AlienFTM

They had gas-operated spears for Brens?!?!? ;o) Which brings me to this, that I was directed to yesterday: http://www.michaelyon-online.com/wp/rattlesnake.htm About 3/4 way down you'll find a link to a video of some Javelins being launched. Best with sound on LOUD!!! But it's worth it for the read alone.

The headmistress of the girls' school invited the legendary Polish fighter pilot, Uri Kowslowsky to give a talk about his exploits. Uri stood before the assembled school and described how his squadron of Spitfires scrambled to intercept a large bomber force approaching the coast, protected by masses of fighters. With much gesticulation with the hands to show how the areoplanes move relative to one another, he explained, "We gained altitude to get haight and come at the Fokkers from out of the sun so they wouldn't see us." Needless to says, the girls all tittered. The headmistress interjected, "Of course as we all know, a Fokker is a make of German aeroplane. Please carry on Mr Kowslowsky." "Yes indeed. Anyway we got up-sun but more Fokkers came from up-sun of us and attacked us. These Fokkers were Messerschimdts."

I started reading this thread and as I read each post, thought, "Must answer this; correct that ..." Ultimately, it looks like you have found the answers, so here's two penn'orth with no particular relevance to individual posts. 1. A licence is a noun, spelt with a "c". When you license a vehicle, it is a verb and takes an "s". The Americans always use an "s" (incorrectly); we Brits often use "c" globally (and also incorrectly). The category "H" licence referred to in the thread title is therefore spelt incorrectly. [pedant hat off] 2. Driving a CVR(T): it was suggested that you climb through the driver's hatch and slide your legs between the tillers: in CVR(T), the tillers are mounted together and your legs wrap around them, to caress them between your thighs. ISTR Chieftain tillers are mounted apart and the legs pass between them so that there is a tiller outside each leg. 3. Early Scorpion Gear Change Pedals worked exactly like motorcycle gear selectors. slide the toe under the bar and flick it up to change up; place the toe on top of the bar and push down to change down. Unlike on motorcycles, there is, of course, no clutch pedal: the gear change is semi-automatic. Maybe this has relevance to the civilian requirement for a Group B licence prior to taking an H licence? By 1976 when Scorpion and I were introduced, "they" had realised that by fitting a GCP footplate instead of a motorcycle-bar, the same foot action created the same effect without the problem of getting size 9 DMS Boot out from under the bar and onto the top, making changing down easier. A very early Scorpole mod changed all Scorpoins to have a footplate rather than a bar. Those of us who knew the bar change, especially those of us who road motorbikes, always favoured the old system and repeatedly asked, in time-honoured fashion "Why did they have to change it?" 4. The test was on public roads, though we did the vast majority of our four weeks' driver training (which included Maintenance) on the Driver Training Area on Salisbury Plain, right outside the back gate of our barracks, Aliwal Barracks, Tidworth. Road work tended to be either northwestward toward Marlborough then outside the garrison, beyond the Tidworth Military and Parish Cemetery, turn left toward Devizes. Leaving Netheravon on our left, where the following year I did my free-fall parachute course at the Joint Services Parachute Centre, we came to Everleigh and a transport cafe which did a very good bacon sandwich and had plenty of parking. And a fit young owner's daughter. It's now an expensive-looking Balti House. Or we'd head off northeastward toward Andover via Ludgershall, joining the A303 at Weyhill between Andover and Weyhill. (It's all now soulless dual carriageway.) Again, as we reached the Andover ring road, there was a transport cafe, which did an excellent bacon sandwich. Can you see where this is going yet? Alternatively, for a long run, we'd drive out to Stonehenge. In those days the whole tourist experience was so tightly controlled and there'd be a gaggle of B Sqn Scorpions and A Sqn Foxes parked up at the end of the carpark. They didn't do a good bacon sandwich, but we could get tea and coffee ... and there were always plenty of interested, good-looking (especially the Swedish ...) tourists to brighten up the environment. Driver training ... mmmm yeah. What a great way to spend a long, hot, dry summer. Come the day of the test (I was scheduled a week early because I had brought driving skills and a full Group A licence with me when I joined up, allowing me to drive military vehicles on ops in Fermanagh and West Tyrone. It gave others an extra week to practise - with an "s" cos it's a verb: see?) my instructor told me to follow the route we had practised for days over the Driver Training Area including knife-edge, steep up-banks and down-banks, through deep puddles (they'd have been deeper but this was the particularly dry summer of '76) and so on until the Qualified Testing Officer (our Squadron Quartermaster Sergeant - Eskimo Ness) was happy to take me onto the road. I set off over the DTA. I was entirely confident and competent and took each obstacle in turn, gently easing the Scorpion over the knife-edge so that the sprockets didn't slam into the ground and shatter the final drives; I took the flooded road with aplomb. It hadn't occurred to me that Eskimo Ness (the SQMS) was wearing his usual Barrack Dress and hadn't come prepared to get down and dirty - he was only conducting a driving test. By this point I was struggling to remember which obstacle to take with aplomb next. Eskimo Ness stated that he had had quite enough of my driving with aplomb and might we now get on the road to conduct the test? Cue self doubt in my mind because Tpr Alien had riled the Staff Sergeant. We crossed the Bulford road and joined the A338 connecting Tidworth and Shipton Bellinger. I drove us through Shipton Bellinger and turned left onto the A303 at the roundabout. (They have long since rerouted the A303, now dual carriageway which passes over the A338 100m north of the roundabout.) 1/4 mile further along I took the right in the direction of Grateley where the QTO informed me that it was pointless carrying on with the test, get out and swap places with the second candidate, sat on the gunner's seat - or rather stood on the gunner's seat: nobody SITS on a Scorpion gunner's seat except to fire the gun. I was so distraught that the return journey passed in a blur. We arrived back on the vehicle park. It occurs to me that Kliene Schuetzenfest (by which name the second candidate was known, it being a literal translation of his surname into German) drove back through the garrison and approached from the wrong side to have done the obstacles, so clearly HE didn't have to attempt them. SULK. We dismounted. Eskimo Ness started to debrief us, me first obviously, having been first candidate. I was still in a sulk and didn't really listen, having quickly learned to put on an interested face whilst being talked-to by a senior rank without actually listening. Then he thrust a pass certificate into my hot sweaty little hand and I was able to send off to have my little red book replaced by a boring form.

