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to earth.
    One dinnertime the boxing team swaggered into the cookhouse and headed for the front of the queue. The others jeered at us as they tried to hold their places in the queue. With only half an hour before they were back on parade, eating was always a contact sport at the training camp.
    Somewhere behind me, a Scottish voice growled, ‘You think you’re hard, don’t ya?’
    I carried on to the front of the queue and waited for the doors to be opened.
    The Scotsman’s mouth came very close to my ear. ‘What’s the difference between your leg and maroon tracksuits?’
    I shrugged.
    ‘None,’ he said. ‘They’re both full of pricks.’ With a massive grunt he rammed his fork straight into my thigh.
    I staggered back a step and looked down. The fork was embedded in my leg. I grabbed hold of it and pulled gently, but the muscle had gone rigid and I couldn’t get the thing out. I tugged as hard as I could and pulled it free. The prongs were red with blood as I did a quick about-turn and hobbled away. At that moment, the doors were thrown open and everyone rushed into the cookhouse to get their food.
    There was no way I was going to report him or say anything to anyone, first of all because I’d sound stupid. I hadn’t been knifed – I’d been forked. It hadn’t happened in a fight, it was in a dinner queue. In any case, I didn’t want to be out of the boxing team with an injury. So it wasn’t until I got round the corner of thecookhouse that I covered my mouth with my hand and gave a silent scream.
    I limped back to my room unfed and feeling a right idiot.
    But even that incident had an up-side: now I had a spare army fork. The one in my locker layout could stay there, always clean and ready for the inspection.

Chapter Twenty
    It isn’t only the boxing team and the fork-stabbing incident that I remember.
    There were parts of the infantry training that all the boxing guys still had to do, as well as train for the fights.
    One morning, at room inspection, my spare fork was found hidden with my dirty socks and I was given an extra cleaning duty in the toilet as punishment. Then we were marched off towards a part of the camp where I hadn’t been before. I didn’t know it at the time, but that day would change my life for ever.
    Marching around the camp after morning room inspection was like being in London’s rush-hour. Our roads didn’t have traffic lights, but instead were policed by the provost. Just like traffic cops, they directed all the squads of marching soldiers as we headed for our day’s training. We were all in different uniforms, some carrying weapons, some with logs on their shoulders, going to PT. Others were in best dress and boots, marching towards the drill square.While we waited at a junction to let another squad pass, we had to mark time. We’d bring our knees up level to our hips, then slam our boots into the Tarmac.
    It was really cold that morning as a dozen squads passed us along the road in front. My hands and ears were freezing. I could see my breath in front of my face. Where were we going? I didn’t care, as long as it was warm.
    Then the corporal waved us on and Rocky Gates screamed, ‘FORWARD! Left, right, left, right.’
    We stopped outside the education centre. I hadn’t known that the army had schools. How could I? I’d been busy running around with a steel helmet on out in the field, boxing or marching.
    We all got put into classes, about fifteen soldiers in each. We were told to take off our belts and berets and sit down. I wasn’t too keen on it, but at least this place didn’t smell like school. School smelled of boiled cabbage. This school smelled of floor polish and by now I was used to that.
    We sat and waited … and waited.

Chapter Twenty-One
    We sat there for what seemed hours, no one saying a word. Everyone in the classroom was probably just as fed up as I was at going back to school. Then, all of a sudden, the door burst open and an officer walked in.