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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Reg Reid, and has been added to the site with the author's permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

The Lighter Side of War

By
Don Alexander

CHAPTER 9: Back with `A' Platoon at Broxmore,
December 1941- February 1942

His `old sods' mates, driver-mechs. Brotherstone, Powell and Rumsey Williams, and `young sods' mates, drivers Wheeler, Warhurst and Petty, had slung a `WELCOME BACK BUTCH' sign across `A' platoon's stables-billet. They were expecting to see him shorn and bulled up to the nines and the conversation went something like this:
Powell: "You must have had it easy for two months boyo - that's for sure."

Wheeler: "Butch, if anyone can find an easy number - even in gaol!"

Butch: "Bollocks. Fort Dahlen was tough on everythin' except haircuts and bullin' 'kit. You lot would be crying for mammy after a week."

Petty: "What's a man's purpose in life, if it's not to keep his kit bulled to buggery?"

Butch: (ignoring this last) "...And have you ever tried marchin' wi' guards at their slow pace and 'Light Infantry at bleedin' 180.steps a minute? Anyway, what's news?"

Brotherstone: "Major Dodds got rid of Lush - he transferred him when we all sent him to Coventry. Doddsy showing a few brains at last."

Warhurst: "Lieutenant Yates left `A' platoon."

Butch: What's the old gent gone to do then? Back to running that string of horses wi' his sister at Newmarket? Essential war work eh?"

Warhurst: "Neigh, neigh lad, he's been posted to South Africa, lucky sod, to requisition horses and mules for the army - probably for us if we get to North Africa. Mules are better than lorries on sand."

Powell: "Butch would be out of a job - all he'd do then is collect their droppings."

Brotherstone: "And sell them to the Arabs."
Butch: (ignoring these last remarks) "Who've we got in his place - a rough-arse ex-ranker from somewhere like Gateshead?"
Wheeler (from Gateshead): "Better than a rough-arse from Sheffield, the arse-hole of the North."

Butch: "Many thanks. Bloody good to be back."

Warhurst: "We've got a theatrical, a thespian, a Lieutenant Errington from London who stu-stu-stu-stutters."

Butch: "Aren't we blessed. When we're faced by the Jerries we won't know whether he's going to say f-f-f-fire or f-f-f-f*** off! - Is the grub as good as ever? It must be better than prison grub."

Powell: "Are you kiddin'? Rice Cheesborough is still at it - this army marches on its stomach-ache."

Private `Rice' Cheesborough, the cook, was so called because his rice puddings were always very lumpy..... The boiling water used to make the pudding was then strained off by Cheesborough who used it to make the tea. So the tea tasted `ricey' and there was a greasy, buttery layer floating on top.

Powell: "He nearly killed Brothers."

Butch: "What wi', his rice puddings?"

Powell: "No, on parade, he failed to fix his bayonet correctly, so when he sloped arms, it shot off over his back and whistled past Brother's head."

Brotherstone: "He's more dangerous than the Jerries is our Cheesborough."

Butch got back into the routine but Brotherstone later said he noticed a change about him - a certain hardness and bitterness against authority - against the Army. Even though he'd had only two months in gaol, he couldn't initially get rid of that sense of injustice, though getting around with Rumsey-Williams on the Manxman with the satisfaction of using Army petrol helped.

Harold Rumsey-Williams from Potters Bar was one of the `old sods', thirty-three years old. He had not spoken a great deal with Butch since his return. He'd shown sympathy with him though, when he'd learnt that his parents had split up (separation was not so common in those days), and his father had sold his train set and lead soldiers. Some of the younger soldiers thought this was funny, but Butch didn't mind. Types like Wheeler thought all of life was there for a good laugh, even misfortune, and can we fault him for that?

We could say that Rumsey-Williams took the Sheffielder under his wing. He invited him to his in-laws' house at Potters Bar, North London.

Rumsey's father-in-law, an officer in the First World War, took him to an officers' club in London and regaled him with amusing incidents and horrors of the `war to end all wars'.
The elderly couple at one of the two gatehouses, not only let Butch park his Manxman bike against their wall, but they also said it was their bike when the stuttering Lieutenant Errington broached the subject with them. To have one's own bike was not allowed at Broxmore, not by Major Dodds' rules at any rate. Errington was easy going and the lads liked him. He suspected it was either Fitter Reid's bike and the couple let him park it there, or it was their bike and, being now of doddery disposition, they'd let Reid ride it, and he probably filled it with army petrol. Errington didn't give a damn either way; to him, morale and efficiency at the job was all important, not minor infringements of the law, but he'd put Major Dodds' mind at ease and just say it was the couple's bike.

The elderly couple then introduced Butch to the young couple in the adjacent gate house. Corporal King had been introduced there as well and both were invited to tea by the wife. Her husband was an army sergeant based the other side of Salisbury, and she appreciated some lively company after long days alone. Mind you, Corporal King wanted to make it too lively! He was a shoe shop manager at Timpson's in Civvy Street, and wanted to get his shoe inside this lovely wife's door. He fancied her so when she saw him passing the gatehouse a few days later, and gave an invite for him and Butch to come to tea again, he didn't pass the message on and went alone. He said Butch was on guard.