What's it to go on? Mark 1 Ferret? FWIW, our Armd Recce Regt had a good half dozen Mark 1s for rebros, LOs and sergeants major. We never EVER mounted the three-ohs. The design and build were so old (thirty years ago) that any exposure to the moist air in central Germany turned them to rust very quickly and the stripping sequence was horrendous compared with the more modern GPMG (or the LMG), so that removing the rust was a real pain. Even in the dry heat of Cyprus, our three-ohs would rust up very quickly given the chance. Good job we had a lot of time on our hands. In BAOR we only ever removed them from the armoury to clean them. We once took them to Hohne Ranges because it had been decided we'd get a slot on Range 8 to fire them. I wish we hadn't. Didn't install me with confidence had we needed to fire them in anger. It was a big brute on a small platform and impossible to get a tight group at any range as the whole vehicle shook spectacularly. Not what we professional gunners liked. I can understand why you want to mount a dummy: I personally think the way you propose to do it is very wise. ISTR there is an advert for authentic canvas covers on the For Sale forum.

The state of anything at the bottom of a lake depends entirely how it is lying and in what. For instance Titanic is so deep there is very little oxygen to rust it (but enough to that it is rusting slowly). Komsolomsk (sp?) was a Soviet submarine which went down (further than was intended!!!) off North Cape Norway in the late 40s (IIRC) with two tubes loaded with Plutonium-tipped torpedoes and the bow caps open. Much debate rages to this day about the state of the Komsolomsk and the 15kg of Plutonium. Are they exposed to sea water to rust the casing? Is it buried in sand and not exposed to rust? Can it be lifted without the torpedo casings splitting and rendering the entire planet's water poisonous? Should it be encased in concrete to prevent a Plutonium leak? Would the act of concreting the wreck split the casings? I guess what you see is what you get in each case.

I really don't know what else to say over what I originally posted. On the Army Rumour Service I have described his writing style as making George MacDonald Fraser's writing look about as humorous as reading Part 1 Orders, which is saying something because GMF is also a master of the craft. I just completed the second of the four books comprising the omnibus and my wife is worried about how much laughing out loud and long I am doing. I started this this morning and got sidetracked. I am now close to the end of the third book (and I think there may be five). It is entirely aimed at life as an officer in an infantry battalion (first book first published in 1926; the omnibus published in 1938). Unusually for me, that it's been written by an officer doesn't spoil it. Clearly he knew his subject and had a sense of humour. I now seem to recall the work he did about the Battle of Britain was called "A Piece of Cake" written under the name "Raff." Googling (uk) for "anthony armstrong" raff gave enough hits to answer anything I haven't covered. Top of my hits are Abebooks, whence I got my good condition first edition of the omnibus, in my house within 48 hours of placing the order and exactly as described. In the near future I expect to work through as many of his other works as I can.

