Bob Shepherd's Blog

M id 1970s, a young Bob returning to Bradbury Lines from a run.

Who Dares Wins has always been the motto of the SAS.

It’s actually a whole lot more than a motto, and here’s why:

When government, diplomats and generals are stuck for a resolution to a foreign policy security problem, it will point to the SAS…that’s just how it was done in my time of the mid-70s, through the 80s, and on to the mid-90s. The same can also be said for domestic policy security problems, such as the Troubles in Northern Ireland to the Iranian Embassy of May, 1980 in London.

The main difference between the SAS/SBS and the rest of the UK military back in the day, was that the former had little to no backup when deployed.

I’ve taken part in operations where the modus operandi was taken away from us altogether. Instead, a preferred option was given to us purely for political reasons.

Just like military doctrine over millennia, unless there is no other way, you never fight the enemy on ground of THEIR choosing. The preferred is for you to fight the enemy on ground of YOUR choosing.

However, with the flexibility of change, there were times when the option was against us for political reasons, and even with the knowledge of that, we stepped up and got on with it.

In my time, there were voices of opposition within the ranks, many voices. To the point where we lost both an amazing squadron commander and an equally amazing and sound troop staff sergeant. They were not going to have their men led to slaughter in their opinions…putting the lads first over their own careers.

One of my first operations as a young green trooper, was to ambush a weapon hidden inside a length of plastic pipe in a ditch out in the countryside. There were two of us only, an awesome old hand Fijian called Fred, and myself. I had it in my mind that this was my baptism, let’s see how the young laddie gets on with this?

In the middle of the night, 3 silhouettes appeared, walking along the hedgerow. They stopped by the weapon. We were about 30 yards away and both had our safety catches off, ready to fire if our lives were in danger.

As the front silhoutte began to bend down towards the weapon’s location, he coughed.

Both of us had our sights trained on him. Both of us simultaneously hesitated.

Fred, the seasoned SAS soldier, and Bob the green new trooper, reacted in the same way. The sound of the cough came from a young laddie, not a mature adult.

They had brought out a young laddie to seek out the weapon!

All three silhouettes could have been taken out by both of us in a heartbeat.

But no, we’re human, we’re also humane, and the two dragged the lad off quickly back towards the way they came from…towards a farm complex in the distance.

The weapon was retrieved as we still covered it by our security forces, an item of death taken from our enemy. And later back at base, Fred and I chatted over a brew and an egg banjo about how we both reacted, despite our years of different operational experiences.

We also concluded that, given the task again, we would react in exactly the same manner. We talked about it in another theatre of conflict years later. And writing this today in my early 70s…the same.

I mention this today, as covered by the media in the last few weeks, the SAS is still being hounded by lawyers and shafted by the government.

There are times when we kill, and there are times when we don’t…we are not lawless!

I spent more time in the SAS saving lives than taking lives.

Old men being victimised by simply having done their job, a job that they were sent on by the government.

I could write for days about how we reacted in times of operations over a 20 year period, all over the globe. But I think this one simple example sends a message.

22 SAS are highly skilled operators. We’re humans like everyone else. We live by our motto Who Dares Wins. But on operations, we’re humane too, unless death and destruction has just been carried out, or is about to be carried out, endangering civilians, other security forces or ourselves.

Today I still miss my time in 22 SAS Regt. I miss the lads, and I’m disturbed by those lads who struggle in old age with mental disease from years of operations and realistic training. Those who are being penalised by our own government, some of whom could well be suffering as mentioned, and of course, those great mates who have passed away.

I write this with a message to our government too. Take off your suits, take your pasty, pampered arses to the hills, and walk a mile in those old men’s boots. Talk to them, learn from them…and ultimately protect them, as you sent them. They don’t deserve any of this in their last years, they have dignity and respect, they’re my brothers.

Wee Robbie, sitting on a cold tenement stair (the toilet shared by 3 families, no sink, no bath), explaining to his friend Eamonn that he’s about to run away from home…forever. A painting by David Kerr, artist and ex-soldier, Glasgow, Scotland. Thank you David.

