Charlie One. Seán Hartnett
no offence was ever intended or taken. Everyone accepted it as the army way.
First stop for every new recruit is the regimental barber. As we filed into the less than stylish room that served as the barber’s salon, Sergeant Carter cheerfully informed us, ‘You can have any haircut you like, as long as it’s a number one all over.’ Once everyone had the identical haircut, we headed to the squadron quartermaster. There we were kitted out with uniforms, boots, bergens and webbing, everything we would need for life as a soldier. After those preparations, the routine began.
Our days were defined by 0500 starts, with physical training of one sort or another at least three times a day interspersed with room and kit inspections, drill parades and, most important of all, weapons training and tactics. We never walked anywhere, it was always on the double and always carrying weight. I loved the physical aspect of soldiering, whether it was on a booted run, loaded down with a Bergen full of sand, or multiple trips over the assault course in full combat gear. I had thought myself fit when I had signed up, but I wasn’t actually ‘military fit’. I soon was, though.
It wasn’t just fitness, either. By the end of my basic training I could strip, clean and reassemble an SA80 assault rifle or general-purpose machine gun (GPMG) blindfolded. This wasn’t some pointless exercise that the training staff made us do for shits and giggles, but rather an essential part of being able to operate effectively as a soldier at night. We were taught that darkness was often a soldier’s best friend, so we had to be able to operate in it.
The map-reading and the survival skills that we learned meant that we could operate independently for extended periods of time. We learned how to manoeuvre in a firefight, carry out snap ambushes and section attacks. We learned how to give short and sharp orders using voice projection and hand signals, a vital skill amidst the noise and confusion of battle.
Over that sixteen-week period I went from a somewhat scrawny figure to a much leaner, stronger and more resourceful creature I barely recognised. Irrespective of what trade we planned to pursue, we were soldiers first and foremost, and the military training staff certainly did their job well of breaking down the civilian in us and building us back up as soldiers.
The four months of basic training flew by, with only a single weekend off in that whole time. Unlike the other recruits, I couldn’t return home that weekend as the security vetting procedure to travel to the Republic wouldn’t allow it for such a short time. Instead, I headed for London where some of my siblings were living.
Spending twenty-four hours a day together with the other recruits meant we became very close friends, and I remain in contact with many of them to this day. But you can’t be friends with everyone, and I was on course for a showdown of some sort from the start with one particular recruit. He was a Scottish lad from Glasgow, a die-hard Rangers supporter, and he took an instant dislike to me. Over that first couple of weeks, he goaded and baited me with calls of ‘Fenian bastard’, ‘Filthy Taig and suchlike. I bit my tongue at first, but eventually enough was enough. I knew I could never beat him in a fair fight as he was twice my size. Just as well I didn’t fight fair! I stood ironing my kit one evening and he started at me, this time shoving me from behind as the insults came. I swung full force with the red-hot iron and caught him square on the chest, knocking him to the floor. The iron had come out of the socket, and I stood there with it over him, ready to deliver another blow. ‘You’re fuckin’ crazy! You could have scarred me!’ he screamed. I must have had a look of madness in my eyes as I whispered, ‘Next time, I’ll bury it in your face and you’ll never be able to forget me.’ The funny thing is, from that day on we became firm friends for the rest of our army careers. That’s just the way soldiers dealt with things.
The day of the passing-out parade arrived and spirits were high amongst the whole troop. There were three awards up for grabs: best shot, best physical training and best recruit. I was given best physical training, and with the other winners presented myself in front of the Commanding Officer (CO) on the parade square to accept the award. Many of my family travelled from Ireland and London to see the ceremony, and as we marched out on to the square in full ceremonial dress, accompanied by the pipes and drums of the band, I must admit I felt ten feet tall.
My basic training complete, I had two weeks’ Christmas leave. It would be my first time in the Republic as a British soldier, and for the army that wasn’t a trifling matter. For two weeks prior, I had been allowed to grow my hair, and soon looked like a civilian again. But that wasn’t enough. I was summoned to a briefing by the security intelligence officer the day before my leave was due to start. The briefing was long, tedious and more than a little patronising. I was assured the threat to me while at home in Cork was quite real, and got a lot of advice how to prepare for it: ‘Do not pack your clothes in a military hold-all for your trip home. Do not take anything military home with you. Do not tell anyone you are in the British army or discuss with anyone any details of your service.’ Best of all was: ‘Do not associate with any Republican or paramilitary organisations while home on leave.’ It was as if they took me for a complete idiot, yet this briefing would be given to me time and again throughout my military career.
Once that was over, I left ATR Bassingbourne never to return. I made my way to Heathrow Airport for the flight home. One of the great things about serving in the British army was the free travel warrants you got when going on leave, four per year. Both my train journey to Heathrow and my flight to Cork were paid for in full by the British army.
As it was Christmas, I bumped into many old friends over that two-week period and it was during those encounters that I discovered just how much I had changed. Many people had commented on the change in my physical appearance, but it was the change in me as a person that I now noticed. I was no longer interested in village life, local politics, who was seeing who, and the usual local scandals. It wasn’t that I felt above it, just different. I had an itch that needed to be scratched. I was so anxious to get going that two days before my leave was due to end I took an early flight back to Heathrow and on to the next stage of my British army career at the Royal School of Signals in Blandford, Dorset.
The telecommunications course I had chosen was one of the best trades in the Royal Signals, reflected in the fact that at the end of the course you were promoted to lance corporal and the highest pay grade in the army. It was thus, not surprisingly, also one of the longest training programmes.
I spent just over a year at Blandford learning my trade. In the beginning, the course was just like any other college electronics course. We studied applied maths, physics, electronic principles, analogue and digital circuits and transmission systems. It was when we moved on to the practical phase of the course that things got more interesting. We would be met every morning at the entrance to the secure wing of one of the dozens of training buildings on the vast camp. Once signed in, we would be escorted at all times until we were signed out again in the evening. It was in those secure wings that we learned how to test and repair every radio and communications system in the British army, everything from Manpack radios to tank-borne systems. We also learned to deal with the most precious of all systems, cryptography. Technicians had a unique insight into this vital component of British army communications because not only did we need to be able to use it but also to repair it.
As you’d expect in the army, we had the odd parade, but in general we were there to learn the trade. We worked Monday to Friday but had most weekends off. I took up boxing and cross-country running to make the most of my spare time. I stayed fit and firmly focused on my career throughout. Our moto, after all, was Certa Cito, Swift and Sure.
At the end of the training, the issue of which army unit I would join had to be decided. I submitted a list of my top three choices with no guarantee I would get any of them. Most of my mates went for postings like Cyprus, Germany and London, where they could enjoy extra money and a great social life and little chance of seeing action. That approach wasn’t for me. I wanted a unit I could travel with and see the world, even if it was some hellhole. I reasoned that there were two things the army never went anywhere without, no matter how big or small the contingent: satellite communications (21st Signal Regiment) and an electronic warfare unit (14th Signal Regiment), so I put both on my list. I got 14th Signal Regiment, which wasn’t that surprising considering no one else wanted it.
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