I didn't read THAT far down. I figured if I couldn't identify the combat major units, the administrative tail would be meaningless. For example, an Armoured Division around 1980 consisted 1 * Armd Recce Regt (in front of course), 2 * Armd Regts and 3* Inf Regts. Everything else was mere detail.

Some time in the early 1970s I read a book by Anthony Armstrong about a fictitious Rifle Battalion probably about the 1920s. Earlier this week, a comment read on a thread reminded me of this book and a Google search ensued. I finally tracked down the correct Anthony Armstrong (there are lots) and a list of his works. The book I had read was called Warriors At Ease. Subsequently it was bundled, along with a handful of sequels, as Warriors Paraded. It's a collection of apochryphal short stories, many of which apparently appeared in publications like Punch. The collection is sadly long at of print, but Google found me a place in Manchester where I could choose from a handful of decent quality second-hand copies. I ordered the book on Tuesday from Abebooks. On Wednesday I received notification that it had shipped and on Thursday it was in my hands. I only stopped reading it when SWMBO sent me to bed. She was fed up of my laughter and the tears running down my face. FWIW, the author also wrote under the name RAFF and somewhere among my book collection I have a very tatty olf first edition of a book of cartoons depicting the fine boys of Fighter Command and the evil Hun. It starts "In September 1939 a madman turned the lights out over Europe." Classic. If we all go checking for these books, maybe they'll reprint them. Works of art for every aficionado's bookshelf.

Was the Major Robert Vaughn (The Man From UNCLE)? Salutory message in that film. Robert Vaugh was demolition commander, a terrible job. Blow a reserve demolition too soon and you strand friendly forces on the wrong side of the obstacle: a court martial offence. Blow it too late and you let the enemy get it: a court martial offence. Blow it at the right time and watch in horror as it doesn't demolish: you've guessed it, a court martial offence. The last is what happened to Robert Vaughn. Field Court Martial and summary justice: firing squad IIRC. TBF to the demolition commander, it did fall into the river. Sadly it was about a month after the US had cleared the east bank and disappeared in the general direction of Berlin. Being not far from the Vogelsang training area beloved of NATO forces during the Cold War (it's now apparently been returned to nature reserve, but if you Google you'll find pictures of the woodland on the far side of the lake where the replanted trees still clearly show the Swastika carved into the hillside), our RSM organised a trip from Vogelsang where we were exercising to Remagen as a salutory lesson in good recce, how a troop of US recce (sorry recon) vehicles stopped on a bluff, looked out of the trees and found themselves overlooking the still-intact bridge at Remagen, ordered a quick attack and were able to jump the Rhine.

Well I take my hat off. It's an excellent set of mods. Been thinking: the old lights might even have been 4" (alongside a pair of active infra-red lights prior to the Soviets developing a passive IR capability which meant that active IR lit us up brighter than daylight). And the Chieftain bins did nothing for the sartorial elegance that was de rigeur in the cavalry. A well-designed set of bins all round IMCO. Mind that extra inch or two height looks to me like it might just be enough to put me off jumping onto the engine decks. I have a vision of a troop leader who did it with aplomb and every time I saw it I expected his toe to catch and he'd bit the engine decks and adjust nis teeth. 30 years later it's academic: these days I think twice before jumping off the desk after playing with the cabling at the back of the computers. I certainly don't jump the 6' brick wall around me garden any more. (Said the man who liberated a steel ladder to mount his Ferret - Scout Car.)

Looks like a white-painted UN Ferret. Every time we patrolled BritCon West by Nicosia Airport, we went through an orchard just like that, past the hulk of a LWB Landrover that had stepped on a mine.

Those headlights!!! I am guessing that if they are genuine, sometime in the last 25 years somebody realised that fitting standard lights to CVR(T) would make them easier to procure than the 5" ( ? ) lights originally fitted so that you didn't have to play put and take to ensure one working headlight per vehicle. Also cannot help but notice they are mounted ABOVE the float screen rim, which obviously didn't happen in the days when there was a float screen fitted. It also stops you sticking a Chieftain side bin on the float screen rim for your D&M tools. But if that's how it is, I guess it's because "they" don't think about using these vehicles for real. I guess it's easier for standard-dipping headlights too.

