大象传媒

9th August 1938
It was pouring with rain yet again.
I used to think God would to sit on high and as soon as I got out of bed he would signal to Big Gabbie,(God's number one Minder) to pull the chain and it would then rain for the rest of the day.

The last nine days had been made miserable by rain and cold, and each day I had re-assured myself that "Tomorrow must be a better day"

A week before, on the onset of bad weather I had been thinking again of joining the Royal Navy.

I had voiced my intentions to my stand in Father who was the Foreman of the gang who roamed about the countryside digging trenches in the ground and laying heavy ceramic pipes in them and then covering them up with earth.

I reflect on the fact that we humans had to be taught how to do this when cats and dogs do it naturally and without the aid of compasses or maps.

The Post Office Engineers would come along at a later date and complete the job by pulling massive tarred cables through the pipes and thus enable some of the outlying towns to communicate better instead of gathering wood as they had done over the ages for a huge bonfire on the nearest hill to light should the area come under attack from marauding Sassenachs, Vikings and Danes.

The length of a cable on its huge wooden bobbin would correspond to the distance between the joint boxes we had to build in concrete complete with round iron lid and iron rungs in the wall to allow workmen known as 'Cable Jointers' to descend into the box and join the ends of the cable using solder and blow lamps plus large amount of tarred tape.

I had joined this roaming gang of human moles as a tea boy in my hometown, and when they had finished there I begged my Father to let me travel with them, since there was no work on offer where I lived.

At first my Father was quiet adamant, "Tha cin go on't bluddy dole same as t' rest on us, tha's not leavin' 'ome to work away"
A few crisp words accompanied by a steely glare from my Mother and he wavered, then Mum side stepped smartly and her left arm came up to shield her face as Dad pursed his lips like a duck's bum and ejected a wet torpedo of tobacco juice that hit the wall with a 'SPLAT' and slowly meandered down making little wet bridges over the mortar gaps between the bricks.

A week later on idly perusing the spot I noticed that either the mortar had retreated between the bricks from the tobacco juice or it was the acid in the juice that had eroded the mortar and the rain washed it down into the garden where it snuffed out any garden life for a radius of about fifteen inches.

It occurred to me that should one get one of these lethal torpedoes in ones eye, one could be blinded for life.
Dad always spat when he did not get his own way.
Mum always thought it a filthy habit.

One local in the Village Pub stressed his own opinion over a pint, "Nivver argue wi yon Barker unless app'n tha's weerin' saefety goggles!"
"Yon b****r as lives near Thornton Abbey cin nail a cockroach t' wall wi' a jet o' terbaccy juice frum 'is gob an' if 'e gets yu in't eye tha'll be blint fer life"

Dad relented when Mum dug him in the ribs again and gave him a second helping of glare.
"Well ah suppose it might just do summat fer 'is hedifercation,'cos 'e can't allus stay 'ere an' play chase the bluddy rabbits."
I smiled, my Mother smiled, but my Father glowered.

Then a hug from Mum who was quick to point out,"And don't forget to send half a crown a week home because you haven't finished paying for your new bike yet"
I thought,"Yup! and guess who will be riding my new bike without paying a penny towards it"

As if reading my thoughts my Dad growled,"Don't you werry about yer bike,ah'll look efter it till tha' cums 'ome aggin' "

Dad had to have the last say as he addressed Bill Billingsgale, "Owt happens tu that lad,"
and he pointed with his wet pipe stem at me,"An ah'll cum lukkin' fer thee Bill"
Then my Father turned and walked away with out so much as, "Tha cin kiss me kiss me other foot," or "By yer leave".

The West Construction Co of Latherland Rd Liverpool was based in Liverpool.
The agent for this Construction Company would visit us every Friday afternoon to pay the wages and general liase, sometimes we got the latest risqu茅 joke that was popular in Liverpool.

Our group consisted of the Foreman 'Bill Billingsgale' the pipe layer 'Paddy' an Irishman.
The lamp filler and odd job man 'Pongo' a London man, and myself who had joined this unit as a tea lad in Barton, Lincolnshire.

The cherry red coloured Morris motor lorry was loaded with all the tools and the orange coloured wooden office with it's black tarred and oft repaired felt roof and one cracked window pane.

Bill the Foreman in his mustard coloured heavy donkey jacket (duffle coat) got into the passenger seat in the cab of the lorry and dragged out a handful of road maps and began a dialog with the driver who's name now eludes me.

The others and myself got into the wooden office that was now stowed away on the back of the truck and with all the other tools and gear we settled down for the long drive to Scotland.

I stood up looking through the window of the hut as Barton began to disappear into the distance.
But soon I got tired of standing and with mixed feelings I joined the others who were lolling on sacking and half asleep.
I suppose the novelty of moving had worn off long ago for them.

To me it was another new adventure.

Having travelled for about an hour the driver would stop and get out, then after a short walk would get back in and off we would go again.
After about three hours one of the chaps stood up and stretched and had a look out of the window and said, "Looks like they 'as 'ad some snaw up 'ere"
Then the lorry stopped and Bill shouted, "We are near some woods, anyone want to take a walk?"
I looked out and sure enough everything was covered with snow.
But I was puzzled, "Why waste time stopping here just to go for a walk?"

There wasn't a sign of life anywhere, just the long road now covered with snow going back into the distance with our lorry tracks freshly imprinted in it.
And looking the other way one could just see the road for about a hundred yards then it seemed to merge with everything else that was white with snow.
At each side of the road were tall trees with outstreched branches the top half of which were laden with snow.
Then it became obvious why we had stopped, as the others made for trees and stood behind them silently like it was Eleventh of November and they were observing the two minutes silence for WW1 with down cast eyes.

The Penny sort of dropped as I observed steam rising suddenly from the now wet base of a tree as the snow began to disappear like a family of moths eating a hole in a blanket.
Another chap lingered to admire his paintings of eyeholes in the snow and decided to sign it with a flourish and half filled his left boot.
Then we had the pantomime of watching him trying to balance on one foot as he unlaced his boot and then removed it.

Taking off the wet sock and wringing out most of the liquid manure he then replaced the sock and boot and laced it up again to the grins of us who were stood watching his antics.

