#royalartillery
Where the Guns First Called
***
Orders lead me on.
A boy where shop lights flicker,
dreams stitched into dawn.
Fourteen, slight of frame,
boots too big in borrowed thought,
yet steady his aim.
Past butcher and bank,
familiar voices fade low—
the world tilts, half-known.
A door, plain and still.
“Army Careers” in quiet print,
yet loud with his will.
The sergeant looks through—
not at years, but something set,
a resolve half-new.
“Harrogate,” he says,
“Selection—see where you fit,
find the path you’ll take.”
A place yet unseen,
cold platforms and waiting trains,
northbound into change.
Measured step by step,
eyes judged, questions weighed in turn,
a boy tested clean.
Guns speak without voice,
distance, patience, iron breath—
the choice finds the boy.
Royal Artillery—
not glory, but weight and fire,
a calling of ground.
No turning of head,
no glance back to childhood’s street,
just forward instead.
Orders lead me on.
Roads I never thought to walk—
a life taking form.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 4:40 AM UTC
“Sleep is a luxury.
Complaining is a privilege.
We’ve been issued neither.”
I hear it still—
clear as a parade-ground shout,
though the years have softened everything else.
Back then,
I was a lad with more nerve than knowing,
fresh from school,
from home-cooked meals and careless time,
thrown into a world
that didn’t bend for anyone.
I remember the cold most—
how it got into your bones
and stayed there.
The weight of kit,
the sting of pride,
the ache that never quite left.
I remember missing home—
quietly,
because you didn’t say those things out loud.
You carried it
like you carried everything else.
But I also remember the laughter.
God, the laughter.
How it found us
in the worst of it—
mud-soaked, sleep-starved,
backs breaking and boots failing—
and still, someone would crack a line
that had us grinning like fools.
We were boys pretending not to be,
becoming men without noticing when it happened.
The friendships—
they weren’t made gently.
They were forged
in shared hardship,
in knowing looks,
in the understanding
that no one else quite knew this life
the way we did.
We didn’t speak of it then—
not properly.
Too busy getting through,
too stubborn to admit
what it meant.
But I see it now,
clearer than I ever did.
Those days—
the pain, the sorrow, the joy—
they built something lasting.
Not just in me,
but between us.
Men I haven’t seen in decades
still feel close as brothers.
Time never quite broke that bond.
Now I’m older—
hands not as steady,
steps not as quick—
but my mind drifts back there often.
To the square.
To the field.
To the sound of boots in unison
and laughter in defiance.
Sleep is no longer a luxury.
Complaining comes easier with age.
But if I could—
I’d shoulder the weight again,
just to stand among them once more,
young, untested,
and utterly alive.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 2:10 AM UTC
“I joined for adventure…
turns out it’s mostly waiting around in uncomfortable places.”
That’s the truth of it—
not the posters,
not the stories told down the pub,
not the bright edge of glory
we thought we were stepping into.
I remember the waiting most.
Not the marches,
not the noise,
not even the ache—
but the waiting.
Sitting on cold ground,
back against a pack,
boots damp,
hands numb,
eyes scanning nothing in particular
while time stretched
longer than the horizon.
We thought adventure would be constant—
movement, purpose, direction.
But more often,
it was silence between orders,
a pause no one explained.
“Stand by.”
“Wait out.”
“Not yet.”
And so, we did.
We waited in fields,
on ranges,
on foreign soil where the air felt sharper—
snow beneath us on mountain exercises,
skis biting into slopes we’d never imagined
back when we first signed on.
Those were the moments we remembered—
the peaks, the movement, the stories.
But they were only pieces.
Because in between them
was the stillness.
The uncertainty.
The quiet question
none of us quite voiced—
what are we actually here for?
We followed orders without the full picture,
played our part without seeing the whole.
Just lads doing as we were told,
trusting there was something bigger
beyond what we could see.
And there was.
It just took years to understand.
Years to see how the waiting mattered—
how patience was part of the training,
how discipline wasn’t just in action,
but in holding steady
when nothing seemed to happen.
Now, looking back,
the discomfort fades,
the waiting softens—
and what’s left
is something clearer.
We were being shaped
not just for the moments of action,
but for everything in between.
“I joined for adventure…”
And I got it—
just not in the way I expected.
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 4:26 AM UTC
“If it moves, salute it!
If it doesn’t, paint it!
If it breaks… blame someone else!”
That voice—
it lived in our bones.
Day in, day out,
rain or shine,
square or field,
he was there—
bellowing like thunder
over a troop of lads
still trying to remember
who they were before this place.
On the square—
boots striking in rhythm,
backs straight, eyes front—
someone missed a beat.
