大象传媒

MY LIFE MY WAR

By
Bernard Hallas

Chapter 3a - To The 鈥淜illing Fields鈥�

We set off in our lorries, dressed in our rough field uniforms and sharing the platoon weapons between us. There were two Vickers Machine guns, six Lewis guns, four 2" Mortars, two 3" Mortars, a Projector Infantry Anti Tank (PIAT) gun and various small arms. It was going to be a wild, wild party. The instructors were looking forward to the training as much as the troops.

The parade ground would be forgotten, but there would be a different kind of discipline, a discipline that would be enforced up to the hilt in order to save lives. But there would be no 鈥淪pit and Polish鈥�. The only cleaning would be on the weapons and that would be carried out under very strict supervision and woe betide anyone who failed to pass the test in that department, the punishment would be severe. Apart from all that, we were all looking forward to weeks of real soldiering. After all, that was what we had enlisted for and we were more than eager to get started. We shouldn鈥檛 have been so eager. There were countless hours of monotonous preparation; the simple matter of lying down in a prescribed position was repeated time after time.

Then it was how to hold the rifle, the instructions will remain with me for the rest of my life. Left hand underneath at the point of balance and hold it tight, right hand firmly round the small of the butt, grip it tight and pull the rifle firmly into the shoulder, place your finger on the trigger guard, keep your weapon upright, get the tip of the foresight in line with the centre and level with the shoulders of the back sight, line everything up to the centre of the target and holding the rifle firmly, gently squeeze the trigger.

If you have set the correct range on your back sight you should be rewarded with a bull鈥檚-eye. Then follows a few seconds of apprehension. Your gaze is fixed at 500 yards, the target looks like a postage stamp, the marker at the butts raises his indication marker, passes it back and forwards across the face of the target and finally places it over the spot where your bullet has entered. An outer, in the outer ring, a magpie signified by rotating the marker, creating a black and white effect, an inner, still closer, and if you are lucky, dead centre, a bull鈥檚-eye.

A total miss brings down the wrath of the instructor and you try, try and try again. Eventually you get it right and for your reward you can now wear the coveted crossed rifles on your sleeve, 鈥淢arksman鈥� is entered on your company record and most importantly, you are now entitled to an increase of three pence per day on your pittance.

After two weeks, you are considered proficient enough to go out into the training grounds and put your training to the test. The instructors loved It, 鈥淒own,鈥� came the order, and time after time we crashed wherever we happened to be, the meticulous timing of our particular instructor was almost certain to ensure that we 鈥淐rashed鈥� in the deepest, muddiest hole in the area. It was not unknown, in certain conditions where the terrain was of a sticky nature and clung to your hands, in order to protect your weapon, you would urinate on your fingers and palms to assist in the cleaning process.

We would always pray that water was available. Eventually, all these good things had to end, we had become efficient in firing the mortars, the machine guns and thrown the odd hand grenade, carefully watched by our instructor of course, and were only a few short days from the end of what had been a very exciting and interesting period of our training. We cleaned all our weapons, our equipment and ourselves; we knew that once more back on parade there would be no excuse for traces of our field exercises. There was a thick dividing line between the two.

As soon as we disembarked from the trucks the parade ground instructors were there, bellowing and shouting their orders and letting us know that the 鈥楨asy Period鈥� was now over and that we were now back where it really mattered, on the 鈥楬oly of Holies鈥�, the main parade ground of His Majesty鈥檚 Royal Marines, Deal in the county of Kent. A place venerated by countless numbers who had passed through its gates.

After a week of intense revision, the great day dawned. It was to be the culmination of all our efforts. We had now assumed the title of 鈥淜ing鈥檚 Squad鈥�. On the designated day we would be paraded in all our glory to pass out in front of the Commandant General Royal Marines and the very senior invited guest, who, more often than not was a senior member of the royal family.

At 10.0鈥檆lock, on that Monday morning, we paraded in the drill shed, shining like new pins. We had been preparing since the first notes of reveille, the ceremonial spare coveted chinstrap had been fitted and was taut on our chins. We were straining at the leash and ready for the show of our lives. Our Instructor, First Drill Fletcher, was standing front and centre; as usual he was immaculate and as straight as a ramrod. From the parade ground we could hear the bugler sounding the Officer鈥檚 Call and we could imagine the scene that would be unfolding on that large square where we had suffered for almost a year of our young lives. Then it was the band call, and the band which had assembled with us in the drill shed marched off to take their place on the parade.