It suddenly occurred to me why some of these trees could be leaning over at alarming angles when others were so straight and proud.
These trees growing at all angles were on the edge of the wood, so I assessed they had been extra watered over the years by passing travellers who having topped up at the last Inn in Town now had stopped to water their horses behind a chosen tree as they hid from the view of other likely passers by on the road.

One can only ponder the outcome of a tree suddenly hiccuping as it sampled the waste product of Johnny Walker Whiskey and Worthington's finest ales as the bloke sighed with relief.

Then there was a snowball fight that petered out when Bill snarled, "Pack it in yu lot an' ger on the bleed'n' truck, we ain't got time tu play bleed'n snawballs" and we got onto the truck again with some albiet a bit sullen at the reprimand but glad to be on our way none the less, and we resumed our journeymore or less in silence.

The noise of the engine must have lulled me to sleep because the next thing I knew someone was shaking me and saying, "Come on young un, were 'ere"
We unloaded the tools and wooden office and by the time we had finished it was getting dark.
It was too late to go looking for digs so we spent the night in the wooden office and the next day Bill set off for the local Labour Exchange to see if he could get some Men to work for us digging the trenches.
I found out that this town was Galasheils in the lowlands of Scotland.
I must confess I cannot remember too much about Galasheils except to say it was a bit on the quiet side except for the local drunk who would come and watch us work while he stood there in a daze hiccupping and glassy eyed wondering what we were looking for digging up on the grass on the side of the road.
From there we moved to Selkirk.

Each time we moved Bill sat in the nice warm cab next to the engine while we sat in the cold wooden office hut on the back of the truck watching the snow cascading past the window.

While we had a plentiful supply of old potato sacks to sit on and cover our legs it was still bitterly cold in that draughty cabin when it was moving.

Selkirk Town I remember well. It had a huge hill as a backdrop to the railway station that terminated at Selkirk.
It also had lots of Woollen Mills and bonny Lasses.
But it was also very cold and wet.
One of the drawbacks of Scotland from Bill's point of view was that all the Pubs on Sunday were closed unless one was a Traveller, then one had to sign a book to say where one was from and going where?

Most of the places we had never heard of let alone seen, but Bill had a map and a magic pin.
Bill would close his eyes and stab with the pin.
Then open his eyes and grunt with disgust, " Nah, the bleed'n' bus fare wud cost more than the bleed'n' pint," so he would close his eyes and have another stab with the pin.

Once he missed the map and stabbed his own knee with the pin and for the rest of that day walked round like a wounded zombie convinced he was going to lose his leg to gangrene.
But after several dabs with an iodine brush and a sticking plaster he was free of the miseries the next day.

Sometimes the local pub would be so close it negated the regulations so Bill would have to have more stabs with the pin knowing that he would not get served in the local boozer on a Sunday.
I kept clear of Pubs because Bill had warned me in his Scouse accent "Ger off ter the pitchers (movies) Tommy, an' don' ever let me catch yer in a pub" wastin' all yer hard earned money, then looked a bit puzzled because I looked at him a bit confused but had a mental picture of Bull charging it's own reflection in a mirror.

One of Bill's favourite pastimes in the pub was making a bet he could down a pint faster than anyone else, and the loser pays.

I lost count of the times Bill would end the evening behind the Pub with Pongo and Paddy holding him up in a bent over position while he spray painted the pub wall with bad beer and diced vegies.

Sometimes on these occasions it was just as well he had companions to look after him because he would wander out on to the road.
Wearing moleskin bell-bottom trousers that sported a flap at the front like the sun-blind on a shop front held up by a button at either side.

The problem with that kind leg and buttock attire though was, having just relieved himself he would forget to button up the flap, and because they fitted tight at the hip and with a belt to secure them, they could not fall down.
Some dear old lady Sunday school teacher would be motoring home in the dark with dipped headlights and would suddenly be confronted by what looked like a baby elephant wandering towards her with great flapping ears and a purple trunk lolling from side to side as it lurched with it's front legs perambulating in moleskin trousers atop a pair of mildewed shoes.

The next day Bill would spend most of the morning nursing a thick head, but in the afternoon he would emerge from the wooden office and the trench diggers would nudge each other and mutter, "Watch yersel, the midd'n's awake"

"Wot's this then?" Bill would bark on taking a measuring stick and holding it to the bottom of the newly dug trench and eying the extra bit of stick poking above ground.
"Yer settin' bleed'n'n spuds or diggin a bleedin' trench,? ger it aht, ah wants ter see another foot deeper, awroight"

"Aye ok, keep yer shert oan" muttered the Scots digger, and attacked the trench anew.

Having rousted the men Bill would retire to the orange colored wooden office with it's black roof and make himself a cup of tea on the little Primus stove then he would settle down and read the paper.
Bill would tear the paper, just a little nick on the spine.

I thought it was a little idiosyncrasy but later realised he was reading the paper and also peeking at the blokes digging through the little slit in the middle of the now opened newspaper.

Two chaps having a breather for too long and having a discussion about Celtic and Glasgow Rangers would suddenly get a verbal broadside from the little hut on small cast iron wheels wheels.

"Yer can't play bleed'n' football carryin' a bleed'n' pick an' shovel but yu cin swap em fer yer bleed'n' cards anytime yus like?"

They obviously didn't like, because they suddenly clammed up and began digging very aggressively.

Then we moved to Auld Reekie.
Known to Sassenachs and sundry as Edinbrough.

It was not long before we were digging up the grass verge outside the barracks of the Seaforth Highlandes.
The road that came out of Edinbrough had tram lines to Collinton.
One could get off the tram and on walking through a gap in the iron railing at the side of the footpath descend the few stone steps that led to the path that meandered through Collinton Dell.

Collinton Dell was to me then like the pretty pictures I had seen in children's coloured story books.

The noise of the street would be left behind and it was like being in another place in time.
It reminded me of Alice in Wonderland and I wondered how long it would be before someone came and scolded me for being in such a delightful place for free and without a ticket.

Somewhere in the distance I could hear the sound of water rushing along between rocks.
Also from the far distance came the sound of some one playing a haunting melody on the bagpipes.