For many individuals in the 50s and 60s in Lochee, Dundee, Scotland, just like for many in those days in the rundown cities of Britain, life really did end at the bottom of their street.

But for me, being brought up in a dysfunctional household of an old council-run Victorian tenement flat, where I’d get the dirty, barely warm water in a calvanized bath after my father had been in it on a Friday evening, life began at the end of my street.

You see, my father often beat my mother around the flat like beating a rag doll. She’d be knocked unconscious…more than once. I was tiny, and it was scary, very scary.

When I was a wee bit bigger, I’d try to step in to stop it…I’d get battered too.

I’d often miss school to look after my mother, sometimes for days at a time.

I loved school. In geography, I’d listen but look out of the window and look to the sky, imagining that I was in the tropical place that the teacher was explaining to the class.

A dreamer, oh yes. Dreaming of a better life, in a better place.

I ran away at age 10, no plan, no money, no clothes, no idea. I came back with my tail between my legs, to another battering from my father.

I was tiny, pretty undernourished. I’d eat rolled-up butter balls coated in sugar…because I could. Great for tooth rot, which would have to be addressed later when I joined the military.

Toothpaste was invented in Lochee. Had it been invented anywhere else it would have been called teethpaste.

I got through life in between witnessing wife batterings by running. I’d go to the park, and I’d just run and run, sometimes for hours. Sprinting in school shorts and wellies…where my socks would fold down to my toes.

Little did I know back then that the running was doing me the world of good. It was sending the chemicals in my body and in my brain to the right places. So after the running, for a wee while anyway, I’d feel great.

With very little schooling, due to looking after my mother most of the time, it really was time to leave. So now at the age of 14 and with a plan, some money (stolen from the electric meter dish over a long period of time) and a change of clothing, off I went on the train to Bristol.

A football coach had a professional career where he finished at Bristol Rovers, before returning to Dundee to coach in his spare time. Having failed trials with both Dundee FC and Dundee Utd for being too frail and wee, he thought I deserved a chance in England. He also knew what was going on in my life.

So one rainy day, off I went, and never looked back.

I remember the “line of departure,” a military term, being the end of my street, and not my flat of horrors.

On the way down I had to change trains at different stations. The main one being Birmingham.

An encounter there I will never ever forget.

I was sitting on a stone block early in the morning on an empty platform. A man came past…a Black man. My jaw dropped, and my eyes followed him unwittingly. The man stopped, looked straight at me, and said “what are you staring at boy?”

I said “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen a ni**** before. The man shouting “what did you say?”

I thought maybe he doesn’t understand me…I’ll say it again.

He came over, picked me up by my neck and shoved me against the platform wall.

He asked again. Again, I answered.

“Where are you from?” he asked. “Dundee” through gritted teeth…tooth.

“So there are no ni***** in Dundee?” he screamed.

“You’re the first one I’ve ever seen” was my answer.

My uncles and their mates would refer to Blacks back then with that reference. In my naivety, I didn’t know that it would offend.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “Bristol” I answered, barely able to breath, let alone speak now.

He let go of my throat, and said “well boy, there’s plenty of ni***** in Bristol, so you’d better wise up, right now.

He then asked me if I’d run away. I told him that I have, but I have a football trial to go to in Bristol. He asked if I’d eaten. I told him no.

He looked at his watch, took me back along the platform, around the corner and into a small cafe. He bought me a big English breakfast, and a mug of piping hot sweet tea.

He then told me to open my ears and listen, because It’ll save my life, not only in Bristol but for the rest of my life. He explained how offensive the word I was using to describe him was. He told me to never use it again. I told him that it was normal back home in the confines of the people that my wee life revolved around. He was a tough and scary individual, but obviously with a heart of gold. He was giving me a life lesson, especially way back in the 60s…it was hugely valuable.

