I knew I'd made a mistake answering the office 'phone when the lilting tones of O/Cdt Duncan emerged from the earpiece.

"We're in a bit of trouble this week-end ", he said, some of the Courage Trophy Team are out with sprained tendons and such like. Would you come as a replacement? "

I must have lost control of my faculties just for a moment, because before I could stop it, my mouth said

"Oh, yes", and that was me, stuck.

I reflected bitterly on the error.  Courage Trophy, I thought. That's strenuous, that is. I could get tired, or even worse, a bit puffed. I could even get somewhat damp. However, reluctant to back out as there could be free beer in the background, I found myself in Spenser Street yet again on a Saturday morning (March 19, for those who like details) with the other team members, viz O/Cdts Duncan and Hillman, L/Cpl Felstead, and Ptes Granger, Phelps, Groombridge and Hirlehey.

"What's happening? " I asked. "Get in that Land- rover", said Mr Duncan. It didn't answer the question, but seemed a reasonable suggestion, so I did. However, on observing the driver I nearly bailed out again. It was Pte Phelps, the Agostini of G Coy. (Yes, I know Agostini rides motorcycles. This is a subtle dig at Pte Phelps's cornering technique, which I think is designed to save tyre wear.)  Anyway, I was too late, as we were off, and I next opened my eyes at Wimbledon.

The Common appeared to have been sprayed with soldiers.  There was DP everywhere, so we looked for a quiet haven. "The Golf Club is just up here", said the Coy Commander.  We looked dim (it's not hard). "The LONDON SCOTTISH Golf Club", he explained, patiently. Oh, of course, we all knew really. Two Paras followed us in, but were shown the door. Not members, I'm afraid.

Refreshed, we repaired to the vehicles, checked that the Paras had not ripped the wheels off in a fit of pique, and were then treated to a demonstration of barrel loading / unloading by Courage draymen. Most impressive. No wonder the stuff's fizzy. That was the easy bit over with and now to business.

Woolwich assault course is not very long, nor are the obstacles numerous, but somehow O/Cdt Hillman and L/Cpl Granger are not at their best. The walls, 12 foot and 6 foot, present no great problem, but the ropes do the pair of them. After several attempts to shin up a 10 foot vertical strand and swing along the horizontal rope, a simultaneous decision is taken to abort the mission, and the pair stagger round the quarter - mile run from the end of the assault course to the start, and there collapse. Being younger and more resilient, L/Cpl Granger recovers quickly, but Mr Hillman, being of a more mature ace, lies gasping and wishes to be left to die in peace. He does not, though, and we remount the 'Rovers and "dash" back to Wimbledon for the next event,

THE BEER BARREL RACE

This involves emptying about 40 five - gallon kegs from one lorry, rolling them about 100 yards, and loading, on another lorry. It's very good for the back and, with Piper Baigrie blowing the team on, a respectable time of just over six minutes is achieved. This is followed by the pause that refreshes, and lunch, which is taken in the Golf Club and here we must thank the members for allowing us in, and apologise for the mud on the parquet.

Lunch over, we race off to Epsom in a somewhat loose convoy where, in the shadow of the grandstand, or to be more exact. Half-a-mile away, we participate in:

THE MAP-READING COMPETITION

This is so ludicrously simple that we do not score full marks as we are looking for trick questions that aren't there.  But such is life, and we depart for Pirbright and

THE LOG RACE

Arriving at Pirbright, we are a bit put off by several bodies getting in a Landrover and dripping everywhere. How have they got wet on a log race? Someone explains that it is the water that has caused this. Apparently, the fiendish swines who have devised the course are making sure that all those involved get wet feet and there is, therefore, a surge to the rear of the trucks in order to remove as much kit as possible in order to retain something dry. Shivering slightly, we make our way to the start and observe from the timings board that the leaders are one of the only two civilian teams taking part. The team ahead of us is the slowest and we wait 40 minutes for the Intelligence and Security Detachment, for that is who they are, to finish, meanwhile exchanging saucy badinage with the ladies (and gentlemen) of 217 General Hospital, who follow us everywhere the whole week-end. We also listen nervously to the faint cries of anguish filtering from the depths of the assault course.

