Being a Boy in JLRRA
NIGSVILLE — THE FIRST FRONTIER
Those first couple of days in Nigsville went by in a confusing blur.
On that initial morning we were roused at 5am. I was, and still am, a natural early riser, so I wasn’t too fussed. But some of the other lads felt this was a bit of an imposition and couldn’t stop grumbling about it. Ever. One of my abiding memories of those days was the permanent background whining and whingeing whenever we had to get up early. That was one of the first things that started getting on my nerves. There were many others to come.
We dressed in PT kit, blue shorts, red T-shirt, green socks, black plimsolls, and formed up outside. First off, they showed us how to form a squad. Tallest on the right, shortest on the left. There was a bit of competition for who might be the shortest. When it came down to it, it was a toss-up between Malcy Boyd or Titch Barton. Nevertheless, they wrangled us, more-or-less into a squad formation.
First instruction: How to stand to attention. Second instruction: How to stand at ease. Now the hard bit: How to transition from one to the other in a soldier-like manner. My God! That was hard.
Once we had managed to master that, in squad formation, we shambled over to the sports field. Any complicated foot drill would have to wait until after breakfast.
For the next half-hour they had us running around the football field.
Against all the odds, I was actually quite good at running. I had been in the school cross-country team and had competed at County level. Never won any prizes, mind. Still, it wasn’t too much of a stretch for me. Sadly, some of the other lads were already struggling. I couldn’t really understand it. I knew perfectly well I wasn’t the fittest person in the world but there were lads even un-fitter than me.
Back into squad formation and shamble back to Recruits Section. Next instruction: How to make up our beds and bed-blocks. I did think that was all a bit weird. Why not just make your bed properly? In any event, it took us the best part of an hour before they were satisfied. Get changed into uniform.
Our normal working dress uniform:
Shirt-khaki flannel. Trousers-khaki denim. Jersey-heavy wool. Socks-green wool. Boots-DMS.
Nobody ever told us what DMS stood for. It was another TLA. It remains a mystery to this day.
As brand-new NIGs we weren’t issued berets. Instead, for headgear, we had this knitted thing that you folded and it became a wool hat.
We shambled into squad formation and were then instructed how to do a Right-Turn (One-two-three. One!). We were then marched down to the cookhouse with our KFS and mugs held in the small of our backs. They tried to get us to march in step but it was a bit beyond our abilities at this time.
Breakfast was consumed at the double. We were alloted about 10 minutes before we had to form up outside the cookhouse and march back. A couple of NIGs had thought to try out the toast machines without realising:
- Completely crap.
- Didn’t create toast.
- Took forever.
Most disappointing. On the other hand, there was plenty of food. It seemed we would be having the Full-Monty every day. Lucky for me I wasn’t on a diet. One thing, the tea tasted funny, like there was some chemicals in it.
It seemed, in that first week, there were millions of priorities in our training: Drill & Turnout, inspections, fitness, block cleaning, hygiene, laundry, bed-blocks, inspections, grease-outs, boot-bulling, locker-layout, PT, inspections, running around the football pitch, more inspections.
I hadn’t brought the brochure with me but I was sure the stuff we were doing was nothing like the timetable they had advertised.
One morning we went for swimming assessment. It was one of the things we were going to be graded on. At home, I had been a good swimmer but here I seemed to have forgotten everything I ever knew. When it was my turn, I dived into the pool and sank like a brick. I couldn’t understand it. At home I had been a good swimmer. Here, I was put into the remedial swimming group. That was unfair.
Evenings were spent cleaning. Either we were cleaning the block, cleaning our kit or cleaning ourselves. I won’t bother describing how to bull your boots but I have found a Youtube clip of how the Irish Guards do it:
We certainly didn’t do it like that. We just did the final bit with the endless, circular rubbing polish in.
We had inspections practically all the time. They inspected everything. Bed-blocks, locker-layouts, turnout, grovelling-pits, boots, teeth. Everything. There was absolutely no question of let-up.
I was almost permanently confused. I didn’t know what standards were acceptable. Having said that, I was obsessively pernickity. My locker-layout was always as perfect as I could make it. My bed block was always perfect. Unlike others, I never had mine thrown out of the window.
All I can say is thank God for OCD.
For some reason, my boots were never good enough. I don’t know what criteria they were using. As far as I could tell, the standard of my boots was no different from anybody else. Nevertheless, they were my personal failure that came in for stick. The Sergeant threw them down the room every night. Other lads suffered for other reasons.
The other thing that happened in that first week was the developing friendships and rivalries amongst us. Those of us who stood out in any way started coming in for some stick from the other kids. I became the ‘Watford-Wanker’. I can tell you, it was better than what others got.
On the other hand, I started making friends. The lad in the grovelling pit next to mine was a soft-spoken Scots lad whom I shall call Jock Carnoustie (fictional name alert). We started getting on quite well together. Same thing with another lad from the West Country; Mick Tarren. The last time I saw him, in 1978, he was in 7 RHA and we were in training together for Op Banner.
Another thing that started in that first week; the Sergeant took us on, each individually, for a fight. He would pounce on a lad and a struggle would ensue. I was definitely not used to this. Some lads gave a fair return but I was far too much of a wimp to fight back. instead I offered a stubborn passive-resistance. I wasn’t going to fight him but I wasn’t going to give in either. He threw me down the room. I suppose it made a change from my boots.
As has been previously observed elsewhere (and I wish you would shut up about it) we had a TV in our room. When we had finished hygiene-inspection the Sergeant told us we were allowed to watch TV until Lights-Out. However, after he had left, the BONCO would then tell us we couldn’t watch TV. That was how it went for the whole of Nigsville. It was an exquisitely subtle torture. Use of the TV was held tantalisingly out of reach. Bastards!
That was our first week in Nigsville.
