OTC Skills and Drills

you're stupid enough to want to do this for a career
You want to stag on at 0300 in the snow? As a career? Good grief, how very odd. Still, best of luck to you. Can't imagine the prospects are anything special.

Actually, if you're in my glorious OTC, it doesn't cross your mind. Because you're normally sitting bolt upright on your roll mat. And you've lit a couple of hexy blocks to keep you warm, while you check your texts on your mobile. If you're both chicks, the other one's got her head in your lap while you braid her hair. Your own hair hasn't seen the light of day for a week now; it's buried under eleven purple and orange beanies, so that your helmet is perched a good six inches above your skull, and the chinstrap has to be extended with brightly coloured twine to keep it on your bonce. Your stag partner hasn't seen her gat for a good half an hour; it's 'somewhere over there on the floor'. You've given up trying to attach a CWS to the other weapon, and it's hanging from a tree branch.

Suddenly, you hear a snapping of twigs in the undergrowth. You chuck a flaming hexy block to see if it moves. Then you use the CWS. But whatever it was doesn't make a sound even after you've chucked that at it.

"Rachel" you whisper urgently
"What is it, Kate, I was literally just dropping off."
"There's something out there."
"Have you carried out the IA drill?"
"Yes, I've thrown hexy at it and giggled coquettishly. No dice."
"Damn. We should really get low."
"Good point. Bit cold though."
"You're right. Let's stand up"

So you stand. Your faces glow pinkly under the soft moonlight, as you have refused every effort to get you into cam cream since day one, given the 'really really really really bad' effect it has on your skin.

The unseen intruder moves again.

You both jump. Your left ammo pouch falls off.

"God. We should, like shoot it." exclaims your oppo.
"Have you got your gun with you?"
"No. It was bit heavy and the metal bits were all cold, so I left it by my tent thingy. It's gone all orange though, and the telescope thing on top has stuck to my mess tins"
"Go and get it. That RSM guy said we should have them all the time"

Panting, your oppo trots off into the darkness. She gets four yards before the comms string catches her under the chin and puts her on the floor like she's been clotheslined by Stone Cold Steve Austin.

"What the hell was that?!" she groans
"You silly," you reply, "it's that string the boys put up so that we could hang our 'ladies things' out to dry. Never mind about your gun, we'll use mine. Here, help me lift it..."

With tremendous effort, you and your stag partner prise your weapon off the forest floor. As you recover, hands on hips, your stag partner eyes it dubiously, covered in mud and home to a family of woodlice. She picks up a twig and sticks it through the triggerguard, lifting it up to pass to yo.....


"God, Rachel, be careful," you cry - "someone might hear us!"
"Sorry" she sniffs, miserably.
"Oh God, it's all empty now. I need more bullets. Don't know where my bullet pouch has gone actually...have you got a magazine on you?"
Smiling hopefully, Rachel proffers the copy of Cosmo she'd been reading by the light of a right angle torch....

Classic! I think that deserves a thread of it's own...dependent on further installments fortcoming of course... :D

Made me laugh in a way i've missed since stumpy left :(
Top post Belushi.

Keep it coming

Edit: - To help thread seem less incoherent


War Hero
After that gleaming start I've separated the above post from the OTC pay thread (hence Operators now incoherent post)... Go on, spin that yarn...
"No", you giggle, "not that kind of magazine! I meant the metal kind - y'know, the rectangular thing that fits in this bit"
"Oh!" cries Rachel "I thought you meant tha....teeheheheheee!"
"Teeheeheeeheehee" you gurgle happily.
"Teeheeheeeheeehee", says Rachel
You say "Teeheeheeheee, no, I meant th...teeheehheeehee"

You clutch eachother tight, bodies shaking with mirth, for a good fifteen minutes, giggling excitedly for all you're worth.

Finally, you calm down.
"No, but seriously, Rach, have you got a magazine, the metal kind?"
"Yup" says Rachel proudly, rummaging in her utility pouch and producing a folded up hexy stove "here y'are"

Paralysed by your own doubts this time, you try and insert the stove into the magazine housing. Only after the stove has been reduced to a twisted piece of metal are you convinced. You round furiously on your oppo.
"No! This isn't one either! Look, just give me anything rectangular that looks like it might fit, that you've got in your stuff"

After having tried to insert the small mess tin, a Silva compass, pencil flare holder and various different Estee Lauder products into your weapon, you finally find a magazine. Just as you are about to slam it home, the 'thing' in the bushes moves again....

