大象传媒

The hall in the country cottage where I lived in the Forest of Dean was draughty. That was because there was a gap under the front door, which, because there was no letter plate, could not be sealed off. Through this the postman pushed our letters and in January 1942 came a buff envelope with OHMS in thick black letters on the back. It was addressed to me, and there could be no doubt what it contained: my call up papers to be enlisted into one of the services.

Eighteen months earlier, when I was eighteen, I had, as required by the Conscription Act, registered for military service, and on the form where given the preferred choice: - Navy, Army or Airforce -had stated the latter. Lots of other young men had similarly chosen, the result being that the form advised me that Private A. Adams, No 14206002, was required to report to the Infantry Training Centre at Bodmin Barracks, Cornwall by 18.00 hours on the 19th February 1942. A travel warrant was enclosed for the one-way journey from the town of Lydney to Cornwall; departure at 06:15 hours. Quite clearly, the person who had made out the warrant had no knowledge of the locality because, living where I did, no one ever went from Lydney, but from Gloucester, the main station.

Apart from two weeks holiday, I had never stayed away from home before, and this would be the longest train journey I had ever taken. My brother-in-law had a car and took me to the station, but the morning was dark and wet - which slowed our journey through the Forest 鈥� and we arrived to find that the train had departed. Brother-in-law had to depart hurriedly to get to work, and I was left alone at the station. I wandered back and forth along the platform until the next train left at 10:25 hours, to arrive at the junction at 11:00 hours, to connect with the main line train about 15 minutes later. This train had left Gloucester at 10:15 hours and should have been the one I could have leisurely caught had my warrant been made out correctly in the first place.

After the wasted hours, I was now on my way to Cornwall, and to the unknown. The main line station for Bodmin was called Bodmin Road Junction, and upon arrival, by now quite dark again, quite a number of young men disembarked, each carrying a suitcase clearly in accordance with the instructions they had been given. It was obvious that we all had the same destination, and were soon talking amongst ourselves. 鈥淲here do you come from, mate?鈥� was the usual starting point, and one was soon aware that they came from all parts of the country.

It was possible to discern a single track branch line leading to Bodmin plunging through masses of shrubs, which I later discovered were rhododendrons. About thirty minutes later, a two-coach "Push- pull" train puffed into the station along this line, and we all climbed aboard to the sounds of clanging doors, hissing steam and muffled shouts from the station staff. A sad-sounding toot on the whistle and the train slowly pulled out from amongst the trees and shrubs to more open countryside, just discernible if the window blinds were opened slightly, but with not a light to be seen because of the blackout.

The journey to Bodmin took less than half an hour; the train screeching to a halt at the dimly lit platform. Hissing steam, clanging doors and station noises again, but a new sound also became noticeable. A strident voice of authority, giving instructions, It came from a man in army uniform wearing one stripe on his sleeve and a beret with a slight tilt to the left. A dreadful Lance Corporal. Almost before we had forced ourselves and our suitcase through the narrow carriage doors, this man was bawling "line up there, line up, smarten yourselves up." This was followed by a term we were to hear very often in the future: "Gillo, gillo" meaning, as we learnt later, " get a move on, you lazy
layabouts. You are soldiers now, I think". Even in the gloom his leer seemed to penetrate. He thoroughly enjoyed getting us into three lines, turning to the right, (one or two managed to turn to the left) and we marched off to the training centre, approached through the arch over the entrance to the barracks.

From the stores we were issued with two blankets, a pillow and a mattress cover which we filled with straw. A bunk was allocated to each man in the group in hut 32, where we deposited all our worldly goods. Again we assembled and were marched to the dining hall. By now we were all very hungry, and we enjoyed the hot stew provided. This was followed by a helping of rice pudding, the stodgiest I had ever encountered. It was often said after this that the army need never be short of ammunition. A continuous supply of such pudding could make shells and bombs redundant.

Human beings adapt very quickly to different circumstances, and like a butterfly emerges from its chrysalis, so we had, at a stroke become new persons. Our old individuality was evaporating as the steam had escaped at Bodmin station. Next morning we were to hear a strange new sound: a bugle. 鈥淗ad they gone mad?鈥� I thought. No; this was reveille, the call to arise. Before the last note had faded away over the hutted camp, the voice rang out, " Shake a leg, get out of bed you lazy so-and-sos. Gillo, gillo.鈥� It was him, the lance corporal in charge of the hut. Hearts sank, mutterings all round, and henceforth he was known as 'Old Gillo'.

The day - it was Friday - was taken up with the issue of kit, uniforms battle dress - impregnated with a most horrible anti-poison gas substance, battle dress denim for working, and every stitch of clothing one would need, boots etc , including a 'housewife鈥�. Didn't know she would be army issue. No, you fool, its just a small cloth bag with a needle cotton, wool, etc, in case you lost a button or your toes show through you socks. Oh well. We were now fixed up completely, and everything civilian was put into our suitcases, labelled and then sent to our homes at Government expense. By the end of the day we had emerged, but butterflies we were not.

Some activities: playing at soldiers on Saturday morning, drill, getting to know a rifle and a torrent of instructions of every sort. The afternoon was free, and there were several football matches between the inmates of the various huts. I went along to watch the match between my platoon F and platoon A. We won by six goals to two. I had never been involved in sport, so I could not really identify with the spirit of abandon of the players, or with the shouts of encouragement from off the pitch. In my ill-fitting battle dress, oversized overcoat and rather stupid cap, I felt I must be presenting a pathetic sight to the world, and I have never felt more lonely in my life.

Contributed by Anthony Adams, with help from 大象传媒 Gloucestershire

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