks. Oh no, I’d hoped to go through life without ever having to see anything like this. Her legs are now down at the 180 “splits” angle, backwards and forwards, round and round. When she eventually finishes, she is placed on the lap of three Sgt.s who seem delighted at the prospect.

This is something that I either have to stop, or not know anything about. So, once again I fail to take a stand, and putting down lots of smoke, withdraw out of the mess, back to the house, and lock the door.

The next day the Sgt.s mess looks like Baghdad on a bad hair day. Somehow 2 lav’s are completely destroyed, all the tables are in one pile, and the chairs are all out on the grass. There is beer and urine everywhere.

Capt. Suave pops up from nowhere and has a little chat with the Sgt.s about ensuring that “The tone of the mess isn’t lowered”. What tone? Well, everything’s relative. He then exited right, and I didn’t see him again for the duration of the camp.

I was going to put in another story here, but it will be too long so it will have to wait until next time.
I can knock off another whilst waiting for the paint to dry (don’t ask!)

One of my tasks over the course of the first week of the squadron camp was instructing the D & E platoon in the ancient art of map-reading, to be concluded with both written and practical test. Serious mode on: I have read a few detrimental things on the forums about the old D & E wallahs, we used to call them “Diggin’ n’Emptyin’” platoon. The experience I am about to relate will, I hope, give a greater understanding. It is my own personal tribute. Although, this being the NAAFI, it could be a mistake. Serious mode off. I promise to return to the funnier stuff next time.

Many people view sentences with contain both the words “officer” and “map” with apprehension. I would just like to clear this matter up once and for all. Great emphasis is placed on this skill whilst in the factory, and I can with my hand on my heart say that every officer is a sleek streak at map reading. No probs there at all. Unfortunately there can be a certain miscorrelation between the ability to read a map, and the ability to relate the map to the terrain. Apart from that one small detail, all officers are uber map-readers.

I really enjoyed giving the classes – everyone paid attention, and even occasionally asked questions – not all of which were about the time, and could we go now please. Actually, I could see that they were attentive and interested. So, the day comes for the written exam, and I go over once again all the things that were coming up in the exam. Having written the exam the evening before, I gave them a good brief. Well, they sit there for the allotted hour and a half, and then I collect the papers and am really looking forward to being able to give everyone just about full marks. And then I look at the answer sheets. Some have spelt their own name wrongly, half have written down the numbers of the questions, but no answers. I look around, and see a lot of apologetic faces. “Sorry sir, have always had trouble with writing”.

A lot of thoughts tumbled through my mind. In life’s poker-game most of us are sitting with a full house, kings on nines, whilst these guys had been issued at birth with a queen high, or a low pair at best. And there was s*d all anybody could do about it. I was b*ggered if I was going to fail them after all the effort they had put in. It was late afternoon, and all were given a time-slot in the course of the evening. They were going to sit the exam again, one at a time, with me. And we were going to discuss the answers together, and I was going to write them down for them. And yes, they all passed.

The next day was the “practical”. They were given the co-ordinates for post one, where the co-ordinates for post two would be waiting. Everyones done it. I arranged the posts in a circle, with woods and bushes in the middle, so that I could run between the posts in the middle of the circle to keep everyone on track. Boy did I run that day! But it was worth it to see their faces everytime I burst “out of nowhere” when the last time they saw me was at a completely different post.

A squadron race was organised to be run in pairs the day after. 20Km across the moors. I was having a melt-down worrying over my D&E blokes, there was no way they were going to find their way (in pairs or otherwise) unaided over the moors. The only chance was for me to pair up with one of them, and act as a “sweeper” behind them. Unfortunately Sgt. Airborne was very keen on winning this race and his strategy was clear: his brawn and fitness, and my map-reading. So, he insisted on pairing up. He didn’t realise that whatever high-octane fuel he was going on, wouldn’t help us, because my legs were firmly attached to my own @rse and not his. I began to bleat about about the D&E guys, but it began to sound like not only did I yellow out of the Sgt.s mess, but I was yellowing out of the race too. Oh well, I’m going to hell anyway, I teamed up with Sgt. Airborne as the only Rupert in the race. (Where were all the other orifices ???). Yes, we won, but I really could have used some of Sgt. Airbones high octane.

Everyone came back – everyone that is except for the entire D&E platoon. It began to get dark – only one thing for it – back the way we had come with torches flashing. One advantage of night, torches can be seen from a great distance. Only trouble was everyone else had b*ggered back to camp. With the help of Sgt. Airborne they were eventually all found. They were just as happy as when they had started off many hours earlier. I really have to admire those guys – nothing gets them down. In fact, it humbles me.

