大象传媒

A WILLING VOLUNTEER

The Wartime Experiences of a Buckinghamshire Lad
by
Ken Rawlinson

Authors Note
This is an account of my wartime experiences written in Jan 87, on the insistence of an old friend, entirely from memory as I kept no diaries or other records but to the best of my knowledge and belief the facts and dates are substantially correct. K.R.

A famous comedian used to start his act with the words; " The day war broke out" so I will too.
The year of course was 1939, the day Sunday Sept 3 and I was 16 years old. It was an autumn day and all day long aeroplanes of all sorts droned across the sky in all directions, some singly, some in groups.
I was working in a local garage and on the Monday morning I went to work as usual to find that 'the guv'nor', who was on the Army Volunteer Reserve, had 'gone'.
He had been called for during the night - I wasn鈥檛 to see him again for some time.
That left me, and his aged father, in sole charge of the small garage which dramatically changed over night. The only skilled mechanic didn鈥檛 turn up either, he had gone off to join the RAF, eventually ending up in the Far East as a fighter pilot and to be twice decorated for bravery - but that is another story.
Petrol was immediately rationed, cars were requisitioned, some for army work but in this area, mostly for the AFS (Auxiliary Fire Service). Those lovely gleaming cars, their owners' pride and joy, were all sprayed or hand painted in rough texture camouflage paint - quite heart breaking to see.
Non essential cars were taken off the road and put away in their owner's garage properly laid up, on blocks, tanks drained etc, under dust sheets for the duration.
I was kept busy looking after farmers' vehicles, cars and tractors, which were essential for the war effort. It was amazing the tricks people tried on to obtain extra petrol when they ran out of coupons; one had to be a diplomat at times. It was essential to be sure the coupons were genuine and not forgeries before you put the petrol in the tank.

I suppose my first bit of war service when the LDV (Local Defence Volunteers) force was formed, in other words 'Dads Army'. I wasn鈥檛 really old enough to join but when they found out that I owned a motor cycle a 350cc New Hudson, I was allowed in as a despatch rider. The uniform was an armband with the letters LDV. Later we acquired proper army battle dress and our title became 'Home Guard'.
We spent evenings on patrol around the village at Weston Turville, nights on watch on top of the church tower and had our headquarters near the local pub. After a while we were even issued with .303 Lee Enfield rifles and some ammunition, the rifles caused some headaches in the early days. Several rounds went through the ceiling of the HQ when one was pushed up the spout by mistake - but we learned and there were no fatalities.
Being a despatch rider I was given a revolver and six rounds of ammunition; quite a lethal combination for a lad of sixteen who had never before handled anything more powerful than an airgun.
We were a very enthusiastic bunch and determined to defend the Village against any enemy. We went on exercises against the regular army, usually the 'Guards' who were based at Chequers, the Prime Minister's country house.
I well remember one night being 'captured' by these blighters; they ambushed me and my trusty '250', tied me to a farm gate and made off with the bike. After much struggling I got free and made my way home across the fields, in total darkness, falling in a muckheap on the way, smelling awful and minus my bike at 5 am. Had to be at the garage for work at 7.30 but arrived late and bleary eyed to do a normal day's work. The bike was found abandoned near Chequers, out of petrol. For that episode I had a rollicking from the Platoon Officer and another from the old man at the garage for being late - happy days.

All this time history was being made by the real War, the BEF at Dunkirk and suchlike; the War was becoming very nasty.
All my mates who were a little older were being called up, one was drafted into the coal mines as a 'Bevin' boy; and I had my 'medical'. For this I had to go to High Wycombe and was passed A1 with glasses. Suddenly, I decided I wanted to go; I was now old enough and I didn鈥檛 want to go down the mines or into the local infantry regiment, the Oxon & Bucks Light Infantry, so decided to try for the Tank Corps.
I had several ulterior motives for this. For one thing you rode and, as they say in Bucks, 'a rough ride is better than a good walk' and secondly, I fancied wearing the Black Beret, the Tank Corp's head-dress. I was also mechanically minded and tanks fascinated me.
To achieve this end, I went to High Wycombe, some 14 miles away, on the local bus with my mother purporting to go Christmas shopping. While mother went shopping (Dad hadn鈥檛 come with us, he hated shopping) I popped into the local army recruiting office, telling her I was going to enquire about a late call up. A young lady in WRAC uniform asked me some questions and I professed a yearning to join the Tanks when my call up came. She disappeared into an inner office and returned saying, 鈥淭he Brigadier will see you now鈥�.
I went in and there sat the man himself in full uniform, complete with red tabs. He was the typical Colonel Blimp type; fat, florid and sitting behind a very big desk in a very big office.
鈥淪o you want to join the Tank Corp's, laddie?鈥� were his opening words to which I meekly replied, 鈥淵es Sir鈥�. Upon which he put on his peaked cap, with the red band on, stood up and gave me a card. 鈥淩ead that aloud,鈥� he said, which I did. It turned out to be the oath of allegiance to the King. He then said, 鈥淪ign here鈥�, whereupon he gave me the King's shilling (5p) for volunteering and a railway warrant to Beverley in Yorkshire and I was 'in鈥�. It took all of ten minutes. This was 19 Dec 鈥�42 and I had to report to Beverley on 4 Feb 43.
When I met Mother and told her the news, she nearly fainted and had to be revived with a cup of tea in a cafe. Dad had a little more to say when we reached home, such as 鈥渘ever volunteer for anything, etc.鈥� but I think that secretly he was quite proud.

