O-ho-ho; I am the walking master of disaster! My RT for the Royal Marines was full of stupid injuries, which while hilarious, were also fucking stupid.
Dartmoor is a shit place at the best of times and by 'best of times' I mean not in the rain, at -10 and in the dark. Leading a training patrol across the moors that night our mapman decided it'd be a genius idea to forget where we are ( Which, given his hands were shaking more than an epileptics, can be forgiven ), luckily I'd been keeping count by steps and roughly knew where we were - so as I'm walking forwards the guy behind hears: " 97, 98, 99, 3 miles, 1, 2, 3, 4, fi-'bangcrashthudwhumpsploosh'" Low and behold another fucking hole. I must have busted my ankle more than you could count on two hands.
( Useless info - we count too 100, because 1000 paces is roughly a mile, count to 100 ten times and you've got a mile; good way of keeping trace of where you are )
There's also the lovely encounter of tear gas - Corporal lines us up in one of the outhouses: "You say your number, rank, name and troop, you can exit" ofcourse, this sounds fine when we've got our gas-masks on. The moment we lift them it's a living fucking hell. Poor guy next to me was on his knees before he managed to mumble something that was roughly similar that which was asked. ( Best way to beat this, close your eyes and take a breath before hand, then exhale as you talk, I was out of that hut like a "mutha-fucka" )