Not very funny, but those guys taught me something. Darned if I can remember what it was.

A funny one again next time, if I get any response.
Obviously you weren't in a cavalry regiment....

There was only one of you getting into this mess.

Where I was the ordely officer rota was booked up years in advance - we all fecked up so mightily that extras didn't count anymore 'cos we all had them.

(Nice point about CO's husband though - we had a real one of those back in the '80's)
SGHH said:
Sorry for being a mong but can I ask what a D&E platoon is?

*Braces for tirade of abuse for being a mong*
This was a brigade HQ, and they were members of the Pioneer Corps. Those "selected" for the Pioneer Corps were in essence not suitable for anything else. They did trenches and latrines, put up tents - generally all the stuff that nobody else wanted to do. They got a lot of flack, they weren't the brightest of individuals.

But as is (hopefully) plain - I had a great respect for them. They had limited abilities and limited prospects, but they were keen, and did everything as best they could, and were always happy about it. They had every reason to moan, but didn't.

The platoon was led by a Sgt. , and just to balance the equation, he was as turned on and effective as SNCO's usually are - and a great bloke to boot. He was more of a "father" figure to his squaddies than is normal.

The Pioneer Corps was a opportunity for lads who probably couldn't get in anywhere else, to do their bit.
How to turn a 4 week excercise into a 6 month Op – Cyprus 1974.

Most of the squadron were going to Cyprus for the annual camp where we did inf. like things, and were reminded what the army was all about.

Prior to departure, we were visited by a shower of journalist students. They were as left-wing as was normal at the time, and the animosity beamed like death-rays from their eyes. In amongst this group was Dougal, a old school chum, who had for a short while been the drummer in my band before being thrown out for being an unreliable w@nker. (Dougals redeeming point was that when we (then schoolboys) compared our girlfriends, it was Dougal’s who had the biggest t*ts. So his position in the gang was assured). On this day however, Dougal was horrified to recognize me, and discover that I had “gone over to the “Dark Side”. He tried his best to avoid me, realising that whatever cred he had with the class could be destroyed if it came to light that he knew one of these Henrys. I had great fun manoeuvring round to him, and talking to him as though we were, and always had been, bosom-buddies. The looks of distain he got from his “chums” were only second to the looks of loathing they were sending Sunray Minor.

Sunray Minor had the inspired idea of offering a trip to Cyprus with the Squadron for the winner of a (shortly to be announced) competition. The students were given the opportunity to write an article, of about 5 pages, about their visit to the Squadron. Well Sunray Minor has misjudged his audience. Most of them didn’t write 5 words, let alone 5 pages. A selection went like this: “Bunch of stuck-up bar stewards” “Chauvinistic cnuts” “Antediluvian w@nkers”. In fact, the prize was won by the only person who wrote more than a page. So Miss Bitter and Twisted won a trip to Cyprus with an article entitled “Society within a Society – Archaic Attitudes in a Modern Time”. I can only suppose Sunray Minor hoped that she could be “won over” if she saw the squadron in action. Oh my God, yeah, and the Pope doesn’t say his prayers at night.

The flight over courtesy of Crab Air went without incident. There was a certain amount of agitation amongst those who hadn’t flown blue before, when they discovered that the VC-10 was taxiing out to the runway in reverse. They were relieved to find that it was the seats that were the wrong way round, not the aircraft.

We were based in a tented camp in the Akamas area (East Cyprus), and were to be split into “terrorist cells”, out in the bush for a few days at a time, to harass a TA Regt. who were playing the “Goodies”. A few days were spent practicing ambushes and patrolling before moving out. You inf. guys can laugh, but for us Corps wallahs it is great to get to do some (ahem) “proper” soldering once in a while. And of course “bronzeeing” – getting a tan. A group of us decided that the sun would be allowed to shine where it seldom shines. So down with kacks, and @rses to attention, heads between knees. I think that the intense white light, reflected from our @rses must have given a visible signal, and evidence of Intelligent Life on earth, right out to the outer rim of the galaxy. Unfortunately, where the sun seldom shines, is where it can do most damage in the shortest possible time. For one terrorist cell breakfast next day, and lunch, and dinner, and the day after that, was taken in the vertical position.