As I ate and drank, he continued with his words of wisdom…I listened, probably listening hard for the first time in my life.

He missed his train, instead ensuring that I caught mine. He never stopped talking to me, like he didn’t have enough time to instill all the wisdom into me that he had to give.

As my train was moving along the platform, I was stood in the door with the window down. He was still talking, holding onto my arm. As the train moved faster, he let go and waved…I waved back.

All through my great military career and on to this day as I write this, I’ve never ever forgotten this great man. Yes, he probably did save my life. But I never even said thank you to him…something I regret deeply.

I didn’t make it in football, although as a youth I enjoyed trying.

I signed onto the military at 16, and joined just after my 17th birthday. In 23 years of service, my best friend was Black…originally from Jamaica. Noel came from Bristol and invited me to his home there to meet his family. At dinner, he asked me to tell his parents the story of Birmingham station. I did, and they laughed and laughed. I told them that I never even said thank you to the man. They told me that I didn’t need to, as he was mature and kind-hearted enough to know that I was listening.

Noel and I sprinted…I never ever beat him, running him close a few times, but not close enough.

When I went to the SAS, Noel and I kept in touch, he came to Hereford to see me. After the military, Noel returned to his roots in Jamaica. He died a few years ago.

I’ll never forget the man on the station, and my relationship with Noel…two awesome people.

If my life ended at the bottom of my street, I would never have met either of them.

After 23 years in the military, here I am in my next chapter of life, 17yrs as a security adviser. Iraq, 2003.

I received a wee whisper in my head

Be cautious when you rise from your bed

As the path ahead runs red

There are many innocents along it lying dead

I worked on “the circuit” after being a soldier

Much caution indeed as I became bolder

Travelling alone as I grew older

No more wingmen for support on my shoulder

A life of making tough choices

I would listen to all of the voices

But ultimately it became my call

whether we would survive, or whether we would fall

From the military to this new phase

Most days the ground would be ablaze

By an enemy that was rarely seen

As I cover my tracks from where I had been

For almost forty years of my seventy now

I spent my time in war where people would row

Good men, women, and kids blown to bits

People are screaming and losing their wits

Hearing, touching, smelling, seeing, and feeling pain

In the heat, the cold, the dry, and in the rain

But strangely, I continued along that bloody path

And kept on going despite the wrath

I lived content with the feeling of belonging

To remain in conflict I therefore had a longing

But now as I live retired

There are times that I feel unwired

With my wife, kids, and grandkids, I feel just fine

Like forever the sun will shine

But out on the street where it’s full of strangers

I want to be back on that bloody path full of dangers

The path no doubt is where I belong

As I now walk towards the end of my song

Roxy…our best friend.

We moved from UK to the good ol USA

A new chapter in our life, hip hip horray

Once we bought a house for us to stay

It was time for a puppy so we could all play

An Olde English Bulldogge puppy caught my eye

Sitting so proud, most certainly not shy

“Oh you’re beautiful” is what I said

I asked the owner does she shed?

Yes, but not too much, she’s red and white

To me this bold puppy looks just so right

My family will return to see her after tonight

My wife and daughter were smitten by her

My daughter looking into her eyes, while stroking her fur

We’ll call her Roxy she said, as if she was ours

Another family’s interested too, as my eyes scowers

A mum and her wee girl look extremely keen

They’re picking up wee Roxy, I just want to scream

Roxy is mine, the down payment is done

I’m taking Roxy home now we’re going to have fun

Roxy was cool and calm as can be

A big bulldog puppy for all to see

A new family member she has her own bed

And all over the house, she began to shed

Red and white hairs all over the place

I couldn’t get angry just look at that face

House trained and settled a bright wee lass

Walking through the woods and playing on the grass

Roxy baby is family, and we love her so much

She loves cuddling up, sniffing and touch

She travels with us everywhere asleep in the car

Up to the mountains from home it’s so far

Well just like all dogs, Roxy baby grows old

Stiff joints, aches and pains, but a bulldog so bold

She never complains but just soldiers on

A very hardy stock our Roxy came from

But then it was time to try to get help

We introduce a wee puppy, Roxy lets out a yelp

What’s she doing here, this home is my space?