You clutch eachother. And jump. Your waterbottle pouch falls off.

"God, Rach, I am like, really, really scared now. I'm just gonna shoot this thing"
"Wait! We're supposed to talk to it first, aren't we?"
"Don't you remember, that talk, that those men gave - the one from the Princess of Wales and her...Royal Riflemen...Regiment, and the other one from that one that all wear Green jackets, or something - he was soooo dreamy, wasn't he? - he said you have to talk to it. And then shoot it"
"Kay, you talk to it, and then as soon as you're finished, I'll shoot it."
"Kay," replies Rachel, happily. "Here we go."

She takes a deep breath....

"Hellowhoeveryouaremynamesrachelandthisismyfriendkateandwearewonderingwhatyouredoingherenowasweresupposednottoletanyoneinherebutifyou'djustliketocomeoutandseeuswecansortitalloutokayi'mfinishednowkateyoucanshoothim." BANG! BANG! Click - the rifle, held together by rust and friendship bracelets, finally gives up the ghost as the TMH detaches and joins most of your webbing on the floor.

All is suddenly a cacophany of noise and cordite. Automatic fire rips through the air, flashes dance before your eyes like angry dragons. Deep within your memory of MTQ1 a phrase flashes into your brain and you summon all your energies as you cry....


All over the harbour area confused OCdts burst into action. There is a flurry of activity as they reach for the bottom of their maggots to retrieve their trousers, norgies, t-shirts, combat jackets, and socks, and furiously, get dressed. Slickly, helmets are retrieved from the tree branches they were hung off, ready for action the night before, bergens are expertly and speedily packed with the stuff from cooking that got left out yesterday because it was still a bit hot, and weapons are retrieved from mates-they-were-lent-to-because-his-was-a-bit-dirty-and-he-had-to-go-and-meet-the-CO-to-explain-why-he'd-been-doing-naked-pull-ups-in-the-bar-the-night-before. A lighting thirteen minutes later, with the platoon in various states of undress, speculative well aimed bursts of thirty rounds are let off in various directions, a couple by OCdts who've got lucky in the weapon raffle and have acquired two gats and who are doing a passable impression of 50 Cent smoking a few mo'fos. A few OCdts throw smoke grenades into the melee, because, hell, they probably won't get another chance, and they're cool. Besides, the borderline asthmatic in 2 Section's a bit of a penis, and who cares if he's coughing up orange carcinogens for the next three days...

In the midst of the calamity, no-one notices the GOC emerge shakily from the bush he'd been crouched behind right in front of you. The firepower demonstration in the harbour area behind your stag position is going as strong as ever, except now the Pl Comd's basha is on fire, and with a few OCdts leaping round the flames wearing nothing but a headover and thermal long johns, it's all getting a bit Lord of the Flies....

As for you, you and Rachel are stood stock still, aghast as the elderly general climbs, shaken by a conflagration he last saw as a subaltern in '82, to his feet. In his head he repeats to himself, matra-like "OTCs are good for the army's wider image, OTCs are good for the army's wider image, OTCs are good for the army's wider image" He wants to know what the hell that was about. He wants to know why these two sorry apparitions have less than half a rifle between them. He wants to know why the fat asthmatic is now strapped to a tree in the middle of the harbour with bungees while the rest of the Pl stick the end of their rifles in the fire and prod him with red hot BFAs. He wants an explanation for the greatest display of military incompetence since Lord Raglan said to his runner "You see those guns down the end of the valley...?" He braces himself, and says.....

"Hello young ladies...so what do you two do at university?"

And it's aaaall OK. :wink:
Great stuff. OTC looks more fun than ever, I'll be able to take my phone and magazine and iron and TV and car... all into the field!!
Fantastic posting Belushi
Coming soon, SSLC Commissioning Course, the Novel: From snotty young smartarrses to uniformed snotty young smartarrses in four weeks.
Please tell me you'll include the story about the SSLC with a lishp who started running after various INF NCOs asking "Why hafen't you shaluted me shergeant?" even though said NCOs were always at least 50 yards away and unable to see this short arse's rank.
He's the same one who made his Pl Sgt's sick wife drive his laptop to him when he needed it one afternoon AND who made a section commander do press ups in front of his own men for not having a full water bottle, I believe.
Supposedly he was later temporarily abducted from the mess by several heavy-set men wearing noddy suits.
ssjmawson said:
Great stuff. OTC looks more fun than ever, I'll be able to take my phone and magazine and iron and TV and car... all into the field!!
Fantastic posting Belushi
Fcuk off a report to the play pen cadet nazi

ssjmawson said:
Wow! Just.....wow! Nice one Belushi
O yes o yes!Please let me suck you off,the attention is off me now so I can join in the OTC bashing...

