The Human Condition: How to change a tampon in full combat gear...

It was a mistake, standing up on that first "assessment" evening, to say that I was part of a running club. For although I was, all I had done was take their literature and buy the sweatshirt. Running was something I did rarely. My first morning run as a would-be soldier was so scary that I still have a phobia of being out of breath.

We ran for two miles, wearing big boots. The cold morning air scorched my lungs and throat so much so that I wimpishly went to see the boyishly handsome doctor afterwards and told him I had suspected tuberculosis. That afternoon I did the assault course, it was so frightening that I prayed I would die halfway through.

In my three-year military career, there would be many times when I would pray to die in the night rather than face the physical hardship that was sure to follow the next day. After basic training, things got better - the physical side was less intense, but there was still the BFT (British Fitness Test) to pass each year. For the BFT you had to run two miles, in your boots, in I don't remember how many minutes. It wasn't that tough, but I tried, as I did so many times, to find a loophole. "Do you know, Sir," I piped up, "that it is just not on for women to run in these boots, it harms our wombs." It never worked, but talking about wombs, or periods, was always a good way to get out of doing something (I was in a predominantly male corps). It took my (male) squad NCO six months to realise that I had a period every two weeks, sometimes weekly if it was snowy outside.

Then there would be other 'sport': 10 mile, cross country 'combat' training in combat gear, boots, with personal weapon (mine was a submachinegun weighing 10lbs) and fully loaded webbing: I would often be carrying more than half my body weight. But I always did it, usually because the Company Sergeant Major (who I had a massive crush on, he was so fit) would be screaming at me. "Come on Wilkins, you're going so slow anyone would think you were a girl" or "Come on Work hard!" I coped by inducing a semi-catatonic state. And sometimes, if they didn't think you'd had enough, at the end of these hellhikes, you often had to do press-ups and fireman's lifts and get into the backs of big trucks. I couldn't even get my own webbing off by this stage, so I would stand there pathetically, while some kindly fellow-ranking soldier helped me out of my things.

During basic training, reveille was at 6am. No matter what time you went to bed, how late you stayed up "bulling" (buffing to a mirror finish) the stupid dustbin, or the pipes, or how interrupted your sleep by guard duty (the more junior you were, the more cruel the hours: like 2am to 4am, so your sleep was totally broken), you had to get up and run, run like a gazelle.

Field exercise was another joy. Trekking round fields in your combat gear, your boots, your gun (whose barrel would be protected from dirt by a condom: I always made sure mine was tactical and used 'Black Magic' ones), pretending at war. Being a total townie, I never realised it was totally dark at night. Sometimes I would pray for a disused mine shaft to claim me temporarily, not kill me, just keep me long enough to make me the subject of a "The Sun's fighting fund".

Ploughed fields were the worst, it took me for ever to cross them. Halfway through, there would invariably be a pyro attack. You were meant to throw yourself on the ground to avoid being killed. Because I knew it was all pretend, I often used this as valuable catch-up time to the rest of my squad. If I had to throw myself into the earth, it would take me ages to get up because my webbing would be so heavy, and I would sink into the ploughed field. It was misery. Next morning, if you had "field" parade you would be punished if your boots were muddy.

One morning I could barely walk because my feet were bleeding, yet I still got "show parade" (when you have to turn up later with whatever was wrong with your kit, fixed) for having some mud in the soles of my boots. Smart soldiers used to carry two pairs: one for field and one for parade. But this added weight to your backpack.

Once, exhausted after a 20km hike at night, we were woken with with no warning and had to crawl under some barbed wire. I just lay there, until I saw the shiny boots of a senior NCO. "Having a nice time down there are we Wilkins?" On exercise in Germany one day, we were woken at 4am by pyrotechnics being thrown into our room, we had to jump out of the window and get into trucks. Split into teams, we were given numbers. As our number was called we had to run out of a moving 10-ton truck (a drop of about 6ft) and take cover. Our number was called, everyone jumped and disappeared into the forest. I sat on the edge and said "I surrender". Eventually, two men had to come and, one holding each hand, help me off.

On exercise, at night you had to sleep with your weapon, a great chunk of metal that meant you could never get warm. I had dreamt of sitting round a campfire eating sausages. But you were only allowed to light a fire if you were sure of it not being seen. Menstruating made you more susceptible to hypothermia, so your battle buddy (you were each responsible for each other's life) had to know. I often thought Tampax should have used me in their ads. I could change a tampon in pitch darkness, wearing my Nuclear Biological Chemical "Noddy" suit over my combat gear, and a gas mask, while still holding onto my weapon. What a wasted opportunity.