First, you are issued with your brand-new kit of everything you’ll need during your Army career: three sets of uniform; a nuclear, biological, chemical suit; a helmet; two pair of boots; your sports kit, consisting of two pairs of shorts and two T-shirts; trainers; socks; a hold-all for carrying it in; a roll mat and sleeping bag; your rifle and webbing, which you carry your magazines in. It’s all brand, spanking new and in packaging. Then you cart it through camp, which is like a Walk of Shame. Everyone knows you are the lowest of the low as the new recruits and all the while you are shouted at and firmly put in your place. The other soldiers make no bones about the fact they are in charge and you aren’t fit to lick their boots. You aren’t allowed to wear civvies. Instead, you either have to wear your Army camouflage gear or, if you aren’t in uniform, the only thing you are permitted to put on is an unflattering tracksuit you are issued with: Ron Hill leggings and a green sweatshirt. A cardinal rule is that you’re not allowed to wear your beret either, as you have to earn that; make-up is also banned. For the first week you are left reeling in shock.
I was in a mixed platoon, where boys slept on one floor and girls on another in rooms of six. Inevitably, where there’s a bunch of teenagers there is flirting, but it was always very childlike, just like at school. Interpersonal relationships within the platoon were completely forbidden and during Basic Training nothing ever happened as we were all too scared, and to be honest, you were kept so busy with PT, block inspections, cleaning your kit and kit inspections or going to briefings and studying for tests that you were too tired for anything else, including sex. We weren’t allowed off camp to go drinking so the only source of booze open to us was a Naafi-run bar. No one bought any alcohol – we knew PT the next morning would be so gruelling it wasn’t worth risking a hangover.
For the first six weeks they break you down before building you back up again. We were never fast enough or tidy enough, and we didn’t march well enough. The instructors teach you exactly how to iron a crease down the front of your trousers and razor-sharp creases down your sleeves too. I’d done my own ironing since the age of sixteen, but I still had to learn how to present my kit. You are taught to march, stand to attention, salute and how to clean your rifle, put it together and care for all your kit. One pair of boots would have to be polished for ‘everyday’ wear, but you do something called ‘bulling’ with the second pair, which is where you put on a thick layer of polish for a few days, then you apply water and cotton wool over days and days in a circular motion before repeating the process again and again to get them to the really high shine you see on the regimental parades. Once you pass out of Basic Training everybody cheats and buys lacquer and sprays them instead, but until then your boots have to be immaculate and done the hard way.
Then there’s hours and hours of physical training to build you up for your first big test at the six-week mark: your first attempt at the Army Obstacle Course, which has elements of running, climbing, jumping, crawling and balancing with the aim of testing your speed and endurance. It’s an absolutely punishing schedule as no one has the necessary strength or endurance to do it; you just have to dig deep and persevere.
But even though it was hell, I loved it. Week by week, kids dropped out when they found they couldn’t hack it. I remember one got a knee injury and another just decided it wasn’t for him, but for me that was never an option. I never rang home and said: ‘Mum, please get me out of here!’ – I never wanted to, and I just got on with it.
But while I toed the line with pretty much everything, I’ve always had a rebellious streak and during Basic Training there was one rule I just couldn’t stick to, and that was not wearing any make-up. From the age of sixteen I’d never left the house without my ‘face’ on – brown eyeshadow, pink lipstick, foundation, black mascara and a peachy blusher. I wasn’t vain but Mum had taught me always to make the best of myself and I liked to be groomed as it boosted my confidence. At home I wouldn’t dream of going to the corner shop without lipstick, mascara and blusher on at the very least, so when we were ordered to have scrubbed, fresh faces it was never going to be something I could stick to. Every day I’d put on black mascara and a subtle sweep of peach blusher on my cheekbones and I seemed to get away with it for a while. When I got cocky in week three and tried to add some lip-gloss it was a step too far, though.
The instructor barked: ‘Are you wearing make-up?’ and ordered me to his office. He had a ‘pull-ups’ bar on the doorway and while he did his admin, he made me hang off it by my arms for ages. Each time I dropped off, he shouted at me to hang off it again until I was so physically exhausted I thought my arms would drop off and I couldn’t do it any longer.
His one mistake was he didn’t confiscate my contraband and even his punishment didn’t deter me – I just stuck to the blusher and mascara and, apart from when I was deployed in Iraq, I never served a day in the Army without wearing at least some make-up. Of course, there were countless other occasions when someone barked: ‘Private, do you have make-up on?’ I’d say: ‘No, Sir’, then quickly go back, scrub my face and reduce the amount I had on, so I didn’t get caught out again.
Army punishments are always memorable and everyone goes to extraordinary lengths to avoid them. One night we managed to get hold of some contraband clear-spray lacquer to buff our floor for a room inspection at 6am the following morning. We polished feverishly until 4am, trying to get it shiny like a pin. But while the floor passed muster, they smelt a rat so not much else did. First, some dust was found on some pipes and then a plughole wasn’t sparkly enough. Each time they found something wrong the instructor bellowed: ‘Ten times round the block! Get away! Get away! Get away!’ and we’d have to run ten laps around camp before standing to attention in front of our beds again.
