大象传媒

Three months after leaving Chelsea for Windsor I was back at the Smoke - in the Holding Battalion at Wellington Barracks, Birdcage Walk. Now a fully trained infantryman, I was supposed to remain in the holding Battalion until I was sent to a service battalion for the next stab at the enemy - or, as seemed more likely - for defence of our own shores against a possible invasion.

But the Holding Battalion wasn't a cushy number by any means, as I was soon to find out. What with Buckingham Palace Guard, St James Palace Guard, Bank Picket and security duties at all the Ministries, it was a busy time.

Buck Guard was the biggest nightmare of the lot. Right from the inspection by the RSM, where he played to the gallery of spectators lining the railings on Birdcage Walk, things got gradually worse during the next 48 hours of guard duty. The prolonged changing of the guard ceremony; the two-on four-off sentry duty at night in the heart of the metropolis; the boring hours languishing and sleeping fully dressed between 'stags' in the guard roo; we all dreaded being detailed for Buck Guard. And it wasn't over when the 'old guard' got back to Wellington Barracks, either. The RSM would be standing there 'as large as life and twice as nasty' waiting to deal with the unlucky sods who'd been reported for some misdemeanour. The guard commander would bring the smelly company to attention and give the time honoured command.

"Stand fast the men under close arrest - remainder dis..miss!"

What heinous crimes would these men have committed to warrant their having placed under arrest while guarding the King of England? Well, for instance.....Failing to spot an approaching officer in time to rip him off a salute. Going behind the sentry box for a crafty pee when there was nobody about and forgetting that the evidence might still be there when the sergeant did his rounds (the excuse that it was a dog was a waste of time). Relieving the lonliness of the small hours of the morning by saying good night to a drunken reveller who turns out to be the Duty Officers brother in law. Offences of this magnitude would be dealt with severely. If the culprit escaped a spell in the notorious 'glasshouse' detention centre he would be given an extra drill as punishment. Extra drill was dished out by the hour and involved marching round the empty square in full marching order (rifle, large pack, and all web equipment) after normal duty hours. The NCO who was supervising the punishment resented being involved when he could be enjoying himself elsewhere, so to get rid of his spite, he made the corrective as arduous as he could. Passers-by who saw a solitary soldier half marching half running in the last stages of exhaustionmust have imagined that he was, at the very least, a recaptured deserter working out his sentence.

But all the securities around London weren't as bad as Buck Guard. Some where quite relaxed affairs. One or two of them involved riding out in trucks and in one case marching down Birdcage Walk and straight onto the Underground for the last stage of the journey. On this particular guard, a new officer got lost one evening and marched his company down the wrong stairway. A couple of men who were standing in thoughtful attitudes facing the wall and an attendant reading his newspaper were suprised to hear the clatter of many feet descending the steps and to see a party o soldiers marking time in the sanctity of a public lavatory.

With so many public duties, it was suprising that we had any time off in the evenings. But each turn of guard duty was followed by an off-duty spell. Traditionally this respite was enjoyed 'in bed or out of barracks' which meant 'bagging it salubriously' (sleeping like a pig) or swanning round the Smoke. And the things we got up to there were all mulled over every night after lights out, when it was easier to exchange such intimacies.

Soldiers in uniform were no novelty in wartime London, but guardsmen, in their distinctive high fronted service caps and their proud bearing, were undeniably attractive to anybody who happened to be on the look-out for sexual adventure. The only people who didn't want to know were prostitutes. They'd studied the market and knew that we were still on a low rate of pay, but everyone else in London seemed to be after us in one way or another. Religious organisations were forever luring us into their canteens and vestries to drink theior tea and write home on their headed notepaper, in a vain attempt to keep us chaste until our turn came to be killed in battle. You couldn't go down the pub without getting the eye from some femake whose boyfriend was in the forces or just gone to the gents. You weren't even safe walking down the embankment because a car might sidle up alongside and a prowling pervert invite you to his flat for a bite of something.

The most lurid and bizarre stories were told by opportunists who'd accepted offers from these kerb-crawlers and got into their cars. One driver turned out to be a go between for a world-famous stage and film star who was a great one for the ladies on screen but who had other proclivities in real life. But the bloke who had us all sitting up in our beds told us about this old gent in a Rolls Royce who picked him up near Hyde Park Corner one night. He took him to his mansion and introduced him to his beautiful young wife. the old boy left them all on their own and she invited him into her bedroom. She'd got this copy of the Kama Sutra and they had to try everything on this king-sized bed..... Just as he was starting to show her how they did it in Oldham, a screen in the corner of the bedroom fell over with a crash and theres the old bloke standing there looking a bit sheepish.

Listening to these colourful stories most nights, I never dared disclose where I sneaked off to whenever I got the chance. If my mates had found out my shameful secret, they would have ribbed me mercilessly. My life wouldn't have been worth living. I'd given the game away once, when I'd just joined up, but fortunately none of my mates in the holding battalion had been there on the night of the Tauber Concert.

In August 1940 the Battle of Britain was at its height and an invasion seemed on the card. The 46th and Farewell Season of Promenade Concerts, conducted by Sir Henry Wood, was just starting and was billed to continue until October 5th. Every day I helped to fill hundreds of sandbags and build pill-boxes at Admiralty Arch and Downing Street and places like that, In the evenings, whenever I was free, I made my way to the Queens Hall and joined the patient throng of Promenaders who drew strength and solace from music.

When the pill-boxes were finished we had to man them 24 hours a day, keeping an eye open for enemy planes. Placards everywhere gave the latest score of enemy aircraft shot down over the channel. But we got time off, of course. Friday night was Beethoven night at the Proms. The fifth symphony went down particularly well with the audience with its opening theme in the minor key - you know the 'fate knocking at the door' thing and then the glorious triumphal ending. Somehow it seemed to express the mood of wartime London in an uncanny way.

On September 7th 1940 the first night raid on London marked the begining of the Blitz. The Guards Chapel at Wellington Barracks received a direct hit.
But of course I wasn't there. I'd been sent to Lincolnshire, to join the Third Battalion, so I never got to the Last Night of The Proms.

You can read Len Wallers full story by contacting him at [ personal details removed]

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