Finally, we are led on and given our log, which is about ten feet long and drips malevolently at us. The idea is to carry it round the outside of the assault course, twice, through a couple of minor water obstacles both times, and finish off by hefting it across the giant water jump where, you may remember, Willie and the Major went swimming a couple of months back. In fact, we do not do badly. According to an independent, but biased, source, we are fastest to the water jump, despite Pte Groombridge diving headfirst into one of the lesser obstacles to cheek if there are any sharks therein. Unfortunately, time is lost getting a rope across the chasm but this and four bodies are eventually got over. It is, we agree afterwards, Pte Granger's stentorian bellowings which give the necessary impetus to the pullers and save the log from going into the water, which would have sent us back to the beginning. The Rifle Team kindly carry our log back to the start and we, dressed once more to kill, leave for the last of the day's events,

THE CROSS-COUNTRY DRIVE

Sunday morning sees us up bright and early, or at any rate early, and we set off for Brent Reservoir for

THE WATERMANSHIP TEST

Arriving, we find none other than Colonel Gurdon attempting to gain maximum points for us by default, as the organisers are not ready. But nothing doing, so we don life-jackets and prepare to launch.  The conveyance is an assault boat and we are to paddle it round a 300-yard course. Those who managed to dry our socks overnight immediately get them wet again as the boat floats and we crab our way round in about four minutes plus, which seems good, but the average is three-and-a-half minutes so we are not happy. The Colonel is, however, in good form, being rude to all and sundry, including the Gazette rep. He maintains that the Gazette is but a spurious scandal sheet, but it is clear that his bluff exterior hides infinite regret that he will no longer have The London Scottish Company under his command in view of his departure from the Bn. Leaving Brent Reservoir, we head for the Duke of 'York's, and

THE FIRST AID TEST

Regrettably, we bomb out here, as they say. We are, after all, trained to kill, or at any rate bruise severely, and healing is not our strong point. The situation, as set, involves two injured men in a Landrover, covered in mock blood (them, not the 'Rover) and moaning constantly. Mr Hillman and his team sort out their casualty's broken arm pretty swiftly, but Mr Duncan's band are not really up to it. They remove the casualty from the truck, whereupon the RAMC Captain who is supervising remarks that, in view of the poor soul's broken neck, he is now at least paralysed and probably dead. "Now what are you going to do?" he cries, with undisguised, malicious glee. "Arrange a military funeral", comes the prompt reply, which impresses him not, but gets a laugh from the "dead" body.  We leave the medics smattering more blood on themselves and move out to Ilford and the final event,

THE COMMUNICATIONS TEST

This is extremely complicated and involves passing a message over a radio link, then via a pair of field telephones, the line for which we must lay ourselves, to a teleprinter operator, and then by teleprinter to the Duke of York's.  The message is, unluckily, a signaller's nightmare and gets garbled in transmission, and the line is laid touching an obstacle it is not supposed to.  Furthermore, the "expert" help from the unit organising the event insists on joining the wires up so that they are too short and things get a bit hectic. Granger C. gets quite aerated and heaps verbal abuse on all heads, innocent or otherwise, and Granger P. finds he has sat where someone's doggy has sat before. Poo!

Prizes are presented at 5 pm, a Para unit being first, the SAS second, and a Greenjackets party third. We are seventeenth, but for a scratch team this is not bad and, having finished, we decide that it was quite enjoyable.  Pte Hirlehey is inclined to disagree, for there is no lager and his delicate innards can stomach no other ale.  The rest of us laugh heartlessly and sit discussing the events. " Now, the NEXT time . . . . "