Then they moved to our lockers. You’d have beads of sweat as yours was inspected. At first, just like everyone else, I got the presentation of my kit wrong and so I spent a lot of time in stress positions – a favourite was holding yourself in a press-up position. Other times, if you’d been on exercise and you hadn’t scrubbed your mess tins until they were sparkling like brand new you knew you’d spend the next few hours doing a ridiculous amount of sit-ups. My worst punishment was a hundred press-ups outside in the pouring rain as I had failed a locker inspection – my clothes hadn’t been folded properly. An instructor stood next to me as I shouted out every single one in the downpour to make sure I completed it. Ultimately, it was all character-building stuff and I soon started to learn the ‘tricks of the trade’ to get through. For instance, in order to get the arms of my uniform completely flat and the creases razor-sharp, one of the girls showed me how to cheat: sneaking hairgrips up the sleeves of my shirts in the locker so it would sit perfectly.
Despite my efforts, unfortunately things didn’t always go to plan. During another inspection limescale was spotted in the shower cubicle. I spent all day Saturday and Saturday night scraping it off the plugholes and ancient floor tiles and grout, which were clogged with years of grot. To complete the task I was unceremoniously handed a toothbrush and a bottle of bleach and told to scrub away, which was all very Private Benjamin! It was a grim and thankless task and I realise now, with hindsight, I was never going to get it spotlessly clean: it was the principle of making you work for it and ensuring you took pride in your kit and room.
One of the other ‘tricks’ I learnt was to never use the soap in your locker – that was your ‘for show’ soap. During locker inspections if you had used it they would find a micro bit of dust and oh, my God, if they found a body hair in your locker you were just annihilated! A positive effect of the punishments was that all the new recruits bonded over a shared hatred of the instructors. We also learnt that you were only as strong as your weakest link: if you were rubbish at something, not only did you get shouted at by the instructors, but as soon as they left the room, your platoon then shouted at you as well as everyone was dished out the punishment. That, in turn, made sure everyone pulled their w
eight, worked together as a team and had each other’s backs. Ultimately, that’s how I was able to cling on in the wreckage of the building after I’d been blown up, for I never doubted for a second that the lads, which is how we referred to both male and female recruits, would come for me.
At the six weeks’ mark you were allowed to wear your beret for the first time, which was such a privilege. You also had to face the Army obstacle course, which everyone feared, as the punishment for failure within a set time would be severe. After weeks of PT, I was the fittest I’d been in my life and my final preparation consisted of a good night’s sleep and an extra dash of waterproof mascara and a bit of lipstick to give me confidence. It started brilliantly. I tackled the three-foot wall, was given a leg-up over the six-foot wall, pulling myself up and over, walked the plank, rope swung over a muddy, watery ditch without falling in the murky water, and crawled on my hands and knees under a cargo net. It was incredibly tough but I kept up with the lads, partly due to the fact we were all getting screamed at by the officers to ‘go harder and go faster’. Working as a tight-knit team, everyone encouraged those at the back to push themselves. One girl fell by the wayside, dislocating her kneecap halfway round, so they started rushing us over the rest of the obstacle course as quickly as possible.
Dripping with sweat, I remember facing the twelve-foot cargo net, which after my tree climbing as a kid was a doddle for me. When I scrambled to the top there were that many of us on there that someone swung their legs over the top, just as I was going over, and booted me so hard, they sent me flying off. I remember whizzing through the air before landing like a sack of spuds with a horrible thud. Then I lay there, feeling really winded and groaning in pain. A normal cargo net is supposed to be wider at the bottom so you will hit the net and roll down, but this one wasn’t wide enough so instead of hitting the net I crashed into the ground. As the minutes passed, I still struggled to catch my breath and the pain of being winded didn’t get any better. I realised that I must have injured myself. At this point I was put on a backboard by paramedics and taken by ambulance to hospital, where they discovered I’d fractured a vertebra in my back and fractured my sternum.
I was sent home from Basic Training on sick leave, which was gutting. I had to wear a big ‘doughnut’ neck brace and I couldn’t return to Basic Training for six weeks. When I finally healed, I initially went into the rehabilitation unit to get me back to standard. There’s a stigma surrounding being in the rehabilitation platoon in Basic Training. It’s not the same as Headley Court, where men and women begin their often-heroic fight back from terrible injuries. Instead, in Basic Training the rehab unit is perceived as an easy life, where the worst you’ve faced is PT and the assault courses, not IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) and mortar attacks. Because of that, I knew I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible so I passed all the fitness tests within three weeks. Then I was ‘back-squadded’, meaning I rejoined my Basic Training where I’d left off with a different platoon, who had just reached week six. That was the platoon I passed out with.
That incident on the cargo net was definitely a sign of things to come!
While being ‘back-squadded’ wasn’t unusual, joining a new platoon was daunting. Yet, it led me to meet two people who taught me life-lessons that have shaped the person I’ve become. The first was another fresh-faced new recruit, Nikki Jarvis, who took me under her wing and who is the best friend I ever made in the Military. I ended up sharing a room with her and she immediately made me welcome and helped me settle in, introducing me to everyone.
