THE scrawny pair may have been weighed down by their sopping wet hair shirts and bulging backpacks, but their humour got them through those first route marches.

Similar in outlook and upbringing, Peter Heppenstall, from Hartlepool, and Scott Martin, from Glasgow, even looked alike, down to their blond hair and cheeky grins.

Trudging through an Ayrshire bog as 16-year-old members of the Junior Tradesman's Regiment, Peter and Scott struck up an immediate friendship in 1968 that would only end with Peter's death four years later.

Peter died in an IRA rocket attack in Belfast's notorious Ardoyne district.

Just two days earlier, the old pals met by chance in Belfast, a meeting which brought back memories of their hikes over Scottish hills.

Now Scott, a renowned published poet, is hoping to trace the family of a man whose memory has haunted him for 30 years. He hopes to present them with a copy of In Memoriam, a moving poem he penned in tribute to Peter.

For Scott, the years haven't erased the pain.

"It's such a bloody waste," said the 50-year-old, now living in Dundee.

"He's never had the chance to have what I've had. There's hardly a day goes by when I don't think about him."

Theirs was the kind of immediate friendship that only seems possible when you are 16 and your whole life stretches in front of you.

He described how, before the tragic reality of Northern Ireland left its mark, they cheerfully stuck together to get through basic training.

He said: "We stood in the freezing cold. My hairy shirt was killing me and the heavy studded ammunition boots were already chafing my feet inside the new Army socks, which, I quickly learned, should never be worn before they are washed.

"I struck up conversation with my new pal Heppenstall. He looked a lot like me, blond hair and the same grin.

"We were to go through the boy regiment together for almost two years and then, in 1969, we parted company, he to The Royal Corps of Transport, me to the infantry."

Apart from their chance meeting in Belfast, Scott didn't hear from his pal until he learned of his early death.

"When I heard Peter had died, I was deeply affected and thought back to the morning we met - it seemed like another lifetime - and how we felt unsure, but joked to hide our nerves.

"I think it's now time to contact his family. I would love them to have a copy of the poem I wrote for him.

"The last thing I want to do is cause offence to them. I just feel it would be a fitting tribute to him and I want to tell them how much Peter's friendship meant to me."

* Anyone with information on Peter's family, originally from Hartlepool, can contact Adrian Worsley on (01642) 675678

IN MEMORIAM

When I was sixteen, we climbed, Peter and I,

High on hill and crag, joyful with excitement

Standing, out of breath, panting like dogs,

Looking to the distant horizon, for us, then,

It held the mystery of our manhood.

That night, we sat around the fire, singing,

Waiting for the dawn, wondering what would happen.

Nothing did, of course, the light came

Creeping over bog and gully,

No longer children, nor yet men, then

When he saw the angry clouds

Peter said, a storm is coming, we watched,

Like a leviathan it moved,

Caressing the land with a violent kiss,

As we hiked away, its chill breath followed us,

Mocking our childhood, now, almost over.

Did you think of that day, Peter,

When the storm came to you,

A lifetime later, when it tore you apart,

Did you remember the joy of youth

In the midst of a vicious war,

Did you remember your childhood heart.

For Peter, the boy who sometimes laughed, killed in Belfast, July 197