Being a young-adult in JLRRA

Andy Lamb
Andy Lamb
Sep 5, 2018 · 6 min read

Part 10. Being a Boy in 94 Locating Regiment.

“Gunner Lamb!”

“Sergeant!”

“Stop giggling and sort your fucking-self out!”

“Yes Sergeant!”

Previously in this blog: Following my training as a junior leader at Bramcote, I have been posted to 94 Locating Regiment in Germany. I arrived on the afternoon of 4th October 1974 and looked a right-tit when I reported myself as ‘Junior Gunner Lamb”. I was directed to the Regimental Headquarters building where a large bombardier stood at the door, waving to me. He introduced me to the Chief Clerk (Yogi Freeman) and some other people whose names I instantly forgot. Then he sent me over to RHQ Troop so I could get my accommodation sorted out.

Now read on …

Here I am, three weeks after leaving junior leaders and having arrived at my adult regiment. And I am chasing a pig across the regimental square.

This was not what I had visualised two years earlier when, at the age of 15, I was going for interviews at the Army Careers Office in Watford. None of the brochures featured pictures of young soldiers chasing after pigs. All of the pictures in the glossy brochures featured lads skiing and snorkelling and riding about on tanks. There was never any mention of pigs. And none of the recruiting films at Corsham army recruitment centre featured pigs. None whatever.

So, how has it come to this?

I shall explain:

When I got allocated my billet in RHQ troop I was met by a couple of lads who had been in 40 Battery (*shudder*) when I was in junior leaders. They had mustered a few months before me. They greeted me like a long-lost brother. This was a bit strange because, when I was in 40 Battery, they had treated me like a piece of shit. Still, I was happy to let bygones-be-bygones. We were grown-up by now, after all.

I didn’t have much money but they offered to take me down-town so I could sample some German beer, which sounded alright by me. Being October there was some sort of festival going on and there were ad-hoc bars all over the town. The sounds and colours and smells were completely unfamiliar and I was utterly enchanted by the whole thing. The beer was served in small, frothing schooner-glasses and my new mates made sure it kept on coming. Also, there was this strong schnapps called doppel-korn, but I opted not to try any. I still wasn’t really used to drinking and thought I ought to be cautious.

After a while I was feeling a bit the worse for wear and wanted to go to back to camp and go to bed. But the others insisted we stick-around and carry on drinking. They assured me there would be music and entertainment later. I ought to stay with them to enjoy such a treat.

So, I did.

There was music, except it was this strange German ‘folkische’ sound featuring this really odd German singer by the name of Heino. I thought it was completely terrible and hated it at once.

I awoke the following morning with a splitting headache, the room spinning and that f*cking horrible song going through my mind. I felt really ill and had to make a dash for the toilets so I could throw-up. Then the Battery Orderly NCO came in and nominated me to clean the toilets as my block-job. If you want to know the truth I could barely stand-up, let alone clean anything. Yet all of the other lads seemed to be completely sober and coherent. I couldn’t understand it. I spent the rest of that weekend feeling sick-as-a-dog.

By the Monday morning I had recovered enough not to feel horrible. I paraded out on the road with the rest of the Troop. Amazingly, I didn’t get picked-up for anything, even though I still hadn’t shaved. Except everyone thought I was a complete sprog due to having brand-new kit. I had imagined that, by hustling new kit off the ‘bail-outs’ at Bramcote, I had scored a few points. It never occurred to me that there might be some social cachet in having worn kit that looked all ‘sweaty’. I had marked myself out as being a sprog, not a sweat.

Looking back, I have a feeling I probably wouldn’t have got away with pretending to be a sweat whatever I tried. I was still underage, didn’t need to shave, couldn’t hold my drink and had never had sex. I doubt if any real ‘sweats’ hadn’t ticked that lot off their lists.

How humiliating.

In any event, I started working in the Regimental Headquarters. My job was to sit at a desk at the top of the stairs, next to the security gate. I was to check ID cards and let officers in. Apparently there was a serious security alert and no unauthorised personnel, or annoying scrotes, were allowed access. I also had to make new covers for all the regimental files.

I was bored out of my mind.

I did get to go for NAAFI break, lunch and dinner, but it was not the most exciting life you have ever lived. I had decided to avoid going down-town with the other ex-40 Battery lads. I had a suspicion they had sabotaged me but I didn’t know how.

Things changed for me during my second week. Most of the Regiment had gone out on ‘scheme’. At the same time the security level was raised. I was told it was something to do with the Baader-Meinhoff Faction, about which I knew nothing.

In any event, me and about thirty other lads were put on permanent guard duty. We dressed in full combats, were issued with loaded rifles and spent stag patrolling the camp. I had no idea what I was doing so I just followed this other lad around. He had been in the Regiment for a few months and knew everything. I didn’t know anything and he never lost an opportunity to remind me of the fact.

Being on permanent guard meant not having the opportunity to do anything else. I couldn’t take a shower. Meals were taken in the guardroom. Any spare time was spent cleaning my rifle or bulling my boots. Despite not being able to prepare my kit I was still inspected by the Duty Sergeant or the Orderly Officer. Oddly, I never got picked-up for anything. That was completely unexpected. When I was in junior leaders I was always being picked-up for the most trivial reasons. Here, it seemed, I had managed to blend into the background. No-one ever mentioned my shaving or body odour.

So, where does the pig come in to all of this?

Oink!

One of the things about 94 Regiment was that they had a piggery in one of the garages. I don’t know the origins of this. It’s not like the Regiment had a pig as a mascot that paraded on full-dress occasions. As far as I understood it, it was something to do with making a bit of money on the side by using any swill left over from the cookhouse and the NAAFI.

There was one young lad who was nominated as pig-orderly. He didn’t get a fancy uniform, or anything of that order. But he was allowed to go to the cookhouse smelling of pig-shit.

I was on stag one night with the other lad who thought I was a right-drongo. As we wandered around the barracks he was lecturing me on the high standards of the Regiment. It was at this point one of the pigs galloped past us with the pig-orderly in hot pursuit. The other lad, oblivious to this, carried on with his inspirational lecture about drones and sound-ranging. Meanwhile, the pig-orderly was swearing, shouting abuse and begging us to help. If you want to know the truth, I had to stop, put my rifle down, and lean against a tree in case I collapsed from giggling. Actually, I was nearly wetting myself laughing.

The duty sergeant came out and ordered me to help the pig-orderly catch the pig.

So, I did.

To be continued …

Andy Lamb

Written by

Andy Lamb

As a youth Andy Lamb Served in the British Army. He is now a museum curator and studies musical instruments.

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