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PEOPLES WAR STEP CHANGE. BY WINDRUSH

It was December 1940. I received 鈥渁 cunningly worded invitation鈥� to join the Army, as Cardew Robinson used to put it..... Not unexpected, as many of my generation
had already gone, and my call-up had been delayed by arguments whether I was in a reserved occupation. I was a telephone engineer in the GPO, and had recently been interviewed for a specialist job in the Signals. The outcome was that I had to take military training as I would be in the invasion of France, and they preferred such people to be in uniform. And disciplined...
So a hurried farewell to workmates, family, friends, familiar surroundings and, as I found out, a way of life.

The next place was Maidstone,Kent. A prospective applicant to the Royal West Kents, I stood at the bus-stop in my civilian clothes staring at a busy camp-site on a hill. More like a scene from a bad film, a replica of every prison camp I had ever seen with people everywhere in uniforms going in and out of wooden huts. A noise that was full of sharp commands and stamping boots, weapons rattling and very few natural country sounds. I walked in a sentry- guarded gate , the guardian nodded briefly to the nearest hut, and I was among more strangers than I thought possible.
Name, papers, move on. What have you in your parcel ? What I was told to bring 鈥� spare boots, old clothes and a warm coat. You won`t need them, you will be issued with full kit over there. Take brown paper and write out your home address label, not here, over there. 鈥� next.. In half an hour I was on the way to the next hut wth kit-bag, full uniform (measured by eye) as well as the parcel, brown paper and label. Early practice at holding far more stuff than it was possible to carry, walking uphill in the strange camp and being yelled at everywhere. Not for the last time, I felt lost, threatened and scared.

The first twentyfour hours were a bad dream to anyone who had led a sheltered life.
Sorting the kit (to a diagram on the wall), haggling for a top bunk on the two-tier units, relating to miscellaneous members of the platoon, two of whom had just left jail and swore as part of their regular conversation. The pattern of the new environment began to affect my thinking and become normality.

Sleep was easy, dog-tired as I was, but reveille at 6.30 by a seasoned corporal was not. The phraseology would have curdled the milk. Toilet and getting dressed in new kit, being reminded at every stage how late you were, was extensions of the bad dream. Fortunately, some GPO colleagues had turned up and gone through the same ordeal. Common misfortune cemented our friendship, which lasted the war because we were part of the same technical unit.
It would be nice to say things got better as the days wore on, but, alas, the shouting and swearing continued as we got used to where we went to eat, where to 鈥渇all in鈥�, how to avoid being noticed - important, that, - and getting used to the fact that the khaki had buried your personality.

At one of the instructive addresses from the Army, the Colonel told us 鈥淵ou think you are badly done to here - wherever you go next will be a bloody sight worse!鈥�.
In retrospect you could see their approach, being faced with a new set of anonymous
squaddies every six weeks, none of whom wanted to be there. I suppose it was their defence in an impossible situation.

It was noticeable that everything you did had been allocated a standard description , produced automatically when you asked. From firing a Bren gun to how many pieces of toilet paper one was allowed, the standard reply came without delay. After a while you found yourself talking the same way, looking for the Army method. The Bren gun was a case in point. 鈥� You will be aware that the gasses following up the barrel pass through the gas regulator, operating the breech in the rear of the gun.鈥�
鈥� Yes, corporal, but what happens in the case of a misfire ?鈥� Pause of instant misbelief 鈥淵ou-will-be-aware- that-the gasses-following-the bullet.......鈥� 鈥淐orp ?鈥�
Pause. 鈥淚NSTANT ACTION, OF COURSE !!鈥�

At the end of the first week, tired and miserable, we looked for relief on the Sunday.
As far as I remember, there was a half-hour delay in Reveille, then preparations for Church Parade and organised religion. At this time I realised the benefit of being a 鈥淲鈥�. Only so many places were allocated in alphabetical order in the parade, and I was nominated for Platoon Hut Fatigue. I soon found that meant the ownership of a personal broom with missing bristles and a dustpan. Instructions how to sweep, in which direction and how to clean the broom were, of course, delivered in the standard way. Additional advice was given by the two ex-prison squaddies on how to use minimum force in maximum time, keeping a wary eye for the corporal, who had his own reasons for avoiding Church Parade.

On the Monday it snowed.

Extra parades were then necessary to march into the surrounding hills, in full kit, to dig holes which could be filled in later. An almost friendly corporal confided in us that this was not punishment but a ruse to clear the camp while there was a visit from Army brass. If we wanted to clear snow instead he could arrange it...
We went along with that. We were learning.
A long way out into the country, we passed a baker`s van and the smell of freshly baked bread sparked an instant revolt. We broke ranks and cleaned out the van.
Money was found in odd pockets, bargains struck, debts incurred and new friendships cemented. A helpless corporal accepted half a loaf, and the entire platoon retired to the field. Local people complained for days about the sudden shortage in staple food.
.
Gradually it almost became normal. The training was having effect and we had become more organised as a group, looking out for each other and helping the weaker ones. Me, as it turned out. Almost on cue, I went down with `flu. This meant I had to attend sick parade, with small kit and accessories, feeling like death. The parade was a collection of the living dead, and we learned later that after four days we would have to be retrained from the beginning. That encouraged fast recuperation. Doctors were sympathetic, but had no time for diagnosis - 鈥淗undred and two ? Third bed on the left...鈥� In no time I back in the platoon, with three back days training to learn.

An interesting diversion was occasional lectures by visiting officers on Current Affairs. The politics were fairly bland, but no chances were taken on propaganda.
We were British Army, and don`t you forget it. I hesitate to think what such talks would be like today, and what discussions would be like !

Eventually the six weeks were over, six years in experience. The training crew were already bracing themselves for yet another batch of squaddies, and we were preparing for the marching-out parade. No parade could have been more rehearsed or more threats expressed on what would happen if we did not do more than our best. The honour of the Royal West Kents was definitely on the line.

The sight of the march-out must have been impressive, although we were too concentrated to notice. Marching to an improvised band through the streets of Maidstone, followed by a coal-cart loaded with our luggage and surplus kit, I felt immense relief that I had survived.

I was a soldier.

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