Googling for +"X corps" +"xv corps" brings up 2nd Army's final advance in Flanders in 1918. The OrBat refers to MG Battalions and Rifle Divisions which would suggest that this was the right time frame. However, due to the the regiments being referred to simply as Rifle Regiments, I'd guess they aren't British. Since my Google search also produces Corps assignments to the Schlieffen Plan, my guess is that this OrBat is that for Moltke's modified Schlieffen Plan of 1914. This didn't work because the Schlieffen Plan required a massive Northern ball flying along the Belgian coast on the end of a weak chain, outflanking the BEF in Flanders and encircling Paris. Moltke strengthened the chain (the left flank) and the ball was obliged to try and outflank the BEF forward of Paris. This led to a revolving door effect and as the German right flank pushed along the coast to be slowed (and not outflanked) by the BEF, the French right flank pushed back into the vacuum. Unable to snatch a quick victory in the West, the Germans were unable to entrain their troops, race them back across Germany and entrench within six weeks before Russian mobilisation was complete, so they ended up spending four years fighting on two fronts. Or a meringue?

I used to write the Command Troop column in the regimental newspaper. This reminds me of one such column which went something like this: I'll get me coat.

FWIW. CVR(T)s are renowned Ignition Monsters. We had four huge batteries, two for turret services (mainly radio) and two for engine services (starting). Because Recce is all about relaying information, in the field (forest might be a better word) radios were never off and the drain on the batteries took its toll. Sultan ACVs carried a 500W generator to keep the radio batteries charged up but even so, it was SOP to run the engines at a fast idle (1000 revs) during the radio dead stag 0200-0400 so that there'd be power in the batteries at first light for stand-to. As a result, even Control Signallers had to be qualified drivers (not an issue because we couldn't take the B1 Control Signaller Course unless we were already B2 Crewmen, which required both B3 Driver and B3 Gunner - each of which required the Basic Operator's Course which you may be surprised to hear wasn't a B4 trade because B4 was as low as it gets: completely untrained you were paid B4 rate of pay. So you had to be an operator to be a crewman and you needed to a crewman to be a Class 1 operator. Roger so far over?) The dead stag was a dreadful two hours of your life. We couldn't move during the day because of the perceived Soviet air monopoly over the battlefield. By the early 80s Soviet night vision equipment was getting so good that waiting until dark wasn't such a big advantage, but we had to take what we could. So we never moved before dark o'clock. We could pack everything up and then decam at last light (but again, when Soviet NVE improved we couldn't decam until five minutes before we moved). They had to replace all our cam nets with new, IRR nets to try and defeat Soviet NVE. Then we'd move, the only time we ever moved if possible, but it was dark so the lighting would be taking its toll on the batteries. When we got into a new location, driver and gunner or driver and commander would cam up while the third crewman encoded and sent the troop / section / vehicle Location State (LocStat) back up the chain of command. We'd have to Last Parade the vehicle, clean weapons, etc and then eat. In an ACV you'd have the added joy of erecting the penthouse, table, chairs, mapboard, etc. If you got first stag, you then did two hours on stag (radio for commanders and operators; prowler guard for drivers). Then you got some sleep, if you were lucky, through until First Light and Stand-To. Likewise on last stag you could get your head down through until maybe 0400, two hours on stag, then you could prepare breakfast for your crew and get on with the day. But the dead stag meant, if you were lucky, you got two times something less than two hours' sleep with a stag in the middle. It was no good trying to get ahead on your sleep prior to an exercise, either, because they always started with an Active Edge, whereby the Commanding Officer crashed the Regiment out at some time before 0200 on a Monday morning (BAOR spent decades on permanent four hours, notice to move - less the nearer you were to the Inner German Border. The Recce Regiment at Wolfenbuettel near Braunschweig had a predicted wartime life span in the event of hostilies of 20 minutes from 3 Shock Army crossing the IGB. They were there purely as a tripwire. So even if we loaded onto trains, we'd be out of camp and either at the railhead or into the country depending where the exercise took place, clear of the morning rush hour by 0600 so that German civvies wouldn't plough their Mercs into the backs of armoured vehicles and discover too late their cars weren't the hardest vehicles on the road. So, it's 3 o'clock in the morning and you're on radio stag with matchsticks keeping the eyelids apart. If you're really lucky you'll have an officer with you to take executive decisions, and his snoring may or may not help keep you awake. Likewise there may be a second operator on the BID radio (it's okay: it was SECRET in my day but if you Google for BID radio you'll find that the information is already in the public domain. I