On turning a bend round some tall ferns the source of the rushing water sound was revealed and the bagpipe music would be over powered by the noise of rushing water.
Clear water sparkling in the sun was cascading over a man made weir and on leaving the weir was now foaming on it's way into some tall reeds and bull rushes.
It was near Christmas time and I had to do my share as night watchman.
I had just finished checking that all the red lamps were lit and trimmed, and properly hooked onto the ropes that prevented anyone from wandering into the trenches that had been dug almost the full length of the Military Barracks behind the hut.
Tiny flakes of snow were falling, when out of the darkness on the footpath an old bloke sort of waltzed into view but on spotting the old oil drum with lots of holes made in it with a pickaxe and the red hot coke now therein sending out waves of heat, he signalled his legs two points to Starb'd and staggered over the grass and began warming his hands at the coke fire.

"Aye it's a gey cauld yin the nicht aw recht!"
he muttered half to himself.
The old bloke almost jumped out of his skin.
" Jasus! Ah dedn't see yus there, yu scared the hell oot o' me laddie!"
I had been lounging back inside the shadow of the watchman's hut where the heat from the coke fire made the inside nice and warm, but as soon as one moves the spell is broken but it's nice to have someone to talk to to break the monotony of the long night.
Then we were joined by two young ladies who were trainee nurses who had been to a party and were walking home to Collinton, since the last tram had gone.

The old chap piped up, " Well ah'm awa ti mah bed,
but afore ah go wid ye no like a wee drappie ti keep ye warm through the nicht?" and offered his half full hip bottle to me and I was tempted, but I declined on realising Bill would probably have detected the smell of booze on my breath the moment I opened my mouth the next morning and I would also be letting him down.

We finished that job and moved to Glasgow.
And I began to miss the Sunday afternoon tram trip to Collinton Dell where I would sit on a wooden bench seat and read the book I had bought about the last of the Mohicans.

We got digs in Glasgow and resided with a Mrs Moig for a while in a street not far from Suchihall st.
The first night was hilarious.
" Your bedroom is up the stairs and first left" warbled Mrs Moig
I went up but there was no bed in the room so I came back down stairs and said, " Someone has nicked your bed Missus!"
Mrs Moig sighed, then climbed the stairs with me in tow and she went to the wall and pulled a cord and a curtain opened and there was the bed in a niche in the wall.
There were also three little steps to climb to enable one to get into the bed.
"Wid ye no like me ti undress ye an' poot ye ti bed as weel laddie?" warbled Mrs Moig with a wee smile as she left and closed the door.
I pondered the pun and it was then I suddenly realised my face was burning red.
The next morning at breakfast Mrs Moig had a twinkle in her eye as she asked, "Did ye hev
sweet dreams in the bed ye cudnie find laddie?"
and again I got a red face as Bill and Paddy looked at each other enquiringly as if they were missing out on something.

Bill and his mates hadn't found their beds either and were too befuddled to enquire, and while debating what to do next, slumped to the floor in a drunken stupor and went to sleep.

Bill was in deep trouble with Mrs Moig the next day but it was a happy ending when Bill bought her a new bit of carpet to replace the partly digested one Bill had puked on.

At work the next day Bill wanted to know what the bed and Mrs Moig issue was all about, but it was all cleared up when I told him that I was unaware that some Scottish beds are hidden in the walls and Mrs Moig had only shewn me where the bed was and was old enough to be my Granny.
Bill accepted the explanation and relaxed.

It was about three o' clock one sunny Sunday afternoon and I was strolling nonchalantly on the dry grass of Glasgow Green.
On my right was the river Clyde, On my left was a waist high hawthorn hedge with gaps in it at odd intervals which led me to believe people or children were continually pushed through breaking off some light branches thus making the gaps.
Perhaps this was due to some people were too lazy or in a hurry and could not be bothered to go to the end of the hedge and walk round it to access the nearby lane that led to the street beyond.
I paused in my walk to watch a small sailing boat as the weak breeze gallantly tried to fill the sail and push the boat over the glassy surface of the water.
The breeze probably thought the same as I and decided it was a waste of time, and the sail that had been moving, albeit listlessly, went limp and hung there quiet still, like the baddy the lynch mob had caught and strung up without so much as a polite, "Now are you sure that's comfy?" as they adjusted the noose round his neck.
The chap in the boat who had been lounging back enjoying the view sat with a disgusted look on his face moved the sail boom back and forth hoping to catch just a little breeze to at least to get the boat and him back to the shore.
But all that happened was the boat just rocked a bit as the center of gravity was altered.
As I watched, the thought crossed my mind that his next move would be to get on his knees and pray.
If I had been in his position I would certainly have prayed for just enough wind to blow my boat to the side so I could get out and go home.
Since the weather in Glasgow and the surrounding area could change at the drop of a hat I would not want to be trapped in a wee boat in the middle of the Clyde should the skies open up.
Come to think of it I would be loath to drop my hat should the heavens open and Moses sent forth the flood.
A good broad rimmed hat can stop an aufie lot o' watter going down the back of ones neck at times.
A cold night in a small boat was not my idea of a pleasant pastime.

The thought did cross my mind that if the man in the boat had been Jesus Christ he would not have needed to pray for wind to move the boat, he could have got out and dragged it or pushed it or even left it there and walked to the shore and the nearest fish and chip shop, bought himself a nice hot fish supper and gone home.

Having made a note of the man's plight and being a Christian I thought, "If he is still there tomorrow I might chuck him a rope and haul him to safety".

However night on the Clyde could be a bit dicey for someone who, having got into the middle of the river and become becalmed could finish up being run down by a huge cargo ship.
It is common knowledge that big ships reduce their speed when entering the river but even at slow speed the ship still needs half a mile to stop in, and if in the dark the small sailing boat was spotted the chances of the big ship stopping in time? Let us just say I would not put any money on the outcome.

I was so busy day-dreaming about the stranded chap in the wee boat I was totally unaware of the fracas until suddenly I was almost involved.

A motley screaming body of youths suddenly burst through a gap in the hedge like the foam one sees from a flagon of champagne that has been vigorously shaken before opening.
So too the mouths of this m茅nage of menacing maniacs reminded one of a huge glass tank full of starving guppy fish who had just heard the trough (food) bell being sounded
The louts came charging across the Green and the thought flashed through my head, "Bloody 'ell, some bugger has blabbed that I am a Sassenach!"
The onrush of bodies with gnashing teeth and some almost foaming at the mouth and wild staring eyes grew ever bigger as I stood rooted to the spot.

