大象传媒

Chapter III - A Chelsea Alien
Training goes on just as hectic with barely a moment to reflect on what could have been. As soon as Reveille had released its first note, the shout from the Trained Soldier would be 'Feet on the floor'. Wash, shave, breakfast parade, breakfast, a quick glance at the days drill roster to find out what order of dress was required. No need to find out times of individual parades as they invariably follow straight away after the other. Prepare room for daily inspection, clean towel and mug on bed, kit bag standing to attention, locker doors open revealing neatly folded spare tunic, etc., and a highly polished name plate hanging in the centre of the locker. Greatcoat dolly fashion next to clean buff, clean bed space and away we go.
We are now coming up to our eight week passing out parade, the Corporal is just as edgy as he has his reputation to uphold. So we will not only be in for a darn good chasing if we fail, but would also be relegated back another five weeks. Like all squads no doubt, there is always a character and we had ours, Rackham from Lowestoft, who had the habit of passing 'wind' on parade, and it was sometime before I found out who was responsible for previous outbursts because his features never revealed a look of guilt due to a natural curl of his lips which gave the impression of a permanent smile and was to 'perform' as usual just after the inspection on the Passing Out Parade, I was pleased it wasn't before because it started me off with the giggles. How he wasn't heard by the Officer or Corporal I do not know, perhaps it was because the wind was blowing in my direction. It certainly cured my giggles.
We got through our Passing Out Parade with flying colours much to the delight all round and would now therefore be allowed to go out of barracks Saturday nights from 8pm to 11.59pm.
Having not been out for nearly three months this was something to look forward to, but it turned into a damp squib. First you had to get past the Sergeant of the Guard who could be from any of the five regiments, and being in full view of him as you briskly marched up the long drive to the guardroom, if it wasn't to his satisfaction he would send you all the way back. If he wasn't a Grenadier, we didn't bother and if he was, we would first find out through the grape vine his reputation, so my view of Croydon was very limited.
On one of my Saturday afternoon fatigues, I had to report to the Sergeant's mess cookhouse and report to the Coldstream cook a Corporal Bottom who was exceptionally rotund and due for retirement.During my chores of de-greasing a large pile of trays he enquired where did I come from, when I said Oxford, he asked if I knew his sister who was the landlady of the 'Britannia Arms' near my home. I knew her by sight because she was at least 6'4" and like her brother generously proportioned. (Incidentally his nephew a Grenadier was to be a great friend of mine when I eventually joined the battalion, but I wasn't to know of their relationship for quite a long time, he was also to receive a Belgian decoration approximately thirty years after a bravery incident).
We were to say goodbye to Corporal Cox who came into the barrack room during Shining Parade and he shook our hands. When he came to me he said 'Keep smiling', I wondered if that was connected to the Johnny Walker kit inspection incident. Our new squad instructor was Corporal Walker (no relation to Johnny). He was about 6'6" a King's Coy man very smart but no sense of humour.
We were now well accustomed to the routine, and being so active, could eat a horse and no doubt did! Gas training was part of our itinerary and we seemed to be quite proficient now with all our cane and rifle exercises. We were never to come across our Irish Guard musketry instructor again, but I must have learnt something from the other instructors because I did get a bronze medal for shooting, just missing out on the highest award which was a silver medal, by one point. I also came third in the depot three mile race which didn't say much for the fitness of the others.
Our canvas suits had shrunk considerably and had lost their colour to an off white, as they along with our underclothing was collected and washed each week. Religious duties were performed every Sunday with the C of E parading and marching to their respective church, whereas the R.C's would have to make their own arrangements. What surprised me was all the meatless meals on Fridays' which seemed to conform to the religious obligations of certain Christian faiths in the minority.
We had a comparatively short route march in battle order of dress where for the first time we looked like real soldiers and were to march like them as well, because with the exception for the teaching of the slow march and the Depot Saturday mornings march past, our legs due to the breaking in sessions on the square geared for 200 plus per minute, found it difficult to maintain the regulatory 120, so in order to keep us on the leash, we were accompanied for part of the way behind the Drums and Fifes who were applying the brakes to the tune of 'The Teddy Bears Picnic."
Well this was it, this was the day we have been endeavouring to reach and we were very apprehensive as we paraded for our final eighteen week passing out parade by the Adjutant Lieut Gurney of the Welsh Gds. As soon as the Corporal saw him approaching in the distance he brought the squad to attention, and no doubt trying to get us to create a good impression said out of earshot of him 'Stand still, Stand still, You're bobbing about like shithouse flies'. At the thought of this activity I started to chuckle but managed to control my mirth until after we had passed the gruelling parade with congratulations from the Adjutant, also from a very relieved Corporal. Our thoughts are now on home and seven days leave with the satisfaction of returning as a potential Grenadier My furlough was over far too quickly when after visiting my work mates and my old school, (where my teacher proudly exploited my achievements to the class and perhaps silently reflected her own inability to instil in me a more ambitious profession), it was with anticipation and apprehension I was to leave my very proud parents and my one and only 50 shilling suit to join No 4 Coy 1st Battalion Grenadier Guards, who after returning from Wellington Barracks where they had been carrying out the usual Public Duties, were now stationed at Pirbright, the Guards Field Training Camp.

