It's early January and I’m in a huge training area somewhere in the south of England. It's about 3 in the morning and we have pushed out of the harbour area on a night patrol. It's minus 6, pitch black and it's snowing. As usual, Cpl Donnelly is keeping a ridiculous pace and seems, to me at least, to be choosing the most obscenely difficult routes to traverse: it feels like we are continuously going uphill. My knees are fucked – completely black with bruising from throwing myself to the ground on the solid icy mud – I’m in so much pain I can no longer kneel so each time we halt I can't adopt the right firing position. Fuck it, I just crouch, he can't see me in this dark anyway. After we complete the first half of our ‘mission’ – picking up rations which the training team have hidden in a bush at the top of the hill (only a couple of miles but it feels like ten) – we head back towards the harbour area. I’m 2IC so I’ve got to attempt to appear to be quite switched on, but I’m so tired I’m not really conscious of what's going on – certainly not scanning for danger or keeping my rifle at a sensible angle to raise for firing as taught – I just keep my head down and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, assuming that it's so dark the Cpl won't be able to notice my lack of professionalism. I’m past caring now anyway, I hate this. I want to go home. After about a mile into the return journey we hit a big marsh. Donnelly hisses at me to ‘go firm’. Fucked if I know what that means. Fuck it, let's just get back, I think. The rest of the section presses on, jumping silently and competently over a stream. My legs are too short and I fall short of the other side, cracking the ice and going up to my waist in icy water. Cunt! I yell. I then realise to my disgust that I’ve still got my spare thermals stuffed in my now sodden combat trousers because I was too lazy or forgetful to properly unpack earlier. No spare clothes now, you fucking mong.