“If it moves, salute it!”
he roared, pacing like a storm,
and suddenly everything moved—
arms snapping sharper,
heads turning quicker,
fear and pride tangled together.
Later, in the sheds—
paint thick in the air,
brushes dragging across metal
that hadn’t seen war
but would still be spotless.
“If it doesn’t, paint it!”
again and again—
until green covered everything
and we laughed quietly,
because even the things
that didn’t need painting
somehow got done twice.
Then came the field.
Mud swallowing boots,
rain cutting through kit,
rifles heavy in tired hands—
and something always went wrong.
A misfire.
A slip.
A bit of kit gone missing
where no one would admit it.
And there he was—
like he’d been waiting for it.
“If it breaks…
blame someone else!”
We bit back grins,
shared glances,
because somehow
even in the telling off,
there was a strange kind of truth—
a rough-edged humour
that kept us going.
At the time,
he was just noise,
pressure,
relentless expectation.
But now—
years behind me,
distance softening the edges—
I hear him differently.
Not just shouting…
but shaping.
Each line drilled into us,
not just as orders,
but as lessons in pace,
precision,
and keeping your head
when things didn’t go to plan.
We didn’t thank him.
Didn’t understand him.
Probably cursed him more than once.
But we remembered.
“If it moves, salute it.
If it doesn’t, paint it.
If it breaks… blame someone else.”
Funny thing is—
after all these years,
I still hear his voice
whenever something goes wrong…
…and I still smile.
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 4:18 AM UTC
“Sleep is a luxury.
Complaining is a privilege.
We’ve been issued neither.”
I hear it still—
clear as a parade-ground shout,
though the years have softened everything else.
Back then,
I was a lad with more nerve than knowing,
fresh from school,
from home-cooked meals and careless time,
thrown into a world
that didn’t bend for anyone.
I remember the cold most—
how it got into your bones
and stayed there.
The weight of kit,
the sting of pride,
the ache that never quite left.
I remember missing home—
quietly,
because you didn’t say those things out loud.
You carried it
like you carried everything else.
But I also remember the laughter.
God, the laughter.
How it found us
in the worst of it—
mud-soaked, sleep-starved,
backs breaking and boots failing—
and still, someone would crack a line
that had us grinning like fools.
We were boys pretending not to be,
becoming men without noticing when it happened.
The friendships—
they weren’t made gently.
They were forged
in shared hardship,
in knowing looks,
in the understanding
that no one else quite knew this life
the way we did.
We didn’t speak of it then—
not properly.
Too busy getting through,
too stubborn to admit
what it meant.
But I see it now,
clearer than I ever did.
Those days—
the pain, the sorrow, the joy—
they built something lasting.
Not just in me,
but between us.
Men I haven’t seen in decades
still feel close as brothers.
Time never quite broke that bond.
Now I’m older—
hands not as steady,
steps not as quick—
but my mind drifts back there often.
To the square.
To the field.
To the sound of boots in unison
and laughter in defiance.
Sleep is no longer a luxury.
Complaining comes easier with age.
But if I could—
I’d shoulder the weight again,
just to stand among them once more,
young, untested,
and utterly alive.
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 4:10 AM UTC
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, honouring the Royal Artillery motto and spirit
They say the infantry hold the ground,
the cavalry takes the glory,
and the gunners…
well, we just change the landscape.
Our thunder isn’t borrowed —
it’s earned,
forged in steel and sweat,
carried on the backs of lads
who know exactly what it means
to serve a crown you’ll never meet
but feel in your bones.
When the order comes,
there’s no hesitation —
just the calm of men
who’ve rehearsed the end of the world
often enough to make it look tidy.
The gun speaks,
the earth answers,
and somewhere in that rolling crack
you hear the history of the regiment —
from Flanders mud
to Afghan dust,
from the smoke of Waterloo
to the cold rain of the Falklands.
We don’t shout about it.
We don’t need to.
The guns do that for us.
And when the smoke clears
and the world steadies itself,
we stand there —
boots planted,
ears ringing,
hearts steady —
knowing we’ve added our own small echo
to the King’s thunder.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:24 AM UTC
By LongJohn
There’s a certain way a Number One speaks —
calm as a Sunday morning,
sharp as a fresh sharpened knife,
and carrying enough authority
to make even the cockiest lad
stand up a bit straighter.
He didn’t need to shout.
Didn’t need to swagger.
Just a quiet, steady
“Stand by…”
and every man on the det
felt the world tighten into focus.
You learned to trust that voice —
in the rain, in the dark,
in the moments when the air itself
seemed to hold its breath.
