On Friday 10th November at 1930 hours 'G' (The London Scottish) Company mobilised for war. With them went a person fortunate enough to be included in their movement order as an official war reporter. Actually he did not arrive at HQ until well after 1930 due to Lts Anderson and Norman being late - something to do with the consumption of beefburgers from MacDonalds - or so he was led to believe. They were met at the door of HQ by CSM Brian Welsh, Sgt Hanford and L/Cpl MacPherson, the latter marching about armed with a clipboard and muttering "They're hiding ... I know they're hiding somewhere". This turned out to be a reference to soldiers, or the lack of them, and not as had first been imagined, the absence of some vital parts of his equipment such as his socks!

In the event about 60 Jocks actually appeared and were quickly processed through the Admin desks before having drink in the canteen and finally bedding down in the Drill Hall. Meanwhile the officers also had a drink or two, in some cases more than two - No names, no packdrill - before they were summoned to an 'O' Group in the Company Commander's office. They came back into the mess much later to find their war reporter comfortably dozing in two chairs with all his kit neatly stacked away. A tremendous battle ensued for possession of the chair cushions, soon to become mattresses. Lt Clements looked on with an amused and rather smug expression since he had his mat to sleep on. Lt Anderson won the bed battle easily - principally because he got to the mess first - having presumably sneaked away from the 'O' Group early. He then proceeded to unpack the most enormous suitcase - everyone else had efficient and warlike 'Bergens' - from which he produced, of all things, a 'Laura Ashley' wash-bag. His claims that this was due to the fact that his suitcase had been packed by his wife only added to the prolonged guffaws of laughter.

Reveille was at 0400 hours Saturday. The only good thing that could be said about that is that at least it was not raining! The Company moved to the Guards Depot at Pirbright in a variety of 4 tonners and landrovers. Lts Anderson, Norman, Randall and the war reporter travelled in style and at enormously high speed in Lt Norman's comfortable car. Lt Anderson slept. Captain Wirgman and Lt Clemence travelled at a more sedate pace in Wirgy's car.

Once dismounted at Pirbright the Company assembled in the car-park and stood shivering nervously, whilst they awaited the arrival of a P.T.I. from The Parachute Regiment. Rumours abounded as to how ghastly he was and how he liked to 'beast' Scotsmen since he disliked them so intensely.  As a result members of the Company could be seen scuttling surreptitiously into the bushes with pained expressions. A latrine in one of the blocks was subsequently found, to the immense relief of all.  The P.T.I. finally turned up, and after a number of Parachute Regiment-type jokes fired into the crowd as ,warming rounds', none of which anyone found in the least amusing, he launched the Company into their Battle Fitness Test (BFT), dividing them into groups according to age. The first to leave was L/Cpl MacPherson - a small, slightly rotund but nevertheless very determined figure, yomping off on his solitary tour of the course amidst the cheers of the rest of the Company. But soon everyone had gone as well, running the gauntlet of cat- calls from a number of bemused guardsmen who were able to watch the proceedings from the windows of their cell-blocks.

It was not long before the first straining and sweating figures approached the finishing-line, followed at intervals by the rest of the Company - everyone with arms and legs pumping, tendons, muscles and eyes bulging with the effort to beat the clock, every man being encouraged by his officers, sergeants and friends - "C'mon mon, ye can dae it" - and indeed all bar three did - a commendable effort.

A quick towel-down and then breakfast, consisting of sausages, scrambled eggs and beans - washed down with tea.

Officers and senior NCOs departed to points spread over a wide area to set up their various stands - map- reading, first-aid, intelligence, NBC, signals, and the two ranges - one for zeroing, and the other for the APWT shoot. Junior NCOs and the Jocks sorted themselves into their sections and began adjusting equipment - rifles, webbing, and their helmets - with the distinctive Hodden Grey patch sewn into the camouflage on the back.

