#105lightgun
By LongJohn, in honour of 145 Commando Battery RA (Maiwand)
It started, as these things do,
with two officers talking *****
over a brew —
one Commando, one Gunner,
each convinced his lads
were the fittest, fastest,
and least likely to die of embarrassment.
A bet was struck.
A handshake sealed it.
And before we knew it,
we were staring at a 105 light gun
like it had personally insulted us.
“Right lads,” someone said,
“we’re dragging her across the Isle of Skye.”
A silence followed —
the kind where everyone wonders
who to blame first.
But off we went,
ropes over shoulders,
boots slipping on wet rock,
the gun bouncing behind us
like a stubborn dog
that didn’t want its walk.
45 Commando Mortar Troop
set off beside us,
all swagger and protein shakes,
giving it the big licks
about “proper infantry fitness.”
We answered with the usual:
a few choice words,
a laugh,
and the quiet confidence
of men who know
that artillerymen don’t get tired —
we just get louder.
Up hills, through bogs,
across streams cold enough
to make a grown man reconsider life,
we hauled that gun
like it was the crown jewels.
And somewhere near the finish,
when the Marines started looking
a bit less invincible,
someone shouted,
“Come on lads —
do it for Maiwand!”
And we did.
We crossed the line first,
soaked, knackered,
and grinning like idiots.
The Marines took it well —
to be fair, they had no choice.
A bet’s a bet,
and a Gunner victory
is a thing of beauty.
That night, over pints,
we raised a glass
to the 105,
to the lads,
and to the simple truth
that’s held since 1880:
Never underestimate Maiwanders.
Not on a battlefield.
Not on a mountain.
And definitely not on the Isle of Skye.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:19 AM UTC
By LongJohn
I came a long way from Nottingham —
a lad with more cheek than sense,
thinking the world was big
and I was bigger.
Then I met a 105 light gun
and learned very quickly
who was in charge.
They taught me the basics first:
boots, bearings,
don’t stand where the recoil lives.
But the real lessons came later —
the ones you only learn
when the air tastes of cordite
and the ground shakes like it’s alive.
“Keep the charge bags dry,”
the Number One barked,
and he meant it like a warning.
Six charges —
one to six —
each one a different kind of promise.
Small charge, close target.
Big charge, long reach.
Get it wrong
and the gun will tell the world
you’re an idiot.
Direct fire was a different beast.
No time to think,
no room for doubt.
The moment you fired,
you became a target yourself —
so you loaded fast,
laid faster,
and prayed the next round
would land before theirs did.
Somewhere in all that noise,
I stopped being the lad from Nottingham
and became a gunner —
one of the stubborn few
who trust a steel barrel
more than their own luck.
And I’ve carried that with me
ever since.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:58 AM UTC
By LongJohn
I wasn’t born into soldiering.
I was born in Carlton —
a place of terraced streets,
straight talking neighbours,
and enough character
to keep you honest.
Back then, the world felt small,
like everything important
happened within walking distance.
But something in me
wanted a bigger horizon,
a louder heartbeat,
a life that didn’t fit neatly
into the streets I knew.
So, I signed on.
Simple as that.
One decision,
and suddenly the lad from Carlton
was standing beside a 105-Pack Howitzer gun
wondering how the hell
he’d ended up here.
The regiment knocked the edges off me,
sharpened the rest,
and taught me things
you don’t learn in Carlton—
like how to trust a det
with your life,
how to read the sky for trouble,
and how to keep charge bags dry
even when the rain
is coming at you sideways.
But I never forgot where I came from.
Carlton stayed in my voice,
in my humour,
in the stubborn streak
that carried me through
more than one bad day.
And every time the gun thundered
and the ground shook under my boots,
I’d think of that lad
who left Carlton - Nottingham
looking for something bigger —
and found it
in the recoil of a gun
and the company of gunners.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 8:13 AM UTC
By LongJohn
Night firing has its own kind of tension —
a quiet that isn’t peace,
just the world holding its breath
waiting for the first order.
You work by touch at first,
hands knowing the gun
better than your eyes ever could.
The dark presses in,
thick as wet wool,
and every sound feels sharper
than it should.
But the real work starts
when the call comes down the line:
“Illumination fire.”
That’s when the battlefield changes.
Charge bags checked twice —
because if anything must stay dry,
it’s them.
Wrong charge, wrong height,
and you light up the wrong patch of earth
or worse —
you leave the Marines and Infantry
blind in the dark.
The layer leans in,
finding a sky he can’t see,
trusting the map,
the angles,
and the Number One’s voice.
“Stand by…”
and the night waits.
The gun fires,
and the world explodes into daylight —
a white flare blooming overhead,
drifting down on its parachute
like a ghost lantern.
Shadows stretch long and strange,
and for a few minutes
the battlefield is laid bare
for the lads moving forward.
Then darkness again,
as if the night is angry
you dared to interrupt it.
Round after round,
flare after flare,
you keep the sky alive —
lighting the way
for men who trust you
more than they trust the moon.
And when the last illum burns out
and the stars return,
you feel it —
that quiet pride
of knowing you were their eyes
when they needed them most.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 8:24 AM UTC