I had heard tales of the Gorbals (a suburb of Glasgow) where one take ones life in ones hands if one strays there after dark.
I thought the sea is a bit like that, all the sharks swim together and get along fine, but should someone fall into the sea there is a swirl of action before everything goes back to normal but minus what or whom ever fell into the sea.
And the day after tomorrow what or whom ever would be so much shark manure on the sea bed where other little monsters will come and pick at it and they in turn expel it and so on down the food chain.

Then we get a net and catch them and it all starts over again.

By that time I had gathered my wits and had one leg raised and both arms in the rapid take off position and my head tucked in to lessen wind resistance.

I once did contemplate buying a leather crash helmet for emergencies such as this but never did get round to it.

Then the screaming mob veered to miss me and were going by me like the railings of a picket fence passing a carriage window on a train when one glances at the landscape outside as the train clackerty clacks along at high speed.
My brain that had hitherto been somewhat numbed by this sudden rapid assault of events on a quiet Sunday afternoon, suddenly got back into gear and began frantically signalling, "ABORT TAKE OFF"

Looking a bit guilty I relaxed and with relief watched the cloud of dust mixed with a motley assortment of foot wear fast disappearing off the far end of the Green.

Then I caught a whiff of something fragrant on the wind and deduced that more than one of the runners could have been forgiven for doing what nature demanded of all animals that are in fear of their lives, dumping any excess weight.
Then I saw it on the grass, a long thin line of what looked like curried prawns and rice pointing in the general direction of the fast disappearing mob.

I glanced at other people who having heard and seen the screaming mob and were now coming out of hiding.
Some came through gaps in the hedge where they had scuttled through and bend down behind out of sight.
One young lad suddenly popped up in a dustbin with the lid on his head, and a couple laughed at the comedy of it, or possibly just relief or the release of built up tension.
Some of the Ladies were holding tiny lace hankies to their noses and complaining of the aroma that was hanging around due to no breeze blowing to clear it.

One bloke chuckled, "Jasus that's a bit ripe, ah 'hed a cowd in mah heed but that's shifted it"

But suddenly, and the first thing that crossed my mind was that the screaming mob had done a complete circle and were coming back again covering the same ground with a view to duffying up those they had missed on the first time round.

But no! As I saw the first frantic charging figures I saw these were older and different. Also as they ran some were ripping the wooden stakes that made up the fencing along the hedgerow of the Green.

I took a quick couple of steps back, if I had had the time to turn around I would have taken lots more steps in quick succession, but since I had not, I did the polite thing and stood back a few paces to let them pass by without hindrance.
I had read that article in the American Magazine that informed all and sundry, "If you are an 8 stone weakling sign on the dotted line below and post now and I will make you into, "THIS" and an arrow took one's eye to a picture of Chas Atlas who needed two whole pages just to get his chest in the magazine.
Under the picture was a caption that stated, "With a body like this you will never have sand kicked in your face again."
I agree, but why bother kicking sand in his face when one can walk into the nearest gun store and buy a small pistol and stick it in his ear and tell him and all his muscles to bugger off.

What the advert does not mention that due to your size now you may have to pay double air fare if you want to fly anywhere in a hurry.
The thought that came immediately to my mind was that in the African jungle there were huge buffalo and everyone kept well clear of them, but sometimes a pride of lions that were hungry and desperate would stalk and kill one for food.

Since I was a before Atlas weakling and very fast on my feet I decided I had the advantage over most of these lumbering louts.
The people who had just come out of hiding disappeared again as if by magic.

The frenzied mob of youths now waving pickets of wood ignored me and swept past like a wave of those little animals in South America that queue up to dive off high cliff tops and swim out to sea where they drown or get eaten by sharks.
This new mob also disappeared into the distance howling obscenities, and I gathered from the dialect they were Irish.

Finally the Green returned to being a quiet sunny afternoon and once again the people came drifting out of their hiding place.
Some walked away, and I thought " Discretion the better part of valor"
Others sat on the nearest seat and enjoyed what was left of the afternoon, but, every now and then like a wild animal drinking at a pool in the jungle they were looking left and right before
settling back with a contented sigh.
The wee boat was still there, but I noticed a small tugboat had left the far side of the river and was chugging toward him.
I was happy the wee boat would soon be in safe hands so I decided I would not push my luck further in case someone did actually discover I was a Sassenach.

On getting into my lodgings, my landlady Mrs Moig, a charming lady, asked me if I had had a pleasant afternoon.
Mrs Moig was a practical Lady, and so long as she got paid at the weekend regularly I could have had three legs, a red scaly shin and a horn in the middle of my forehead.

I thanked her and told her of the bully boy incident.
She smiled a bit wistful and said, "aye, that'll be the lads frae the Gorbals at it agin' wi' the Irish"
The next day it was on page two of the Glasgow Herald.
Apparently the two gangs had a get together and one bloke was killed and half a dozen finished up in hospital.
The usual weaponry of these gangs was a paling out of the hedgerow, a broken bottle, a razor blade sewn in the tippy of a flat cap.
The cap could be taken off and used with a wide swipe.
If your face happened to be handy when he lashed out with the now folded cap the vistim could finish up with the quickest face lift in history.

I saw a bloke who ducked once as the cap was swung at him but the cap wielder was equal to the situation,
He simply met the ducking head with his own and the bloke went down as though polaxed.
Another time a wee fella from the Gorbals was clattering his way home in clogs when a big bloke stopped him with a snarled demand, " Gees awe yer fags an' money, hey!!!"
The wee fella did a wee run towards the big bloke and did a handstand in front of him and while the big bloke is pondering what is happening both the heavily studded clogs of the wee falla smashed into his face and knocked out most of his front teeth.
With blood spurting from a now broken nose and multiple cuts to the face the bloke was in no shape to demand anything anymore.

The blokes wielding the broken bottles graduated to that position .
It would start off with a full bottle, usually nicked while the publican was being side tracked by another of the gang.
The bottle would pass from hand to hand until empty, then it would be used as a club.
If the bottle broke on some hard head then it would be used to jab into someone's face.
Nothing was ever wasted in the Gorbals.

I never went back to Glasgow Green, my philosophy was, "If you play with fire you could get burnt".
Instead I would go to the Zoo and pull faces at the monkeys safe in the knowledge that they did not have hacksaws to cut through the steel bars of their cages.
I preferred also to go to the local cinema and watch the Three Stooges or Laurel and Hardy.

