大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by (Helen Smith) on behalf of (John Rawlings) and has been added to the site with his/her permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

PREFACE

One weekend at Wissington I had recited one of my often repeated memoirs, and Sylvia commented that when I had 鈥済one,鈥� my war stories would be lost. She suggested that I should put them on record. These amateur scribbles are the result. It has given me great pleasure to re-live many incidents which remain in my memory after so many years. As the chapters have been completed, family comments have been encouraging and their help in editing has been most useful. Even as I write, I recall additional events worthy of note which may be added as an extra, if time permits. For the moment, I hope this first edition will be completed in such a form, that copies can be sent to those members of the family who, in one way or another, are bound up with some of the incidents described.

Chapter One

JOINING UP

Uncle Fred was my favourite uncle. He always found time to play and talk and it was through him that I got my first colourful mental pictures of World War One. It was one of his regular, but ever changing stories that determined my approach to World War Two in which I was to spend six years of my life.
Fred was in the infantry and, if what he told me was reasonably truthful, he spent much of his service in the trenches. At a distance of many years the detail was often lurid and exciting. To a child of tender years it was horrifying and memorable. The picture of rats nearly two feet long and 鈥渢hat鈥檚 not including the tail, John鈥� were to haunt me for years.
It is not surprising that when 鈥渙ur war鈥� was approaching, my one desire was to avoid the infantry at all costs. To achieve this objective I realised that I must take the initiative and join a group which was unlikely to work in rat infested areas. A local Territorial drill hall was within two or three hundred yards of my place of work and before the dreaded conscription was introduced, I and a half dozen of our male staff signed on for King and Country.
It was not the ill fitting uniforms or boots, so heavy and uncomfortable that one could hardly take a step, that led me to think that joining up on the basis of Uncle Fred鈥檚 stories was not such a good idea after all. The pointless marching up and down in response to any one who had one or more bits of white material in the form of a 鈥淰鈥� on his sleeve and who shouted in a language difficult to understand and interspersed with words not normally used in polite society and the meaning of which was completely unknown to me, was not helpful.
In support of the 鈥渃orporals鈥� and above, for that was the meaning of the 鈥淰鈥�, I must admit that this drilling did eventually produce a cohesive group of trainees able and almost willing to follow the shouted command, which was understood, not by the words used but rather by the inflection of the voice or length of pause before the final screech, which produced the instant obedience of the entire group.
Territorials were allowed an extra weeks holiday to attend summer camps. This was recognised as bait to attract more to join. It was not until arrival at the camp that this conception was seen to be palpably untrue. The welcome was brutal, and I use this word in its original meaning. We were barked at, mustered into homogenous groups, driven in marching order and discharged into our 鈥渉omes鈥�. Never before had I seen an Army Bell tent in such a miserable way. Ground sheets and two army grey blankets and sundry other items were distributed and we were left to sort ourselves out before a 鈥減arade鈥� in an hour鈥檚 time.
It is surprising how quickly one submits to the inevitable as we faced the rigours of army life. Each morning at an unearthly hour, we fell in for inspection and allocation of duties which in no way could be regarded as military training. Having satisfied the sergeant as to our cleanliness and turnout we were shuffled into one long line split into three. The first group were addressed 鈥渇rom 鈥榚re to 鈥榚re (pause) cookhouse duties鈥�, a few smart strides to the next group 鈥� from 鈥榚re to 鈥榚re. Vehicle maintenance鈥� and so to the third group: 鈥淵ou lot鈥� (a longer pause to savour what was to follow 鈥�.. 鈥淟atrine duties.鈥�
