"It’s nurks like you that started the Second World War!" roared WOII Carter when I asked to draw an A40 after he had locked up the stores. We were lucky, other sections drew A41 sets, hence the title.

It was well below freezing that evening and as we were dropped off we noticed that the lumps of mud were frozen rock hard. Stumbling to our objective we reached the spot marked on the map as a house, lo and behold - no house, so we compromised and blew up an imaginary house.

When the thunderflash went off we beat a retreat and so began a 15 - mile walk to our prearranged farm, how we envied sections that had a mere five miles to cover!  Walking semi - tactically along a road that led to the sea wall, our section commander, O/Cdt Pearson, was halted by a voice from the shadows.

"Did you see anyone behind you?" he asked. "There's one five minutes back", replied Jeff Byrne who, together with O/Cdt Pearson and myself, made up section three.

We reached the sea wall, an unimpressive bank about twenty feet high, one hour later. We then paused for a well - deserved break, we could hear others coming along the road towards us. They were about ten yards away when, more through formality than anything else, O/Cdt Pearson challenged them.

"Halt, who goes there?" he asked. This question was greeted by a deafening silence.

"Oh, you're the Jocks we saw back there", the para said as realisation dawned on him. All this intellectual conversation was too much for us at that time of the morning, so we set off along the sea wall at a cracking pace leaving the paras to their lot.

We reached our farm by 08.00 and were pleasantly surprised by the hospitality of the farmers, they ushered us into their rest room, with a heater, mirrors, hot and cold running water, paper towels and a window with a panoramic view of the only road in the area (it all sounds like an advert for a bed and breakfast). From the outside, our building looked like a long row of farmyard garages, which indeed it was, through the sliding garage door was a door in the far wall, this led to our rest room.

Breaking into our compo breakfast we worked out an escape route and posted a guard to watch the window while the others slept. About noon a rover came along the road and paused outside our farm, the alarm was raised and organised panic ensued; we hastily packed our kit ready to move while Jeff watched the rover through a crack in the garage door. The Anglians looked about briefly and then moved off, we breathed a sigh of relief and returned to our duties.

At about 15.00 another rover came along the road and sped past our farm, disturbing us for some time since we were blind from the rear. Eventually, this anxiety and a call of nature prompted Jeff to have a look outside. He had just relieved himself when some thrashing about in the hayloft made him dive for cover. "Is that you, Byrne?" boomed a voice, recognised as belonging to 2Lt Robinson, who was accompanied by the Bn 2IC, come to see our position.

"Better than some" was the official judgment, that "some" including a section that were found all fast asleep in a hayloft and a section of Paras that had been captured!  The Officers left us with the impression that we would be picked up by the Anglians for a briefing on the night exercise by 17.30.

The Anglians arrived at 20.30 and relieved us of all our kit, taking into their care our webbing, they briefed us on the way to our start point, the objective was the water tower.  On arrival at the start point the umpire wished us luck and said that we were the first group to start.

"That just means we'll be the first section to reach the tower", observed O/Cdt Pearson, dryly.

We held a quick "O" group to decide the best route to follow and felt that if we kept as near the road and occupied houses as possible we wouldn't go far wrong.  Tactically speaking, the conditions could not have been worse for us as "enemy", a bright, full moon made us horribly visible and the frosted grass telegraphed our presence and left an unmistakable trail.

The road was as busy as Piccadilly in the rush hour, we were up and down, up and down, and to add to this were numerous barbed wire fences that tried our patience and our combat trousers!

While cutting across an open field we heard voices coming from a copse in front of us - an Anglian outpost, we made a rapid detour to a corner of the field but were forced to crawl 50 yards by the close proximity of a group of police cadets lounging about by the road. We passed near a pub that was lit up like a Christmas tree, the temptation to sample its ale was tempered by the thought that the Anglians were probably in there already.

Moving through a small village we came across a row of kennels, creeping silently past the sleeping occupants we reached a gate at the far end which was frozen into place by the frost, O/Cdt Pearson tapped it with his boot, it came loose with a clatter. Instantly, the hounds began barking and generally tearing the place apart, and like any band of trained soldiers we ran like hell!

We passed through a pungent cowshed and across a track of frozen excreta, the top of which gave way under the slightest pressure as O/Cdt Pearson discovered. We negotiated a deep culvert on the edge of a field just in time to see a four-tonner set up an outpost across the route we proposed to take, this decidedly unfriendly act forced us to detour around the edge of the field.

"When I shone that light you should have damn well run, not gone to ground!" admonished a loud "toffee nosed" voice.

The grass that seemed such a liability was proving to be a blessing, the foot patrol that was sent out to get us came within ten yards but couldn't see us, should have run indeed!  The patrol eventually became bored and retired to the field boundary waiting for us to move.  Our section leader had spotted the water tower about 200 yards away and passed the word.

"When I say run, run like hell!" he advised. We leaped to our feet and set off at a pace that Valerei Borzov would have been proud of.  What an anticlimax!  We expected a cacophony of fire to open up on us, not a single shot was fired.

Running behind Jeff as we reached the field boundary I saw him crash through some branches and, accompanied by a loud "twang", fall flat on his face, well, that's one way of going through a barbed wire fence, I gratefully leaped through the gap while he struggled to his feet. We ran in a line the last 100 yards to the tower and reached the tower's perimeter fence, to get any closer we would have had to swim in the tank.

A voice split the night. "Halt, hands up", this sounded like, a London Scottish voice, we were tired and, in reply, advised him to give himself an enema with his SLR and pull the trigger. To our surprise, it was a group of Anglians!  Without ceremony they slammed us up against the fence, took our weapons and radioed for instructions.

That morning we all met for the debrief and had to wait two hours for our promised breakfast, the reason for the delay - the water bowser had frozen!

While we were waiting, we swapped stories, when one enterprising Jock was captured and searched, the Anglians had failed to detect a hidden half bottle of whisky, fearing the worst, when this Jock was locked in the prison cage he promptly downed the remaining contents. A guard walked in just as the last drops were being consumed, the guard was none too pleased.

One group couldn't resist the temptation of a manned rover parked by the road, so they ambushed it! When they finished, the Anglians at the water tower were amazed when the Jocks turned over some prisoners and the keys to a rover.

Alan Fay was not very keen on being a prisoner and during his interrogation, when the questions strayed from name, rank and serial number, he began to quote the Geneva Convention - stupid boy, Pike!  His captor was furious, he made Alan strip to his underpants and then proceeded to conduct a PT lesson outside in sub zero temperatures for ten minutes, needless to say, he got no more information than the Geneva Convention would allow.

One section, under Cpl Powell, weren't picked up for the night exercise at all, and not knowing where the escape corridor was, could do nothing but sit tight until they were picked up the next day.

The Paras were last heard of physically resisting any attempts at interrogation and when locked in a corrugated tin cowshed, proceeded to kick the place apart!

In conclusion, it was, without doubt, the best soldiering week-end that the author has been on, with The London Scottish excelling themselves under very difficult conditions.