Napoleon, my part in his downfall.

Waterloo.

Once, in another life, I lived and worked as a soldier. I never saw war, never shot in anger, never faced a vicious foe, I simply did my job and blithely lived for the weekend, as every other soldier of that era did in the 1980s.

Every regiment had its own special battle honour, which is a public affirmation of how well that regiment performed at a certain battle, and June 18^th is Waterloo day for my old mob, 1^st the Queen’s Dragoon Guards.

On that eminent day of days, old Dragoon Guards around the world raise their glasses and toast The Regiment, while the regiment itself holds a parade, and generally mucks the lads about as they wait on in the Sergeant’s and officer’s messes… actually I have no idea if they still do that, but we used to. Whatever, I digress.

One of my small but select clique of ex QDGs in Germany, a certain Martin Ruscoe, thought it would be a good idea if we, the unofficial old comrades of Wolfenbüttel, also celebrated the regiment’s finest hour, and so we did.

The first gathering was somewhat poorly turned out, with five of us making the effort, (including the barman, who was also QDG). However, the celebration went on from strength to strength, and our best attendance had nigh on seventy people travelling over from the UK and various places around Germany.

So why is that?

Why do people travel over from Britain for a weekend in Wolfenbüttel?

To find the heart of the matter, one has to delve into the history of the QDG Wolfenbüttel “experience” itself.

I arrived in the advance party in March 1987, and to 20-year-old Reggie Jones, it was like heaven on earth. Beer was one Deutschmark a bottle or can, (at that time, one Pound Sterling was about three Marks twenty), the clubs and pubs stayed open until the next day, the German people were genuinely friendly, and the closest RMP unit, (Military Police) was in Hildesheim, fifty kilometres away. We had our own bar in the town, the city of Brunswick was a quick 20 KM jaunt up the road, and at that time Germany literally was the land of cheap booze. It was a constant party, interspersed with work during the daytime.

We did sport during working hours, were paid to go adventure training, (rock climbing, canoeing, hiking, skiing), the cookhouse food was good, the Naafi prices a wet dream, and the atmosphere and camaraderie in the single accommodation was everything the young soldier could wish for.

Yes, there were idiots and dickheads, but they were soon sorted out.

QDG left Wolfenbüttel to be posted to Tidworth in 1991, (I think) and with their leaving, the golden age of The Cold War Quaffer came to a close.

The Warsaw Pact was slowly breaking up and so Britain introduced Options for Change, and a whole raft of other money saving schemes to slowly cut the cost of our military. The camp at Wolfenbüttel closed its gates to British soldiers in 1993, and then underwent a change of image as asylum seekers and students were housed there, and the tank parks were transformed into classrooms, cafes, and shops.

So, fast forward to 2012. After the initial failure of our first five man gathering, Martin and the chaps decided to plough on with another Waterloo Day the year after.

Why, I hear you ask?

Because any reason for a get together should be followed up with, that’s why. Friendships can so easily be lost, connections to episodes in our past are so often relegated to half memories and faded polaroids, and if there’s a legitimate reason to follow up on those times of old, then why not? Especially when there’s beer involved.

…And if we’re going to get together, then why not at a place that was seen by many as the best armoured posting in Germany?

2013 saw a marked increase in attendance, and the “day” was transformed into a weekend, with a meal on the Friday, a BarBQ on the Saturday, and various trips arranged on the Sunday, (which I never made once due to the curious and consistent poisoning of my last pint of the Saturday exertions, rendering me incapable every Sunday…). The event went from five blokes quaffing to a rook of visitors camping and staying in hotels all weekend. It’s safe to say that every year has been marvellous up to now, (even the, “sad five drunks” night).

This last weekend I had to unfortunately fit in the merriment between working shifts. The firm I work for is decimated by illness at the moment, and my planned three-day holiday was cut to one day, and an early knock off on the Friday. However, it was still brilliant.

We spent a lot of our time, and money, at the Stadtkeller in Wolfenbüttel, also known as The Asia Haus restaurant, which has slowly become the regular meeting place for these extravaganzas, and the staff were fabulous. Always smiling and, up for a laugh, and yet professional and quick with our drinks. This weekend they were presented with a regimental plaque which now hangs in pride of place in the bar.

The BarBQ is now a regular thing, and Steve and Claudia who run the football club where it’s held do a remarkable job. We turn up, half cut and starving, and they lay on a spread you could feed a regiment with. As ever, I doff my cap to these two and their professionalism. I know I couldn’t do it… for various reasons and all involving weak willpower and temptation.

And lastly, my friends. Brothers who I see and am in contact with on a regular basis, and the brothers who I haven’t seen in decades. Reconnecting in the blink of an eye, it seemed like the last time we met was last week, whereas for some it was in 1991.

I used to say the worst decision I ever made in my life was joining the army, the second was leaving it.

However, after weekends like the last, I don’t think that statement is actually true. We never knew what we had in Wolfenbüttel, and it was only after we left it that we realised.

But, isn’t that always the case?