Christie Boy
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Arran / Commando
...By this time we had built up a strong comradeship, closest being the members of your particular party, and in my case they were Davy Gunn from Wick and Joe MacArthur from Greenock. Others were equally loyal to their troop and formed the earliest specimens of the irregular soldier with unorthodox training, highly competent in the use of arms, explosives etc. and ready to play a part in any theatre of war during an emergency.
Jack Collins, a cockney, and Rocky Stocks, were two outstanding characters. Collins had been a time served soldier with the H.L.I. but, following his discharge, was a docker at Bermondsey Docks, before volunteering at the outbreak of hostilities and becoming a Commando. Each troop had been issued with an anti-tank rifle which weighed thirty eight pounds. During his time on the docks, Collins handled a great deal of timber and had developed what they used to term a "big shoulder". He was ideally suited to carry the Bois Anti-tank Rifle and it never ceased to amaze me to see him place the rifle on his shoulder and march for miles with never a thought even to transfer it to the other shoulder.
We had many humorous episodes involving Jack, especially when we were getting instructions to climb some precipitous coastline or traverse rough ground during a trek. On one occasion we were negotiating the Goat Fell saddle and had to cross a stream which had lots of flat rock festooned with green slime, which any hill walker will confirm can be a dangerous trap for the unwary walker. Jack's attention must have been diverted at the crucial moment of crossing and he landed heavily in the burn. We had been subjected to a good going scotch drizzle for the previous two hours so it wasn't the wetting that annoyed Jack but that the Bois Anti-tank Rifle had followed him down and jammed his fingers on the rocks. Even Goat Fell veiled herself in mist to avoid the unusually choice language ricocheting from peak to peak, until Captain Blair interrupted the flow and suggested Jack get a grip of himself.
Silence prevailed except for the "squelch squelch" of boots sinking into and sucking out of the peat bog. We had just crossed the saddle and were faced with a descent over a steeply sloping grassy patch when Captain Blair, in the lead, was suddenly careering over the ground on his posterior with his kilt somewhere around his neck. We heard no sound, except from the earlier casualty. "Did I hear you say something, Sir?", queried Collins...
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