Beechams, in case you didn't know, Belushi's post started in the OTC pay thread, when those "incredibly" intelligent people were turning the thread into a slanging match LONG after I said okay, you guys have some good points, I'll have to think about this in more detail, and pretty much ended the conversation. If you have nothing better to do than tag on to the end of threads long after the conversation is over and add your little insults, then maybe you belong on another board where that makes you cool.....

I nearly wet myself! Former OTC now back helping to train them and I can see the potential in many of the students for just such an incident to happen!

Keep up the good work! I hope there is more to come.
Jesus, I'm supposed to be working here.

Anyway, long ago in the misty lore of long gone days, a dashing young chap by the name of Belushi decided that he had had enough of academia for a bit, and wanted to put off entering the hallowed halls of university.

He cast around for alternatives. But what to do? Trekking in Nepal, building supermarkets out of wattle and daub (whatever that means) for deprived foreigners, or helping rehome orphaned orangutans? The choices were endless, but since we have already have a decent number of supermarkets, and the only orangutans on the streets of Britain are the ones wearing kappa trousers and burberry caps (and they just hate it when you try to rehome them, take it from me), these wondrous opportunities were all in lands far far away. And it cost money. Which our handsome rosy cheeked lad did not have.

Then, one day, while generally bumming around in the careers library with a couple of schoolboy pals, one of them chanced upon a brochure entitled 'SSLC: The Chance of a Friggin' Lifetime'....or something like that.

"Look at this, Belushi."
"S'a brochure. 'Bout the Army. You can do a gap year in it."
"Yeah, look, says you go waterski-ing and sailing and surfing and stuff."
"What, they pay you to do all that?"
"Looks like it - that's what all the profiles say..."

Looking back now, I should have been more circumspect. Or at least read the words, and not just looked at the pictures. But it looked good. There, on the pages, were dozens of pictures of disgustingly eager, chiselled looking men and women, hiking lustily through some stunning mountain panorama, skiing expertly through off piste snowdrifts, with captions saying: '2Lt Benjamin Scrumpton-Forthwaite, HCav, captained the Army skiing team during his SSLC, while still only eleven years old, before joining the Gurkhas in Brunei for six months and becoming an expert in jungle leisure activities. He is now at Cambridge and has to beat the women off with a stick. Did you hear that? He has to Beat Them Off With A Stick.'

Yes, I thought, that could be me. That could be me. No longer the sorry looking schoolboy with soup all down his tie and snot dangling from his upper lip. No, a dashing, Boy's Own, fully paid up friggin' hero. That could be me.

I skipped through the rest of the brochure. There were a couple of pictures of dejected subalterns from the RLC, trying to smile but looking like they wanted to cry as they posed in front of a DROPS on a cold SPTA morning in October: '2Lt Wayne Davis, RLC, took on the highly responsible role of Garden's Member, and later i/c Rear Party, when his Regiment deployed to Barbados on exercise. He now attends Thames Valley University, doing a course in 'Stamp Licking Through the Ages', and plans to return to the Army and serve as a Postal and Courier Officer.'

What an idiot. I thought - when they were splitting people up at this Sandhurst place, why didn't he just get on the coach marked 'Ski-ing, Sunbathing, and endless Sh*gging.'? Won't happen to me.

'Kay, wossa rest of it all about, RCB, looks easy, Sandhurst, no dramas, yeah, yeah and yep.'

Which is how, six months later, I found myself standing by my mother's car while a smiling Gurkha accidentally broke the bonnet release catch in his enthusiasm to find a hidden suicide bomber in the engine compartment of a Volvo S40.

I was at Sandhurst.

TBC, if anyone cares...
Brilliant stuff Belushi, keep it coming.

There is always the potential for that stag situation to arise when on exercise with OTCs!

Especially when senior officers are floating around :oops:

Had a similiar situation last year. But its no match for Belushi's tale!!!

