29. A new start

When I was 15, I was part of our school's Combined Cadet Force (CCF). It was that kind of boys' school – play rugby and other team sports, study Latin and Ancient History, and prepare yourself to join one of the armed forces. My parents liked to think that their money was moulding a rounded and successful young man. Ah well.

I enjoyed the CCF – I liked polishing my boots shinier than the other boys. My middle brother was in the Territorial Army (reserves), and showed me lots of tricks for doing things just a little bit better, a little bit more army than the others. I liked marching up and down the school car park on a Monday afternoon – drilling was better than being in the classroom. I liked cycling to school in my CCF uniform, sure that observers would admire my military pedalling.

The year ended with a week-long camp at Sennybridge military base in Wales. The local cadet force had been volunteered to be our enemy, and we had to track them down. We marched over the hills, ambushed random adults walking their dogs, set up tin-can tripwire perimeters around overnight camps. We were the only visiting school force to capture one of the local militia's team to their admiration (they caught 7 of us, and fed us hot tea and baked beans on toast).

This was mid 1980s. Britain had recently re-discovered its military pride through removing Argentinian forces from the Falkland Islands. It was a conflict that momentarily brought a very divided country together - flags flew everywhere, people happily sang the national anthem and cheered on our boys.

Our small school force, out in Welsh moorland, was engaging in the same life-and-death conflict with the Welsh lads (until they gave us the tea, then we were best mates), even to the extend of re-enacting the final action of the Falklands Conflict: the Battle of Goose Green^[1].

We yomped down the slope towards the enemy position (an abandoned and falling-down barn), firing our blanks at regulated intervals ^[2].

As we pointed our empty barrels at the Welsh boys and told them to drop their weapons just as in all the Sunday afternoon black-and-white war films I'd ever seen – our officer warned us to keep going. It wasn't over. The Welsh had built a redoubt beyond the barn and installed a machine gun there. Two of us ran, screaming, at them. Two of us, functionally unarmed, overran three or four boys with machine guns. It was all good fun.

However, there's a point to this tale. I learned in that moment that it's never over when you finish. It's never over when you cross the line. It's never over when you think you can finally breathe out. There's always something waiting for you just beyond.

It's a lesson I've been reminded of again and again through life – buying a house, moving house, dealing with my mother's death, funeral, and will. Every time it takes me by surprise. Every time it takes me back to that tired and cold boy stomping down a slope yelling bang with a broken gun. One day, I'll actually learn that lesson.