I am a fair-minded bloke and accepted that my position in the third group was fortuitous and I must take my share of the bad with the good. It was the same routine the next day and again in the third group I was a latrine wallah. Only then did I learn the first lesson of my army service 鈥淟ook after Number One as nobody else will鈥�. I will not disclose my methods: suffice it to say that my regular duties thereafter were invariably Vehicle Maintenance.
Our vehicles were civilian lorries and trucks of different sizes, carrying capacities and makes. On the day of the field exercise vehicles were allocated to known drivers who were given their directions and moved off. Those still 鈥渁t ease鈥� on parade, mainly new recruits, watched with interest as some vehicles still awaited drivers but these were found one by one as their transport experience was established. There remained one driverless vehicle - a clapped out Carter Paterson Albion 5 tonner.
The Sergeant Major was a nice fellow of the surname Elsie. He lived quite close to us and we were on nodding acquaintance with him in his civilian guise. In uniform he was a different character and the way he had allocated the vehicles was surprising. Clearly he was annoyed that he was one driver short and he stamped up and down the remaining ranks in high dudgeon until he saw me in the back row. 鈥淒river Rawlings鈥� he shouted, 鈥� I have seen you driving around in an Austin 7. You will drive the Albion鈥� and was off before I could say any thing.
The difference between the Albion and my baby Austin was considerable. I could hardly reach the pedals, I did not recognise the instruments but, above all, I did not know how to start it. What is more my job was to carry the Officers鈥� Mess kitchen and stores and I had to report immediately. Somehow with the aid of more experienced drivers we got it started on the handle and loaded up.
The mess officer of the day was not known to me and oozed lack of sympathy. The Albion was a beast to drive but somehow I kept it going until we met a hill, not a steep one, but a hill nonetheless. The Albion stuttered to a stop. The officer 鈥渆ncouraged鈥� me to look under the bonnet to find the trouble. Of course I recognised the bonnet but not its weight and nearly did myself an injury in folding it back What I saw was frightening and nothing like the engine compartment of my Austin. In my despair the officer was asking what I was doing and expected an answer. It was at that moment I saw a copper pipe at the back of the compartment with a tap which was neither vertical nor horizontal. Rather than do nothing, I managed to turn it to the vertical position praying that this would be the petrol. supply. With the engine still warm I managed a couple of turns on the handle and we were away. The Officer congratulated me on my technical ability and confessed that if I had failed he would have been at a complete loss as he knew nothing about engines.
A final and softer memory of that time. My parents came down to see how we (my brother was in the same unit serving in the Company office) were getting on. At the time I was in the cookhouse cleaning the underside of a large cauldron clogged with the soot of ages. As the soot was chipped away it became a powder which flew everywhere, not least on to my person. The corporal in charge gave me twenty minutes to see my parents who were waiting at the gates, some distance away. I saw them before they saw me although I was waving all the time. As I approached, they turned and strolled slowly away, all the time looking down the path up which I had come. Suddenly they became more alert, moving back to the gate towards which a smartly dressed soldier was also moving and which he would reach before me. I then recognised him as my company office brother who received a great welcome laced with much family affection.
As I approached, my mother, clearly not wishing to be interrupted, moved away. My father stood his ground in defiance. It was a few moments before I saw a small glint of recognition, surrounded by doubt, in my father鈥檚 eyes. Slowly he smiled and all was well although it took some time to persuade my mother that the stranger, clearly of West Indian origin and badly needing a bath, was indeed her prodigal son.