once didn't mention BID in an e-mail to a radio collector: he had a BID 150 based on a C42 in his collection), but the BID was entirely physically separate from the rest of the vehicle harness. Being scrambled, you could talk in clear, but if it was in the harness, there might be pass-through of signal from BID onto the insecure net. Also, the BID scrambler beeped 72 times per minute in the operator's earpiece to remind him he was secure. The beeps were nicely in time with the heartbeat and guaranteed to put him asleep. The scrambler also took so much out of the C42 system that it became too noisy to use the squelch circuit and the white noise also helped you sleep. The BID operator's snoring might also or not help keep you awake. There was the CO's copy of Armour, Volume 2, The Armoured Reconaissance Regiment to read but it was very dry. The operator who had gone off stag at midnight will have changed at least one set of code boards prior to changing the frequencies, but it was busy busy busy, so it made good practice upon taking over on stag to verify that all the code boards had been correctly filled in. The only thing worse than sending a message that wouldn't decode because there was a code transcription error by the operator before you was sending a message that wouldn't decode because he hadn't changed the codes at all and you'd sent it on yesterday's codes. And you could read the radio log for each net to see what had happened since you'd last been on stag. (Even when not on ops, I always read the log book from last time I had been on that particular duty to keep on top of the gossip: Guard Commander's Occurrences Book, Squadron Orderly Sergeant's Occurrences Book, etc.) But again, SOS Occurrences Book aside which wasn't a formal document, it was very dry reading. At least the radio logs allowed you to see where other units and sub-units had moved to, so you could check the map board was up to date. But by mid-stag, you'd be going up the wall in your efforts to stay sane, interested and awake. I could tell you some stories about Tired, but this post has gone on enough. So the opportunity to climb through from the commander's seat to the driver's seat, start the engine and set the hand-throttle to 1000 revs was a Godsend. It also helped warm up the vehicle: even in mid-summer, by the wee small hours it was COLD. Another useful trick for breaking up the monotony of the stag: "Hello all stations this is Zero. I shall be off this means for two minutes. Two assume command. Out." Everybody knew what this meant: the Battlegroup Command Net operator was off into the woods for a wazz. Note he didn't ask for an acknowledgement of the signal from the senior squadron (B Squadron, callsign 2: "A" being Divisonal Close Recce Squadron - in our regiment - didn't come with a Field HQ and didn't appear on our battlegroup's OrBat). He didn't want to disturb the beauty sleep of his fellow operator in B Squadron's FHQ by demanding a response, everybody knew where he'd gone and nothing was going to happen in the next two minutes. It was procedure, done by the book. Nothing else. You were expected to be on-air 24/7, but two minutes wouldn't be enough time to switch off the radios, fit the earthing spike to the vehicle and refuel it from Jerry cans, so it was tolerated. At least nobody would call you in those two minutes. If you didn't pass on control and the Colonel was out at an Orders Group or the RSM was out on a recce, you can guarantee the second you leave the vehicle, he'll be on the air to tell you his "ETA at your location 0307 hours" and, getting no reply, accuse you of sleeping on stag. Of course, if the prowler guard is sufficiently radio savvy, you could swap roles for the two minutes, but then you have compromised the security of your location. Hard call. So to sum up ("Hurrah!!! Ed). CVR(T)s spent an unhealthy amount of time running at (a fast) tickover with no load on the engine. As a result, we went through plugs and points at an inordinate rate (as no doubt our local ex-REEMs will happily remind us). That's all I wanted to say really. Got there in the end.

After I'd transferred out of the Royal Armoured Corps and developed a shiny patch on my trousers, one of the guys in our office in the Computer Centre went sick and ended up having an operation on his Farmer Giles, then asking me if I had ever been prone to the condition, it being known, he claimed, as Tanky's disease due to sitting for long periods on cold metal tank seats. I replied in the negative. We had well-cushioned seats in our CVR(T)s and I knew nobody who suffered from the condition. Besides, we did everything standing up in the turret of our CVR(T)s - though I have to point out I never used the Commander's seat mod for its designed purpose, preferring to live up to the ages old question, "Do cavalrymen defecate in the woods?" Even in full NBC Red conditions, it was easier to carry out the correct NBC drills for taking a Forrest Gump than swapping seats with the commander and taking a system dump on his seat. Note to the unaware: The CVR(T) commander's seat has a removable hole into which a bag may be inserted to create an instant cludgie. Sorry thing was that since that day in the Computer, I have been engaged by the Farmer Giles enough times that there is now always a tube of the proverbial at hand. Mercifully, it is now three years.