Being a Saturday I had time to look around and get my bearings when, surprise surprise, not far from a very dusty approach road was a substantial area of tarmac. Having found the killing field, I collected my blankets, reported to the designated hut - which was one of the many that graced this part of Surreys heathland and found myself a bed space. Occupying the hut were guardsmen of 2 to 3 years service, two of whom were South Africans. The one built like a tank was of Dutch descent and although best of friends, they would argue most aggressively between themselves and when not doing so, would, with one strumming a guitar, sing duets about the Transvaal etc. in Afrikaans.

Training started in earnest after Reveille on the Monday, firstly with weapon training and my first introduction to the Lewis gun and its thousand and one parts as well as how to rectify its equal amount of stoppages. I was never to find out the intricacies of this weapon because it was to become obsolete that same morning with the introduction of its replacement, a far less sophisticated weapon; namely the Bren gun, so called because it came from Brno Czechoslovakia. The afternoon was taken up in similar ilk ending up with a gruelling hour of square bashing.
On returning to my hut I had a quick swill in the wash-house before slumping down on my bed. It was then I was to forego the most embarrassing and humiliating experience I have had in all of my soldiering, which included my first F.F.I ( Free From Infection), where all stand in line and as the Medical Officer accompanied by the C.S.M. approach, each individual drops his pants and raises his arms above his head to reveal all.
The door of the hut was flung open and a voice boomed out
'Is there a Rothery here'?
I jumped off the bed and stood to attention on recognising the distinguishing signs on the end of his sleeve denoting his rank as a Company Sergeant Major and at the same time shouted out the customary reply of,
'Sir'! I t was my new C.S.M. Nick Winter
He said he had a medal for me from the Depot, (the Bronze shooting medal). I stepped forward and halted with the expertise of 18 weeks Depot training behind me and awaited my coveted award. There was a momentary delay as he leaned forward and instead of a congratulatory response he said at the top of his voice:
'Get out to the wash-house and wash off that bloody tide mark before I get two men with dry scrubbers to give you a Bloody Hand'!
I can assure you I quickly returned the Pirbright grime to its rightful place. Oh what an introduction .

As expected, much of the training took place on the many rifle ranges from 25yds up to and including 1000yds, whereupon haversack rations were the norm because part of the shoot would entail taking your turn in the Butts where you signal back to the firer the value of his shot. If a miss a red flag was raised, jokingly referred to as 'Trooping The Colour' and if the firer was a known disciplinarian, it would be unceremoniously and conspicuously paraded. It was here that I appreciated (if that is the word), the speed of a bullet, the splat as the bullet hit the target, then the momentary delay of the report as the bullet left the rifle, thus shattering my Cowboy film days illusion where they managed to dodge bullets.
Some of the Field Training would entail being transported some miles out into the countryside, then divided into small groups and armed with a map and compass left to find your way back. The stragglers on returning late would be greeted with rousing cheers from those already resting on their beds, whereby arguments would ensue among the latecomers as to who was to blame for losing the way etc.

Obstacle courses were a must, but not for the faint- hearted, proficiency was not only judged by the time it took to complete the hazardous course but would always finish with a run up a steep incline wearing your respirator and then having to fire 10 rounds at silhouette targets.
Being July, the nature of the surrounding countryside gave cause for a very busy Fire Picquet, which wasn't at all welcome if unlucky enough to be down on the Roster, only to be called out after returning from a hard day's training. However, it was quite acceptable if called out before training had started.