We were in a harbour location on SPTA with two gung-ho OCdts on stag. The RAC troop were attempting to recce our location but got too close. So one of the sentries let off a magazine at them only to discover that he had left his webbing under his basha (very bad drills). So he ran, stumbling over trees to grab a fresh magazine. When he returned to his stag position, the RAC had Foxtrot Oscared.

During this time however, the rest of the platoon was in the process of bugging out. Only when we got to our ERV did we find out that we had been bumped by the 'wrong' enemy. It was just the RAC troop trying to do their job. The real enemy should have been in deserts.

This little nocturnal activity was a point of much amusement for the other three platoons in the company the following morning!


War Hero
Come on Belushi, you must have finished work by now, where's the rest? I want to remenisce about PTIs promising us big-arms-for-christmas or recieving advice from colour sergeants about not being shy ('cos your mother wasn't)...
So there we all were. Standing before the man on day one of a twelve minute course designed to turn us into idle playthings for the Adjt and SLIM. From Cadet RSMs, to pad brats, to total military virgins. Now united. A platoon. A brotherhood. A Company of Men. We were as one. We looked like tw*ts.

It took us a while to look the part. One unfortunate who ended up going to the Sappers was indeed shadowed by a team from the DPA for the first couple of days of the course, who were interested in procuring his beret to replace HMS Ocean when she came out of service. The rest of us strolled around in a variety of ill fitting CS95, chosen simply by virtue of the fact that when the storeman bellowed 'whaddyameanitdoesnaefityefockinweemonkeynowgerraway
beforeIsendyeootinnowtburrapairoffeckinginsoles!', we had, to a man, bolted for the door carrying whatever we could grab on the way out. As a result, until the time honoured system of swapsies had done its business, our CSgt could readily be identified as the one staring sadly at a Pl of 15 OCdts whose every contour was visible through the strained fabric of their combat trousers, and 15 who looked like they were in the process of melting, while muttering quietly to himself: "F*ckin' civvy storemen. F*ckin' civvy storemen."

In short, we were bloody useless. At everything. Our CSgt had seen some nasty stuff in Bosnia, and had a shedload of NI tours under his belt, but he was still visibly shaken after our initial range period. Patiently, he explained the principles of grouping to us. We nodded in awe, in exactly the way that should have indicated to a watchful DS that we didn't have a f*cking clue what he was talking about. But this was his first time training on the SSLC course, and the look on his face as half the OCdts forgot their change levers and decimated the Fig 11s with wild bursts of automatic fire, and the other half put rounds into the range markers, the grass ten feet in front of them, and quite possibly some into thin air, was a picture I shall cherish forever.

The clash of two cultures is always an interesting process; when the Army met unreconstituted teenage Generation Grunge, or whatever we're supposed to be, it was spectacular. There were two different value systems at work. One prided itself on smartness, effiency, esprit de corps, and a host of other good cries. The other was prepared to step onto the Old College square without a beret or belt, an untucked shirt and trouser ties dangling idly in the wind, on the somewhat dubious grounds, and I quote directly here "It's a Sunday. They can't touch you on a Sunday."

Apparently, they can.

In fact, the DS treated us quite well, all things considered. This was in large part down to incredulity. By the time they had recovered from seeing OCdt Johnson execute a Guards like left turn on the march, when everyone else in his Pl had gone right, and watched him continue, totally oblivious, until he had disappeared into the woods, the beasting that was forming in their breasts was defused by the sight of OCdt Davis falling out of the first floor of Victory Building while trying to wash the outside of his room windows. In short, there was too much incompetence for them to compute.

This was particularly evident when it came to the Combat Estimate. Tricky to grasp under any circumstances, and right up there with Iamblichan Neo-platonist philosophy when taught to a Coy of exhausted 18 yr olds who were still covertly trying to find out whether they'd put their trousers on backwards. The first attempts were nothing less than superb, as precocious teenagers earnestly explained to the Coy Comd how the enemy section would be dislodged by a "tactical nuclear strike on the village behind them, Sir, and then when they all turn round to see what the noise was, we'll HALO in while they get strafed by Spitfires, and then we'll bayonet the b*stards quickly, while they're not looking. Sir". Official approval was deemed to have come when the Coy Comd dropped his head into his hands and let out a sob, and the rest of the lesson would be conducted with the audience in the press up position.

TBC, though god knows why - sheer boredom drives me to this, it really does.

Similar threads

Latest Threads