Before
Chapter 1
I was born on the 6th of April 1968 in Keighley, Yorkshire. Funny then that I was to end up joining a Lancashire Regiment. However, that all comes 16 years later on.
I was a happy go lucky child or would like to think so, and was the youngest of 6 (5 boys). My first year was spent in Skipton but then the family moved to Earby, something I'm sure the inhabitants of Earby grew to dread!
Earby was, in the 1970's and 80's, a sleepy little town. It wasn't big enough to hold its own name when addressing mail so Earby's mail was addressed "nr Colne" or later on, "nr Barnoldswick". I'm sure both towns were ecstatic having to lend their name to Earby.
Earby is nestled in a farming valley and is near the Pennine Way in the Yorkshire Dales (a popular walking track).
Growing up in Earby during this time was fantastic. Endless days were to be had exploring the moors, making tree-houses and catching fish.
Like most youngsters, I'd been brought up on a Saturday afternoon movie diet of such things as "The Eagle Has Landed" and "The Guns of Navarone" and I saw army life as a real adventure.
I remember watching the news as a child. It seemed that at one point every night the news would have at least one article on either Vietnam or Northern Ireland. Soon Vietnam was over and I saw on the news the fall of Saigon. News on Northern Ireland then seemed to get less and less and would only appear when something 'big' happened. I guess the 'troubles' were becoming un-newsworthy the more it dragged on.
When I was 8 or 9 my eldest brother, Martin, joined the Army. Each time he came home on leave he would tell stories of the places he'd been too. I would sit in awe as he told my other brothers these stories. I had to sneak in to eavesdrop as I guess this was 'adult' talk. Within a few years I had to sleep on a camp bed anytime Martin came home as he was 'given' my room to stay in. I didn't mind this and every so often Martin would give me a little something. Sometimes it was a recruiting poster or an empty flare case. One time he gave me a face veil/camo scarf. This was one of my most treasured possessions.
I recall one particular leave Martin came home. He'd just returned from a tour of Northern Ireland. He was a little more subdued than normal but by the time his leave was over he seemed his normal self.
At this time I often thought they should just cut that part of England off and let it sail away.
You see, I didn't realise that Ireland was an island. I ended up looking Ireland up on an atlas and couldn't then understand why, if it wasn't attached to 'England', 'we' were there. I never asked anyone about it and, over time, life in sleepy Earby took me away from my musings.
Then, in 1982, the Falklands 'happened'.
I'd just turned 14 when Argentina invaded these little islands in the South Atlantic. I made sure I was home to watch the news each night as the events in the South Atlantic unfolded. My Mum was worried Martin would have to go. Dad seemed to know better. As the pictures played on the nightly news I decided that when I left school I would join the Armed Forces.
As it turned out, in my last year of school a few of my friends as well as myself went to the recruiting office in Burnley where we all sat the qualifying exams. This was the only exam I was worried about taking. I really wanted to 'sign up' and failure was not an option. There were many reasons for this but the two main ones were one I wanted to follow my big (nearly 10 years my senior) brother, who I still saw as a god-like figure and who was still in the regiment that I would ultimately serve in, and two, the only alternative was to join the dole!
So passing the IQ test was a relief, but I then had to decide what I wanted to do. I hadn't thought much about this. It was suggested with my score that I could try for the Army Air Corps, but that would've meant going back to school so I foolishly ruled it out.
Using a perfect piece of 'Metcalfe' logic I decided to join the infantry. My Dad had been in the Green Howards and Martin was still in the Queens Lancashire Regiment so, at 16, this made sense. Because of my age I had to get parental consent. Dad was proud that I'd try to join up. Mum not so much, as I was (and I guess still am) her baby! Nevertheless I got the consent form filled in.
