agreed to chat to us about the military. One night, Davy came over to our home and Dad regaled us with tales of drills and marches as if he was trying to put us off. However, he did suggest that a much better option for us would be an armoured regiment, where we would get to drive around in armoured cars and even tanks. My older brother Robert joined in the conversation and soon all three of us were hooked. Just after my seventeenth birthday, we visited the Army Recruitment Office on Derry’s Strand Road. There we met with Sergeant Derek Dunseith, the brother of the legendary Radio Ulster presenter, the late David Dunseith. After we had filled in our application forms my father signed the enlistment papers and off I went to England to join the Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars.
Within weeks of meeting Sergeant Dunseith at the recruiting office on the Strand Road, and after a medical examination in Omagh, Robert and I were on our way to the Royal Armoured Corps Training Headquarters at Catterick Camp in Yorkshire. The train left Derry at 5.40pm and my father chatted to us in the station as we waited to depart. It was one of those awkward Irish conversations between a father and his sons, peppered with banalities like ‘Don’t forget to phone’ and ‘Have you got your ferry ticket?’ Then he said what all Irish parents say to their sons who, deep down, they don’t really want to leave, and my father was no exception. He was very proud that Robert and I were following in his footsteps and joining the army, but at the same time he was very sad that we were leaving him. He kept saying, ‘Sure, it won’t be long before you’re back’. Soon, a whistle blew and we boarded the train. Within minutes we were waving goodbye to my father as the train pulled out of the station and we headed for Belfast.
That night I was so excited on the ferry that I couldn’t sleep. I’d never seen a big ship before, let alone been on one, and we spent hours wandering around in awe of this machine. There were people in the bar, experienced travellers, who knew of the turbulent crossing that lay ahead, and their way of coping with it was to get drunk and fall asleep where they sat. By 4am, as the ferry rocked from side to side in the storm, I was uncontrollably sick. As the ship arrived at Heysham ferry terminal the next morning, still pale and ill we caught the train to Richmond. On arrival at Catterick, Robert and I were met at the guardroom by a Corporal who was passing his Sunday doing the crossword. We were a day early and none of the new recruits were expected until the next day. He directed us to Headquarters, where we were met by a Corporal of the Household Cavalry who showed us to our room. There were twelve beds in the room and we could choose any two we liked. After unpacking, Robert and I decided to go for a walk around the camp. Apart from the odd person in civvies we never actually saw any soldiers. We found a phone box and, as arranged, rang home to Leenan Gardens in Creggan where my father and mother were waiting to take the call.
The next four weeks for intake 65-9 (the ninth intake of the year) was full of kit inspections, locker checks, marching, running, and doing punishment press-ups because someone had done something wrong. A typical evening was spent listening to the radio whilst shining boots, polishing buckles or ironing kit. We were woken every morning at half past five to prepare for room inspection. Each of us had jobs to do: cleaning the Blanco room, the washrooms, the showers, the ironing room, the stairs and landing and our own room, which had to be polished and bumpered every morning. If the morning inspection went well, we were straight on parade for a day’s training. If it didn’t, we were cleaning again until l0am. By the end of the first week, most of us had sussed out that all the shouting and roaring and throwing of kit around the room was obviously an exercise, by our instructors, to break us and make sure that only the best got through basic training. During this time I realised two things about myself: I was very fit – probably due to running from Creggan to the Long Tower school and back twice a day for ten years – and I didn’t like the English. There was something arrogant about them. Not just our instructors, but most of the lads in the intake were pushy and always thought they knew what they were talking about.
By mid-October, what was left of the intake was preparing to ‘pass out’ and looking forward to a weekend’s leave. The kit inspections didn’t happen as often, the block we lived in was immaculate, the locker inspections usually went well every day and we were a tight-knit group when it came to combat training or marching. Most of the lads in our intake had made it through because they were either determined or had the guts to sustain the daily attacks which were, in the main, well-meant and designed to change us from being civilians to soldiers.
After four weeks we had completed our GMT (General Military Training) and were rehearsing for the ‘passing out’ parade with the regimental band. The parade itself was a memorable experience; a day of celebration with most of the lads’ parents sitting watching us as we did our stuff on the parade ground. I was very proud as my name, 24056669 Trooper Carlin, was called out and I marched forward to receive the cap badge of my regiment: ‘The Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars’.
Just as we were preparing to go home after the parade, my brother Robert informed me that he had failed his physical and was to be back-squatted for two weeks on our return from leave. Everyone in the intake was given leave on Friday afternoon until eight o’clock Monday morning. All of them were home by Friday night, except for Robert and I. By the skin of our teeth we made it to Heysham and the Friday night sailing of the Belfast ferry, and after an overnight journey and a two-hour train journey to Derry we got home just after 11am. Sadly, because there were no sailings from Belfast to Heysham on a Sunday, we had to leave Derry again that same Saturday night at 5.40. This gave us just fourteen hours at home, with barely enough time to have a chat about our experience and get something to eat.
We must have been the only soldiers in the British Army ever to take our kit home to show our parents how well polished it all was. During that day, the topic of Robert having to stay back came up. My father spoke to me in the kitchen, ‘Wullie, would you mind very much if I got in touch with the Colonel at Catterick and asked if you could stay behind with Robert? I could put it to him that both of you want to go to Germany together because the truth is, Wullie, I don’t think Robert will make it through on his own.’ I was shocked because I was looking forward to joining the regiment as soon as possible. That evening, as we waited by the train in the Waterside station, my father asked me again. I was still divided between what he was asking and going to Germany. In the end I agreed to stay with Robert.
The next few weeks in Catterick were really the making of me. I was in a new squad that was learning some of the things Robert and I already knew. When it came to marching or kit inspections we were models for the other lads in the room. Suddenly, the English weren’t so cocky. Often they would ask me for help, which I gladly gave. In the end, the time passed quickly enough and Robert and I made it through. We were now qualified drivers of Saladin armoured cars and Ferret Scout cars – the same military vehicles that would become commonplace on the streets of our own home town a few years later as the Troubles erupted.
After a week’s leave in Derry we flew from Manchester to Hanover on a BOAC jet. This again was a new experience; I’d never been on an aeroplane before. Indeed, I’d never been to an airport before. I’ll never forget the feeling in my stomach as the plane hurtled down the runway and took off. I was scared shitless as my stomach came up to the back of my throat but I just sat there smiling, as most people do, during the experience. Later that evening we arrived in Wolfenbuttle, just east of Hanover, by minibus and entered the world of the Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars.
***
Life in the regiment was totally different from training. There were no kit inspections, civilian cleaners cleaned the washrooms and toilets, there were no more than three people to a room, there was no shouting or roaring at the men, and most of the soldiers had forgotten how to march. The weeks went from Monday to Friday, preparing vehicles, servicing them, going for short drives around Wolfenbuttle and back again. No one worked after 5pm and Wednesday afternoons were reserved for Egyptian PT (lying in bed). I didn’t enjoy Egyptian PT at all; instead I went for a run every Wednesday with Bob Kelly, a Lance Corporal from Dublin. He was the regiment’s top cross-country runner and he soon told the captain of the team how good I was.
In 1966,
