As a surprise consequence of the Worlds Biggest Turd, Yorky and I were removed from the chain gang by the CO on the grounds that he didn’t want to see 2 of his potential NCO’s ruined because they were keen. Returned to the Flight with a status of Rockstars, we got deeper and deeper into our training. People will talk about the hot countries and all that, but there is no shorter nor more efficient way of learning your trade as the jungle. Everything carried on your back, chlorined water, p*ss wet through all the time -sweat or rain, putting one foot in front of the other, next hill, next tin of Tom Piper Stew, next harbour. Our Flt Cmdr at the time shall remain nameless, not because he was a total dung head – he wasn’t, but because he turned out a great officer although on the Rapier side of the house and has remained a mate over almost 50 years. Well anyway, back to the plot – jungle harbouring drill were an essential for any field fight to master. Contrary to what I saw subsequently in Belize – nobody moved in the Malayan Jungle after dark. You went firm, sorted the harbour and comms out and waited for daylight, perfectly able to scramble the sh1t of anybody who strayed into your locale. Nothing difficult about the set up, 3 sections in a straight lines in a triangle – Gimpy at each apex, Flt HQ in the middle. Comms were always line pulls for silent stand to and a vine would be secured at chest height along the perimeter to indicate no further forward movement. Sections sorted out there own stags and hey presto not a problem. We all made basha’s, ground sheet and some sticks for the night. My problem this night was that I was on the HQ brick carrying the A41, rear link back to Sqn. Of course it would never work, it never worked at Feldom so there was no chance of it working in the ulu. Anyway we get set and I share the basha’s with the Flt Cmdr and the lines come in from the sections, just the usual green twine. One tug stand down, series of tugs stand to etc. All tested, we fed hard routine – no fires, water and tom piper stew cold – essence, eat your heart out Jamie Oliver. Settle down for the night and problem number 1 emerges, the Flt Com had cut the cord to length about 3 feet too short and they could only come to the radio op just outside the basha. By moving around I could get all three on my hand if my arm was outstretched. Still a minor discomfort – we settle down until about an hour after stand down, I hear a very light southern Irish accent saying Halt who goes there and a reply along the lines of friend, followed by a very pregnant pause and about 50 rounds from Ted Flints gun. No need for stand to the world had woken up. False alarm – one of the lemons had wandered outside the vine, been spotted by Paddy C and challenged. As Paddy explained later “For the life of me Sor, I couldn’t remember the password so I shot the bastard to be on the safe side” Rocks made sturdier choices in them days. Anyway it merely served to unnerve our young boss and throughout the night the flight was up and down, on stand to like a Penang Island hookers knickers. Problem Number 2 – because the cords were a little short, when himself whispered “Stand em to Esp” he leapt out of the basha and with unerring accuracy put his right foot in exactly the same spot every time – on my hand that was holding the comm cords. Reflex to pain – open your hand – cord shoots away in the dark and you spend the next half an hour finding it again. By the time you have found it its stand down, back in the Basha. After this had happened three times, I decided to mod the comms system, cut the cords about a yard long and tie the ends to the basha structure and the other end to the hand, which was now inside the basha and not getting used as a hog roast by every mossie in Malaya. Peace perfect peace for almost 5 hours until a couple of loud cries woke me and looking up I saw a large black shape obscuring the lightening sky. “he’s in the basha Esp Stop him!” Well you have to don’t you, young fit lad – boxer and quick, everything went into that right hook, connected wonderfully, like a four off the meat of the bat. Follow up – some nice rib shots, get the boot in and pin it to the floor yelling like a demented budgie “Got him Boss, got the evil bastard here” punctuated by another knee somewhere painful. Hands in the dark took over and Mick Roberts secured him as I panted, ” He got in the basha Sarge, Boss alerted me” to which Mick gently soothed me by saying “Esp, that is the Boss”. Oops a major specsavers moment, that earned me a night ambush with the Ghurkas. But that’s another story, to be continued.