Training Private Brian

The Band of Brothersbox set was far from adequate preparation for spending 24 hours with the Army, Brian O'Connelldiscovered

Tuesday. Ten thirty hours. Somewhere off the Cork coast. I'm on a rib with a platoon of eight men slicing through well-marked shipping lanes. Our target is an occupied enemy post at the entrance to the harbour. We've got to land, take up positions and secure the pier to allow the rest of the platoon flood through.

As we turn for the mouth of the bay, our destination reveals itself to be less of a ramshackle fort and more of a mini-Edinburgh Castle, named Fort Davis, which has stood defiant since the 18th century. We land, piling on to the quayside, crouching low to avoid enemy fire, and await further instructions. Our mission (should we choose to accept it) is to take the boathouse at the end of the pier, and secure a base from which to launch an attack on the fort above.

A burst of enemy fire prompts our platoon leader, Sgt O'Brien, to tell the platoon to ready their weapons, take aim and be prepared to move on his orders.

I'm third rifleman from the front, given responsibility to cover the high ground overhead for sniper fire. The first phase of our mission is over.

We got here. Now we've got to ascend a 60ft embankment ahead, returning enemy fire along the way and retaining our basic formation. Sweat mixed with camouflage paint trickles down my forehead. A hand on my back pushes me in the direction of the first enemy post, shrouded in smoke from grenade fire, while rapid bullets and loud bangs provide a deafening soundtrack.

My preparation (viewing the Band of Brothersbox set) seems inadequate preparation for 24 hours as a recruit with the Army. No time to think about that now, though - it's kill or be killed. Sort of . . .

So, what the hell am I doing here? Well, in recent weeks and months, you might have noticed flashy advertisements on television, radio and print, enticing recruits into the Defence Forces. "Do you want a life less ordinary?" is the hook used in the campaign, and by all accounts life in the Defence Forces is marketed as varied, highly skilled and hugely rewarding for the 600 or so recruits who join every year. But is it? In general, the Defence Forces have been wary of allowing journalists join their ranks, following some less than complimentary reporting in the past. Basically, the hacks came, saw and took the mick. Someone in the press office decided to take a gamble on me, and offered me an insight into life as a recruit. Boy, was I sorry.

To be honest, I thought that being allowed to "join the army" would be something of a superficial gesture - maybe I'd get shouted at a little, be shown how to apply camouflage to my face or learn to march in line. Yet it became clear early on that I was to be treated in the same manner as the other recruits nearing the end of their three-star Private training. An hour in, and Lieut Gary Ryan was handing me a ration pack, telling me forcibly to get out of my civilian clothes, and putting a kitbag on my back. The kitbag weighed a ton, and contained my spare army attire and sleeping quarters. I was no longer a 31-year-old journalist with a questionable level of fitness - but "Pte Brian", a lean, mean, writing machine, on a major urban assault exercise.

Having secured the first level of the base, we had one hour to shovel enough proteins and carbohydrates into our bodies needed to sustain ourselves for the 20 hours fighting ahead. It was time to crack open the ration packs.

For the uninitiated, ration packs consist of everything a recruit needs to keep them alive for 24 hours. Included are biscuits, dried fruit, tea, coffee, noodles, and three vacuum-sealed meals, which can be eaten either hot or cold. Basically, take the worst canteen food you've ever eaten, mush it together, and you're there or thereabouts. I opted for the steak, vegetables and potatoes, which went a long way to proving the adage that army food is the spoils of war. Put it this way, it was more puke than pukka.

Strapped to my waist was a belt containing equipment I'd need, from binoculars to ammunition and even a GPS navigational device. After lunch it was time to push on and secure the rest of the buildings in the complex. Fifty-five recruits enlisted in this unit seven months ago. Of those, only 21 remain. Some were forced to leave due to injury, while the majority just didn't have the stomach for it. In a few weeks' time, those who are left will be professional soldiers and assimilated into the second battalion of the Army.

Many of them will be serving overseas, sometimes in volatile urban terrain, this time next year. The majority of recruits are in their late teens, willing to take any amount of physical and mental torment thrown at them and present themselves for more. They include 25-year-old Pte Gareth Kinsella from Tallaght, who is one of the oldest recruits.

"Some of my family are in the army, and I'd be listening to them being away and that, and that got me interested," he says of his decision to enlist. Pte Kinsella spent the past few years travelling and enlisted days before he exceeded the age limit.

"It's been interesting so far. Physically, it's very hard. I would have considered myself fit before I joined, but I quickly found out I wasn't." The two requirements needed to join, says Pte Kinsella, are a certain level of physical fitness and mental strength. "Being away from family is the hardest," he says. "We do get out most weekends, though, so we get to see them then. It's just a matter of getting on with it really after that."

Of those who haven't made it to this stage, Pte Kinsella says there were a few surprises. "There were some who I didn't think would leave, to be honest, but the majority who are here I would have tipped to make it this far," he says. "For myself, I found it very hard to adjust to losing my free will. I had lived all around the world, so at 25, to be ordered around was a shock to me. But you adapt and it gets easier every day to do what you're told. At the end of the day, we know we're told it for a reason."

And so, back to the war. I've been assigned to a seven-man infantry team led by Cpl Coventry.

We're to occupy a disused church, with corrugated iron for windows and sandbags for decking, where I'll remain overnight, and defend to the death, presumably.

The actual attack didn't go too well, with some of us capturing the building like a troupe of interior decorators wandering through an old Georgian pile.

"It's time to get f**king switched on," bellows our corporal as mats are rolled out and a roster for sentry duty is put in place. I'm on guard from 10-11pm, 2-3am and again from 4-5am, working with Pte O'Donovan, whose life is now precariously in my hands.

Not so much as a hare crosses our path on the first shift. Pte O'Donovan mans a large machine gun as I stare out a crack in the window with instructions to verbally affront anyone who crosses my line of sight.

On the second shift, as incredible tiredness sets in, I spot a silhouette passing the window. I'd like to be able to say I reacted immediately, challenging the person and thereby warning my platoon of an imminent attack. In the end I bottled it, and called Pte O'Donovan over to have a look. Just as he reached me, all hell broke loose, and in the melée his machine gun was stolen from our lookout point. For the next six hours we paid dearly for my mishap, with continuous patrols throughout the night and hellish hikes up hundreds of steps as we resupplied other platoons in the area.

Just as my time as a recruit was coming to an end, after a night of little sleep and much physical torment, I was given orders to go on one last patrol. Across the bay, the former State prison at Spike Island seemed an enticing alternative compared to this carry-on. Ration packs to keep the men alive for the next 24 hours had been dropped off at the pier 60ft below. Five of us were sent with empty backpacks to retrieve them. I could barely lift my legs. My eyes were bloodshot with tiredness and I hadn't eaten in more than 12 hours. I longed for a cup of Barry's or the caress of a goose-feathered eiderdown.

We got to the ration packs, hidden behind undergrowth at the foot of the pier, and hurried to stuff them into our backpacks. There, hidden amongst the pile of vacuum-packed meals, I spotted part of my civilian attire. One of the officers had placed a fresh orange inside one of my runners - their way of welcoming me back to Civvy Street. As we marched back up the large embankment, weighed down by the ration packs in our kitbags, I dug into the orange flesh, oblivious to the pain in my legs. It was glorious. I felt reborn.

A life less ordinary?

Sir, yes sir.