Medical and selection course came next. Medical was a formality, as was selection. I was surprised to see people fail even at these hurdles. While at the Army Personnel Selection Centre I had a moment where I thought I had failed, but apart from a second interview, where I had to convince the interviewing officer I really wanted to join the infantry, I sailed through. I remember this officer's final words were "don't let me down", as he signed the Junior Army - Provisional Allocation. I hope I haven't. The date was the 4th July, 1984.
I then received the Junior Army Acceptance Certificate which was in a letter to my parents along with further instructions regarding my enlistment into the Army, travel details to my unit and where basic training would be.
I was to go to Queen Elizabeth Barracks, Strensall, York. The training was to start 11th September, 1984, but before then I had to go back to Burnley one last time on the 29th of August to swear my Oath of Allegiance.
Basic training was a breeze. Sure, it was hard at times but physically for me it was easy, and as for the mental stuff, well I've got four older brothers. Enough said!
The training platoon I was in was called Quebec Platoon. When it came to inter- company sport we were, to be fair, 'shit', the worst of the worst. But near the end of training and we had our Skill at Arms Meeting, a shooting competition and at last we found that as a platoon we excelled at something. I was runner up overall and first place was another Quebec platoon member. I clearly remember our Platoon Sergeant (M Kilpatrick) shouting across to the other Platoon Sergeants "well, at least we can fucking shoot straight". Ah... payback must have been sweet.
Quebec Platoon's NCO's led the cheering as the winners marched up to receive their tankards from the Commanding Officer's wife. A win at last under their belts must have felt great.
Up until this point I had been in The Duke of Wellington's regiment. Not long after this victorious occasion I saw my brother Martin. He was with a team preparing to go away on a inter country shooting event. It ought to be said that Martin is a way better shot than me (and I think I'm darn good)!
"Hey Kiddo", he said when he saw me.
"Hi Big Bro", I beamed my reply.
"What are you doing in that regiment? I thought you'd want to be in the same one as me", he said, suddenly turning serious.
"Err, hadn't really thought about it", I stammered.
"I'll sort that out", he said. "Catch you later". That was the last time I saw him for 3 years.
Later in the week I was marched in front of the CO and was informed that my brother had 'claimed' me and I was now in the Queens Lancashire Regiment.
So that is how a Yorkshire boy ended up in a Lancashire regiment. I guess it was time at last to forget the War of the Roses!
After our passing out parade and just before we broke up to go to our regiments I was helping SGT Kilpatrick return some kit to the stores. I'd always liked him. If you did what he said (like a good soldier should) you were ok, if not..... well!! Anyway it was strange to see another side of him. As I was carrying the kit he turned to me and said, "I've been thinking a lot about what all you boys are going to do".
"Yes, Sergeant?", I replied.
He paused, I guess after a year of training we were almost like sons to him. He seemed to struggle with, dare I say it, emotion for a second, "I think you'll do well, Metcalfe".
Finally he said, "I see you ending up in Signals"
He went quiet again and it seemed to me that he was mentally ticking off my name from a list and thinking of who to 'talk' to next.
With that it was time to receive travel documents and one last leave in the UK before joining our respective regiments.
I saw most of the guys from training one last time while in Luton airport and then it was onto a plane (for the first time) and off to Germany.
When I first arrived in Germany I was sent to A Company. As the newest member of the section I was given the 84mm Carl Gustaf anti-tank weapon. This was supposed to be a bad thing as hardly anyone liked firing it, and it was also large and heavy. I, however, loved it. If you're going to fire a 'boom stick' get the biggest one, and the 84mm was certainly big.
Being sent to Paderborn in West Germany was a dream come true. I quickly settled in to army life and couldn't wait to get out on exercise. I was one of an odd bunch who preferred to be out in the field than in barracks.
After been with my regiment for a year in Germany the Battalion was sent over to Canada to take part in a divisional 'live firing' exercise.