But aye, I had my fair share o' fechts and brawls. Some were indeed happy days.

Then I had another birthday but I was getting a bit fed up with the bad weather and living rough sometimes.
I think Bill was a bit of a mind reader because one day he said, "Termorra ah want yu tu go wi' the bloke on the dumper an' 'e' ll show yu 'ow tu do it"
I learned how to operate, and take to pieces, and re-assemble the dumper.
The dumper was like a one-footed robot with a short metal tube handles sticking out of each shoulder.
To start the thing one had to lean on the handles and it would sink on its spring and one heavy rubber foot.
Then taking weight off the handles the body of the dumper would rise on the compressed sprung foot thus drawing in the mixture of air and petrol and compressing it.
Under the right side handle was a lever and when this lever was pulled a spark fired the mixture and the dumper leapt about a foot into the air.
It's heavy rubber covered steel foot would crash down on the loose soil and rocks and compress the lot.
Once the operator of this machine got the rhythm one could almost go along a stretch of trench at a slow walking pace.
I was a very happy lad when I got my pay packet at the weekend.
About a month later we hit some very rocky ground out on the moors.
Bill phoned up the Office and about three days later a truck with a compressor and pneumatic digging tools were on site and Bill told the driver to teach me how to drive the truck.
I learned how to drive and how to use the tools and I got another increase in wages.
But the weather in winter was bleak and cracked fingers with blisters and people with icicles hanging from their nose hair did not enhance their visage or mine.
It was brought to a head one day when the Mounted Police rode past Suchiehall Street and there was I up to my armpits in the mud and rain and blue with cold.
The long string of beautifully groomed horses with their highly polished saddles and the smart looking mounted policemen each passed by me and some looked straight ahead as if to ignore the waif in the mud, but the odd ones who did look down at me had a look one gives a starving puppy dog.
As they disappeared in a clattering of iron hooves and jingling bridles up the street I made my mind up.
I had thought about it for a while, which was unusual for me, and remembering the leaflets at home I had collected informing lads of sixteen to eighteen that life in the Royal Navy was the way to go and I decided anything was better than mimicking an African hippo wallowing around in liquid to freezing mud all day.

With this in mind I approached Bill.
Having promised my Father he would watch out for my welfare Bill Billingsgale was upset because he regarded me like a son.
When Bill saw I was adamant, he suggested I write to my Father asking him to send Bill a letter releasing him from any obligations regarding my safety since I wanted to part their company.

The letter from my Father finally arrived and I was a bit surprised that my Father had actually written "Thank you" to Bill for looking out for me.
But when Bill gave me the letter back I saw it was my Mother's handwriting.

That night the group went down to the local boozer and Bill was carried back to the digs looking like an Egyptian mummy minus bandages and with tears in his eyes.

But all was not lost, he did get a free de-odorant and the flies loved it.

Prior to going down the boozer Bill had demanded, "Ger off ter the pictures, 'cos yer not bleedin' comin' wiv us ter the bleed'n' boozer".
So I would go to the local cinema and spend the evening on my own.

One time I noticed the girl about two seats away whose eyelashes looked like they had just been trimmed with a lawn edger.

Bill had already warned me of the dangers where lasses where concerned and had ended the conversation with, " Yer cud finish up thinkin' yer pee'n' through a bleed'n' flute.

The next day I said goodbye to Bill, Paddy and Pongo, the blokes I had worked with in England and different places in Scotland.

Walking up Suchiehall St in Glasgow Scotland, I again saw the display board with a notice beckoning the reader to 'Come and join the Argylls'.

I always had wanted to join the Navy so here was my chance to do just that, because this was a Government Recruiting Office, or so I thought.

Having noticed some of the Gentry nicking off to Spain when the weather got a bit parky in Britain during the winter months, it occurred to me that on the amount of money I was making I would not be rubbing shoulders with any of them on some veranda on the Costa Del Sol.

The nearest I would get to snuggling up to something warm in the bed would be a Woolworth's two bob red rubber hot water bottle with two bicycle inner tube patches stuck on it wrapped in an old pillow case.
But if I joined the Forces I could go abroad for free.
I also learned later it does not matter what country one is in, one still gets wet through if it rains and one is stupid enough to be out in it.
Being a person prone to doing things on impulse I walked up the steps and went through the huge doorway to find myself in a kind of foyer.

All the woodwork was dark and highly polished.
Brass fittings gleamed everywhere and on the wall was a circle of flintlock pistols with all the muzzles pointing inward.
On the wall of the hallway was a huge portrait of a man in armour and his dour gaze seemed to follow me as I moved.

Perhaps I was in the wrong building and this was the City Morgue or a Witches Coven.
I was about to turn and leave when I saw a small white bit of card on a doorway to my left.

It was pinned to the door with a drawing pin. The first thing that crossed my mind was, 'Why would some idiot push a drawing pin into such beautifully polished wood'

Someone had printed in capitol letters with a pen using black ink, "Recruiting Office A&SH. Please Knock"
I knocked.

The door was opened eventually by a soldier in a kilt and three white stripes on the arm of his khaki tunic.

That's when all the fun started.

Once I was past the door post was like the fly getting stuck to the web so to speak, because the moment I was inside this charmer put his best Sunday smile on, and I suddenly thought I was Prince Charming or at least King of the Gipsies.

There was a one bar electric fire in the room the reflector of which was badly rusted and it was trying to keep the chill air in the room at bay.
Then an affable voice warbled, "Hello laddie, set ye doon, wid ye like a nice cup o' tea, et's aufie cauld oot there, ahm 'ony juist en mahsel ye ken'.

I sat on the nearest chair and replied, 'Thanks very much, yes it is quiet cold, must be the weather'.
I could have bit my tongue for adding the last bit because where I come from it's the standard joke but in Scotland they may not see the humour in it.
I bet he thought, 'Bliddy Sassenachs, we got us a right one 'ere', but very politely and with a little smile he asked?
'Wid ye no like ti poo yer chair a wee bitty nearer ti the table so ah dinny hev tae shout at ye'
'Oh sorry' I blurted, and moved my chair as he suggested.
But he added quickly, 'Och no, et's mah fau't ah should hae moved et mah'sel, ony ah wus just efter cleanin' ye ken' an ah wus readin' aboot Oor Wullie en the Broons in the Sunday Times an got carried awa, whit can ah do fer ye?'

