大象传媒

Like many young men in WW2, my father, James (or Hamish) Gow, was a willing volunteer for the armed forces. After completing his grades at secondary school in 1941, he enlisted for army service in Blairgowrie, Perthshire, together with his pal from the same Perthshire village, Geordie Clark, who was a few months younger. Though keen to join a Highland infantry regiment, they were instead guided toward the Royal Corps of Signals. But, before they could join their unit, they would have to undergo basic training. In their case, the reception and training establishment was Pontins鈥� Holiday Camp at Prestatyn, North Wales. It had been given over to the war effort by the leisure company and was presumably one of the more pleasant locations for a military training camp. The rolling waves, the beach, the sand dunes, the neat chalets and flower-beds evoked a more peaceful time and the military authorities left as much of it undisturbed as possible. Whether the perimeter security-fence was erected by the Army, or was already there as part of the pre-war camp, is a matter for conjecture and variety-hall jokes ! One element of the camp which no doubt caused endless mirth was the street-name system. In happy pre-war days, Pontins had given the holiday camp鈥檚 streets light-hearted seaside names. The army maintained those names and a series of surreal images resulted, on learning for instance that the law-enforcers of the Military Police had their HQ in Crayfish Drive and that the memo-issuing Company Office was in Lobster Walk. Having been kitted out on arrival with their bedding, uniforms, equipment and personal items, my father鈥檚 intake settled in, but not before an NCO made an appointment for him with the camp's hair-stylist (according to the pre-war sign). Lined up on parade, said NCO moved amongst the ranks and stopped behind my father. He ordered my father to move his head forward and back. Then he said 鈥淒oes it hurt ?鈥� My father snapped 鈥淣o corporal !鈥�. The NCO then retorted 鈥淲ell it should - I鈥檓 standing on your hair ! - Get it cut !鈥�

That night, he dozed off after his busy first day, wondering what lay ahead on Day 2. He didn鈥檛 have long to wait. At what seemed like midnight, but was presumably the British Army鈥檚 standard reveille-hour, the bugler loudly announced the new day. My father was less than pleased on at least two counts:- a) he had been looking forward to a lie-in and b) the bugler had set up right outside his open window. In behaviour ill-befitting a prospective gentleman of the Royal Corps of Signals, my father strongly insisted the bugler should cease immediately, lest he find an interesting body-cavity, on the person of said bugler, for lodging said bugle. The bugler, frustrated in his foiled attempts at an Eddie Calvert solo, stomped off in a bad temper. After ablutions, breakfast etc, my father, now in uniform, put on his narrow forage-cap, with its General Service badge and with Geordie Clark, went off to get his hair cut. As he neared the front of the queue, he watched the barber at work and planned his own hair-cut style. A Clark Gable style perhaps, or a Leslie Howard quiff ? The barber鈥檚 face seemed somehow familiar.

It鈥檚 difficult to tell who recognised who first - my father or the barber, so it was highly unfortunate for my father that the multi-talented barber was also the bugler. Sitting nervously in the chair, my father mumbled some comment about his preferred hair-style. The barber nodded and started work. The busy sound of clippers clipping could be heard somewhere behind. The first my father became aware of progress was when the clippers鈥� metal forks suddenly appeared through his oiled quiff, followed by a roll of black hair. It must have looked like some military-made crop-circle, with a bald band right up the middle. He needn鈥檛 have worried that it looked terrible. After a few similar deft 鈥榮heep-shearing鈥� strokes, my father was as bald as a coot, with an all-over head of stubble that wouldn鈥檛 have been out of place in the Red Army ! To crown a bad morning, when he put his forage-cap on, it now was so oversized, he could have spun it on his head ! Was it the bugler鈥檚 revenge ? Perhaps or perhaps not. When Geordie saw my father鈥檚 hair-cut, he laughed fit to burst then warned loudly 鈥淗e better no鈥� try that wi鈥� me !!鈥� A little while later, the new-look Geordie emerged, cursing and swearing and looking like Red Army recruit No 2. Perhaps the bugler/barber had heard Geordie鈥檚 earlier challenge !

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