Each week when the opportunity arose, I along with others, were given driving lessons, (which was a very welcome break), but after six weeks the powers that be deemed our presence was required back in London to Chelsea Barracks, a venture that was alien to me.

The barracks which was of similar structure to that of Caterham, was comparatively close to the roadway and extended along the roads full length and separated into two blocks by an archway, which before entry, one would pass the guardroom on the right and the orderly room on the left. The left half of the barrack block was occupied by the Coldstreams known throughout the brigade as " The Lilywhites" the right half by the Grenadiers with the Nick name of " The Bill Brown's." On entering through the archway you confronted the parade ground which was obscured from public view, thus preventing any embarrassing incidents becoming public.
My barrack room was on the 3rd floor where I was to make new friends, one of whom was Fred Bottom whose relationship to the Coldstream Corporal at the Depot I wasn't to realise until some weeks later. Also Jack Bitten, whose father was an ex-Grenadier seriously wounded in the 1914-18 massacre, the other was a Welsh immigrant Alwyn Hughes affectionately or otherwise known as 'Shoppo'.

There was a small incident that took place during my first P.T. parade at Chelsea on transfer from Pirbright. We had been assigned two Platoon Sergeants who were due for retirement, one was as Regimental as a Button stick and noted the other as being light fingered, that was after I had reported to him the loss of a 5 shilling piece (25p) on returning to my room. This had been sent to me by an ex-workmate as a little keepsake and because these coins were not of frequent currency at the time, it had been noted that this particular Fagin, had spent one in the Sergeant's Mess that evening. I relate this not to reveal that petty pilfering was rife in the Regiment, on the contrary, I don't recall ever losing any other money throughout my service. As for equipment, well, you had to make sure you, 'Bloody well got it replaced before the next kit inspection'.
'OR ELSE'!

The first priority was the measuring for my scarlet tunic by the Master Tailor, entailing about four fittings within about as many days. This took place on the barrack square with finally a full dress inspection complete with bearskin by the Master Tailor accompanied by the Adjutant. This is all taking place during the usual daily activities, as was the task of learning to fold the cape into its correct length, shape and width. To do this required the assistance of two other men, each armed with a large wooden form (bench), for the process of pressing and bumping it into its regulatory acceptance with finally the correct fitting and adjustments on the recipient. This procedure would have to be carried out for each guard duty and/or ceremonial parades.

My first guard duty was at the Bank of England, which was the usual practice for those doing their first Public duty as it was a comparatively simple guard mount at 3pm without the usual formalities. It was quite some distance to march, but pleasurable. You felt very proud with the public standing and staring as we would swagger along through the streets of London to the Bank with the bearing that only a guardsman with the tradition and honour he upholds can.
On arrival at the Bank, we each received a new shilling (5p), this was usually spent on a tea and wad (cake), in the bank canteen.
My first posting was at the end of one of the many corridors and the Sergeant on posting me, said.'That patch on the ceiling above your head covers a bullet hole where a Welsh guardsman shot himself a few weeks ago'.
I didn't come across any of the staff during my tour of duty, but you could hear plenty of footsteps during the night pounding the corridors above. I did hear of one interesting episode relating to one of our officers (No names no pack drills) who was a rather easy going type and didn't care much for protocol, therefore was constantly being awarded extra Picquet duties, (0fficers punishment). On this particular occasion he was the Officer in charge of a Bank of England Guard, therefore has the discretion should they meet with inclement weather on the way to take the Guard by Tube. Although the weather was fine he felt that he wasn't in the mood for marching, so he gave the order to shoulder arms and marched the Guard down to what he thought was the Tube, but it turned out to be the Gents toilets!, much to the consternation of those making use of it. He continued through coming up the other side.
I quite believe it, because one day whilst on parade, there was a bit of a hubbub as a veteran car came through the archway and proceeded across the square driven by the one and only, who, with his free arm waving frantically in the air was cheering his head off. I didn't know the final outcome of this outburst of joyful hilarity, but I am certain it would not have been shared by his seniors.

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