Recalling The Day I Was Shot In The Head

We, that is to say my unit, were in southern Germany on our annual 'Summer Camp'.

Now, when I say 'Summer Camp', please don't make the mistake of thinking that we spent our time sitting around camp fires singing 'Ging-gang-goolie-goolie-goolie-goolie-wotcha', lolling about on the shores of picturesque lakes or visiting and photographing local landmarks. It wasn't that kind of 'Summer Camp'.

It was all geared up to practice and enhance our military skills; a refresher course of sorts.

I recall the day in question as being a hot ... no, make that very hot ... July day. It was 1985.

We left out camp early in the morning and were driven to a spot many miles away (from decent food and toilets) to an area used by the American military for manoeuvres.  On arrival we went tactical. That means that everything were subsequently did was done in a military fashion as it would be if we were on operations on enemy territory. We were also informed that there would be 'enemy' forces on the ground (made up of Americans from local Artillery and infantry units). We were only going to be 'practising' so we fitted blank firing attachments to our weapons and loaded up with blank rounds, rations and water and off we went.

Our 'yomp' took us most of the day, up and down the hills of the Hessen/Bavaria border. It felt as if we had marched for miles but, as we were in a tactical situation, we only travelled about 8 to 9 miles. on the way we were ambushed three times.

Ambush number one saw American Artillerymen firing at us as from the cover of a ditch and some well camouflaged shell scrapes as we rounded a bend on a for once level track.

Although we reacted in the prescribed manner (as per tactic of that time), we were all adjudged to have been killed. We naturally disputed this fact and pointed out to the (American) umpires that someone simply shouting  "BOOM!" does not equate to an artillery piece actually being used and that if they had actually bothered to bring an Artillery piece with them, we would have been more impressed.

The second Ambush came just after we had carried out a first aid task. After setting a few simulated broken arms and legs and plugging up a few fake gunshot wounds, we were told that, once again, we were 'tactical'.
We had barely picked formation to march off when about twenty gung-ho Americans charged from the cover of the near by tree line. Guns-a-blazing!

Once again we were adjudged, by an obviously biased umpire, to be dead.

We were too tired and pissed off to complain.

Ambush number three came after a very clever tactical ruse by an American infantry unit.

They had positioned an ice cream van at a point near a road that we had to cross. Thinking that they wouldn't dream of attacking us on, or near a public highway, we queued up!

RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT

The buggers had lined up two or three machine guns on the other side of the road and let us have it!

We were dead, but at least we had our ice cream.

Later that day, on the slopes of a heavily wooded hill, we set up our camp.  We dug in and settled down to a well earned rest. Tea was appeared, as it always does, and we feasted on cold food from the ration packs that we  carried with us.

Later still, an officer arrived. He told us we were good chaps and had done well, etc., blah, blah, blah.  Then he said that there would be an attack on our position from the valley below before dark and that we should prepare for it.

We prepared!

But when it came, we found out that we where all 'prepared' in the wrong direction!

They came DOWN the hill ... a whoopin' an' a hollerin' ... and we turned in our little holes in the ground.

We fired back, as they over ran out positions, and in some cases over us.

Unfortunately though, not everyone was careful!

The soldier I shared my defensive position with let loose a round from his LMG (Light Machine Gun) right next to my head. The noise was deafening and I felt the sting as all the burned powder gas that would normally follow the bullet out of the muzzle hit me on the side of the face. Blood began to run from my ear as the burst eardrum made itself known and I keeled over, in pain, unable to keep my balance.

The American medics that treated me, to be fair, were very good and very professional. The hardly made fun of me at all,  but then I wouldn't really have know if they had because it was at least four days before I could hear again properly!

But it earned me four weeks light duties and an early ticket home, so I wasn't going to complain.

Ok, so the ear drum has been a slight problem ever since; bursting on at least two more occasions, but at least I'm not deaf!

As you now know, I wasn't really shot in the head. I hope I haven't disappointed anyone!

Shortly after our 'Summer Camp', the following happened ....

Three more vivid reasons to remember that summer.

I Could Have Been Concussed! I Could've! Honest!

I am getting old!

You can tell when age catches up to you because you start recalling happier times ... the days of your youth ... on a more regular basis.

Well, when I say 'happier times', I really just mean earlier times! They weren't all happy or without pain.

Yesterday, after my wife took a little bruise inflicting tumble, unbidden came the memory of a fall of my own.
Whereas I should have been giving her some sort of comfort, I was in fact recalling an incident from my Army days which involved stairs, a full backpack and some slow motion body surfing.

It was one of those occasions where our leaders decided to test our reaction time to an emergency. 

It was, as it always seemed to be, about 2 am and sirens were blaring across the barracks and indeed across the whole town.

The German population must have really loved us!

Now,  when you hear those sirens, you are meant to leap from your bed, don you combat clothing and all your kit and go to a designated point within the barracks where a roll is called before we draw weapons and prepare to move out into the field.

What actually happens is this:

The sirens blare so you turn over in bed and pull a pillow over your head.
You wait until there is a banging on your door that you can ignore until it becomes a violent kicking action accompanied be manic shouting and swearing.
You eventually get out of bed and wander around the corridor asking other bewildered, would-be sleepers, if it really is a 'call out' or was it a fire alarm.
After some clarification, which still isn't clear,  you clamber into your combat clothing and boots, grab your gear and head off to the assembly point.  This can take quite some time due to the fact that you have to return to your room several times to retrieve those forgotten, but necessary, items of combat gear that you meant to have packed some months ago but never actually got around to. 

Anyway, this time, as the wailing of the sirens finally faded, I was already on my feet, dressed and fully equipped.  I was ready to go to war!

Woe betide those bad guys!

At this point I should mention red lead paint!

It's what the army uses to paint flooring and sometimes walls.  It's easy to clean and difficult to scuff.  And it was all over the floors of the armoury building.

It was raining that morning and I was one of the first to respond. Some others were sent to chase up late comers and I was told go to the armoury, draw my weapon and then return to the parade square and begin marshalling vehicles into position ready to move out.

There were steps in the armoury building leading down to the heavy steel armoury door. It was open and one or two men were already grabbing rifles.

Did I mention the red lead floors and the fact that it was raining?

As I reached the top of the stairs I slipped. My feet shot out from under me and I hastily grabbed the hand rail for support.  As I did so, my heavy backpack began to drag me down backwards.  I pulled hard on the hand rail and tried to jerk myself forward and upright again.

I over did it!  Gravity took control!

And I began to slowly topple forward towards the flight of stairs!

In my panic, and in a desperate attempt to minimise the pain and damage that was sure to follow, I dropped to my knees but my forward momentum and the weight of my backpack carried me over, head first onto the stairs.

I landed chest first with a groan and a gasp as the air was knocked out of my lungs.

Then I began a slow motion descent of the stairs on my stomach. All the way to the bottom.
Twenty rib bruising steps later my head, thankfully still steel helmeted, hit the edge of the open armoury door.

I was stunned.

And I couldn't get up!

The kit on my back was just too heavy.

I was lucky though!  I really was ... in more ways than one.

Not only were my injuries limited to bruises ... mostly to my pride. But, as a precaution, my CO refused to let me take part in the call-out drill.

Whilst the rest of my unit were all vehicled-up and moving towards an unknown woodland location to begin manoeuvres, I was safely tucked up in a bed in the camp infirmary ... for observation, you understand.

I could have had delayed concussion.

Hmmmm!  I might still have it!

You never know.