Before we knew it, they’re in the garden having a race

Two bulldogs at play for Roxy’s sake

It seems that for now, I’m always awake

Summer was awesome as they had such a blast

But just last week, it was to be Roxy’s last

She passed away quickly, that dreadful day had finally come

I cuddled her crying, as I sat on my bum

cradling her and stroking her, words weren’t enough

The end of our best friend was really so rough

My wife, daughter and I, lost in the sadness

And so was the puppy for all of their madness

Roxy, we love you and miss you so much

I just want to reach out, and Roxy, I can touch

I cry out of nowhere whenever I think

Of the short time Roxy struggled, as she was on the brink

Of her great life’s ending, we have to look at

The life that she lived couldn’t have been pulled from a hat

She had so much fun for a breed that doesn’t run

Swimming in fresh lakes was second to none

You’ve left a huge void for wee Beatrice to fill

I keep calling her Roxy, and it still sends a chill

But together we’ll work, and feed off our loss

As we stand in our garden with Roxy’s stick to toss

Beatrice chases it now and chews the bend

Of the stick that was once Roxy’s, now she’s come to her end

Presently, there seems to be a purge catching on across the USA to remove cellphones from school students while in class.

Although this may seem good for concentrating on lessons, it takes away the one thing that an individual student will require should a school shooting occur, or knowledge that an individual is carrying a weapon inside school…direct communication.

There have been many school shootings and attempted school shootings that have been stopped, and lives have no doubt been saved, simply because a student was able to immediately call 911.

Even in my own child’s school a few years ago, there was a rumour that a student had taken a gun to school. My child immediately called me to ask what they should do.

Leave was my answer, head home until I go to the school and find out what’s going on.

Many students followed her out of the school.

It turned out to be a false alarm, but had it been for real, those who had chosen to leave would no longer have been in danger.

My daughter went back to the school approximately 2 hours later…safe.

It’s good to have the phone on you as a student, it’s easy for the school staff to say keep it in a pocket, if I see it out during lessons, then you will definitely lose it.

Education in a country with so much school gun crime is key. And therefore, an understanding of why students can keep their phones, but not play with them during class, will win over trust from both sides.

My latest acrylic art piece. An old male orangutan…jungle man.

A reminder of my favourite animal. Seen in its natural habitat with his family while I was on a long range reconnaissance patrol in the Borneo jungle in the 1970s. The one and only time that I would see or hear an orangutan in the wild.

Today, both his habitat and his breed are endangered.

My own way of showing it in art form.

From a tank crew’s black overalls, to a cut-off NBC hood placed over a finely fitted respirator. Gloves, boots, 9mm Browning pistol, and the replacement for the dreadful “blow back action” M10 Ingram submachine pistol…the H&K MP5.

A Range Rover to take our kit and ourselves to anywhere by road in the UK, and anywhere by C130 in the world.

I’ve just been reading the report from the head of MI5 about the state of affairs within the UK with reference to terrorism.

Much of it I may add, is down to the lack of action by past and present governments…of all parties.

From foreigners coming into the country on legal visas, to Trojan Horses making their way in from their home country post conflict, to the young men of fighting age in rubber boats coming across the channel in their thousands, to homegrown radicalized individuals.

All scary stuff when our children and grandchildren have to move around freely on UK streets and using UK public transport. Even taking time out to enjoy life by going to a music festival.

Growing up myself all those decades ago, I would never have thought that my grandchildren would have to travel around with their eyes in their arses in order to be super aware of their surroundings at every moment.

If anyone deserves to enjoy life, it’s definitely kids and youths, no matter where they live.

All the way back to 1980, the Prime Minister Mrs Thatcher and her cabinet, decided during the now very famous Iranian Embassy Siege in London, that the world would watch the assault live on TV. The reason, to send a message to every terrorist group globally, not to come to UK shores to make their point.

