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On 14 April 1939, I arrived at the TA drill-hall on Chenie Street, off Tottenham Court Road, London, to join-up. I was not alone, but one of a group of ten, which included Jim, my older brother. I was the young one in the bunch. The only one who did not fit into the age bracket of seventeen to nineteen, I had reached age sixteen only a month before. (To rectify that problem, as I crossed the threshold, I became a year older.)

All ten of us lived in the same building, a complex of flats, on Sumner Street, at the south end of Southwark Bridge. Over a two-year period, in the early thirties, our families had moved into Sumner Buildings, as it was called, thankful to have left behind the hard life we had endured, as slum dwellers.

In the new homes, there was electric light instead of gas, there was a bathroom (with a hot-water geyser), instead of a wooden tub brought in from the yard when needed, and a sort of inside lavatory. This was in a space between the scullery, which was inside, and the balcony, which, of course, was outside. All in all, though a visit to the lavatory was still chilly in the winter, combined with all the other more positive changes, it was a much happier place for us to grow up in.

What made us join up?

Now, here we were, the ten of us, after knowing each other for from five to seven years, constantly being together, and doing so much together; about to take a step that would change our lives beyond anything we could possibly imagine. What made us do it?

Like everyone else, we had read the papers; listened to the radio; and watched newsreels; and like everyone else, we were well aware of Hitler's intentions - he had made it quite clear what he was up to. And like everyone else, we shared the shame of Neville Chamberlain's infamous meeting with Hitler, which resulted in Czechoslovakia being sold out. If we waited for the inevitable, our disposition was certain separation. By taking this step, however, we could pretty well determine that we would stay together. As it turned out, we were close to one hundred percent right.

Early chaos

The drill-hall on Chenie Street was the home of the First Battalion Rangers, KRRC. We weren't there to join the First Battalion, however, but rather, to join Second Battalion, which was just then being formed; and which, incidentally, was the very last volunteer unit to be formed before conscription came into force. It was for this reason that so many like-minded men had turned up at the same time; to be part of what really was an historic event. It is doubtful, though, that any of us were conscious of that fact at the time.

Because of the large numbers, the situation was, for a while, quite chaotic. So a number of short cuts were devised to speed up the process. One of which, as far as I was concerned, was an absolute joke. It had to do with the medical. During my infancy, an accident had left me with a weakened left eye, which I thought might be an obstacle to my enrolment. I need not have worried, however, for when I faced the chart for the eye-test, the MO instructed me to cover the unused eye with my hand! Well what would you have done?

Learning to be riflemen

Having succeeded in becoming soldiers in HM's Territorial Army, we set about learning to be riflemen. Right from the start, however, there was one matter that caused me great consternation, I found myself separated from the others, including my brother. I was sent to A Company while the rest were allocated to B Company. I protested; only to learn that brothers were never allowed to serve in the same company. So it was just a question of whether I went to A Company, or Jim.

Most of our instructors were NCOs from the first battalion, but I have to mention one in particular. He was a CSM, a man in his fifties, with an impressive array of ribbons on his chest. His wonderfully rich Yorkshire accent grabbed my attention the moment he opened his mouth.

Allow me to digress for a moment. It is possible, indeed probable, that only people of my age bracket are aware of one particular consequence of the war, which affected most parts of Britain and yet was almost unnoticed. I'm referring to the dilution of regional accents, or dialects, that resulted when people were removed from their normal environs, and mixed in with others for years on end. Nowadays, whenever I hear what is now the norm, I recall how it used to sound sixty years ago, and I'm saddened.

Anyway, getting back to the sergeant major. Whenever he spoke, he captivated me; I was putty in his hands. His jargon was verbatim - from the Book. The Lewis gun lecture, in particular, was an absolute masterpiece. No matter how often, he gave it always without deviation or variation. This included his attempts at a little humour. He never failed, for instance, to include, with an appropriate leer, a nudge nudge, wink wink comment about the body-locking pin.

But his best effort, to my mind, was the preamble to Bayonet Training. 'Now the object of bayonet training is to imbue you with the determination to come to close quarters with the enemy'. I still remember the look of smugness on his face as he, oh so smoothly, delivered his lecture. He obviously relished every word; and so did I!

More training

Over the next four months, the instructors, God bless 'em, did a remarkable job with us; we actually became quite proficient. During that same period, new battle-dress uniforms became available, and gradually replaced the old WW1 service-dress. Many of the NCOs, who had seen service in 1914-18, accepted that particular change only with reluctance.

But that was only one of many coming into force: the Bren gun replacing the Lewis; the formation of ‘column of threes’ replacing ‘column of fours’; my memory, however, is not clear on that, it could have occurred earlier. The most important change for us, however, was that the Second Battalion acquired its own drill-hall. That gave us tremendous impetus and renewed enthusiasm; and as well, a sense of greater importance. The new drill-hall was situated on Montague Street, behind the British Museum. How could we have known how short a time we were going to occupy it.

