it and if they do they’ll have me to answer to.’ Over the years I had seen this woman face down drunken men twice her size with no more than a stare and would rather face down a soldier than Maureen any day.
I realised, however, that I’d need to be on my own guard despite Maureen’s assurances.
*
Army Training Regiment, Bassingbourne, was where my life in the army began, with four months of phase-one, basic military training.
If I thought there was a lack of ceremony at Palace Barracks, then my arrival at Bassingbourne was positively anticlimactic. Picked up by a military driver at the train station in Royston, I was deposited at my troop accommodation block without so much as a glance from the hundreds of other troops scurrying around the vast camp. My section corporal took me into a room and promptly searched the two bags I had brought with me. I was allowed to keep one set of civilian clothing, sportswear, socks and underwear. The rest I was assured I wouldn’t be needing for the next four months. I was marched (though that’s probably too technical a word for it) into the troop office where I was introduced to my troop sergeant, Sergeant Carter. Carter was the stereotypical British army sergeant, a huge barrel-chested man, with a moustache, and a pace stick permanently tucked under his arm. I instantly liked the guy. He was to the point and tolerated no bullshit.
‘Right, Hartnett, I see you’re from the Republic. Nobody here gives a shit. Any problems with the other recruits: officially, I want to hear about it. Unofficially,` sort it out yourself!’
I was then led down the corridor to my section room. As we entered, one of my fellow recruits called the room to attention. I was impressed. The room consisted of ten bed spaces. Each had a single bed complete with army-issue blankets and sheets, a fitted wardrobe, chest of drawers and a footlocker. The beds faced one another in an otherwise open room. Only one space was empty, and this, I realised, would be my home for the next four months.
‘Right, Paddy, get your kit unpacked and be quick about it. Everyone outside in three ranks in two minutes!’ the section corporal roared as he left the room. No one had time to introduce themselves to me, such was the panic to get outside. Panic would be a regular state for us all during our first few weeks, as we struggled to get used to the relentless pace of army life. And Paddy would be my nickname for my first eighteen months of army life. It’s just how it was: if you were Irish you were Paddy, if you were Welsh you were Taff, and if you were Scottish you were Jock. There were many other nicknames used depending on where you came from or what you looked like, but no offence was ever intended or taken. Everyone accepted it as the army way.
First stop for every new recruit is the regimental barber. As we filed into the less than stylish room that served as the barber’s salon, Sergeant Carter cheerfully informed us, ‘You can have any haircut you like, as long as it’s a number one all over.’ Once everyone had the identical haircut, we headed to the squadron quartermaster. There we were kitted out with uniforms, boots, bergens and webbing, everything we would need for life as a soldier. After those preparations, the routine began.
Our days were defined by 0500 starts, with physical training of one sort or another at least three times a day interspersed with room and kit inspections, drill parades and, most important of all, weapons training and tactics. We never walked anywhere, it was always on the double and always carrying weight. I loved the physical aspect of soldiering, whether it was on a booted run, loaded down with a Bergen full of sand, or multiple trips over the assault course in full combat gear. I had thought myself fit when I had signed up, but I wasn’t actually ‘military fit’. I soon was, though.
It wasn’t just fitness, either. By the end of my basic training I could strip, clean and reassemble an SA80 assault rifle or general-purpose machine gun (GPMG) blindfolded. This wasn’t some pointless exercise that the training staff made us do for shits and giggles, but rather an essential part of being able to operate effectively as a soldier at night. We were taught that darkness was often a soldier’s best friend, so we had to be able to operate in it.
The map-reading and the survival skills that we learned meant that we could operate independently for extended periods of time. We learned how to manoeuvre in a firefight, carry out snap ambushes and section attacks. We learned how to give short and sharp orders using voice projection and hand signals, a vital skill amidst the noise and confusion of battle.
Over that sixteen-week period I went from a somewhat scrawny figure to a much leaner, stronger and more resourceful creature I barely recognised. Irrespective of what trade we planned to pursue, we were soldiers first and foremost, and the military training staff certainly did their job well of breaking down the civilian in us and building us back up as soldiers.
The four months of basic training flew by, with only a single weekend off in that whole time. Unlike the other recruits, I couldn’t return home that weekend as the security vetting procedure to travel to the Republic wouldn’t allow it for such a short time. Instead, I headed for London where some of my siblings were living.
Spending twenty-four hours a day together with the other recruits meant we became very close friends, and I remain in contact with many of them to this day. But you can’t be friends with everyone, and I was on course for a showdown of some sort from the start with one particular recruit. He was a Scottish lad from Glasgow, a die-hard Rangers supporter, and he took an instant dislike to me. Over that first couple of weeks, he goaded and baited me with calls of ‘Fenian bastard’, ‘Filthy Taig and suchlike. I bit my tongue at first, but eventually enough was enough. I knew I could never beat him in a fair fight as he was twice my size. Just as well I didn’t fight fair! I stood ironing my kit one evening and he started at me, this time shoving me from behind as the insults came. I swung full force with the red-hot iron and caught him square on the chest, knocking him to the floor. The iron had come out of the socket, and I stood there with it over him, ready to deliver another blow. ‘You’re fuckin’ crazy! You could have scarred me!’ he screamed. I must have had a look of madness in my eyes as I whispered, ‘Next time, I’ll bury it in your face and you’ll never be able to forget me.’ The funny thing is, from that day on we became firm friends for the rest of our army careers. That’s just the way soldiers dealt with things.
The day of the passing-out parade arrived and spirits were high amongst the whole troop. There were three awards up for grabs: best shot, best physical training and best recruit. I was given best physical training, and with the other winners presented myself in front of the Commanding Officer (CO) on the parade square to accept the award. Many of my family travelled from Ireland and London to see the ceremony, and as we marched out on to the square in full ceremonial dress, accompanied by the pipes and drums of the band, I must admit I felt ten feet tall.
My basic training complete, I had two weeks’ Christmas leave. It would be my first time in the Republic as a British soldier, and for the army that wasn’t a trifling matter. For two weeks prior, I had been allowed to grow my hair, and soon looked like a civilian again. But that wasn’t enough. I was summoned to a briefing by the security intelligence officer the day before my leave was due to start. The briefing was long, tedious and more than a little patronising. I was assured the threat to me while at home in Cork was quite real, and got a lot of advice how to prepare for it: ‘Do not pack your clothes in a military hold-all for your trip home. Do not take anything military home with you. Do not tell anyone you are in the British army or discuss with anyone any details of your service.’ Best of all was: ‘Do not associate with any Republican or paramilitary organisations while home on leave.’ It was as if they took me for a complete idiot, yet this briefing would be given to me time and again throughout my military career.
Once that was over, I left ATR Bassingbourne never to return. I made my way to Heathrow Airport for the flight home. One of the great things about serving in the British army was the free travel warrants you got when going on leave, four per year. Both my train journey