Hey! I have a cartoon charicature as my avatar but: 1. I cannot draw for toffee other than to slavishly follow straight-line line diagrams (the charicature was done by a professional at a Business Solutions Institute at the University of Warwick in 1998, scanned by me, recoloured and touched up: if you could blow up the image you'd see a chest badge comprising a shield bearing the letters FTM. If you have to ask what FTM stands for, you don't need to know.) 2. Not enough imagination to think that up, even if we did have a Squadron of Foxes in 76 - 77. But hey, fame by association is fine by me. Class cartoon.

And of course stencilled in 1" high gloss white paint on the vertical edge of the mudguard immediately above the centre of each wheel like all wheeled BritMil vehicles.

The "Mudwolf" lol who made THAT name up? Is it what the Russians actually called it? I occasionally give a lift into work to a young Russian lad. It's quite bizarre trying to refer to a vehicle by its NATO designation when he knows it by an entirely different name. Not my forte but I believe it was NATO-designated BRDM2. The attachments at the rear corners rang a bell and I have decided it must be a BRDM2-RKH NBC recce vehicle which ISTR laid a trail of little flags behind it (from those attachments) to indicate where it had been. Load of rowlocks about it being well armoured. ISTR its armour was somewhere between a Landrover and a Ferret. It's a good job the RPG-7V actually hit the ground in front of the BRDM if you bothered to watch. In fact by pure coincidence it struck the ground exactly where the special effects team had set up a nice bit of pyro. That said, it was in beautiful nick, probably better than it ever was whilst in use by 3 Shock Army.

Interesting. I am sure the Germans also developed an anti-aircraft system in the style of the latter-day Russian ZSU23/4, IIRC on the chassis of a Mark 4 late in the war, which answered to the name Kugelblitz.

Pull up another sandbag. 15/19H returned from Omagh to Tidworth (less C Squadron to Cyprus Sovereign Bases) in May 1976 and retrained on CVR(T). In September 1976 B Squadron deployed to Nicosia as United Nations Force In Cyprus (UNFICYP) Force Reserve Squadron patrolling the Green Line between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots in the aftermath of the recent war. Six troops of four Ferrets deployed, with Nicosia as base, to outstations across the country at Skouriotissa in the West, Ayios Nicolaos and Larnaca in the East. Patrols were undertaken by a section of two Ferrets. Out of the Box Factory at Aye Nick, we patrolled the Green Line as far as the ghost town of Famagusta, which had been developing a name as the Monaco of the Eastern Med and a dream posting for married soldiers and their families before the war. One morning we undertook this patrol, stopping regularly at the observation posts (OPs) along the wire manned by the Finnish Contingent (FinCon) to check with them that all was well. While the two vehicle commanders spoke to the infantry, the two drivers carried out halt parades. I checked the wheels. All seemed in order. I noticed a drop of oil on the ground inside the wheel station and decided to keep an eye on it. At the next OP I again noticed the oil. I happened to notice that the left front wheel was exactly aligned with the hull, and so was the right front. By the time we reached the next OP, the steering was getting heavy and I couldn't help but notice that now the FSC was displaying a noticeable toe-out. We started the section of the patrol that skirted round the Famagusta outskirts to the coast. We were very close to the Turks and rather exposed in a sector where we were not expected to stop. We had almost cleared the restricted zone south of Farmer G when the front end let go and I was stopped dead with the front wheels splayed wide open and the Ferret impossible to steer. We called for REME assistance and sat it out. The other car in the section headed back to ensure the REME could find us. We sat, the two of us, under the Turkish guns, and decided we'd probably never get a better excuse to crack open the emergy four-man Compo ration pack strapped to the rear mudguard and got stuck in. What a lovely way to spend a peacekeeping tour.