While 'live firing' in Canada I came to the attention of the then Commanding Officer, LT COL Black. What happened was after a night river 'assault' and forced march we had to 'attack' a steep hill. All this time I'd been lugging the 84mm as well as my personal kit, weapon (a SMG) plus extra rounds for the 84mm. After this long and sweaty slog we at last reached the top of the hill. From this position we were to give 'flank and fire support' to another platoon.
From my prone position I looked around and saw a tank 'target'. I shouted aross to the Platoon Sergeant 'Baz' Greenall, "target 11 O Clock".
Baz looked in that direction. "Looks out of range", he said.
The range would have been over 1km and the effective range of the 84mm was 600-800m tops.
"I think I can hit it, Sergeant", I replied. The reality was after a night time of carrying the 84mm I sure as hell didn't want to not fire the bloody
thing!
"Target 11 O Clock, engage", was Baz's reply.
While this was going on the rest of the company had been firing at an opposite hill's 'enemy' position. The air was filled with the staccato sounds of automatic firing. I looked around to see if it was safe to kneel and got up. I told my loader to do the same and swung the 84mm up onto my shoulder.
"Load", I shouted.
A clang rang out as a round was loaded into the rear of the 84mm.
"Loaded", was his reply.
"Standby", I shouted and I wound the range selector to its maximum.
The loader checked behind to make sure it was clear. When fired the 84mm blew out a large hot gas stream behind it which would seriously injure anyone caught in it.
"Clear", he shouted, as confirmation it was 'safe' to fire.
"Firing", I cautioned. I aimed at the target and squeezed the trigger.
Whoosh. The projectile flew away towards the target. For an age the round flew in the air and at the last moment dipped, missing the target by 20 meters or so. Even at maximum selection the round had fallen short.
"Have another go", Baz shouted over.
'Hell yeah' I thought.
It was only then that I noticed the noise of firing around me had slowed down as people started to watch what was going on.
"Load", I shouted as we started the procedure again.
As I was again given the 'clear' signal I decided this time I'd stand so that I could fire the weapon with 'extra' elevation. This meant firing 'blind' as I guessed at a trajectory that I hoped would give extra range.
"Firing", I cried and 'whoosh' another round was on its way. By now the firing around me had stopped completely as the rest of the company watched the spectacle.
This second round also missed the target but by only a few meters now.
"Better call it quits, Metcalfe", Baz shouted over.
I was hooked. What a buzz. Later that day, while cleaning my weapons, LT COL
Black walked over. I stood up and saluted.
"I've been told it was you that fired at the tank target this morning", he said gruffly.
"Yes, Sir", I replied.
"Do you know how much that ammunition is worth?", LT COL Black said.
"No, Sir", I replied with a sinking feeling.
"Did you realise that the target was out of range?"
"Yes, Sir". Here it comes..... extra duties or worse, I thought.
He smiled. "I thought you were going to get the bastard with that second shot. Carry on". And off he walked.
The rest of the guys around me, including Baz, started laughing and after a few seconds I joined in more from relief than anything else.
Not long after returning back to Germany I was sent to Milan platoon on LT COL Black's orders and trained to use the Milan wire guided system. One of my proudest moments was passing the course and being 'awarded' my 'Anti Tank' proficiency badge which I wore with pride.
It was here that I thought back to Sergeant Kilpatrick and wondered if he would have ever guessed I'd join Support Company which all the members of thought of as the senior company and the one to be in.
So once again I found myself the 'new' guy. However within a few weeks I had a new bunch of mates. The first one being Kevin Lunt, who after finding that I had snuck a girl into camp and was 'in bed' with her thought I was worthy of introduction to his mates. So began a long and very boozy period in my army career!
Being the 'new' guy also meant that I'd been volunteered to become an APC driver. So I was off again on another course, to get my tracked vehicle license.
This was quickly followed by taking and passing my Grade One (Private) course.
It was by now late 1986, I was 18 years old and I was soon going to hear news that would change everything.
But before that could happen there were adventures to be had!