When I suggested I would like to join the Navy his face suddenly darkened and lost the smile and I thought he was about to grab the cup of tea back.
But he regained his composure and forced another grin as he asked, 'How old are ye laddie?'

I replied 'Eighteen next May' so he counted on his fingers, I think for my benefit, 'Anither nine months?' said he, 'Ah wid venture yer a gey poasitive thinker tho' aye'. Then added, 'D'ye no ken ye will be ony oan a boy's pay ti' next May, ah can get ye enti the Argylls an ye will be oan a man's pay'.

'Besides thaat I hed a brother en the Navy an' when he got ship wrecked a sherk bit his leg noo he hes ti' walk en the gutter cos he's yin leg shorter then the ither'.

So I changed tack and asked him about the Air Force, and as quick as a flash he came back with, 'Did ye ever go up in an airy plane' to which I shook my head and said, 'No, but then there's a first time for everything.'

'And I think it would be quiet exciting', I parried

'Aye' said he 'But when yer ingine packs up oan yer it's an aufie lang ways doon'" and he grinned again and I noticed he had a tooth missing on the left behind his left eye tooth, probably the results of a brawl or a punch up with his wife.

He got up and walked over to a shelf and took down a folder, then walked back to the table and sat down.

He looked at me a bit old-fashioned, as if perhaps he was wasting his time with me.

Then with a quick grin he twirled the folder round because it was on the table upside down, then opening it and deftly running his fingers through the pages it contained, he said, 'Thes es aw aboot a Regiment that is beyond compare laddie, hae a wee gleg at et'.

Having pushed the now open folder across the table and turning it so I could read it, he opened a small drawer and took out a little bottle of amber liquid.

Pouring a little in his tea, and noticing me trying to read the small label from where I was sitting he grinned and held up the bottle and said, 'Ah need tae tak a wee drappy medicine.'
'Doctor's order's ye ken'

But since two of his fingers covered the label, I could not make out what the medicine was, all I could see of the label was the bottom bit where it stated 'Scotland's Finest Whisky.'

I was brought back to earth as the kilted Sgt said to me, 'Et tastes sae terrible ah hev tae tek et in mah tea tae kell the awfie taste'
And noticing my fascination with his bottle of fluid, he guessed that I guessed what it really was and blurted 'Ye would'ny like et at aw' and hurriedly stashed it back into his little drawer.

Then came the tales of India and maidens dancing in the moonlight and I suddenly realised I had my mouth open and was signing my name.

The out come of my encounter with this Scottish Gentleman was that I was now enlisted in the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders.

Having left school at fourteen with a fair knowledge of the three R's and having been raised on a farm I thought I knew it all, but boy was I over due for a rude awakening.

At home in my cupboard were books on some of the cowboy hero's of the old west and a couple of names that spring to mind are Buffalo Bill and Wyatt Earp.
However, back to the recruiting office.
I thought Wyatt Earp was fast with a gun, but this bloke with his file on the Argylls would have made him look like an amateur.

I came out of the recruiting office clutching a railway travel warrant to take me to Stirling Castle.

My head was still spinning from the encounter with the recruiting Sgt who saw me off the premises with a toothy grin, a wave, and a cheeky, "Cheerio the noo, hic."

I made my way to the railway station and sat in the waiting room to wait for my train that would transport me to Stirling.

A lady came in with a little boy in tow and sat down on the same seat, and turning to me enquired was I waiting for the Stirling train.

I said I was, and the little boy dragged the arm of his snot encrusted jacket sleeve across his top lip and blurted out "Yer Englesh ent yer" as if England was on Mars or the Moon.

The train arrived and I waited until the lady and her charge with the wet jacket arm sleeves got into a compartment, then I found an empty compartment.

As the train left the station the last glimpse I got was the porter carrying some heavy cases for a little old lady.

Then we were gliding clear of the station.
I noticed the paintings in their little frames above the seats opposite.
I was a bit disappointed because they were the same as the ones I had seen at home when getting into the train to go to Hull with my Mum when I was a small boy.

I had thought they would have been views of the Highlands
The view from the window of the carriage was magnificent and I was sorry when the journey was over.

On arriving at the town of Stirling I got out of the train and said, 'Good day' to the railway porter but he looked at me as though I was a Martian, muttered something and slouched away pushing an empty handcart.

Personally I didn't care if he had a good day or a bad one, it was just good manners to say it in passing if one caught a person's eye.

Outside the station there was a taxi so I jumped in and was whisked up to Stirling Castle.

I paid the taxi driver who had not spoken except to say, 'Where to sir,' but as I paid him and shut the door he said 'Good luck.'
I thanked him.

I wondered how many young men he had brought to Stirling Castle.

I walked through the big stone archway and noticed the Sentry to my front.

The Sentry was wearing a purple, black and green plaid kilt, I learned later it was the Campbell or Government tartan, white spats over highly polished black shoes, red and white diced socks with a double red flash showing from beneath the turn over at the top of the socks.

He was also wearing a khaki jacket that was cut away at the front to allow for the sporran of black hair with six white tassels that flared out from brass ferrules.

On his head was a Glengarry cap with two black ribbons falling down at the back.

The Glengarry was dark blue with rows of offset white and red squares going completely round the bottom half of the cap. The cap was finished off with what looked like a single red cherry at the top and in the middle and a huge silver badge on a black silk background.

I was informed later that the badge that depicted a wreath of thistles surrounding a cat and boar's head within a circle of letters forming "Argyll and Sutherland" was in fact the largest cap badge in the British Army.

As I walked by the Sentry he suddenly came to attention and sloped arms with the rifle he was holding, then turning smartly to his right he walked about ten paces about turned and began to walk back.

I pondered if he was short sighted since he never gave a hint that I was there and continues to look glassy eyed to his front.

Suddenly a voice cried, 'In here laddie' and I was amused and thought who ever shouted must have a mirror somewhere and saw me approaching.

It was then that I saw the open doorway on my right, so I walked toward it and entered.