Indeed. ISTR 15/19H had been patrolling Cookstown at the start of the 74 - 76 tour but handed over responsibility because the cavalry establishment was less than that of infantry so we couldn't cover as much area. Lucky really because when I joined in early 76, C Squadron was decimated by an outbreak of glandular fever. SHHH!!! Don't tell them. Oops, too late. Best if you can to take them from outside to inside so that the right front wheel hits the ramp first. Also, as you approach, brake firmly but steadily and progressively. compressing the front wheel stations. Then as the right front wheel is about to strike the ramp, release the brake and apply throttle. Releasing the brake eases the pressure in the wheel station, which the speed ramp takes straight back up. Using the whole width of your lane, many modern speed ramps have very little height near the kerb for the left front wheel to attack. Best in an automatic where you can most easily go instantly from left-foot braking to right-foot acceleration. You'd be surprised how much faster you can hit a speed ramp without the sickening vertical lurch you get if both wheels hit it together. A little sideways rocking is a whole lot easier to tolerate than the lurch. Caveat: you'll still have the back wheels hitting the ramp at speed. Ought to be less of a lurch than the front wheels because they are being pulled over the ramp rather than pushed, but still potentially unpleasant for a back seat passenger. But what do I know? Back seat? I don't think so!

ISTR the Germans doing the same thing with an MG34 in Italy.

Pull up a sandbag. Stop me if you've heard this one. I was newly-arrived in Omagh at the tail-end of 15/19H's 18-month tour 74-76. All the drivers-by-trade were away conversion training from Chieftain to Scorpion ready for our imminent move to Tidworth. Being older than the average recruit, I was in possession of a full driving licence for Groups (pardon the mistakes: it was a long time ago and the groups have changed over time) AR, BR, C, E, F, G, JR, KR and L (sounds about right). Group A was your standard car licence (the R meant that I was restricted by age for any vehicle otherwise covered by Group A but where the vehicle specifically required I be over 21 - unless in a military vehicle on military duty). B was ditto for a vehicle with an automatic gearbox. As a newly-qualified Crewman Gunner CVR(T) Class 2, I was a fully trained radio operator and quickly found myself rubber-dicked* into manning the radio on VCPs - which was probably better than standing in the rain searching Irishmen and their cars. Then the section found ourselves short of a Landrover driver, so I got rubber-dicked into driving a Landrover on patrol. Again it turned out to be more fun than sitting in the back, SLR hanging out the door (but maybe not as warry), though a Makrolon-armoured Landrover with a half section of men in the back was a very heavy drive and the steering was unbelievably light. But I didn't kill anybody. Then, having rapidly gained recognition in the troop as better-qualified than the average cherry-boy** I got to fill an empty Ferret driver's seat. I was given a quick lesson in how the pre-selective gearbox worked and off we went. I very quickly learned that Ferret Scout Car is the best ride you'll ever have, with or without women (no offence ladies). My instructions were simply to listen to the commands from my vehicle commander and, in the absence of anything else, just follow the Saracen in front. We set off into the ulu around West Tyrone. I didn't have a clue where we were, so I just follwed the Sarrybus. We covered the whole patrol area visiting the likes of Aucher and Clogher, Fivemiletown, Sixmilecross: all the usual favaourites. In one such town, we drove past the RUC station. The Sarry took the chicane of 45 gallon oil drums filled with concrete without batting an eyelid: I followed in the Ferret. The six-wheeled Sarry took the line of sleeping policemen like they weren't there: there were always four wheels on the level and the giant wheels simply ate the sleeping policeman. As the Ferret approached the first sleeping policeman, I became aware of a strange whine in my earpiece. It got louder and louder until I struck the first sleeping policeman, then changed to a cry of, "Oh dear [i think]," from my commander. I cleared the rest of the sleeping policemen and cured any transmission wind-up there may have been. I quickly learned the right way to take sleeping policemen at speed. I try not to make the method public because it gives me the edge over chavs and joyriders. * Rubber dick: military term for a baton round made of rubber or similar material. The shape and size of ... well you get the idea. Get hit by one of these and you have been rubber-dicked, and hence the expression of being lumbered. As in "I have been ribber-dicked for Sergeants Mess fatigues and will be spending the day cleaning pots and pans." See also Rubber dick gun http://www.arrse.com/wiki/Rubber_Dick_Gun (sadly ARRSE seems to be down right now) ** Cherry-boy: A virgin; somebody who hasn't lost his cherry. Used both as a sexual and a military term. Military: somebody who hasn't yet proved himself in the eyes of his peers.