Well, even though the operation (Operation Nimrod) was a success, it never stopped future terrorist incidents from happening on UK shores, and it won’t stop them from trying in the future.

But what it did do, was highlight those, until then kept in the shadows, to everyone around the world. Not one of us at the time agreed with it, and I still don’t today.

The life of an SAS soldier would change forever, both at work and socially away from work.

That aside, the SAS had to work on the failings, mainly of equipment, weapons and explosives from those early days of the mid 70s to that day in May 1980.

No more government paying lip service to SAS requirements for better kit and equipment that’s already out there commercially, mainly in the USA, and already being used by their newly formed anti terrorist teams.

So, over the years, things did change.

On my early training before the Iranian Embassy Siege, we would train in a repurposed single floor brick building at the SAS camp, an old WW2 camp called Bradbury Lines. The building was our close quarter battle house (CQB), where we could train with live rounds in single and multi room combat by using screens to represent walls, old furniture and dressed up dummies as hostages and wooden and paper targets as terrorists.

When a round was fired, it would pass through the head of the target, through rubber matting, and onto an aluminum screen that hung down from the ceiling. As the energy was taken away from the round, it would fall to the ground.

Thousands of rounds would be fired by mid-morning when it was time to go outside and take a tea break.

Inside was just a cloud of lead, as there were no extractor fans back then; therefore, there was nowhere for the lead to go but hang in the rooms like a fog.

While taking our brew of hot sweet tea outside in the fresh air, we would be coughing up black phlegm from the training. That phlegm was caused by the thousands of rounds fired so far that morning. That black phlegm was lead!

This wasn’t a one-off or even a once-a-week occurrence…this happened day after day after day, while we trained hard on the special projects (SP) team each time we would enter the old CQB house.

The other major effects on the body and mind from training, was explosive entry methods. Back then the explosives used was simple Engineered PE4 (high explosive plastic), detonating cord, and an initiating device. We had to be as close to the entry point as possible, as soon as that explosive goes off, in we go.

Or not!

Sometimes, with the overpressure of the explosion, the nearest man would be stunned, or even knocked out. This happened to me, and a handful of my mates more than once.

Back then, we were in practice mode. And practice makes perfect…most of the time.

We’d joke that the theory of explosives is actually pretty basic…P=Plenty.

Many of my mates from those days who trained and trained to move the team in the right direction are dead now. Those who are not dead, are seen as nuts, or alcoholics or both. Some have hidden problems as they don’t want to share them.

I was one of the latter, until my suffering wife pushed me to see a doctor. Traumatic brain injury, and of course, once I die, a good play on my brain (if they can find it) will determine exactly how bad the brain injury is.

I do know, as I get older it gets worse, but the medication, living a healthy lifestyle, and having plenty of hobbies are a huge help to an almost normal life.

So these were the early days, a good handful of committed lads from each squadron, doing their thing to enhance the effectiveness of the SP team each time we came onto it (6 months every 2 years). Tactics would be enhanced, and better equipment would be forthcoming, especially after the Iranian Embassy Siege, when the government saw a need for the best kit and equipment available.

I was just a young trooper when I began on the team. I had a thirst for learning. I would be at the side of all of the lads who I saw as “dooers.” Those lads who were happy each day to push the envelope and take the training forward.

Even today as a retired old soldier, I see it as a pleasure to work alongside these lads, to have learned from them, and especially to have had the knowledge of what we are all doing is forever enhancing SAS training and tactics.

I would do this even during troop training, in the diving and boating world of amphibious troop, and the very same in whatever theatre around the world we would find ourselves training or operating in.

Of course as explained, it had its drawbacks. Physical and mental wounds that were not apparent at the time to a young, keen trooper, despite the effects on the ground, like spitting up black phlegm or being knocked out by being so close to a powerful explosion.

However, in hindsight, and sitting writing this post with TBI, I would do it all again, and in just the same manner.

