"Disobeying a command already!"

It was barely an hour after arriving at Warwick Camp that I received my first tongue lashing.

My offence?

Wandering off from my platoon - an unforgivable crime in Regimental terms.

There was only one possible punishment... the dreaded lock-up.

Captain Wayne Caines' unflinching gaze made it clear he was in no mood to grant this hapless trainee any favours.

Ladies, be warned: your gender is no passport to the cushy life in the Bermuda Regiment.

And so off I went to the Regiment Guard, with the nagging feeling that I was fast becoming the most incompetent soldier in Bermuda's history.

Maybe I was being a trifle unfair on myself, but the Regimental Police (RP) officer escorting me seemed to have a hard time containing himself.

I suppose there was a funny side to it all, although sitting in the yellow-walled cubicle, with no windows and only a cell inspection sheet adorning the wall, it was difficult to see it.

Private Robyn Bardgett - as I had become for a few brutal hours - was learning about army life the hard way.

Not that I was crying out for any special breaks. I am as keen as any woman to raise the banner for my sex.

It was just that some people are cut out for a life of rules, discipline and obeying even the most frivolous seeming orders... and others are not.

When I arrived at training camp on Tuesday I was given full warning of what to expect: I would endure the same tests as all the recruits who had already spent just over a week learning the basics of becoming a Regimental soldier.

My first task seemed simple enough. I was to be outfitted in Regiment issued garb.

Even this assignment, however, had its pitfalls. For I later had to remove the uniform and iron it because my shirt cuffs weren't starched and there was no apparent crease in my pants. Two more unforgivable crimes.

Attention to detail is what this life is all about.

In a shot Colour Sgt. Leon Forde had piled in my arms a pair of camouflage pants and matching shirt along with green socks, a beret and a brand new belt.

"It's a gamble I take but it always seems to work."

Colour Sgt. Forde was yelling out sizes while pointing at my waist.

I lost my civilian status once I was helped into my black boots - perhaps the only little extra courtesy Colour Sgt. Forde extended to me.

Boy were the boots tight! And they proved a major pain to get off. Boot lacing may seem a rather mundane activity, but it is an important procedure, said Colour Sgt. Forde. For years, boots have been laced the same so that a soldier injured in combat can feel other boots and tell if they belong to an enemy or a comrade.

In my new outfit I was then escorted to a first aid lesson where I learned the essentials of how to curb fainting during a parade, stopping someone from bleeding and the differing degrees of burns.

Easy enough, you might think. But when you're as squeamish as me, it is anything but.

The thought of blood spurting from a soldier's arm coupled with my nervousness almost made me collapse in my seat. I broke into a cold sweat thinking of what the rest of the day had in store.

I soon found out - the aforementioned lock-up.

Without wishing to dwell on this unfortunate episode, it did throw up an interesting question. Should an RP search me, or would this be considered sexual harassment?

I wasn't locked up for long but I was able to chat with a neighbouring cellmate who asked me if I thought it was "unconstitutional" that women weren't drafted like men to serve the country.

As I emerged into daylight, an inevitable thought hit me: Would I be able to make it through another four hours of training?

It was touch-and-go. But any ladies reading my account, should not see my failure as an argument against fighting with our brothers.

The crowning moment of my ineptitude came when I was sent to "the tent". I had no clue what this tent was about but one of the section leader's mocking remarks made me wonder if I should have just packed up and left.

With some borrowed webbing, a heavy shoulder pack filled with ammunition, rifle cleaning kit and basic food and water supplies, I was forced by Full Corporal Javon Dill to run up a hill to join my section just as gas masks were being passed out.

The Number Eight platoon had just arrived back from an overnight exercise at the Royal Naval Annex in Southampton where they took part in a simulated battle and spent most of the night before sleeping in the rain.

Wearing a gas mask was the least of their worries. For me, it was a death sentence. Two, small, round patches on either side of the mask served as the only access to air and the thick rubber against my face felt like my whole head was being squeezed.

To really get a feel of how restrictive the mask was we were sent for one short lap around the main square at the camp, during which I had to continue lifting the mask off my face to stave off fainting.

The last thing I wanted to do after the run with the mask on my face was to jump into a tent filled with CS gas, or tear gas.

I got a little taste of how the gas can quickly irritate your skin and make your eyes start to water when I later entered the tent free of the horrible mask.

Now let's turn to the most uplifting moment of my day.

Incredible as it may sound I finally found something I was good at. And it happened to be with the most unlikely of aids... a heavy gun.

After the gas mask incident, I followed my section to a small shooting range where a fluorescent pink-headed scarecrow was having the life shot out of him.

Pure fear envelops me when I come within inches of any firearm but accomplishing this exercise would make me, or at least my gender, appear at least somewhat equipped at becoming a soldier.

The Federal Riot Gun (FRG) fires baton rounds and is used during the event of a riot. I was instructed on how to use the gun and when a pinprick of bright pink was in my sights I fired and impressively, on my first try, I hit the target. Capt. Caines enthusiastically informed me that I had hit the target... wait for it... in the groin area.

But the reality of the day was that I had a terrible time listening to orders. I also continued to forget to stand "as stiff as a board" whenever Capt. Caines was saluted.

At the end of the day I did receive good marks from Lieutenant Colonel Eddie Lamb after remembering to salute him.

"Nice to have you with us," he said.

I could have replied: "Nice to have come."

But would nice really have been the right word? How about challenging? Or gruelling? Or exciting?

On reflection, I will settle for another word: memorable.