At the six-week point you also go on the first of a series of all-night exercises, which is a real bonding experience with your platoon and culminates in an exercise called ‘Final Fling’ that you have to complete in order to pass out. Luckily, I was paired with Nikki, who shared my wicked sense of humour. We were taught to use Hexi-blocks, which are like large firelighters on which you cook your Army rations or boil-in-a-bag meals. You must also dig a hole for two people, then you have a piece of camouflage tent material called a ‘Basher’ and you must pin it up above your hole at a slight angle so any rain rolls off it; the two of you live in there during the exercise. You have a roll mat you put in the mud hole and you sleep on top of that in your sleeping bag. It was freezing cold and the weather was wet and miserable but we were like two naughty schoolgirls at a sleepover. During the exercise we had to change socks and powder our feet and there was a foot inspection to ensure everyone was looking after their health and had changed them. It’s an essential part of Army life to look after yourself – you can’t fight or work if your feet are in a mess.
The first night out also meant you’d be doing ‘Stag’. This is another term for sentry duty. Hearing the dreaded words ‘You’re on Stag’ on being woken in the dead of night minutes after you’d only just finally managed to drop off as it was freezing and uncomfortable isn’t the most pleasant experience. There’s also a practice enemy attack using bangers that produce smoke to make it as realistic as possible. I relished every moment of it and by the end of the exercise Nikki and I were firm friends.
Nikki had a way of making some of the worst experiences in training a laugh – and throughout our friendship when things got tough she’d be my panacea. The first time I saw it was when we had to test our gas mask in a room full of CS gas. We were down the queue and so we had to endure seeing everyone else come out with their eyes streaming, desperately trying to waft the gas off themselves. Then we both entered the room together with our masks on, walked round to stir all the CS gas up and then took them off and got a nice taste of it as we shouted out our name, rank and number. It was horrible! The first sensation was of burning in my nostrils and eyes, then tears poured down my face so hard I couldn’t see. Nikki dragged me outside and laughed at me crying at how awful it was, while coughing, gagging and spluttering until I was in stitches, too.
We also learned to fire a gun together for the first time in our lives. You are initially taught on an electronic range and then you complete a weapons handling test: how to prepare to fire, make it safe, load and unload. Following this you are issued with a gun with live rounds. Part of passing Basic Training is passing your range test – hitting targets at different distances from a variety of firing positions during the day and night. The fundamental rule is to always keep your weapon facing down the firing range and never at someone else. The first time I ever fired a live round I thought: ‘Oh, my God, if I fuck up here I could actually kill someone!’ It felt like a real weight of responsibility, having a live round in my rifle, and we weren’t just firing blanks. Everyone feels like that at first and it’s vital never to lose that. It was very much at the forefront of my mind that one day I could be firing at a person, yet if it was a choice between my life and someone who was going to kill me I wouldn’t have hesitated. You always need to justify to yourself that if you were to take a life then you’ve done so for the right reason.
As well as the hard work, during the second half of Basic Training there are chances to have the odd night out. One evening in particular cemented my bond with Nikki. We joined some of the lads on a night out in Portsmouth, which was notorious for trouble between Navy and Army personnel and the locals. I don’t know why, unless it was the fact we were with a group of lads, but without any warning, when Nikki went to dance, a civilian girl came up behind her and smashed a glass bottle over her head. She fell to the floor, somehow managing to land a Frank Bruno-esque right hook on the girl’s nose as she went down. Immediately, I ran over and joined in to stop her getting a kicking.
Unfortunately, after landing a few punches and pulling the girl to the floor by her hair, we were both unceremoniously kicked out of the club by the bouncers and then the police were called. I was terrified. Getting caught fighting in the Army is the worst thing ever – you can end up not only getting charged under civilian law, but also being charged under military law, so it was a massive deal. On top of that, I was even more terrified my paren
ts would find out. Luckily, the police believed us when we told them what had happened and after a stern ticking-off, they drove us back to camp without telling our Commanding Officer or the Military Police. It did earn us kudos with the other Army girls once word got out, though, so after that no one wanted to mess with us. And the truth is, even though I’m ashamed of being involved in a cat-fight, at the same time I wouldn’t have left my best mate in trouble and taking a beating. You don’t want to ever mess with the Military as they always look after their own. Since then Nikki has repaid my favour in spades.
The second person who had a massive impact on my younger self was an instructor, with whom I had a torrid fling during Training. It’s a fundamental rule that trainee soldiers and instructors do not have interpersonal relations. Being caught risked a strict punishment or at worst, a Court Marshall. But after I was ‘back-squadded’ I had new instructors and there was an instant chemistry between one of them and me. I’ve always been incredibly shy when it comes to men and I wear my heart on my sleeve, but he showered me with attention at an age when I had never experienced anything like it before. The painful truth is, I was like a lamb to the slaughter and it was actually quite pitiful with hindsight. Six foot four, he was dark, broad, achingly masculine and extremely good-looking – and he knew it.
Never Broken Page 3