Some people argue that these publications become a fanfare of self-adulation, written to denigrate anyone possessing human faults apparently absent in the author. This observation, however perceived, should not deny the fact that these writers are true heroes. Those unfortunate enough to have been through the hell of war are most deserved of the respect they receive. If I had endured the same degree of danger, been involved in death-defying acts of heroism or survived the unsurvivable, what is to say I wouldn’t have written a book in the same vein? But I didn’t. I struggled even to make tea, let alone war. That’s because when I joined the military, I was a numpty, an idiot – and a sixteen-year-old idiot at that. To make matters far worse, I didn’t choose to join any old outfit, one where I would occasionally be able to shed my cloak of imbecility. No, my struggles to achieve competence would be tested daily, as not only was I attempting to undertake the longest infantry training in NATO, I was trying to become a Royal Marines Commando.
