大象传媒

In possession of my railway warrant, travel documents, full pack and kitbag carrying the remainder of all my worldly goods, I boarded my train at Cheltenham.

As the train pulled out of Cheltenham Central, I began to wonder what my next posting would be like. I now had time to study the name of the place written on my pass. It said "Royal Corps of Signals, Kings Walden, Hertfordshire".

My home at the time was in Potters Bar so I was rather pleased to think that I would be quite close to my mother and sister and the happy prospect of being able to see them on an occasional weekend pass.

The day had started rather cold but promised to be fine for my journey. As the train neared London I again began to wonder what this Kings Walden could be like - little did I know then how it would direct my future to the beaches of Normandy and later up the aisle of Kings Walden Church.

I made for Hitchin and found there was a small bus to Kings Walden. Unfortunately for us, this particular bus was scheduled to carry all the local children home from school plus the contents of what seemed like a never ending queue of people, with me at the end. The single-decker bus duly arrived and to my astonishment somehow we all disappeared into the bus plus all my kit and kitbag. After a rather harassing ride and with every bend a different lap to land on, we arrived at Kings Walden Camp.

It was still quite light so I found my way quite easily to the Company office: Thinking back I am now certain that the soldier who sat behind the desk that day was Andy Rimes who attended to my papers and arranged my temporary accommodation for that night.

It appeared that the majority of the unit were away on manoeuvres and were not expected to return for at least a couple of weeks. I received this news with a certain amount of relief - knowing I would have a chance to settle in before having to join my Section. However, this was not going to prove quite the holiday I had expected.

I was told that my temporary berth was to be under the Bury Clock - whatever that was! I took a turn to the right, passed the Guard Room and there she was - "The Clock". Climbing the outside wooden stairs I entered what was an enormous loft where a number of other "waifs and strays" had also been directed. I filled a palliasse with straw (which was quite the usual substitute for a mattress in the Army) and prepared to settle down and arrange my area of floor space. It must have been about six o' clock and I was just about to put the finishing touches to my bed when I was literally shot out of my skin by a loud clanking noise followed by the crashing of a bell immediately above my head. This clanking and ringing went on for a full minute - then back to the tranquillity of the evening. At that moment, to my horror, I realised that this would be repeated every quarter of an hour. The thought of midnight I could hardly contemplate. This first night, I swear, I heard every 'clank' and every crash of the hammer on the bell. Needless to say, like all background noises, we got accustomed to this one also. After the war I've heard the clock chime many times - from a distance of course, but I was always compelled to stop and listen to its quality which seemed to me to blend so well and enhance the beauty of the countryside in that part of Hertfordshire.

Sadly "The Bury" and "The Clock" are no more.

Although the majority of the men were still away the dancing went on. I'm referring, of course, to the Friday night 'hops' in the Village Hall where the Royal Signals dance band consisting of Drums, Piano, Violin and Saxophone entertained the very appreciative couples. At this point in time my own destiny was sealed. I met my future wife.

On the return of my section from their scheme I joined them in Nissen Hut No.4. For those who do not remember the Nissen huts along the Church Road, they occupied the right hand side, travelling from the direction of the Post Office. The ablutions were on the left just inside the park. The Bury was occupied by the Officers' Mess and Company Offices. Near the entrance to the Stables was the men鈥檚 Mess and Cookhouse. The stables in the quadrangle we used for Company and Section Stores with the open area for square bashing and mounting the evening guard. As you have now gathered, I had my feet firmly and squarely (to use an old Army term) 'under the Table'.

The Spring of 1942, despite the war, to me was an extremely happy time. Occasionally Army chores got in the way of my courting but I seemed to find time to explore all the lovely walks around the area. After spending two years of my Army life in Dover Castle and other unsavoury billets this was indeed bliss and I wanted it to go on forever.

The word went round that we were off to Burma and certain preparations were begun. The first thing that happened however, and to my great relief, was a move not quite as far as Burma but just two miles up the road to Breachwood Green. From the dubious comfort of bunk beds in a Nissen hut to Bell Tents in the field belonging, I would assume then, to the house called "Crossways".

The weather at that time was hot and all the windows of people's houses living in the immediate vicinity were open wide - so indeed were the many tent flaps. Sadly, the tone and reputation of the "Signals" was somewhat reduced at that time, due to the slightly different vocabulary used by the Army and some dear old ladies opposite - with resulting complaints and a few nights spud-bashing (not me, of course).

I spent my evenings off duty with my new family in Kings Walden. Then, filled with raspberry and blackcurrant tart, etc. would wind my way up through the park, down Shady Lane to the road and into the field where the tents were. I then had to describe in detail to my tent mates the gastronomic delights of the evening, while they incidentally, for supper, had been treated to a piece of hard cheese and something called coffee. Every mouthful re-counted was greeted with groans of envy - but they insisted on a full description of every spoonful.

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