Of course we'd all been looking forward to Camp since we came back from Penally last year. Two weeks in Germany, all expenses paid (apart from ration allowance) seemed well worth the week-ends and the drill nights. Mind you, it was the social side of life that was the attraction. All that German beer, and all those German frauleins. Things, however, are never quite what you expect.

As our readers will no doubt recall, June was certainly flaming this year, and as we got off the removal van, sorry, plane, we discovered that Germany was even hotter. We tottered off to get our baggage noting a strangely clad figure "blawing" on the pipes to greet our arrival. L/Cpl Skilling, no less, who is currently working in Germany, came to greet the brave lads.

A longish hot drive finally brought us to Vogelsang. We'd heard a bit about the place, like rumours that it was set up by that naughty chap Adolf H, to propogate the Aryan race and other such things, but apparently it was a university of sorts for the Hitler Youth. It is now run by the Belgians on behalf of NATO, somewhat ironic. What we didn't know was that it was built on the side of a mountain, which made all meal-times something of an Everest expedition, that the main gate was half-an-hour's walk away, and the nearest town four miles beyond that, that it hadn't rained since March so smoking in the field was streng verboten, and that the temperature was in the 90's which is great for sunbathing but bad news for shirts, KF and combat suits.

The Colonel addressed us and said, "You will not be mucked about", or something similar and we then dispersed to set about polishing and dusting the billets, making bedblocks and sweeping the stairs, all to win the lines competition. This process went on each morning for the first week and made everyone slightly neurotic, because the lack of rain meant an abundance of dust, which lay in wait until we'd finished cleaning and then pounced on the shiniest bit awaiting the arrival of the inspecting officer. L/Cpl Morton, however, did wonders in the ablutions and latrines, and seems to have found his vocation. If he keeps it up, he may get a broom and mop.

We spent a couple of days, and one night practising, patrolling and advancing and withdrawing and on at least one occasion the anti-tank Pin did some gun drills. The end result of these exertions was much sweat and a large amount of dust, and we got quite religious praying for rain.

Interspersed with the dry training (dry in every sense of the word), the traditional Coy smoker was held on the first Wednesday. Pte Hanford did a sterling job organising this, being one of the few among us who speaks German. Granger, the younger, again tried to hog the limelight but lack of a PA system and some heckling drove him off the stage and we settled down to drinking and singing, plus Sgt-Major Carter's favourite sport, jousting. Classification the following day was quite trying, what with all the "sair heids".

We got the Saturday off, and those in need of refreshment, liquid or horizontal, embussed for Cologne. Not one of Germany's most exciting cities, it nevertheless provided entertainment enough for the Coy. Much money was spent, some of it being wasted, as two of the anti-tank Pln members who spent 50 marks each and never even got to stand up will tell you. The CSM amused all with his efforts to rid the home-going transport of interlopers from another Coy.

Sunday saw us fall in for drill, while some members of A Coy fell over instead. No stamina, some people. The whole Bn assembled under the direction of the RSM, and interposed with the drill, TEM's were awarded. Nice to see the Hodden Grey well represented among the recipients, the wearers being RQMS Morris, (his sixth? Ed.), Sgt Hunter and L/Cpl Drylie. A natty left-handed salute by the RQ made its mark, the reason being an unspecified injury to his right wrist necessitating a sling, which he wore all through camp, but he had recovered on the Monday after our return. Following the drill parade, the RSM, obviously suffering from the heat, said we had done well and he was proud of us.

So we passed three hard days. Without radios the gun teams were somewhat out of things. Every time we went up to the infantry positions, either they were gas-proof and we weren't or we were and they were not. Lack of information regarding gas alerts meant that the Bn lost most of its anti-tank support during the first alert. Some orders seemed a bit perverse, particularly being told to cat in gas masks, which seems to this writer at any rate, a preposterous idea, for reasons so obvious, I won't go into them. Sgt Hillman at BHQ persevered for three meals, occasionally shovelling compo into the exhaust valve of his mask and became thoroughly unimpressed with the whole idea.

On the Wednesday night the enemy were cornered and the Bn was assembled for the dawn attack.  A Coy's attached guns leaving their superbly prepared positions from which they could shoot up any attack coming from A Coy itself, whilst leaving any enemy opposition well alone in case they got upset. L/Cpl McArthur, with G Coy was also glad to leave as he could forget about the problem of jacking his gun up by four feet to see over the corn surrounding his position. Regarding the dawn attack itself, the fog of war is a very apt description.

The gun crews, drawn up in extended line behind the infantry peered into the mist to the limit of visibility 25 yards away and listened to the sounds of battle as the sun rose somewhere. Noises of racing engines, the squeal of tracks, and other military cliches reached our ears. "I'm actually going to see a tank" I thought. Then someone yelled "Gas!" Off with the glasses, on with the mask and there we were peering at three greeny-brown blobs that shot out of the mist at about 5Omph and had gone within about 10 seconds. Someone said they were Scorpions but I couldn't vouch for that. All these greeny-brown blobs look the same to me.

After all this excitement, we moved back to our previous positions and made friends with the local populace. When conversation runs out, as it tends to do if you don't speak the same language, passing the gas mask around helps break up the monotony.

We arrived back at Vogelsang at about lunchtime ready for a shower and some sleep but had to clean the guns first of course. I'm not saying who won the prize for the most rust, but the Cpl's Club Secretary has been looking most embarassed lately.

Friday was relax time. The Bn sports were dominated by E and V Coys but our own lads tried hard. It was unfortunate that some of the football team left on the road party but those who remained held V Coy to a draw and only lost on penalties. The polishing and cleaning paid off. We won the lines competition. The London Scottish, housemaids to the world!

A final visit to the local town was made on Friday night during yet another giant thunderstorm, scored by Wagner and on the Saturday we left, wafted home on a VC 10. Such style!  Wherever camp is next year most people have only one desire - that it is flat.

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