The fourth of Feb was quite an occasion; Mother and Father came to London to see me off at Kings Cross station. I was told to wear my Home Guard uniform without the insignia and flashes. The station was just as one sees it now on the old War Time news reels - all hustle and bustle with Army, Navy and Air Force personnel arriving and departing - all on the move to somewhere in England. After a tearful goodbye to both parents, (although there was muttered 鈥渟illy young bugger鈥� from Dad!) the long steam train journey to the North had begun; quite exciting for a country lad who hadn鈥檛 been further than Southend.
Arriving at Beverley with lots of others, mostly in civvies, we were met and shepherded by a loud-mouthed corporal and loaded into huge Army trucks, which took us to the Army Training School. We were given a substantial meal, two blankets each and put into a Nissen hut for the night, and was it cold!
Next morning at 6.30am, it started: pitch dark, awakened with shouts of the famous 鈥淲akey! Wakey! Rise and shine, the weather鈥檚 fine!鈥� A bleary eyed wash in cold water in a communal water trough, a quick breakfast and then to the Quarter Master鈥檚 Stores to be issued with full kit: webbing, bedding and the famous .303 again. We were given literally everything for our needs right down to a sewing kit (the Housewife).
We were give a large cardboard box each into which went our civvie underwear etc. to be sent home post paid. We were vaccinated, inoculated, indoctrinated, medically inspected and for six weeks, our feet hardly touched the ground as we were moulded and formed into something resembling soldiers. Everything was done by numbers and it worked; we became a smart, well ordered body of men.
Days began with the door bursting open at 6.30, with our 鈥榤entors/instructors鈥� standing there, a sergeant and a corporal. P.T. quickly followed. We were dressed in just singlet and shorts, even when it was snowing, but under the direction of a PT instructor we did warm up although it was quite a shock to the system. After that it was a daily routine of drilling, marching, rifle practice, assault course and all the other things associated with being a soldier. We were shouted at, sworn at, in fact 'punched bored & blasted鈥� to coin a phrase. Some didn鈥檛 take kindly to all this treatment/discipline but surprisingly I didn鈥檛 mind. We were not allowed out of camp at this stage but at the end of the day we were too tired anyway and there was always the NAAFI to go to.
One organisation which merits a mention during this period of isolation from home must be the Salvation Army, the good old 'Sally Anne', always on hand with a cup of tea and if required a shoulder to cry on. You could also purchase essentials such as boot polish etc. but unlike Tesco's today NOT on Sundays, however desperate you were. So life at Basic Training Camp went on in early 1943
I caught the most frightful cold, probably from doing P.T. in the Yorkshire freezing fog, dressed only in vest and shorts (what would Mum say?). That didn鈥檛 stop them 鈥� 鈥渞eport to the M.O.鈥� they said. The Medical Officer said, 鈥淵ou鈥檒l live, laddie鈥� and gave me a chit bearing the cryptic message 鈥楳 & D鈥�. Hello, I thought, some wonder drug, but as it soon transpired, it only meant 鈥榤edicine and duty鈥� which consisted of inhaling Friar鈥檚 Balsam in the morning and being on guard the rest of the day; my enthusiasm for military life was waning a little.
Another of the not so good instances of that six weeks comes to mind and that was the Gas Training exercise. It involved going through a long hut filled with phosgene gas and halfway along removing your gas mask and breathing a good lungful of the gas before emerging from the other end coughing and spluttering. At this stage you then had to pair up and carry your mate in a fireman鈥檚 lift for 100 yards before collapsing. Most of us were sick after this caper, most unpleasant but at least it cleared my cold!