Chapter 1
I was born on the 6th of April 1968 in Keighley, Yorkshire. Funny then that I was to end up joining a Lancashire Regiment. However, that all comes 16 years later on.
I was a happy go lucky child or would like to think so, and was the youngest of 6 (5 boys). My first year was spent in Skipton but then the family moved to Earby, something I'm sure the inhabitants of Earby grew to dread!
Earby was, in the 1970's and 80's, a sleepy little town. It wasn't big enough to hold its own name when addressing mail so Earby's mail was addressed "nr Colne" or later on, "nr Barnoldswick". I'm sure both towns were ecstatic having to lend their name to Earby.
Earby is nestled in a farming valley and is near the Pennine Way in the Yorkshire Dales (a popular walking track).
Growing up in Earby during this time was fantastic. Endless days were to be had exploring the moors, making tree-houses and catching fish.
Like most youngsters, I'd been brought up on a Saturday afternoon movie diet of such things as "The Eagle Has Landed" and "The Guns of Navarone" and I saw army life as a real adventure.
I remember watching the news as a child. It seemed that at one point every night the news would have at least one article on either Vietnam or Northern Ireland. Soon Vietnam was over and I saw on the news the fall of Saigon. News on Northern Ireland then seemed to get less and less and would only appear when something 'big' happened. I guess the 'troubles' were becoming un-newsworthy the more it dragged on.
When I was 8 or 9 my eldest brother, Martin, joined the Army. Each time he came home on leave he would tell stories of the places he'd been too. I would sit in awe as he told my other brothers these stories. I had to sneak in to eavesdrop as I guess this was 'adult' talk. Within a few years I had to sleep on a camp bed anytime Martin came home as he was 'given' my room to stay in. I didn't mind this and every so often Martin would give me a little something. Sometimes it was a recruiting poster or an empty flare case. One time he gave me a face veil/camo scarf. This was one of my most treasured possessions.
I recall one particular leave Martin came home. He'd just returned from a tour of Northern Ireland. He was a little more subdued than normal but by the time his leave was over he seemed his normal self.
At this time I often thought they should just cut that part of England off and let it sail away.
You see, I didn't realise that Ireland was an island. I ended up looking Ireland up on an atlas and couldn't then understand why, if it wasn't attached to 'England', 'we' were there. I never asked anyone about it and, over time, life in sleepy Earby took me away from my musings.
Then, in 1982, the Falklands 'happened'.
I'd just turned 14 when Argentina invaded these little islands in the South Atlantic. I made sure I was home to watch the news each night as the events in the South Atlantic unfolded. My Mum was worried Martin would have to go. Dad seemed to know better. As the pictures played on the nightly news I decided that when I left school I would join the Armed Forces.
As it turned out, in my last year of school a few of my friends as well as myself went to the recruiting office in Burnley where we all sat the qualifying exams. This was the only exam I was worried about taking. I really wanted to 'sign up' and failure was not an option. There were many reasons for this but the two main ones were one I wanted to follow my big (nearly 10 years my senior) brother, who I still saw as a god-like figure and who was still in the regiment that I would ultimately serve in, and two, the only alternative was to join the dole!
So passing the IQ test was a relief, but I then had to decide what I wanted to do. I hadn't thought much about this. It was suggested with my score that I could try for the Army Air Corps, but that would've meant going back to school so I foolishly ruled it out.
Using a perfect piece of 'Metcalfe' logic I decided to join the infantry. My Dad had been in the Green Howards and Martin was still in the Queens Lancashire Regiment so, at 16, this made sense. Because of my age I had to get parental consent. Dad was proud that I'd try to join up. Mum not so much, as I was (and I guess still am) her baby! Nevertheless I got the consent form filled in.