Needless to say when she learned this was a lie, the corporal was no longer welcome at her house. She kept friendly with the open hearted cheeky faced Sheffield lad though, who amused her, didn't make advances, and who became friends with her husband too, despite the difference in rank. When the sergeant got a twenty-four-hour pass from his barracks, at the wife's request, Butch would go and fetch him on the Manxman.

Like Rumsey-Williams, they knew of his family problems at home and of his on-off relationship with `Girly' Ruth Hawes, so invited him for a Christmas meal December 25th 1941.

Poor old Corporal King who was also on his own at Christmas, didn't get an invite and it was he, possibly, who a couple of months later, brought up the question of the Manxman bike with Lieutenant Errington - there being four army gerricans full of army petrol just over the elderly couple's garden wall on which the said bike was leaning. Whoever `snitched' to Errington, stressed it was indeed Fitter Reid's bike and not the elderly couple's.

Lieutenant Errington's advice.

The stuttering lieutenant had gained the respect of most of the lads in the platoon. He got them to do their work with the minimum of bull, the minimum of fuss. He laughed with them, he was amused by them. He was concerned with their welfare. He wanted them to do well in life.

They would do anything for him. He was regarded as `one of the lads', even with his `officer class ´óÏó´«Ã½' accent. They mimicked his stutter at first but then got used to it, and thereafter, came down like a ton of bricks on anyone in `B' or `C' platoons or workshops who mimicked their lieutenant.

He liked unusual characters and was hugely amused and interested by a Scots lad in the platoon who had the extraordinary talent of being able to test sparking plugs by hand when the engine was running. He could tell the amount of wear on each plug in this way. The electric current never shocked him. Wheeler, the Geordie comic, got an excitable member of `B' platoon, who he was friendly with, to touch the Scot when he was doing this unusual test, and he leapt in the air with a shriek.

Butch, ever inquisitive, questioning and curious, couldn't refrain from touching the Scot himself and he too leapt into the air.

Errington liked Butch, but knew he would have to be seen to confront him about this `bloody bike', so he ordered him to appear immediately.

"At ease Reid. The reason I have summoned you here is that yu, yu, yu, you have go-go-got a civilian motor bike full of army petrol, and four gerricans fu-fu-fu-full of army petrol."
"Who told you, sir?"
"Never mind that Reid, one of your f-f-friends told me in confidence. I'm not telling you which one. No others are party to this. I'm not going to ch-chcharge you.... This is off the record." There was a long pause before the lieutenant could get out his next point. "You have to t-t-trust yourself Reid and trust people, but don't put absol..absolute trust in anyone - not even in your friends."
Another pause. "You're a good mechanic, Reid." "Thank you, Sir."
"`A' platoon 133 Coy is a good team. I'm not one for needless bull - skills, teamwork camaraderie, confidence, even laughter, make for efficiency - gegetting the job done. In whatever theatre of war we find ourselves: Europe, Africa or the Far East, we'll be a key link with the troops at the front, whether it b-be carrying men, food, b-bandages or b-bullets.
You - are a good mechanic, Reid, and a popular man - sometimes a bit of a rogue - but despite that you - I think you lack confidence in y —yourself.
You blush. Colour up. You should imagine yourself on the stage. I-I-I was a theatre supply agent and got all over-over the country. I did some acting despite my - despite all. I learned - you must learn, Reid. You are an individual. A unique character. All of us are individuals. On-on the stage, the curtains open, the audit-auditorium is in darkness. You are alone. The audience sees you - you don't see them b-b-but they think you do. They are just as likely to be emb-embarrassed at your g-g-gaze as you are at theirs. Shout `I want a volunteer,' and they all c-cringe, unless it's the Palace Attercliffe, Sheffield or the Glasgow Empire where you are 1-1-lucky to get out alive!
So show some of your Sheffield steel - that's what you're good at up there, isn't it? - and remember that you are an individual."

"F-f-finally I'll let you be the first of the platoon to have confirmation that we are moving to Scotland shortly. I understand Driver Wheeler seemed to know this before anyone else in 133 Coy - and that includes Major Dodds and myself!" "Wheeler is a bright lad, sir. But why Scotland, sir? Wheeler says we'll be sailing from Glasgow to invade North Africa, sir."
"Idle gossip, Reid! Idle gossip! - just leave it that the Army moves in a mysterious way, its b-blunders to perform. I'm not going to confiscate your bike, you won't get it to Scotland anyway, so make plans to sell it. Till then go s-s-steady on army petrol."

Butch was impressed by this interview. That Errington should give his time, speak like this was most impressive and he mulled over the conversation in his mind. Corporal King can't have been the bloke who snitched on him about the Manxman. Errington had said it was a friend; King had never been a friend and anyway had now gone off the scene, transferred to another unit. He'd had a motor bike issued to him, crashed it and broke his leg. Corporal Mulchinok was his replacement at `A' platoon.

Who snitched then? He decided to blank any further thought of this out of his mind. The image of the dark auditorium was uppermost in his mind and Errington's words gave him confidence. Most other people are shy and nervous and now he realised nobody was better than him, Butch Reid.

Something else had given him confidence - he'd passed as a Grade 2 mechanic and his pay had gone up from fourteen shillings (70p) a week to seventeen shillings and sixpence (87 ½p). Yippee!

PR-BR

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