However on getting inside the Guardroom I put the documents I had received from the recruiting Sgt in Glasgow in the outstretched hand of the Sgt of the Guard and jerking a thumb in the direction of the Sentry I asked, 'How often do you have to wind him up then?'

The Guard Sgt sat stony faced and silent as he perused the documents, then as if he had not heard my comment informed me to go to the right of the sentry outside, and continue up the hill.

'At the end of the wall turn left, and go to a small door painted green and go up the wee flight of stairs and the door on the right was for me.'
"A smart lad like you will know your left from your right" was the cold parting shot from the still stony faced Guard Sgt.

I thought "Oops!,harraway man Thomas, had yer wisht" Which roughly translated from my Mother's Gateshead Geordie to the North Lincolnshire dialect where I was born as "Keep thi gob shut Tom lad".

Following the instructions I walked past the glassy eyed Sentry and along the cobbled walkway till I got to the end of the wall and I was confronted by a parade ground covered with the same grey granite blocks that seemed to cover most of the ground here at the Castle.

Around the parade ground were buildings also of grey granite and since these were cheek by jowl the parade ground was boxed in so to speak, with the only entry and exit being where I had just entered via the Guard Room and main gate.

Leaving the three yard wide entrance at the end of the wall I veered to my left and made for the green door I could now see about a hundred yards away to my front.

On arriving at this room I saw there were about six beds with a metal locker along side each bed so I dumped my small suitcase in the locker and plonked my butt on the bed and thought, 'Well, now I've gone and done it'.

But then I cheered up as visions of blue seas and sandy beaches with me laid out in the sun like a corn beef dinner frying in the heat while a dusky Maiden dropped grapes into my mouth.
Ah yes this was the life and the Construction Company and the freezing weather were just another bad dream.

I missed that gang of good mates and by now also realised that my freedom was drasicaly curtailed.
But the consolation was that now I had a chance to better myself and the thought of being in a cold muddy trench half of the time was not the way to go.

At first I sat on the bed, then I lounged and finally I stretched out on it and thought how everyone had been so helpful so far, and because it was so quiet I began to doze, but it was cold.
I became aware of footsteps and then the door opened and a bloke came in and tossed his case on to the next bed to me and said.
'Hi, my names George Gillies.

George had a Yorkshire accent, I accepted the outstretched hand and replied,'My name is Tom Barker'.
'Are we the only ones here' asked George, and I replied 'I wouldn't have a clue, I've only been here half an hour myself'

George opened his case and after rummaging around in it withdrew a tooth brush and a small tube of tooth paste and said, 'Do you know where the wash place is?' and I shook my head, and said, 'The bloke said stay put so I suppose we better had, because you can bet your life if you move that's when they will come for you'.

I noticed since we were strangers just met we were both conversing in the King's English and it was a trait I was to use often when addressing Officers and strangers.

'Yes I suppose you could be right, but it won't hurt to look outside', and he got up off his bed.
I followed him down the short flight of stone steps, but before we got to the door it opened and suddenly gusts of cold wind were coming through the now open door.

'You'se blokes wan' somethin' tae eat yu better get over tu the dinin' hall pronto,' warbled a muffled voice through the woolly scarf, then the figure disappeared and the door shut with a bang.
'Well' said George, 'Might as well keep my coat on, you coming?'

Since I had not taken off the raincoat I was wearing I jumped up and said, 'Let's go'.
And together we braved the elements.

And having got out into the square had to ask a passing bloke in a uniform with a Crown and a Pip on his shoulder,'Where's the dining hall mate?' and his reply reminded me of the time I heard the King speak to the nation one Christmas morning
'I think you will find it where it normally is, over there, I am sure no one has had time to move it since I was there about five minutes ago'

And still looking at us as if we were deformed dust cart attendants he motioned with his right hand to his right and waved his index finger vaguely in the direction of some stone steps.

Thanking him we set off for the stone steps and when I glanced back the bloke was still standing there with a bemused look on his face and the wind was whipping his face with the two black ribbons from the back of his Glengarry cap.

We learned later the bloke with the Pip and Crown was actually the C.O.

The Commanding Officer. Stirling Castle.

We found the dining hall, and the menu to our delight was roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, potatoes and cabbage, followed by custard and banana slice, and a mug of tea.

We sat a table for new boys.

But next to us was a table with blokes dressed in brown fatigues, and as one of them got up with his plate in his hand one of his mates said, "There he goes, always after seconds, he'd eat yin mare tottie (one more potato) than a pig", and a ripple of laughter accompanied this remark.

Having enjoyed and finished our meal George and I saw that anyone having finished their dinner now picked up their empty crockery and utensils and return it to the dirty dishes counter, so we did the same.

We wandered back to the room and sat on our beds discussing things in general, like where do you live and what did you do before you decided, and what made you decide to become a Soldier.

George said, 'I've been all over the place and thought since I can't afford to go abroad I'll join up and see the world that way.'

'What prompted you to join?' he asked
I said, 'I was fed up of being wet and cold, don't get me wrong, when the weather was good the job was interesting enough.'
'I have worked in Selkirk, lot's of Mills and bonny lasses there'.

'Galasheilds, Edinbrough, Glasgow and the Clyde, Glasgow Green and the Gorbals.
"Thon' Gorbals es a wee bet rough!" offered a voice.

'They are all pretty much alike'.
" No the Gorbals!, ye kin go en at yin end an' no come oot at the ither but!!!" said the voice

'But like you I thought there has to be something different', said I

Then I added, 'Actually I wanted to join the Navy but I reckon that recruiting Sgt in Glasgow was a bit of a hypnotist'
'Yea' said George, 'Trouble is with this job you just can't ask for your cards after a weeks notice'.

I replied, 'Well if that mob in the dining hall are an example of life in the Army I don't think we have a problem.'

The door opened and another young man came in looked round and asked, 'Are you blokes new
Recruits?' and George answered, 'You could say that' and the young man said, 'I just did' and we all laughed.

During the course of the afternoon the room filled up till all six beds were occupied and two groups of three were soon discussing food, local talent (girls) and when do we go down to look at Stirling town.

There must have been some more rooms some where because the talk was of a new Platoon, what ever that was, and on finding out I thought it would take more than six men to make up a platoon.

Stirling town had to take a back seat for a while. Now we were in the Army and we had to toe the line. We were not free agents any more, so we just sat there and waited, and waited, and waited, and some one suggested, 'Ah thenk they hev fergotten aboot us'.