Medical and selection course came next. Medical was a formality, as was selection. I was surprised to see people fail even at these hurdles. While at the Army Personnel Selection Centre I had a moment where I thought I had failed, but apart from a second interview, where I had to convince the interviewing officer I really wanted to join the infantry, I sailed through. I remember this officer's final words were "don't let me down", as he signed the Junior Army - Provisional Allocation. I hope I haven't. The date was the 4th July, 1984.
I then received the Junior Army Acceptance Certificate which was in a letter to my parents along with further instructions regarding my enlistment into the Army, travel details to my unit and where basic training would be.
I was to go to Queen Elizabeth Barracks, Strensall, York. The training was to start 11th September, 1984, but before then I had to go back to Burnley one last time on the 29th of August to swear my Oath of Allegiance.
Basic training was a breeze. Sure, it was hard at times but physically for me it was easy, and as for the mental stuff, well I've got four older brothers. Enough said!
The training platoon I was in was called Quebec Platoon. When it came to inter- company sport we were, to be fair, 'shit', the worst of the worst. But near the end of training and we had our Skill at Arms Meeting, a shooting competition and at last we found that as a platoon we excelled at something. I was runner up overall and first place was another Quebec platoon member. I clearly remember our Platoon Sergeant (M Kilpatrick) shouting across to the other Platoon Sergeants "well, at least we can fucking shoot straight". Ah... payback must have been sweet.
Quebec Platoon's NCO's led the cheering as the winners marched up to receive their tankards from the Commanding Officer's wife. A win at last under their belts must have felt great.
Up until this point I had been in The Duke of Wellington's regiment. Not long after this victorious occasion I saw my brother Martin. He was with a team preparing to go away on a inter country shooting event. It ought to be said that Martin is a way better shot than me (and I think I'm darn good)!
"Hey Kiddo", he said when he saw me.
"Hi Big Bro", I beamed my reply.
"What are you doing in that regiment? I thought you'd want to be in the same one as me", he said, suddenly turning serious.
"Err, hadn't really thought about it", I stammered.
"I'll sort that out", he said. "Catch you later". That was the last time I saw him for 3 years.
Later in the week I was marched in front of the CO and was informed that my brother had 'claimed' me and I was now in the Queens Lancashire Regiment.
So that is how a Yorkshire boy ended up in a Lancashire regiment. I guess it was time at last to forget the War of the Roses!
After our passing out parade and just before we broke up to go to our regiments I was helping SGT Kilpatrick return some kit to the stores. I'd always liked him. If you did what he said (like a good soldier should) you were ok, if not..... well!! Anyway it was strange to see another side of him. As I was carrying the kit he turned to me and said, "I've been thinking a lot about what all you boys are going to do".
"Yes, Sergeant?", I replied.
He paused, I guess after a year of training we were almost like sons to him. He seemed to struggle with, dare I say it, emotion for a second, "I think you'll do well, Metcalfe".
Finally he said, "I see you ending up in Signals"
He went quiet again and it seemed to me that he was mentally ticking off my name from a list and thinking of who to 'talk' to next.
With that it was time to receive travel documents and one last leave in the UK before joining our respective regiments.
I saw most of the guys from training one last time while in Luton airport and then it was onto a plane (for the first time) and off to Germany.
When I first arrived in Germany I was sent to A Company. As the newest member of the section I was given the 84mm Carl Gustaf anti-tank weapon. This was supposed to be a bad thing as hardly anyone liked firing it, and it was also large and heavy. I, however, loved it. If you're going to fire a 'boom stick' get the biggest one, and the 84mm was certainly big.
Being sent to Paderborn in West Germany was a dream come true. I quickly settled in to army life and couldn't wait to get out on exercise. I was one of an odd bunch who preferred to be out in the field than in barracks.
After been with my regiment for a year in Germany the Battalion was sent over to Canada to take part in a divisional 'live firing' exercise.
While 'live firing' in Canada I came to the attention of the then Commanding Officer, LT COL Black. What happened was after a night river 'assault' and forced march we had to 'attack' a steep hill. All this time I'd been lugging the 84mm as well as my personal kit, weapon (a SMG) plus extra rounds for the 84mm. After this long and sweaty slog we at last reached the top of the hill. From this position we were to give 'flank and fire support' to another platoon.
