大象传媒

Chapter 1.

In which I join the Corps.

Friday, 1st September 1939 - truly a memorable day. First of all a healthy, squalling baby boy was born in the middle of an air raid during "The War to end all Wars" just 23 years previously. How ironical, for while I thought of celebrating that occasion a small time painter, ex-Corporal Hitler, invaded Poland. Then at 11 o'clock on Sunday, 3rd September, whilst I soundly slumbered, War was declared. My sister violently announced the fact by pulling me out of bed, almost starting a private War!

When I went out the whole town was talking about it, the elders in rather sad tones, while members of the younger generation were wildly talking about joining up. That evening in the "local" trade was good and the talk quite amusing. The old contemptibles were boasting of how they had won the last war, while the soldiers-to-be were boasting of what they would do if they met a Nazi! "Why should England tremble", I thought, "with such a spirit as this".

The following weeks went by with all my old pals going to the various arms of Service. Finally on the 20th October 1939 I went to find what it was all about. The Recruiting Sergeant told me! So I signed up with the R.A.O.C. Being a store man by civilian trade I thought to carry on the good work in the Army.

First a word about the Recruiting Office. I often wondered why the grizzled old Sergeant with rows of medals was so kind and helpful. Having been through six and a quarter years of Service, I now know! To the Medical Room was the next part of the programme and what a hectic hour that was! I was made to amble around in the nude on a rough mat in front of six M.O.s. Made to bend down, stand up, cough! Hammered, poked and punched until I felt a complete wreck. By some unknown turn of fate I was pronounced grade A.1. I then presented myself to a charming little A.T.S. who took down my particulars, part of which went like this - "Married?" "No". "Any children?" "?!!" The A.T.S. blushed prettily and murmured "I suppose not". Finally I went before the Colonel to be sworn in. He was quite hurt when I told him that I couldn't go before the following Monday as I had business to attend to. He said it would be all right, but as I was now a Private in His Majesty's forces if I did not arrive on Monday I would be arrested. To say that shook me was putting it mildly.

Monday dawned bright, cold and clear so, with my business sorted out, I said a somewhat tearful Au revoir to the old folks and set forth with a stout heart and a wobbling inside to do my best for King and Country. Having reported to the Colonel, who positively beamed when he saw me, I was sent all on my lonesome to R.A.O.C. Barracks, Hillsea. During the journey I changed at Salisbury and there, sitting on various sized suit cases, was a somewhat gloomy knot of fellows about my own age. They all had that "Is it worth it?" expression so I asked if they were Hillsea bound. Most of them nodded gloomily, so I joined the "merry" crowd, with an equally gloomy, "Me too". During the train ride I got to know them. To my amazement I found that they were from all parts of England and not one of 'em knew what had made him join. Their answers were mainly "Browned off' (to coin that phrase) "with my civvy job".

At about 7.00 p.m. in the middle of a black out we arrived at Hillsea Barracks where a fierce looking sentry halted us. "What, me do that?" I thought with knees knocking. "Phew!" The others felt the same I could tell. We timidly announced that we had arrived and so, like so many sheep, we were pushed before a stem looking Corporal of the guard who went through our papers and shot questions at us with the rapidity of a machine gun. Another Corporal took us away to a large gym and told us to dump our kit and follow him. Blindly following, not knowing what was to come, we went to the Quartermaster's stores where we had a knife, fork and spoon, metal plate and bowl and two blankets thrown at us and back to the gym. The Corporal shot at us "Hungry?" It was only then that we realised we had not eaten since breakfast so we all nodded. The corporal shook his head sadly and said sarcastically "Are you all dumb?" "No", we replied, wondering what was coming next. We found out!. "D'yer know what these are?" he bellowed, pointing to his stripes, "Well let me tell you these are the stripes of a Corporal so you always say Yes Corporal or No Corporal. Get me?". "Yes, Corporal", say we. "Right, to the cook house". What a shock. With plates in hand and a hopeful heart we lined up. Out of a black hole came a ladle full of
soup (?) and another of tea, which were unceremoniously dumped into
our plates and mugs. "Bread, butter and cheese on the table" said a voice from the depths of the cookhouse "and hurry up for ...... sake. I ain鈥檛 got all night". We looked at our plates and mugs, then at the hunks of bread and cheese lying in a heap on the table, sadly shook our heads and thought of home. So this was our first taste of Army life. My God!
Those of us who managed to get some sleep on a hard wood floor were rudely awakened in what seemed the middle of the night -5.30 a.m. - by a very loud bugle blaring in no uncertain tones "Get out of bed, you lazy ......s". Most of us were glad to get up and ease the stiffness out of our bones. Wondering where to wash, we took our gear and went outside. Pitch darkness greeted us and sounds of movement, but could we see anything? Could we hell. Finally our old friend the Corporal came to our rescue and showed us a pig trough with taps over it. "That is your ablutions", said he. "Don't forget to shave". Having spent our lives shaving and washing in hot water, that water was the coldest ever and without doubt it was the worst shave we ever had, but we survived.

That morning we moved into huts which had just been built. "Especially for you", our Corporal said. The paths around these huts were about 3 inches deep in mud and with civvy shoes it wasn't so nice. Still the huts were comfortable, 20 of us to a hut.

