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#chargebagsdry
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.
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Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:58 AM UTC
ThePoppiesStillBloom
"Nottingham to the Gun Line"
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.
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43
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.
0
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 8:13 AM UTC
ThePoppiesStillBloom
"Carlton to the Gun Line"
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.
Continue reading...
46