It really was amazing how quickly a bunch of raw recruits were transformed into smart squad in such a short time, all credit to the instructors and to the training programme which went like clockwork. I survived and after the most hectic six weeks of my life I passed out with flying colours and was posted the Royal Armoured Corps depot at Farnborough, Hants as 14415222, Trooper Rawlinson, there to receive the coveted black beret.
This most treasured possession had first to be shrunk in cold water until it became a snug fit and one didn鈥檛 look like a French onion seller. The ribbon, threaded through the band, had to be tied and sewn into a flat bow, 1鈥� long, at the back and the beret worn in a straight line one and half inches above the eyebrows. Very smart!
We were now allowed out into the town, something we were not allowed to do whilst in Beverley.

The next months were, to me, sheer bliss; learning how to drive and maintain tanks, armoured cars and the like, instructed in the use of wireless and shown how to fire and maintain the tank guns, machined guns and six pounders.
The garage training now showed up and it was not long before I became a driving instructor and mechanic. The driving instructing had many hilarious moments especially as the instructor had to sit outside the tank and signal his instructions to the trainee, with hands and fingers, regarding the necessary gear changes and other control operations, whilst the trainee negotiated 30 tons of heavy metal around the Hampshire countryside, scaring himself, me and all the locals in the process.
On one occasion, descending a steep hill, I signalled the pupil-driver to change down to a lower gear. This required considerable effort on his part with the clutch and gear lever and we were gathering speed all the time. Suddenly he waved something at me through the hatch. It was the gear lever which had broken off in his hands. By this time I had abandoned the tank! I had to repeat this manoeuvre again when a trainee managed to put a Churchill 40 tonner into the Basingstoke Canal. He came out through the turret. It took two Churchills to pull the tank out.
Another time, the pupil clipped a newly erected wooden fence and sent it up in the air like matchsticks for quite a few yards. As Instructor, I had to pacify the farmer, telling him that the War Office would pay. A week or so later we did the same thing again and I went through the pacifying routine but this time the farmer was anything but happy and said 鈥淥K! OK! The army will pay but is it any use putting the bloody thing up again while you idiots are around?鈥�
A tank crew consisted of a driver, gunner, wireless operator and tank commander, usually a NCO or officer. Each man was trained to take over another job in case of one becoming a casualty, so the driver doubled as wireless operator, the gunner as mechanic and the commander was supposed to be able to do all the jobs.
Many miles were travelled on instruction and exercises and many mock battles fought; some won, some lost and there were many incidents, humorous and otherwise but life was good. Of course it wasn鈥檛 all play, we did tough route marches, guard duties etc, with much spit and polish but we became very self reliant. One test was to take us out, after taking all our money from us, in a huge furniture van, each with a cycle, dropping us off singly or in pairs miles from base, telling us to find our own way home - no maps or road signs. It had to be accomplished by any means, fair or foul.
I thoroughly enjoyed this time at Farnborough and never gave a thought to what might lie ahead. However all good things must come to an end and sure enough it did. It was 20th Nov 1943 when the fateful notice appeared on Squadron Orders: 'The following will proceed on 14 days Embarkation Leave prior to going overseas.' 14415222 Trooper Rawlinson was one of many on that list.
This was serious, the playing was about to end and the War for me was about to start in earnest. Where we going or to which theatre of war? We could only guess.

After a blissful 14 days at home I reported back to Farnborough, full of mum's home cooking, despite the rationing and in three days entrained for Scotland; Greenock, in fact and boarded the SS Orontees, a 22,000 ton passenger ship now converted to a troopship bound for - where?
I don't know how many of us were packed into that ship but we were like sardines, the lucky ones were allocated hammocks but the rest, me included, had palliasses on the deck below the hammocks. We queued for everything, for a wash, for food, for the toilets, even to get to sleep. I think the biggest fear was what would happen if we were torpedoed - imagine the panic!
We soon knew whence we were bound; it was India and the Far East but first the voyage- it wasn鈥檛 long before I, with many more, was seasick; the boat, rolled pitched and all but stood on end. The first day I thought I would die, the second wished I could and it has left me with a fear of the sea ever since.
Once through the Bay of Biscay though, things started to look better. We were issued with K.D. (Khaki Drill) shirts and shorts as we went through the 鈥楳ed鈥� and entered the Suez Canal. It was fascinating to see sights hitherto only read about in books; palm trees, Arabs in their dhows and the sunshine was wonderful. On the starboard (right hand) side of the canal are oasis stations at intervals where we bartered for goods with the 'bumboats' (floating market stalls) and on the port side was the desert complete with camels.
After six weeks living in the ship we arrived at Bombay, India with the realisation that we were destined to fight the dreaded Japanese.

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