Why?

Today’s team member at the top of his game, with dog and correct weapons, rounds, explosives, body armour, helmet, and equipment for the task at hand. A stark contrast to our early days…and rightly so.

Because when I see the modern-day lads doing their stuff on their various commitments both at home and overseas (from the internet)…it makes me feel proud that I was a small part of moving the SAS forward, along with many with me, and after me, to what the SAS is today.

For the lads from my early era who are now dead or suffering, I think of them often. And I think of what may have caused them to die or suffer. A death certificate with alcoholism or dementia, or Parkinson’s…or indeed anything else…but what caused it, was it TBI, was it the lead from the early CQB house, or the hundreds of training explosions, that only enhanced the damage that would come also from operations over the years.

The past cannot be changed, but the future can. After 5 decades of the anti terrorist team, and the refined explosives and proper training facilities of today, I just hope that young troopers are made aware of the pitfalls of realistic training, which of course, has to be done, and more importantly, are looked after by the government if they ever suffer, no matter whether it’s during or after their service.

Getting up early and it’s still completely dark

Before the dogs wake and begin to bark

Feeling across for my pants

As they slide off the chair, leading to one of my quiet rants

My wife is still fast asleep, 5am is no time for her to wake

I’m moving as stealthily as I can

Not till 7 will she require a shake

I feel across the floor, they must be between here and the door

Found them at last

As I pull them on fast

Socks, shirt and shorts

Frustration is leading to all sorts

I’ve been getting dressed in the dark for years

But to leave something behind has always been one of my fears

Back in the days of operating in the trees

I’d check all my kit on bended knees

Weapon, magazines, Bergen and belt kit

Basha packed away, everything must fit

Sitting on my Bergen, “stood too” before first light

A great time for an enemy attack

Even before any of us has had our daily shite

But here I am today retired

Badly letting myself down

If I’m to be in a bad road accident

The paramedics will no doubt frown

Why’s he wearing his pants on backwards?

They will be heard to say

They just won’t understand that having got dressed in the dark for years

Today was just a bad day

The Union Jack in my own art form…it makes me proud.

It represents all individuals who are citizens; each and every one should be proud too.

Whether born in the UK, brought over as a child from a war-torn country, or an economic migrant who after working and paying taxes in the UK has decided to remain and become a UK citizen, each and every one of us should be proud of being British.

Those who have come here and have no intention in doing so, should be looked at and interviewed. Emergency legislation should be put in place to have a plan to deal with the situation of those individuals.

Anyone who has British citizenship should be able to become a good neighbour of anyone else with British citizenship, no matter where they live.

The governments of years ago made a rod for their own backs when placing new citizens into “communities.” That in my view only encourages these individuals mostly to hold onto where they came from, and not develop into becoming British.

In the past, I’ve been treated with disdain by communities that are hell bent on holding onto their past. I’ve been verbally abused, had my car kicked while driving through on a busy high street, and looked at angrily…all by young males of fighting age, and all in my own country.

If you came from a country of conflict, well you’ve left it now. You’re in Britain, leave that conflict behind and move forward, for your sake, your family’s sake, and for the sake of everyone in your new country that has taken you in from harm.

Why?

Because for 80 years, we have had the chance of freedom, and to live in a peaceful and secure democracy, side by side with our neighbours.

We’re not a White Christian country, and we haven’t been for centuries.

Years of expansion around the globe as a colonialist empire changed all that a very long time ago…long, long before I was born.

People were even brought in to the UK from overseas to work in our factories…we all needed them at that time.

So, here we are today, multicultural UK, with freedom, democracy and security?

No, maybe not!

At present, I’m living in the USA, but one day soon, our intention is to return to the UK…I miss it terribly, and I really miss my kids and grandkids.

Here in the USA, I have a neighbour who is a doctor. An off-the-boat Indian, where he became a USA citizen, which meant for him and his wife that they had to return their Indian passport, as that’s Indian rules.

