The finger episode occurred about halfway through my basic training course, which was supposed to last for eight weeks. Our days were divided up in one-hour periods covering the gamut of our training program in a predictable way. Now and again, however, our masters would throw in a little diversion to relieve the monotony. The first of these junkets was our baptism of fire, you might say, known in Army-speak as ‘musketry’. We were about to use our rifles as something other than drill props and actually get to fire them! This was an adventure not to be missed, so off came my finger-stall and I fronted up with the best.

This outing had nothing in common with a country-house grouse shoot. Like most activities conducted by the Army, which always seemed to take place in drizzling rain, it was accompanied by much jostling and shouting and every non-com with a clipboard had a field day. We were marched to the thirty-yards range by an officer who insisted on taking a route through a swamp, to our total dismay and the near ruination of our lovingly cosseted boots. We all nurtured a fervent hope that he might somehow wander into the line of fire!

We formed into details and lined up at the firing point opposite our designated targets. I was in the first detail, which acted more or less as guinea pigs. We were to fire from the prone position, i.e. lying on our stomachs, which would have been quite comfortable had we not been wearing greatcoats and ammunition pouches, with haversacks resting on the backs of our necks. We were to fire one sighting shot followed by five scoring shots.

My glasses were rain spattered on the outside and steamed up on the inside, so I had only a vague idea of where the target actually was. I pointed the muzzle in the general direction and pulled the trigger. The targets were then examined. Most of them were still in pristine condition. Mine was the exception. A neat hole was drilled exactly through the centre of the black. A bull’s eye! My target was passed around as an example of what was achievable, and therefore desirable, and I basked in momentary glory. I think it was the only time I hit that small square of cardboard that day! Fortunately, we had several other attempts, on a full-size range, where I managed to acquit myself rather better. I failed to win a marksman’s badge but I did avoid the dreaded wipe-out.

On another occasion, we were taken through an assault course. I have since spoken with battle hardened veterans of two World Wars, the Korean campaign and Vietnam but I have yet to meet one who has actually encountered a suspended truck tyre in the field, much less had to crawl through it. The military planners deemed that this and similarly contrived experiences were vital to our military education so we had no choice but to go along with them.

We also played with dummy grenades. The instructor had a novel patter. “The Mills Thirty-Six grenade is segregated (sic) just like a bar of chocolate,” he intoned. “When it goes off, everybody gets a piece!” I suppose it wasn’t such a bad line after all. I’ve remembered it for more than half a century! Fortunately, we never tangled with the live variety. With my puny throw, I would probably have blown my toes off!

On a couple of occasions we were sent off on a five-mile cross-country ‘bash’. The course, which the army had used since time immemorial, was a well-defined track circling a wooded hill. Those of us who were less inclined to exercise perceived that once into the trees, we could drop out of the pack and lie low in the bushes. A leisurely stroll over the summit would bring us back onto the course just in time to rejoin our perspiring comrades and make a brave finish.

A couple of our band of skivers overdid it and came blustering in with the first dozen or so, only to discover, to their chagrin, that they had ‘volunteered’ to represent the unit at a cross-country meeting on the following weekend! Shades of the tortoise and the hare!