The war reporter went first with Lt Norman, Sgt Lane and Cpl Orpwood to the zeroing range. The first section soon appeared panting (out of breath again) took an issue of ammunition, covered off targets and flung themselves down into the prone position, squeezing off rounds in groups of five after being reminded by Lt Norman to apply the marksmanship principles. Safety catches applied, they then ran down to inspect targets, the laggards being harried by Sgt Lane. Adjustments were made to the sight units, then another 5 round confirmatory group was fired. After clearing up the brass, they ran down to the next range for the APWT. The war reporter, needless to say, followed them at a pace more befitting a man who is thinking far nobler thoughts than of merely killing the enemy. In this frame of mind he stumbled upon the signals stand where Cpls Miller and Flurdy presided over Jocks crouching around radio things with long antennae and trailing leads which emitted hisses and crackles as though they contained angry snakes.

Beyond the signals was the ETR - a splendid range with pop-up targets which fell over satisfactorily when they were hit. Lt Clemence was in charge here, ably assisted by SPSI Vic Lees and Cpl Atcheson, the latter operating the complicated buttons and switches which controlled the targets from inside a glass-fronted bunker. Lt Clemence was armed with a microphone with which he danced about the firing point like some demented pop-star.

Another section arrived and having been issued with their ammo commenced zapping excitedly away at the targets as they appeared, all totally oblivious to Lt Norman's stern admonitions concerning marksmanship - as jubilant shouts from along the mound indicated that the jocks were hitting targets in spite of him; or were failing to do so - as when hands went up to indicate yet another stoppage and Vic Lees ran forward to ensure that the offending obstruction was dealt with in accordance with the prescribed drills.

Finally, with the enemy in full retreat, the scores were read out - groans from those who did not manage to make the grade, cheers from the others, then the section is off again in the direction of the next stand.

The war reporter moves on too - transported by Lt Anderson to the First Aid stand where Captain McArthur and Cpl Hills have set up their 'casualty' who needs her pulse checked and who, on occasions needs mouth-to- mouth resuscitation applied. Most of the Jocks wish she was real! There is also a mysterious tent affair into which Captain McArthur and the Jocks disappear, one after another, from which groans and other strange noises emanate. The war reporter does not enquire too closely as to what is happening within, and moves on to the NBC stand. Here Major Pearson is presiding over the donning of 'noddy-suits' and gas-masks in preparation for a visit to the gas chamber. The war reporter very nearly makes the elementary mistake of being down-wind of the gas chamber when the door is opened whilst trying to get some action-shots of the proceedings. Lt Anderson re-appears in the nick of time having been asleep somewhere, saved from even further embarrassment!

The tests are finished and lunch appears along with the ice-cream van, the owner thinking at the sight of all these Jocks that it must be Christmas and Hogmanay all on the same day, so brisk is his trade. After lunch the March and Shoot Competition takes place, with sections completing the assault course and then marching to one of the ranges where the Failing Plate Competition is shot.

The war reporter stations himself in the centre of the Assault Course at the 'Queen Mary' and around other equally horrible obstacles. Soon the woods echo to the sounds of Jocks, panting, straining and heaving, their muscles cracking with the effort of pushing themselves and their sack-like mates over, under or through whatever it is that is in their way; to the shrill shouts of encouragement from the section commanders, NCOs and officers. Teamwork is the name of the game now, and those that work as a team win through more easily than those who don't. They are soon soaked and covered in mud, but still they keep going.

"Come on son ... Keep going! You can do it! You can do it!" Thus encouraged they reach the end to have a one minute breather-before shouldering their weapons and staggering off in the direction of the range. The assault course is not without its mishaps. Pte Reekin falls in the 'Queen Mary' - a spectacular event for those watching (rather like seeing the launching of the 'Queen Mary' after which it is doubtless named). All agreed that the expression on his face when he hit the water was a classic. However he did not give in and made it to the finish.

Finally all teams are through the assault course and the war reporter gets a run up to the range to see the last section shoot at the Failing Plates - a hundred metre dash, which is more of a stagger after the assault course, down to the prone position, load and fire off at the white metal plates as each one is hit, the targets obscured by dust from the incoming rounds - then sudden silence - everyone is out of ammunition, though there are still plates standing as if to mock their impotence.

"Have we won? Have we won?" The results are given later after brass clearing and declarations.

Then it's 'mount-up', onto the vehicles and the weary drive back to Horseferry Road. Weapon cleaning, showers, good hot scoff and bags of beer.

The war has been won!

Last updated 23/01/2008