He knew his gun
like other men know their children:
every quirk, every mood,
every sound it made
when it was happy, angry,
or about to misbehave.
And when the order came,
his voice cut through the chaos
like a lighthouse beam,
guiding you through the noise
to the one thing that mattered:
doing the job right,
first time,
every time.
Years later,
you still hear it —
that calm, unshakeable tone
that made you believe
you could hold the line
against anything.
A Number One doesn’t just command a gun.
He commands confidence.
And that’s rarer than ammunition.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:30 AM UTC
Direct fire — the layer’s true arena
By LongJohn
There’s nothing gentle about direct fire.
No time for poetry,
no time for second guesses —
just the sight,
the target,
and the knowledge
that the moment you squeeze the trigger
you’ve lit a ****** great arrow
pointing straight back at yourself.
That’s when the layer earns his keep.
One eye shut,
the other sharp as a knife edge,
breath held,
hands steady,
heart doing its own thing
but you ignore it.
The gun bucks,
the world flashes white,
and before the smoke even clears
you’re shouting for the next round —
because speed is life,
and accuracy is survival.
“Get them before they get you,”
that’s the rule.
Simple.
Unforgiving.
True every time.
The layer doesn’t wait for applause.
He doesn’t look up to see
if anyone noticed.
He just adjusts,
leans in again,
and finds the next target
like it personally owes him money.
And when the day’s done
and the gun cools
and the adrenaline finally lets go,
he’ll sit there quiet,
hands still trembling a bit,
knowing he did what few can do —
hit fast,
hit true,
and walk away from a job
that doesn’t forgive mistakes.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:35 AM UTC
By LongJohn
There’s a moment, right at the end,
when the noise fades,
the smoke thins,
and the gun sits there cooling
like an old dog catching its breath.
You’ve fired all you were given,
done what was asked,
and now there’s just one round left —
the last round.
It’s never just ammunition.
It’s a marker.
A line in the sand.
A quiet nod to the lads beside you
and the ones who aren’t.
You handle it different —
not softer,
but with a kind of respect
that doesn’t need explaining.
The det feels it too.
Voices drop.
Movements sharpen.
Everyone knows the weight of it.
“Last round…”
The Number One says it calm,
like he’s announcing the weather,
but you hear the history in it —
every battery, every battle,
every gun that ever stood its ground.
The layer leans in,
the loader steadies himself,
and for a heartbeat
the whole world holds still.
Then the order comes,
the gun speaks one final time,
and the echo rolls out
like a curtain closing.
After that,
there’s no cheering,
no swagger —
just the quiet satisfaction
of a job done right
and the knowledge
that the gun will sleep tonight
because you didn’t let her down.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:43 AM UTC
By LongJohn
I’ve never been much for churches,
but I’ve said a few prayers
in the rain,
in the dark,
and once or twice
with my face in the mud
wondering what the hell
I’d done with my life.
So, here’s a gunner’s prayer —
plain,
unpolished,
and true.
Keep the lads steady,
the sights clean,
and the Number One calm
when the world starts shaking.
Keep the layer sharp,
the loader quick,
and the signaller awake
even when he swears, he is.
Keep the rounds dry,
the fuses honest,
and the gun behaving herself
long enough to do the job.
And when the smoke settles
and the echoes fade,
keep us humble enough
to remember why we’re here
and who we stand beside.
If there’s mercy to spare,
give it to the young ones —
they’ve got more to lose
and less to hide behind.
As for the rest of us,
we’ll take whatever comes
with the same stubborn pride
that’s carried the regiment
from the first gun fired
to the last.
Amen,
or whatever word
a gunner uses
when he means it.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:50 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
By LongJohn
They told us it’d be character building.
They weren’t wrong —
just dishonest about
how much character
they planned to build in one go.
Commando training wasn’t a course,
it was a long conversation
between your body and your willpower,
with your body shouting,
and your willpower pretending
it couldn’t hear.
Rain?
A constant.
Cold?
A lifestyle.
Mud?
A religion.
But somewhere between the log runs,
the rope climbs,
the endless yomps
that made your legs question their contract,
you realised something—
you weren’t breaking—
You were sharpening.
And when you finally earned the right
to stand beside the Marines
as a Gunner —
not an honorary anything,
but a Commando Gunner —
you felt it in your bones.
Not pride exactly.
More like belonging.
A quiet, stubborn truth
that you’d gone through the same hell
and come out the other side
still standing,
still laughing,
still ready for whatever came next.
And when the green berets nodded at you
like you were one of their own,
you didn’t need a speech
or a ceremony
or a pat on the back.
You just nodded back —
because respect,
real respect,
doesn’t need noise.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 8:35 AM UTC