In my diary for Week 8, I had two dinner appointments. As a left-footer, I had been invited to the catholic Campion Dinner by Father Martin and his entourage. It promised to be an interesting night, as General Sir Peter Guthrie was the guest speaker. The meal was excellent and there was plenty of fun in the bar afterwards. But none of this compared to the Company’s own diner night. Each platoon was to perform a “witty and amusing” sketch, and we were all full of ideas. After hopping from one theme to another, dithering, indecisive, and generally being weak and unmilitary, we made the choice of not choosing – we mixed all of the ideas together to create a cross between Blind Date and an Olympic bobsleigh race! Lacking the fundamentals such as ice, and maybe a bobsleigh, we improvised with a row of chairs and lots of imagination. QMSI Shaw and the RSM had fleeting cameo rôles – had they been present, I’m sure they’d have been in bouts of hysterical laughter. Tug Wilson, who’d taken off QMSI Shaws’ Manchester accent to a tee, was given sidelong glances by Q at the range the following morning: proof that the colour sergeants’ grapevine really does work. The dinner itself flowed with wine and port, feet stamped, and fists thumped on tables in time to the rousing marches played by the Regimental Band. As the festivities drew to a close, and the third (or was it fourth?) long speech floated unheeded above the inebriated heads of the amassed diners, thoughts drifted up and headed bar-wards. Soon bodies followed minds and, after the top table filed out, there was a mass exodus to Johnson’s Bar. After the sketches and bar games, I have little recollection….

Eight o’clock in the morning, and the Company is out on the parade square, standing unsteadily to attention. Why, after weeks of gloom, does the sun come out in all his glory today? Obviously the RSM booked it specially for Hangover Day, disgruntled that he hadn’t been invited to the party. As our sober colour sergeant prowls ever so slowly along the front rank, inspecting, I’m sure I see an impish grin on his face.

Headaches reducing to a mild throb, we circulate among the various stands put up by the Regiments and Corps vying to enlist us. This is our “Choice of Arms” day, where we get to see what life is like in all branches of the Army. A change from being scrutinized by the DS, it is our turn to put them under the microscope and dissect them with carefully chosen questions. If a man decides to join a Regiment, he must be under no illusions as to precisely what makes it tick.

Later that week, our classroom efforts would culminate in Ex FIRST ATTACK. Section battle drills, discussed in meticulous detail in lessons, were put into practice. Our platoon commander whisked my section away, and our band of merry (if slightly apprehensive) men went a-roaming around the woods of Longmoor. As we patrolled, we would be ‘bumped’ by enemy Gurkha positions. At that instant, a contact report would be sent and we’d fight through the position, guns blazing, Captain Gerrard-Wright flitting along behind. Much crawling, dashing and general cutting about later, we’d close in on the foul fiends’ trench and Johnny Gurkha would die with a theatrical stagger and flailing of arms. Most impressive. Time for a quick command appointment change and a mouthful of water before pressing on relentlessly. The Gurkhas were dying too easily, and the ground was kind to us – the result being that, come the final attack, we still had a fistful of thunderflashes and a pair of smoke grenades. The last enemy position’s occupants hardly knew what hit them!

Our ferocious pace meant we were first back to the pick-up point, and we sat and discussed over a soothing brew the days events and what we’d learnt.