Steve involved in a scrap on the other side of the street. Normally we would have rushed to his assistance, but to do this would have meant losing our valuable place in the queue and possibly risking the chance of not getting a kebab at all. So we decided to do the next best thing for our friend. Due to his current position, he was unlikely to finish messing around before the kebab shop shut, so we shouted over to Steve and asked if he wanted chilli sauce on his doner and told him not to worry, it would be our treat.
Like all good things, the leave was over quickly and I had to come back to earth with a bump when the day arrived for me to report to the Second Battalion, which was currently based at Battlesbury Barracks in sunny Warminster.
4
2ND BATTALLION ROYAL GREEN JACKETS
During the train journey to Warminster I experienced much the same feelings as I had had on that first journey to Shrewsbury. Once again my head was filled with thoughts, trying to imagine what lay in store for me, and once again I didn't have a clue. The arrival at Warminster Station and indeed at Battlesbury Barracks was less dramatic than the one I had experienced at Shrewsbury. A lone landrover driven by Rifleman Dave Presnall, a little, scruffy looking bloke with an unshaven face and tired, bloodshot eyes met Cookie, 'Harry' and myself. In the years that followed, Dave and I were to become good friends and enjoy many a drunken night out in Capel Court Country Club just outside Dover, which was owned by his mum and dad. But at this particular time we were obviously keeping him from more important things than picking up a couple of NIGS (new intake groups) from the station. He hardly said a word to us and when he did open his mouth he was just whining about the army. This whining was an art unique to soldiers in the battalion and one that we were to master ourselves in no time at all.
We arrived at the camp only to find the rest of the battalion on leave and only a skeleton rear party in residence guarding the barracks. In some ways this worked to our advantage as it gave us the opportunity to settle in and explore the local town for a few days before the boys got back. We were taken out by Jimmy Clarke, a little fat sergeants' mess worker, on our first night only because he was skint and was after a few free pints and not because he was feeling hospitable or anything.
Jimmy quickly toured us round the town's main four drinking holes, The Bath Arms, The Bell, The Anchor and The Volunteer (which the owner craftily renamed The Rifleman shortly after our arrival). After the pubs had shut he then showed us the two Chinese takeaways, one up some stairs and the other on street level, so you had a choice of venues depending on how much lager you had drunk and whether you could safely negotiate the stairs or not. Both takeaways had their own risks, however. The upstairs one was where the two Fijian brothers, both corporals in D Company, liked to fine tune their favourite sport of surfing down the stairs on the back of the nearest 'NIG' they could find, which produced some pretty nasty carpet burns on their victim (sorry 'teammate'). The 'downstairs' Chinese was on the outskirts of Green Jacket territory. It was called the 'boxing ring' due to the shape of its waiting area and the fact that there were usually some squaddies from the school of infantry in there who would risk venturing so close to Green Jacket territory in search of a good meal. The outcome of this mix would always end up in a punch-up between the two groups of squaddies. These groups would in turn be compelled to join forces in an attempt to fight off the seven or eight 'Bruce Lee' chefs who somersaulted over the counter to prevent their place being smashed up.
A few days later the rest of the platoon returned from leave. I was accepted more or less straight away due to the fact that it was halfway through the month and I was in possession of a tin of tobacco. This was a rare item so
Like all good things, the leave was over quickly and I had to come back to earth with a bump when the day arrived for me to report to the Second Battalion, which was currently based at Battlesbury Barracks in sunny Warminster.
4
2ND BATTALLION ROYAL GREEN JACKETS
During the train journey to Warminster I experienced much the same feelings as I had had on that first journey to Shrewsbury. Once again my head was filled with thoughts, trying to imagine what lay in store for me, and once again I didn't have a clue. The arrival at Warminster Station and indeed at Battlesbury Barracks was less dramatic than the one I had experienced at Shrewsbury. A lone landrover driven by Rifleman Dave Presnall, a little, scruffy looking bloke with an unshaven face and tired, bloodshot eyes met Cookie, 'Harry' and myself. In the years that followed, Dave and I were to become good friends and enjoy many a drunken night out in Capel Court Country Club just outside Dover, which was owned by his mum and dad. But at this particular time we were obviously keeping him from more important things than picking up a couple of NIGS (new intake groups) from the station. He hardly said a word to us and when he did open his mouth he was just whining about the army. This whining was an art unique to soldiers in the battalion and one that we were to master ourselves in no time at all.
We arrived at the camp only to find the rest of the battalion on leave and only a skeleton rear party in residence guarding the barracks. In some ways this worked to our advantage as it gave us the opportunity to settle in and explore the local town for a few days before the boys got back. We were taken out by Jimmy Clarke, a little fat sergeants' mess worker, on our first night only because he was skint and was after a few free pints and not because he was feeling hospitable or anything.
Jimmy quickly toured us round the town's main four drinking holes, The Bath Arms, The Bell, The Anchor and The Volunteer (which the owner craftily renamed The Rifleman shortly after our arrival). After the pubs had shut he then showed us the two Chinese takeaways, one up some stairs and the other on street level, so you had a choice of venues depending on how much lager you had drunk and whether you could safely negotiate the stairs or not. Both takeaways had their own risks, however. The upstairs one was where the two Fijian brothers, both corporals in D Company, liked to fine tune their favourite sport of surfing down the stairs on the back of the nearest 'NIG' they could find, which produced some pretty nasty carpet burns on their victim (sorry 'teammate'). The 'downstairs' Chinese was on the outskirts of Green Jacket territory. It was called the 'boxing ring' due to the shape of its waiting area and the fact that there were usually some squaddies from the school of infantry in there who would risk venturing so close to Green Jacket territory in search of a good meal. The outcome of this mix would always end up in a punch-up between the two groups of squaddies. These groups would in turn be compelled to join forces in an attempt to fight off the seven or eight 'Bruce Lee' chefs who somersaulted over the counter to prevent their place being smashed up.
A few days later the rest of the platoon returned from leave. I was accepted more or less straight away due to the fact that it was halfway through the month and I was in possession of a tin of tobacco. This was a rare item so
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