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( Part 2) Railways pass to Shorncliff Barracks.

Dulled with the experience of the medical and still damp behind the ears he was given a railway pass to Shorncliff Barracks. Up till then his travelling experience was very limited his longest till then a trip from Cardiff to London. His world was a small place, like it or not he was to start his tour of larger more exciting places.
Armed with a travel warrant and a few bob he had left in his pocket, it would be a good bye civilian street and hello the army. For the first time he would go in style, with the attitude of an Earl he hailed a taxi. Luckily for him it was a benevolent taxi driver he had stopped, the lad explained that he had joined the army and wanted to go to Shorncliff. Must have been the way this new soldier looked that when the driver looked at the warrant gave that little smile. "Can't take you there, its right down in the bottom of Kent, but what I can do is take you to the station." He did just that, wished the lad well and refused to take any money.
Victoria railway station was a new name on his list and was different; the trains were similar but differed in colour and company name. What seemed to be forever, he reached Dover?
Within a short time of arriving there he was entering the barrack gates, their appearance took on the fear of the unknown, a mystery place! He was excited! Soldiers were walking about their business; he wanted to be there, a few more steps and entered the building. There was no doubt those proper soldiers’ moving about the place were the real thing and that he was the rawest of recruits and it was how they treated him. No saluting and banging the feet down for the lad, just standing there with hands deep in pockets waiting for all his details to be taken, all formalities out of the way, he was now in the army. The mister put into cold storage to be replaced with Private 6297283. Now it was a possible twenty four hour job, like it or not with little civilian rights,
His trip to the barracks was uneventful, so much so that he had little recollection of it accept arriving late in the evening. Lighting was restricted to the minimum to meet war time conditions. Unwinding himself from the camp transport dragged his weary body up to the guardroom to present himself to the authorities. There was little hurry or interest from them as the newly issued warrant with its details was checked.

First few days in the army did much to dampen the enthusiasm for this type of life. None of his old civilian standards fitted into it. It was a fact that he was under age could have open a way to get out of the army. Kent was a long way from his home, an immediate evacuation of the place was impossible. These early hours with the army and its life stile pointed to an early return to Civilian Street, cold, hungry his youthful ideas had become tarnished, and the good things of being a mister had now overtaken the picture of being a soldier.
In the background of the hall the duty sergeant looking in his direction. The distance between them narrowed; with out any formality he stood in front of him and pointing a direction to the next stop with the added verbal of "this way". This was to be the lad’s first eye to eye connection with a sergeant? No pleasantry’s exchanged none expected. With hardly any other word being spoken he was taken to his bed space. It was in a room with half a dozen other young people of his age. Little was said. It was the early stages; they all spoke the same language but chose to remain in small groups. Londoners were making the larger of the groups. At least all had one thing in common for that first night; they slept like logs until the first Army bugles.

First light came and with some verve by the NCOs added to the din by shouting wakey, wakey, rise and shine. It was a noise that could only be enjoyed by the perpetrators of it. Six o’clock blues had arrived with a vengeance.
Barrack accommodation up till then had seemed to be a shear luxury, it was warm and he was drifting about in the clouds of a heavy sleep. Blasted shouting had cut through it! It jarred every nerve in his body. Those who were still hanging onto their blankets were playing a loosing battle. Over active NCOs waltzed around these loaded beds, there would be no pause in their obscene shouting until their bed victim was also active and outside those warm blankets. Worse was yet to come for these first day recruits. They were ushered to the ablution for their first wash up army stile. It was an early morning wash in cold water. Each looked at one another muttering minor obscene descriptions of their introduction into Army life. The feeling was unanimous! All were shaking their heads in total disbelief!

It was a testing time for the untried stamina of this youth, an introduction into this new life had not been his earlier interpretation of army life. The King's shilling and his signature insured his co-operation.
In this cut off world he had now made for himself he looked outside of it for guidance, it would be the first time that he was to ask his father’s advice and needed someone’s shoulder to cry on, he needed his Father’s advice above all. In his early years his Father’s service stories feed that idea that he knew every thing about the service; advice to stay in the Army rested on what he would say.

Father’s Advice.

The advice he got from his father was proved to be good advice. A letter arrived; in some ways the contents didn't suit the way he felt, he wanted to get out of the army and wanted to use the fact that he was under age. The main theme of the advice was to stay, ‘you have made your own bed and should lie on it’. Thought hard about his father’s advice as he looked around the barrack room, is mind was in flux.
Further into the letter ‘Anyway they will only call you up when you’re old enough’ settled him down. Weight of the family service records hung around his neck. He would be letting down the family if he pulled out of the service?
Reasons to pull out were overwhelmed by the reason to stay. He had involved his father, what was the use of asking advice and running? Fathers knew everything! There was no use running against the tide he was stopping. To try to soften the hard edges he weighed up the benefit.
This new life had its advantages, at least all food and lodgings were free. All the other things to do with army barrack life would need him to acquire the taste for it. He didn’t acquire the taste for it but learnt to live with it.

Bugle-calling.

Bugle-calling reveille was the sound that seemed to fill the space; strangely it is the main contact with his memories of army life. Bugle sounds still fires the memories of past comrades and theatres of war for him.
Within a short time the important lesson was learnt. It was better to think before the mouth got moving and got him into trouble. If the Sargent shouted abuse, just agree and he could go and torment some one else.
He had little contact in the early days with the top brass. On the odd occasion he experienced it, it never really impressed him. In time he would know the rules. Salutes when expected and stand there like a bit of merchandise being sold on the open market. Sometimes authority poked the body with a stick to make a point, perhaps hygiene being their main concern. This world was there’s. In the privacy of his own world he expressed his true feelings. Ordinary ranks knew their place; If they didn’t they were quickly reminded of it.
He was quick to learn that playing along with these standards was less expensive. After some delay the day to be kited out with the uniform arrived. There was excitement and confident expectation in the air for all. Each and every ones particular stile of the civilian clothes now a thing of the past to be replaced with one collective denominator, ‘The British Army Uniform’.

