By God he was a mess. A thick Cornish accent you could cut with a knife, at least three stone overweight and teeth that druids could dance around. I was once sent to find him, and asked Tiff how I would know I had the right bloke. Heâs the one who would look scruffy naked, came the reply. He was right too. A nine year Crafty with no ambition other than getting leathered that night and kicking in the back doors of one of his harem of dirty scutters. You see, he might have been a bit of a two-and-eight but I was fascinated by him because he had something I coveted. He had his Brown Wings. I met him when posted to my first unit. I was dragged down the bar on my first night and for some reason, Cfn A****** decided that I needed to shown right from wrong. Youâve read the description of him, so it was with utter astonishment that I discovered just how prolific he was with the ladies. Admittedly they were hardly supermodel level but he rarely went home alone. I would look forward to the following mornings Naafi break to hear the full story and they always ended the same way. A burp, followed by a final swig of his brew and the words âsheâll be shitting spunk laterâ to confirm that he had indeed taken his latest conquest in the wrong âun. I was loved up at the time, with the lass who went on to become the first Mrs T49. She was a bit of a prude (missionary in the dark, and a pair of red knickers was borderline kinky) so I wasnât going to earn my BW there. Then, out of the blue, and opportunity arose to finally become a real soldier. We went up to that there London for a gig, my Cornish mate and I. We spent a very happy couple of hours throwing ourselves around the mosh pit, and after the gig, asked a couple of local Goth chicks were was the best pub to keep drinking. I say asked, we bellowed, as Iâm pretty sure the band had exceeded to recommended 78dCb volume limit for the venue and all I could hear was a loud ringing noise in my ears. Several pints with our new Goth chums later and I have left the pub and set off with one of them, destination her flat. We got to her place via a double decker bus and descended to her basement flat. She dragged the mattress onto the floor and we got down to the shagging part of the evening. As she climbed onto all fours, I looked down at her pucker and thought âHmmmmmmmâ. A big lick of my thumb and I was ready. I placed it against her dot and she readjusted her position to let me push my thumb into her Sheriffâs badge. A glance around the room showed all manner of ladies cosmetics but nothing that leant itself to lubrications purposes. My eyeâs finally found a tub of E45 cream and, with a spirit of improvisation worthy of the Corp, I slapped a good handful onto her tea-towel holder and lined up my old fella. A little gentle pressure and BLAMMO! In it slipped. I gentle fed the full length into her as she made some funny little noises and than I began to pump. It didnât take me long to spend my wad (it never does, if Iâm being honest) but I didnât care. You see, I had done the deed! I was QUALIFIED! I HAD MY BROWN WINGS!! The following morning my hearing had returned and I was pleasantly surprised to discover my anal sweetheart was Australian. Double bubble, as I had never boned an Australian before. I had a coffee with her to be polite, and then sloped off. I met up with my mate at a cafÃ© near Victoria station and listened to his story of the bird he had copped off with. I could hardly contain myself and waited to tell him the great news! Because this time, it was I who was able to finish the story with the line âsheâll be shitting spunk laterâ. To this day, every time I hear the neighbours theme tune, I remember the night I finally became a soldiers soldier. Anyone else care to tell us how they qualified for their Brown Wings?