Whilst still in camp before we “moved out” into the bush, Miss Bitter and Twisted arrived. We were having lunch in the canteen tent when she came stomping past, obviously on her way to the beach, and obviously not wanting anything to do with us. Sunray spots her and looks at me – I can guess what he’s thinking and I pray to Manitu that he doesn’t, please PLEASE, don’t do this. He turns back to look thoughtfully at Miss Bitter and Twisted, turns back to me and says “Phibeck – can’t you just go and see if she’s all right, if she needs help or anything”. Sh1t! Do officers have their social antenna removed after completing Staff College? Now I’ve got to leave my nosh (a crime in itself) chase after a stupid, twisted bint – IN FULL VIEW OF THE ENTIRE SQUADRON – ask her politely is she needs help, and then be told to feck off. I can take it – the problem as I can see it is that the squadron won’t know I’ve been “ordered” and they won’t hear what’s said, so it will look like Phibeck is after a bit of minge, only to be blasted away.

So I began to walk briskly towards her, and already (or so I believe) I can hear the tittering from behind me. I catch up and say “Hello Miss Bitter and Twisted, my names Phibeck and I wondered if there was anything you needed?” – Miss Bitter and Twisted is at least predicable and true to form “No, feck off”. I turn and walk back to the tent. Everywhere I look, jeers, cheers and laughter. Just as feared, only worse. “She didn’t need any help” I said to Sunray. Bar steward.

All is forgotten, and soon I lead my cell out in the bush to give the TA guys a working over. Back in base, the whole thing is coordinated by Capt. Airborne. Capt. Airborne was a little guy, and was little in that way that only Para’s can be little – a scary little b*gger. He had a kind of twitch, and lop-sided mouth. Being a Para it couldn’t have been a nervous twitch, I would guess that it was brought on by the stress of having to resist the temptation of the perfectly normal reaction of slotting the subbie in front of him.

The TA guys (I just can’t remember who they were) were based in what looked like a proper camp, with primitive buildings, and a gate. (Anyone know if it is still there?). Now, being a terrorist is great – you have full mobility, the good guys don’t know where you are, but you know where the good guys are. Now I have to say that to this day I’m not sure if the TA were very serious about playing. We never saw them! We laid ambushes nearer and nearer their camp, on trails that we thought they must use, without catching any fish. We did everything apart from walking up to their gate, knocking, and politely asking if anyone wanted a fight. (If it had been now, and we had to play terrorists properly, we would have had somebody strap thunderflashes round their stomach, before wandering up to the gate).

I complained to Capt. Airborne about the TA “not playing” so he gave me some PE4 and told me to have some fun. This exercise was getting better and better (and better it would become). The was a hill overlooking the TA camp, with what had been some kind of brick building with only three walls left now, no roof, on the ridge. It was only about 4 metres by 3 or so. So we gathered paper, soaked it in petrol, put it over the PE4 up against the building, detonator in place, reel out wire, and retire to safe distance. BANG! And lots of flames – we run up to the “building”, jump up and down screaming and waving, turn around, down with kacks, and moon the TA regt. with our (now resituated white @rses) in the way that only members of HM Forces can. We the run half way down the hill, lay an ambush and wait. And wait. Feck this – went back to base at the end of the day wondering if the TA soldier was such an endangered species that he had to stay indoors.

Next day, we were out again, and had just sat down on a ridge. (No point in being tactical anymore) when we got a noduff over the radio. It was of such a character that we were certain that it must be a duff of the highest degree, although it turned out that it WAS noduff. It later transpired that whilst essentially correct, it was a bit exaggerated. If you know your recent history you have already guessed that the message was: “The island has been invaded” (correct so far, now for the exaggerated bit) – “Hostile units are in your area, I say again, in your area. Do not engage, I say again, do not engage. Lie low, and await further instructions”. This “terrorist cell” had no idea who the “hostile troops” might be, and whilst we knew that Greeks and Turks didn’t usually take showers together, it seemed highly unlikely that the term “hostile troops” could be used to describe a NATO ally.

This exercise was rapidly getting more interesting. It was great to play at being inf. soldiers, now it looked like we might actually get to do it for real. My guys were great – they were up for a fight, in fact the only thing that restrained them and held them low was my reminding them that are ammunition consisted of 50 blanks, 2 thunderflashes, and a few detonators, but no more PE4. Our only method of defence would have been to throw our blank firing attachments at the “hostile forces”.

Looking back, I cannot believe that any Turkish troops were as far South East as Akamas, and certainly not so quickly. I can only imagine that there was a certain amount of chaos, and an attitude of “playing safe” in a British HQ somewhere or other. After a few days we were ordered to move tactically back to base. After a few more days we were fetched by what seemed like hundreds of 4-tonners, with huge union jacks over the front side of the canopy, and we were driven to Akrotiri where we were to set up a “real” HQ for the rest of the brigade and HQ who would now be joining us in Cyprus after all.

To be continued ……

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