Someone else piped up, 'Don't yer wish?'
Well I thought this is not so bad, warm bed, good grub, good company, what more could a bloke ask for, at least we did not have to wade through mud every day.

The next day a Sgt arrived and our lazy days and speculation were over.

'Roight youse blokes, foller me' and he set off, not even bothering to check if we were in fact following him.

One bloke ventured, 'I read about a mob of blokes followin' this geezer an' the blokes in the tempul 'ad 'im nailed up on a bleed'n' cross, an' all his mates nicked off.'

And another voice said, 'Yea well this bloke don't remotely resemble the bloke yo is talkin' aboot, so ah think we is safe enough'

Now that, I thought, was confidence, he had spoken, and like a mob of sheep, half of the mob Scottish and the rest English or Sassenachs, Welch, and a couple of Irish, we followed him and he led us to a doorway.

And turning he waited patiently while we all trundled up to him.

When all movement had ceased and he had looked us over and commented, 'Cor dear o' bleedin dear, what DO we 'ave 'ere then?'

And looking up to the Heaven hoping perhaps God would transplant him to pastures a bit greener, and seeing as how nothing happened, he looked at us again and said, 'Roit then, when oi says yu nime yu answer 'ere Sergeant, gor it?'

One or two 'Yes Sergeant' was heard.
After calling about thirty names the Sgt looked us over.
Then the Sgt asked, 'Any wun 'ere's name oi didn't call aht.

'You missed me Sgt' said a voice.

'Oh, an' 'oo might you be miss?' asked the Sgt, looking at his pad then peering to see the speaker.

'Mah name's Wullie, ye ken'.

And the Sgt brightened and said, 'They writ' a song aboot yu ah think, Wullie no cum back agin' or somethin?' then he scowled because no one laughed and tersely he asked, 'An' what pray is yu last name, Wullie Wot?'
'McDonald Sgt'.
'So woy ain't ah got yu name on me list?'
'Och, ah ony juist got en, Sgt.' an' yer cudnie poot mah name doon ef yer didnie ken wit et wis!

The Sgt looked to one bloke then another and all he got was blank looks.
Then the Sgt warbled, "Woi cud yu not ev ed a simpul name loik Smiff or Brahn?"

Shaking his head and licking the pencil he added another name to his list.

'Roight, nah yu all go over tu that buildin' and yu see that door?' and he pointed, 'Yus go through that door and through the first door on yu left gorrit?'

Now a chorus of, 'Yes Sgt' and the Sgt beamed, 'Nah you'se is getting' the hang uv it'.
'When yu gets inter that room yu will each find a bed, one man one bed, O.K.?'

'On each bed yu will find blankits an' a piller, yu will report tu the stores and each man will be issued with two clean sheets an' a piller case.'

'Any questions?'

'Yea Sarg, ah'm used ti 'avin a big piller, can I 'ave two'.

The Sgt looked at him and sighed, but did not answer, so we assumed that verbal exchange had been put to bed.

We wandered over to the stores and collected two clean sheets and a pillow case, and the bloke who wanted two pillows asked, 'Ah need ti hev' two pillers or I can't sleep'

'Good', said the bloke behind the counter, 'Us cin put yuz on permanent Guard duty, anybody else got sleeping problems?'

Cries of, 'No mate, we'll get used to the one pillow thanks'.

A glare from the Sgt acompanied by a gruff, "It
might be mate in civvy street, but while yus is in 'ere it's Sergeant, gor it?"

"Duh!! yea Sarg" warbled the offending voice.

We all returned to the barrack room and someone noticed the steam radiators and they had to have a go at them and it wasn't long before the room, which had been cold, began to be pleasantly warm.
All the blokes were exploring their new dark green metal lockers with a key tied to the handle and wooden foot locker at the bottom of the bed with a lock with its key in the lock.
'Ooh look, this uns got drawers in it', cooed a voice,
'Yu gor a wun track bleed'n' mind mate', said a gravelly voice.
Then the door opened and the Sgt marched in with a board and pencil at the ready and stopped in the middle of the room.

He looked around then said, 'Roight then youse blokes, pay attention'.
Everyone stopped chatting and sat with faces turned toward the Sgt waiting for the next pearl of wisdom.

'Yu will no daht 'ave noticed that there is a lock an' key on yu foot locker, there is also a key for sed metal locker."
'An' when youse people leave 'ere yu will hand in two keys tu me" and he looked round the assembled faces, 'Anyone who loses 'is key will pay for a new lock and key, is that understood?'
And like Indian Miner birds in unison they all warbled, 'Yes Sargeant'.

'Roight then, termorrer we is goin' ter git yu all kitted out and everybody, wiv aht hexeption', and he glanced at a skin head near him, is goin' tu 'ave 'is 'aircut, gor it!'
The minor birds again chortled, 'Yes Sargeant'.
And the Sgt moved to the door and as it was closing it stopped and the head popped back for a final parting shot, 'Reveille is at six'

'S--t', said a voice, 'That's in the middle of the night'
Another voice said, 'Yea I might go for a walk in the middle of the night and get lost, stuff this for a lark'
Another voice said quietly, 'Yu'll nivver get past the bloody Guardroom Mac, so fergit it'.

One bloke was putting boots, socks and tins of boot polish into his foot locker.

The bloke laying on his bed opposite was reading a book.
Then on observing the activity opposite he lowered his book and warbled,

"Wit ye daen thaat fer?" he inquired, and the bloke looked up and replied, "Well it's a foot locker ain't it?"

The puzzled bloke with the book warbled, "Oor C.O. is the heed man o' thes ootfit but it disnie meen he's got twa heeds"

"Foot locker means it sets at the foot o' yer bed an' ye dinnie hev ti sleep wi' yer feet in it, jengs how stoopid' can yer get?"

But then the door shut and I watched as one bloke got a blanket and spread it on his bead and looked round and inquired "Anybody wan' a game of pontoon or nine card brag?"
A couple of blokes wandered over, but the remainder made their beds.

I made my bed and lay on it to read, but I put the book down and thought about Bill, Paddy and Pongo, and thought it had been a long day.
After a while I got between the sheets and thought here endeth the first day, but I was soon off to the land of nod-----and what followed was no dream.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.