At last there was silence, the assembled officers would now be seated and the public would be arranged on the three sides of the square. Special seating arrangements had been organised for families and friends alongside the officers; this then was the moment. Our instructor called us to attention and addressed us in a very low tone, 鈥淚n one minute from now you will be parading in front of your Commandant, remember that you are now the 225th King鈥檚 Squad, You are the best that there is, now go out there and show the world.鈥� We were already two inches taller and as he gave the order, 鈥�225 King鈥檚 Squad, move to the right in fours, Right turn! Quick March鈥�, 40 left heels hit the stone floor as one. It was a thrilling moment as we smartly emerged from the bowels of the drill shed and as we entered the arena to the strains of our regimental march, 鈥淎 Life on the Ocean Wave鈥�, we were greeted with spontaneous applause from the whole of the assembly.

The next hour was automatic, for myself it was concentration all the way, changing direction, changing formations, arms drill at the halt and on the march, ceremonial drill and as a finale, advancing in review order. We then reformed, and marching in column gave our salute to the presiding officer, after which, we marched off once again to the tumultuous applause of the crowd. We vanished into the darkness of the drill shed, where we were congratulated by our instructor who in turn received our thanks for all of his hard work, and his patience, and his kindness, over the months. After a short pep talk about our future we were dismissed. It was a free day and we duly made our way down to the town to keep our pre-arranged appointments with our girl friends to which we would shortly be saying a fond farewell.

It was appreciated by the powers that be that the evening following the passing out of the King鈥檚 squad was something special, and the frequent visits of the Royal Marine Police to the hostelry on the main street, which had been the meeting place for all Royal Marines from time immemorial, was curtailed for a short time. Providing you could walk back to the gate of the barracks, unaided, you were left to your own devices. Time in the Depot was now running out. In a few short days we would be posted to H.Q. Royal Marines Plymouth, the venue chosen for our Naval Gunnery training. A short two days later, it happened, and on the company notice board in clear black letters, it simply said 鈥淭omorrow at 0800 hrs, 225 Squad will parade in full embarkation order with all kit and personal weapons for onward transit to Plymouth.鈥� As the Bugler sounded, 鈥淪ecure鈥� for the day鈥檚 activities there was a concerted rush out of the main gate.

It was time for the last farewell. Dot, like many of the other girls, was in tears as we parted and said goodbye on the edge of the golf course, but I suppose that by now she was used to the 鈥榬outine鈥� of saying goodbye, no doubt in her case, practice made perfect and by the week-end her heart would be in one piece again and she would be all set for a new conquest.

The journey to Plymouth was uneventful, admittedly, in our white helmets we did draw some slight attention from the public. Even on the South coast in the thirties, Royal Marines were something of a rarity; in the North of England they were practically unknown. It was pleasant when some inquisitive and forward youngster approached you and said 鈥淓xcuse me sir, what is your uniform?鈥� and you would reply, with just the right amount of pride, 鈥淚t鈥檚 the uniform of His Majesty鈥檚 Royal Marines.鈥� It felt good and left you with a warm and rosy feeling.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at one of the oldest barracks in the United Kingdom. The Head Quarters of His Majesty鈥檚 Royal Marines, Plymouth Division. The ornate stone archway was huge in structure and led straight on to the main parade ground. As we marched through the impressive entrance the sound of our coming echoed around the four walls of the ancient building. We wheeled to the right and halted in line facing the huge clock. We were to be introduced to our instructor who would be in charge of the squad for the duration of our gunnery training. From the rear his voice rang out. 鈥� 225 Squad, stand at ease, stand easy,鈥� We recognised that voice at once, it was our former enemy from the Depot. He moved round to the front and centre ramrod stiff, and firmly gripping his pace stick, he just stared for a full minute and then he smiled. 鈥淚t would appear that some of us stepped off on the wrong foot back in Deal, I am sure that here we are going to have a new beginning, this is not the Depot and you are now fully trained marines, so you will be treated as such. When you are dismissed the duty orderly will show you to your quarters, get your kit off and make your way to the dining hall. I shall see that there is a hot meal ready in thirty minutes, squad, dismiss.鈥�

To say that we were relieved was a pleasant understatement. We discovered later that he was more than a little pleased to be returned to his home base and be with his wife and family. From that moment on we worked together as a team. The very next day we were introduced to the Naval Gun Battery, and to our gunnery Instructors. My section was to be allocated to Colour Sergeant Parker, six foot plus and a chin like the prow of a battleship, we realised right from the start that this was not going to be a picnic.

PR-BR

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