From my prone position I looked around and saw a tank 'target'. I shouted aross to the Platoon Sergeant 'Baz' Greenall, "target 11 O Clock".
Baz looked in that direction. "Looks out of range", he said.
The range would have been over 1km and the effective range of the 84mm was 600-800m tops.
"I think I can hit it, Sergeant", I replied. The reality was after a night time of carrying the 84mm I sure as hell didn't want to not fire the bloody
thing!
"Target 11 O Clock, engage", was Baz's reply.
While this was going on the rest of the company had been firing at an opposite hill's 'enemy' position. The air was filled with the staccato sounds of automatic firing. I looked around to see if it was safe to kneel and got up. I told my loader to do the same and swung the 84mm up onto my shoulder.
"Load", I shouted.
A clang rang out as a round was loaded into the rear of the 84mm.
"Loaded", was his reply.
"Standby", I shouted and I wound the range selector to its maximum.
The loader checked behind to make sure it was clear. When fired the 84mm blew out a large hot gas stream behind it which would seriously injure anyone caught in it.
"Clear", he shouted, as confirmation it was 'safe' to fire.
"Firing", I cautioned. I aimed at the target and squeezed the trigger.
Whoosh. The projectile flew away towards the target. For an age the round flew in the air and at the last moment dipped, missing the target by 20 meters or so. Even at maximum selection the round had fallen short.
"Have another go", Baz shouted over.
'Hell yeah' I thought.
It was only then that I noticed the noise of firing around me had slowed down as people started to watch what was going on.
"Load", I shouted as we started the procedure again.
As I was again given the 'clear' signal I decided this time I'd stand so that I could fire the weapon with 'extra' elevation. This meant firing 'blind' as I guessed at a trajectory that I hoped would give extra range.
"Firing", I cried and 'whoosh' another round was on its way. By now the firing around me had stopped completely as the rest of the company watched the spectacle.
This second round also missed the target but by only a few meters now.
"Better call it quits, Metcalfe", Baz shouted over.
I was hooked. What a buzz. Later that day, while cleaning my weapons, LT COL
Black walked over. I stood up and saluted.
"I've been told it was you that fired at the tank target this morning", he said gruffly.
"Yes, Sir", I replied.
"Do you know how much that ammunition is worth?", LT COL Black said.
"No, Sir", I replied with a sinking feeling.
"Did you realise that the target was out of range?"
"Yes, Sir". Here it comes..... extra duties or worse, I thought.
He smiled. "I thought you were going to get the bastard with that second shot. Carry on". And off he walked.
The rest of the guys around me, including Baz, started laughing and after a few seconds I joined in more from relief than anything else.
Not long after returning back to Germany I was sent to Milan platoon on LT COL Black's orders and trained to use the Milan wire guided system. One of my proudest moments was passing the course and being 'awarded' my 'Anti Tank' proficiency badge which I wore with pride.
It was here that I thought back to Sergeant Kilpatrick and wondered if he would have ever guessed I'd join Support Company which all the members of thought of as the senior company and the one to be in.
So once again I found myself the 'new' guy. However within a few weeks I had a new bunch of mates. The first one being Kevin Lunt, who after finding that I had snuck a girl into camp and was 'in bed' with her thought I was worthy of introduction to his mates. So began a long and very boozy period in my army career!
Being the 'new' guy also meant that I'd been volunteered to become an APC driver. So I was off again on another course, to get my tracked vehicle license.
This was quickly followed by taking and passing my Grade One (Private) course.
It was by now late 1986, I was 18 years old and I was soon going to hear news that would change everything.
But before that could happen there were adventures to be had!
Main Gate, Alanbrooke Barracks, Paderborn Germany
Basic Training
