Regular readers of the stories on this wonderful website will recall ‘Shady’s Amazing Polythene Dream coat’, in which I made mention of the preservation techniques that we had to employ on our equipment at Main Camp Power Station.

Work had progressed at an ever increasing rate to get things completed by a particular date and as this date got nearer we seemed to get further behind in the lengthening list of tasks to be done. This problem was not made easier by diversions into the plastic tailoring business!. Most of our tasks were , however, completed within the main power station building and our efforts were then directed onto the ancillary equipment on the site.

The fateful day came with a visit from the O.C. E&M Troop, who suddenly began leaping up and down, slapping his forehead and shouting , ‘The tanks, we’ve forgotten the tanks!’. Notice the ‘We’ve’ bit readers?. Nothin’ to do with us Sir - you’re the one who gives the orders’.

Here’s me, just a wee Sapper thinking, ‘What’s he going on about tanks for?. Must have had one too many gins in the Mess last night and forgotten he was a Sapper officer and had metamorphosed into the Royal Armoured Corps!. However, it soon became clear that Captain ----- was referring to our fuel storage tanks and not the Panzer variety.

If you care to take a look at (the photo)  showing me and Johnny Powell waiting for a bus, you will see in the background, 2 silvery objects (which my fuel wizard Chatty tells me hold 12000 gallons each) which are the centrepieces of this (for me) painful tale.

The boss was right enough, we (he!) had forgotten about the preservation of these essential pieces of equipment and orders were issued for us to get cracking whilst he hurried off to an urgent appointment with a few cold beers, leaving us to the most dreadful of tasks.

After draining the remaining diesel fuel from the tanks into 45gallon drums, (which were eventually dumped at sea!!) a job which seemed never-ending - just think about 12000 gallons capacity!. Eventually, the tanks were drained and we climbed on top and removed the circular hatches which were about 15 inches in diameter. The stench which emanated from these hatches was indescribable and we had to leave them to vent for a day or so before we tried entry.

Now, reader, the average noon temperature with the sun directly overhead on The Rock was well over 100 degrees, so I will leave it to your imagination as to the temperature within these giant tombs.

Naturally, none of us wanted to squeeze into these chambers of horror, not knowing what would face us when we descended. Everyone was at the back of the queue!. Eventually, Shady I think it was, being Corporal in charge, got us to draw lots with short straws (matches) no kidding!. Guess who was one of the losers?.

Well, there I was in shorts (OG), boots, puttees and socks - NO other protection, being lowered into this tank with a length of rope around my waist (in case I collapsed with heat or fumes!). This was a joke, as I could barely squeeze my (then) skinny frame through the hatch - how they thought I could be extricated in an emergency defies reason.

Inside the tank, the heat was tremendous and fumes from the ankle-deep sludge on the bottom were suffocating. In the gloom we had to scrape the slime from the walls of the tank into buckets, which were hauled out by the guy on top, and in the process, a lot of sludge was dropped on the poor squaddie in the tank. I was plastered with the muck. The conditions were so bad that 10 or 15 minutes was enough and we had to change shovellers.

After the first few days we were given white overalls with the A.W.R.E. logo on the chest. (We were a bit spooked when these glowed in the gloom of the tank!!) They minimised the contact with the ‘gunk’ but they only added to the tormenting heat.

I don’t remember how many days we slaved in those two torture chambers but eventually we got them painted and sealed up.

It was round about this time when I began to itch!. When I say itch I mean ITCH. I was climbing the walls each night and clawing something that could not be seen for several days - then THEY appeared!.

Boils like you’ve never seen boils before. Dozens of them. All over my back and chest. I still bear the scars. They made Mount Vesuvius look like a pimple. Eventually, they began to get friendly and they gathered together in groups and formed what I was told were ‘carbuncles’.

These hellish objects had to be lanced by a grinning RAF medical orderly (NO anaesthetic) whilst I was strapped face down biting a lump of leather belt. Get the picture folks?. The M.O. concluded that it was a form of dermatitis and ‘Was I in contact with anything injurious to my skin?’.

Well, I would have laughed, wouldn’t you?. But I was screaming too much whilst my bleeding back was being bathed by the grinning one with a pink muck that did little good as I lay face down in the sick bay for 10 days. That’s the end of this pleasant little memory from the Rock, but in this day of the ‘Nanny State’ and Health & Safety requirements, it makes you think, doesn’t it?.

Note: The suffering was not all in vain, as the subsequent investigation back in Aldershot Military Hospital reduced my ‘grading’ and this subsequently got me out of an emergency posting to Cyprus only 3 days before I was due to be married!.