It's queer how men muck in together, which after all is the spirit
of the British Army. Take my old hut and squad - squad 40 was our number. In that mob were all types; the wealthy, the poor, shopkeeper, clerk, costermonger, even an ex Spanish civil war type. This man was truly an adventurer having fought his way all over the world. How he got in the R.A.O.C. I do not know as it was a Non Combatant Corps at that time Yes, we had all types who, after the typically English aloofness in front of strangers had worn off, became just one of the squad and we all got on together.

We did little for a week, just cleaning our hut and hut area until like a bolt from the blue, came our old pal, the Corporal and during that day our feet didn't touch the ground. First we went to the HQ. Office where we passed through the hands of many clerks of different rank who took down our particulars at amazing speed. As we went to the last clerk in something of a daze he pushed a piece of paper in our hands, together with many forms including that AB64, with these words, "That's your number. Don't lose it or forget it or may God help you. Our next port of call was the Q.M. Stores. For those who don't know a QM. Stores is a vast building where on entering you find yourself in a kind of forest of equipment. There are sacred groves of boots avenues of battle dress, hanging gardens of slippers, a foliage of vests undergrowths of socks 鈥� in fact everything a soldier could possibly want The Q.M. staff talk a strange backwards English when issuing kit, like this - Boots, ankle, pairs, two. Slowly we made our way along the counter that kept us from the inner mysteries of the place. Into our kit bags went the various items of clothing, respirators, capes anta-gas, etc. until we felt the bags must burst. "There can't be any more to come" we thought, but yes - equipment consisting of a large and small pack and a vast assortment of queer straps, all with bits of brass at the ends. The brass meant nothing to us at that moment, but alas we were but ignorant Rookies! Finally we staggered off to our hut to find out what it was all about. Our Corporal told us in no uncertain terms what to do with all the bits and pieces, ending up like this, "I鈥檝e shown yer 鈥榦w to pack yer kit. That鈥檚 the proper way. Remember it and yer won鈥檛 get into trouble. Na get into yer khaki and pack yer civvies off 'ome. Yer can't keep 'em 'ere,鈥檚鈥� against Kings Regs.鈥� With some regret we folded our civvies up into neat parcels and sent them off to our various homes, feeling very peculiar in our battle dress, but quite comfortable nevertheless. Except for the Boots, ankle, pairs, one! Those boots have to be worn to be
believed. No words can fully describe them. At first it feels as if your feet are encased in iron and with each step a pain shoots through your feet. The only way to conquer them is to wear 鈥榚m. Usually by the end of the first day your feet are blistered and bleeding, but with perseverance you win through and finally you become as attached to your Boots as to an old pair of slippers.

Days passed by with little happening to brighten our existence. The sole occupation was watching the Rookies come and go and dashing across to the Naffi for a cup of char and a wad. Then one day we were called out on parade and told Squads 40, 41 and 42 were posted to 52 Training Battalion. What a shudder of suppressed excitement ran through those squads. At last we were going to be made into soldiers. Had we known what was in store for us I'm sure a lot would have deserted!

With our kits packed we sallied forth to our new place. Our arrival at a tiny little railway station way out in the back of beyond was something of a surprise to us. The remarks of the various lads were quite unprintable.

The Training camp was a vast peacetime barracks on top of a very large ammunition dump, which we were to find out about in the near future. Our arrival was quite an event for, apart from the rather small permanent staff, the camp was almost empty. We were welcomed like long lost sons. First came the allocation of huts by the Sergeant in charge who took us away in squads. We were halted at No. 18. 鈥淭his is your hut鈥�, the Sergeant began. We looked at the great scoured Box, containing one stove, 60 planks on 60 little trestles making 20 little beds, a coal tub, 2 iron buckets, 3 brooms, 1 scrubber, 1 mop and 2 scrubbing brushes.

"This is your hut", said the Sergeant, 鈥淔rom now on this is going to be your home. Everybody pick himself a bed. Keep it. You鈥檙e responsible for the tidiness of your bed area and everything connected with it. Fall out!鈥�

We had arrived at last. Many stories have been told tragic and funny, about the training days. Ours were no different - just endless days of square bashing, rifle drill and lectures. The only breaks we had were the days when the ammo dump was exceptionally busy and we went to act as glorified labourers, handling many queer types of boxes containing equally queer types of ammo.

Then rumour reared its head and a buzz shook the camp. We were going overseas as a Base Ammunition Depot. It was right. First came inoculations, usually called "jabs", at which even the stout hearted wilt and fade out. I for one passed out five minutes after my first jab! Then came Embarkation Leave. At the start I didn't tell my mother and sister why I was on leave - too fond of strutting around in my new uniform to worry about it. Towards the end I told them. Needless to say they were a little tearful, but all told I had a grand leave.

Back to camp once more and all preparations were being made for a Christmas holiday at home. "What was wrong?" we asked. "Nothing, just Posted", we were told. Oh, the liars in the Army, for on the 22nd December we were pushed on a train and put on a boat anchored off the Isle of Wight before we knew quite what had happened.

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