Summer training

In mid-August, it was the time for the annual two-weeks of intensive summer training. Relatively well equipped, the battalion left London by train for Beaulieu, in the New Forest. I used the word 'relatively' advisedly; almost none of the vehicles were military, and I well remember one dispatch rider on a brilliant scarlet-red 'Indian' motorcycle. I suppose that the fellows who brought their own vehicles were adequately paid.

In the past, summer camps might have been regarded as easy, but this one was no holiday. This was our first real taste of long route marches and field manoeuvres. There was no let-up; it was designed to put us all to the test, in order to learn the limits of our capabilities. The unit being what it was; young volunteers, with plenty to prove; it was exactly what was needed.

Anthony Eden

It is worth mentioning Major Anthony Eden, the second-in-command = an inspiring individual. He was a handsome man, in his fifties, who had finished the 1914-18 war as a captain in the KRRC. The fact that he had been Foreign Minister and had resigned on a matter of principle was not lost on anyone. Neither was the way he applied himself to the job at hand. (His resignation, two years before, followed the government's refusal to act against the Italian dictator, Mussolini, who was responsible for dropping bombs and poison gas on innocent Abyssinians [Ethiopians]).

He was admired also for a more mundane attribute. While at a formal Sergeants' Mess function, he accepted a challenge that required him to sing a certain song, in its entirety, while balancing a full pint of beer on his head, and without spilling a drop. According to all reports, he did it with flying colours.

In order to give full weight to a final anecdote on Eden, allow me to set the scene. In the Kings Royal Rifle Corps, commands are not the same as in the rest of the British Army. To call a unit to attention, the word 'attention' is not used. Instead, the last syllable of the designation or name of the unit is the command. For example: sec-tion ; pla-toon; Ran-gers ; in which the first syllable is shortened or lengthened as required. Company, however, requires special treatment, for example: beee comp’ny ; a long drawn out B, then the action syllable, 'comp', aggressively spat out, followed by a throwaway or almost silent 'ny'.

Eden was blessed (or perhaps cursed) with a very high-pitched voice, which was probably not so noticeable, except when on parade. When he was on parade, it was very obvious. Now as second i/c, it was his responsibility to bring the battalion to readiness, for the colonel's inspection.

The moment of truth is when the colonel appears in front of the parade with the battalion standing at ease, and the major gives the command: 'Raaaan-gers!' The battalion springs to attention, but at the same time, every man on the parade ground, is struggling with internal stress as he fights to overcome the almost uncontrollable urge to burst into laughter. The major's high-pitched shriek had that effect every time.

New departure, and brass buttons

On Friday 25 August, Major Eden left the camp suddenly and returned to London. The general assumption was that his departure had something to do with the news of the non-aggression pact, just signed by Germany and Russia. Who had called him back, was a mystery. Since he was not in government, it was hardly the prime minister. Perhaps it was Winston? Anyway, soon after his departure the battalion was put on a war footing; live ammunition was issued, weapons loaded, and access to and from the camp severely restricted.

That condition lasted only two days, for on Sunday 27, the battalion returned to London. Upon our arrival at Waterloo Station, Major Eden was there to rejoin us, as we marched back to the drill hall, by way of Waterloo Bridge - it was he who was at the head of the column. The press gave the event full attention, and made it something of a spectacular. I saw one of the pictures myself the next day and was quite stirred by it.

Hordes of family and friends were at the drill-hall to greet us. After we had been dismissed to the confines of the street, there was a period of great excitement in the air, and here and there, some concern. I was approached by a former acquaintance; a news photographer with whom, the year before, I had worked as a messenger. He asked me to help him arrange a picture; I would be his go-between and make the necessary contact and introduction with whoever was his choice.

When he made his choice known to me, I was chagrined. The man he chose was wearing a service dress rather than a battle dress, and more than that, brass buttons! That was an affront to a Ranger. Were a Ranger still wearing service dress, it would have the rifleman's customary black buttons, not brass. But how could a mere photographer understand that? In this case, the man wearing the offending uniform had recently transferred from a non-rifle regiment, for which brass button was normal and correct.

It was the brass buttons, of course, that had caused my photographer friend to choose that particular man. Anyway, the resulting picture, of the man and his girl friend, was for its creator a stunning success. Within days, it appeared on the front page of a major illustrated magazine - without doubt giving the photographer a substantial reward. The man who posed for it, on the other hand, got 'jankers' (extra duties or perhaps loss of pay). Not because of the service dress, or of the brass buttons, but for being, as evidenced by the picture, improperly dressed - his belt was unbuckled! My own involvement never became an issue.

On active service

Five hours after we had arrived at the drill hall, we were finally given our orders: The Battalion would report tomorrow, Monday 28 August - A Company at 8am, B Company at 9am, and so on. I was on active service!

Albert Mahon (Researcher 237553)

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