Army Issue.

Groups of civilian dressed youths assembled in the gym. In the centre of it the uniforms and service issue clothing. It almost resembled a jumble sale. No glamour our dignity in this army issue of the clothing and equipment. The lad was disappointed as he watched the charade take place; he had expected this issue of a uniform to be a special part of the introduction into the army and would be an instant change from a civilian to a soldier. What he saw was items of clothing and things stacked in their separate piles like so much garbage. A shambles of a circle of the lads was formed up around these piles of equipment to take what was given to them.
The Quartermaster stood there with a book at the ready; the time had come to issue the clothing. Around him and standing behind their pile the regular army store-man at the ready. As if he was to conduct an almighty orchestra he looked to his store men. A large pen in his hand was his batten of control. Pointing at each to register their readiness, this comedy was ready to bring all rookies and regulars into the act of issuing the first uniform. Some of the lads were ready and were holding some of their items in their arms long before the lad grabbed at his first item of clothing. Looking around the group the Quartermaster looked once again as if to make sure that he had their attention, he read out from his list. His team came alive and as each item was read out from the list it was thrown in the direction of the nearest man.
Sizes mattered not. Towards the end of this exercise there was pandemonium. Within time the piles of clothing and equipment had been distributed. Their job done Quartermaster and store men left the recruits in the tender arms of the NCOs'. Military discipline in this group of civilian dressed youths was non-existent. Somehow they were assembled and marched off with their issue cradled across their arms.

Jokes had already started as they made there way back to their barrack room. What should have been a serious affair was turned into a laughingstock with their frolics. Some standing with their first pair of long johns falling about with laughter, the really large sizes had enough room around the waist to satisfy the needs of the largest pregnant woman. It was the luck of the draw; the odd garment fitted other lads trying on trousers that would have been the ideal props for a clown in a circus. Most garments were inches big in every direction. Legs and bum panels of these things so large they folded into one another, trouser waist measurements to the crotch large enough to hang the largest stomach in. Some of the lad’s got a laugh by pulling the waste band up to the armpit.
It had escalated into a lopsided carnival. Each tries to outdo one another by adding any other items to that oversize garment. Most of the uniforms had been pickled in a smelly white powder for years and did nothing to improve the appetite to wear the tunics and things.
Ordinary rank tunics varied from extra large to the very small fitting. Correct tunic dress at that time was to button the tunic right up to the top; this exaggerated the size of the tunic collar and showed about ten inches of the collar-less shirt. Any self-respecting horse would feel ashamed of this halter like thing hanging about its neck. This façade of incompetence did relieve the pressure of the newly imposed disciplines of this new life. In some strange way it started to pull the group together. The NCO’s brought order to the group. Frolicking was stopped. An immediate solution was possible to change the clothing within the group, anyone that found a fitting item kept it.
Time came when it was impossible to make any more clothing interchanges and a tailor was brought into the picture. This civilian tailor did at least bring in some sort of sanity into the situation. His intervention now brought things under control. Those with badly fitted tunics and trousers were made to line up in the wing of the building to carry out the changes then with his magic chalk marked out the changes to the uniforms. It was a make do time until the alterations were completed and returned to supervise another fitting before the rookie civilian was turned into a rookie soldier. In the main it worked and at least the altered uniforms were good enough to be worn out side the barracks.

Boots were changed at the stores for the right size. Lots of them were stamped with First World War dates. They were the regulations boots, studded and steel tipped, heavy as lead wearing them was even worse; in the first weeks they seemed to weigh a ton. Feet and their inside leather didn’t get on at all. Within hours he was hobbling around like a sheep with foot rot. Lots of suggestion on how to break them in had failed; one idea was to wee in them to soften up the leather. It was a fairy tale as far as he was concerned. Sore feet and huge blisters were the order of the day. It would take time before the boots would become comfortable.
The leather was dull with preservatives; raised pattern of dots covered the whole surface of the leather.
Lots of hours of rubbing and spit were used to flatten that surface, from some-where in the group the tuition to produce that all-important parade shines. Large spoon and cleaning clothe the main tools, then sitting down with a lot of patience and the application of mountains of 'Cherry' boot polish with plenty of spit would with patience produced that required high polish. Sitting there with one hand rammed into the inside of the boot to steady it seemed to be forever. God how he hated it, money and his time was being wasted.

Odd inspections were carried out on the feet and boots to make sure things were army fashion. Raw recruits were reminded at these inspections the importance of the feet to the army. Feet were Government property, the all-important Infantry mode of transport. In fact the good maker of all good things had given them feet to march on, his boots had other functions rather than the luxurious platforms to march on they were another object to polish and keep the lads out of mischief. A really smart barrack room’s soldier had the toe-caps and other things polished to a mirror standard. They must have had the right spit the lad’s was always dull by comparison.

It was easy but boring for him in this big ritual of preparing for guard duty. For some of the group it worked; they could look smart in their fatigues. Polish work was only a bonus to their appearance. God! How he wanted to look as smart. No amount of effort on his part could change this pumpkin into a well-polished soldier, the army’s world of polish and marching about the Barrack Square did nothing for the lad. Mountains of bullshit were too steep for him to climb as he tried hard with tins of boot-polish and plenty of spit to get that supreme shine. There was no reward for him only a moan about the cost of the polish, perhaps it was thought of the commonplace officer that the bullshit could be thrown at the Jerry in the times of strife. A good thing about it as the lad saw it was that it kept him occupied until the real thing.

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