We talked about it. They have raised children born in the USA, they have become young regular Americans with a good US education, moving ahead with their lives here in the US.

For a long while now I’ve thought about how the UK could be better. How it could integrate all those coming to the UK and receiving a UK passport to citizenship.

Past and present governments have let us all down badly, they have a key role to play in all of this, if it’s to work.

I’ve never been keen on dual or multiple citizenship.

For example, if I became a US citizen while still being British, I would only be doing it for my own convenience, not because I really want to become American…as much as I love the country and its people, mainly.

Back home in the UK, I know people who have 2, 3, 4 and even 5 passports. Each additional passport, purely one of convenience only!

I believe that if you want British citizenship, then you must hand in your other passport/s. That would ensure that you are becoming British for the right reasons.

Conversely, if you wish to become a citizen of another country, then you hand in your UK citizenship, thereby showing your real allegiance to your new country.

It doesn’t matter what religion you are, if indeed you have a religion. It doesn’t matter what colour you are. It doesn’t matter what language you speak, as long as you learn English. I don’t even care how you dress, just so long as your kids who are born in the UK, dress in Western attire, embrace their new culture, appreciate their family’s historical culture…yet become proud Brits.

That would mean that females are EQUAL to males. It’s OK to be gay. And love your neighbour.

Little Britain is my home. And even littler Scotland is my roots. I’m proud to be both, and I love to see other cultures that have become “Brit Scots” embracing the kilt and blending their own musical heritage with ours…as it’s now theirs too.

Yet I’m only too aware that in certain parts of Britain, there are communities that run their life through the local religious leader, as opposed to the local council, there to enforce the British rule of law…as one example.

I’m all for people of any religion seeking life advice from their religious leader. But not when it’s advice to do with adhering to a law that isn’t the British rule of law. However, it’s been allowed to happen, and it happens today, and it will happen tomorrow.

Britain has a long, long road to go down before it gets better. Before every individual who is a British citizen recognises that, as we are all different, as Brits, we are actually all the same. In that we’re British, and we have freedom, democracy and security. When you look at what’s going on in other parts of the world, we should all embrace what we have as British citizens…it’s given Britain 80 odd years of peace and stability mostly.

Yet, until that day comes…combined, we have neither.

If Carlsberg did jungle soldiers!

In the 1980s, I did a jungle trip to Sarawak in Borneo.

The team included a squadron from 22 SAS, members from other squadrons, SBS, Oz SAS, Para Patrols, Delta…and the all important attached ranks to keep everything flowing.

It was one of the top trips to the jungle in my military career.

With so many lads from different units, it was a terrific time to swap ideas from experiences, and thoughts for the future.

During one of the get-togethers, we were discussing the UK’s School of Infantry’s idea of changing jungle rations, and what they were deciding to entail.

There was talk of a more palatable choice of rations. I sat there supping my Milo, thinking that they haven’t taken jungle patrolling whatsoever into account.

The International choice, getting away from the glum but routine Brit menu made it obvious to me that members of a patrol would be shitting at different times of the day. Causing pandemonium to the patrol routine.

At the end of the day, food is pretty low in the pecking order of what needs to be carried on an operation in the jungle.

Food is fuel…that’s it. There’s no sitting down to a table with a candelabra and being waited on. Most of the time, it’s boiling up the bag of food in your mug and using the boiled water for a brew… basic but workable within the patrol routine when not operating under a hard routine (close to the enemy and eating cold).

One of the lads (nationality rhymes with tank) said that he would love the thought of the new proposed rations, if he could get hold of them back in his homeland. I doubled down on the thought of remaining regular and the fact that food is only fuel when it comes to ops.

I explained that every morning on patrol, I evacuate my bowels at 4.50am precisely.

I then went on to say that the only problem is that I don’t wake up until 5am.

Laughter all around, but everyone agreed on the reality of keeping regular, and the fact that for jungle patrolling…food is only fuel.

Keep what works.