A few days later war was declared and I was in the real army.

Chapter two

EARLY DAYS

In selecting the regiment which might benefit by my enlistment, I had three reservations in mind. Firstly, my dislike of rats and their association with the infantry as described elsewhere. The second was my preference to be carried by a motor vehicle rather than to depend on my own two feet. This I had already achieved in selecting the Royal Army Service Corps which 鈥渢hey鈥� had described as similar to a delivery system serving other units in the field. There remained the last condition over which I had no control. The Division of which I was now a part, had three RASC companies each with its own speciality. One to deliver ammunition, which had no appeal for obvious reasons. The second was to provide petrol, not from a pump, which would have been a cushy job, but in flimsy cans with all its attendant dangers. The third was to carry food and this had an immediate appeal. By sheer chance I was posted to the food carriers. This double bonus proved to be invaluable in the months ahead.
Initially, life was extremely boring and consisted of frequent parades, numerous inspections, dull lessons on the working of machine guns which we had to dismantle and reconstruct endless times until we could do it blindfold - or that was the objective. We never got to shoot the wretched thing as it was already out of production and replacements were only available to those in the front-line. Hearing this, I did not press for active use of the gun,
However life bucked up when I was given the job of staff driver transporting an officer to and from Woolwich Arsenal. I never found out what he did but deducing that, as the Arsenal was a longstanding institution, I had a job for life - army life anyway. I revelled in this, particularly as we returned to our army base each night and there was the opportunity to get home occasionally. This all turned out to be a pipe dream as my services were redirected to another staff driver job, this time for an officer working at the DID - a separate unit breaking down bulk supplies for company use. He lived at Maidstone and returned home every night allowing me to use the guest room. It was here that I recognised the benefit of 鈥渟leeping out鈥� which Muriel and I perfected whenever circumstances allowed. The first occasion that this occurred was at Maidstone which was our first posting away from our home town. I was billeted with an elderly couple living in a small cottage near the river. Muriel decided to come down for the Saturday when I would be off duty. When the time for her to depart came, we made an instantaneous decision that she would stay overnight so that we could have another day together, but where? With little thought she chose a large hotel in the High Street and booked in without counting the cost and without nightclothes, toilet accessories or baggage of any sort. These were quickly purchased at Boots just before they shut for the weekend. Fortunately she had enough money to pay the bill. I could not help, as my cash flow was minimal. We gained a lot of experience, which we used to advantage whenever Muriel was able to join me.
There was a general air of activity beginning to show itself. My Maidstone job folded and the company moved frequently. Deliveries became a regular feature. Before we left Maidstone, vehicles had carried many different commodities, including coal and ballast from the Kent coalfields. One of these single vehicle trips took driver Bickerstaff, with me as co-driver, to Biggin Hill. After we had delivered our load, we took advantage of the proximity of our home town to divert to Croydon. Bickerstaff handed the vehicle over to me when he reached his home in South Croydon, and I drove on to Addiscombe. Muriel was surprised and of course glad to see me but I imagine the other residents felt somewhat upset that a three-ton Bedford should use a residential area as a parking lot. It was only a short visit and I was off to pick up Bickerstaff so that we could get back before awkward questions were asked.
At Yeovil we became static again and 鈥渆njoyed鈥� sleeping on a concrete floor and daily kit inspections enlivened by the parody of the section corporal trying to put drivers 鈥渙n charge鈥� for dirty or untidy kits. In civvy street Corporal Drew was a butcher鈥檚 delivery boy with a minimum of education but he possessed the largest vocabulary of swear words and related phrases that I have ever met. Charge sheets, written by an NCO, asked for the accused鈥檚 name etc and a brief description of the offence. Preceded by the legal phrase 鈥渃ontrary to good order and discipline,鈥� the offence was to be clearly stated and explained. In this last requirement the corporal excelled. However petty the offence, it attracted a dictionary of foul oaths and swearing coupled with frequent references to the accused鈥檚 doubtful family background. Finally with a flourish the charge sheet Form 252 was produced and the following exchange always took place. 鈥淲ot鈥檚 yer nime?鈥� 鈥淒river Smith 12345鈥�. Corporal鈥�. Pause. 鈥淥w do yer spell Smith ?鈥� To the casual observer, this was laboriously written down but the pencil rarely touched the paper. The next phrase, muttered slowly to keep pace with the pretence of writing 鈥渃ontrary to good order鈥�.鈥� did not get very far as at this stage the charge sheet would be viciously screwed up, waived in the accused鈥檚 face with the words suitably laced with the choicest selection of his vocabulary 鈥淚鈥檒l let yerorf this time but I鈥檒l be watching yer鈥�.
It may be that to qualify for promotion the number of successful charges are taken into account. Corporal Drew remained in his present rank until the end of the war. However I must put in a word in his defence. In France, when his section came under direct fire and all our vehicles were destroyed, Corporal Drew was the only officer, commissioned or otherwise, who stayed with his men and led them to safety. The platoon officer and sergeant disappeared and were not seen again until they reappeared in England after Dunkirk.

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