大象传媒

Part 8 Home leave

With the formalities over at Shorncliff all the documents were completed for the transfer to the Welch Regiment, 15th Battalion 1942 and a period of embarkation leave.
Home leave was always looked forward too but Embarkation leave had that extra special urgency about it. Tramcar rides just to see the old places filled in some time; in the main this was the Cardiff he loved with its main roads that were just wide enough to carry tramcars and traffic, with a variety of shops stretching from one end of the city to the other now took on a new meaning; nostalgia demanded that he visit as many places as he could viewing all he could in his favourite place on the tram on its top deck.
The tram-car was just as noisy and the seats as hard as ever, all these things a strange sort of pleasure. Sadly as he looked at the City he loved he pondered over the things that could go wrong. His own destruction never seemed to be a thing he thought about. What he would see he wanted to keep forever, seeing pictures of the destruction in other cities wondered if his would be bombed out of existence by the time he returned? What he didn鈥檛 realise at that time that modernisation would destroy them and be replaced with a million look a-likes cities.

Of course a pub crawl would be included. Each provided a necessary variety of characters; the more out-land-ish places the better. The call of,鈥漧ast pint,鈥� 鈥渄rink up,鈥� starts off a stampede to the bar, a drunk regular of one of them an dedicated cider drinker stands in front of bar mirror with the remains of a pint in one hand and saluting himself with the other. With a voice affected with many pints of the booze attempts to sing in that untrained Cardiff twang 鈥淪ospen Fach--Maehin Whad fy Nhadau鈥�. A true Welch speaker would be hard to understand the words, but no doubt that they were a hundred per-cent behind the sentiments expressed.
Time sped along; things to say and places to visit drowned by the lack of it, in his final stages of embarkation leave he needed to be with people that he had known all his life. It would help to relax his insights about his future service days.

Leave time had been eaten up and it was time to return. The last morning came with its complications of washing and sitting down to breakfast, As usual the time left was so well organised by the family that they all got away to the station on time. The last period of waiting for the train was always the most difficult. Where as the time seemed to fly now it dragged? Often things were repeated in an effort to keep the good-byes alive and a relief to hear that the train was near. Cardiff Railway Station was as busy as ever with lots of other service men returning from leave. Now his main concern was to remain by the open carriage window, each hand was grasped and emotionally released. There was always something special about them. Personal and direct contact was, well personal; it is a feeling hard to describe. Then with the usual commotion the train started to move. With lots of handkerchiefs waving and tears flowing he was off to Bristol, hopefully to get the Dorset train connection.

It was the stuff of the romantics; the lone soldier off to unknown places and dressed for the part. Every thing to do with this soldier was stored in his large pack and carried on the back, strapped to his side the small pack hanging from the belt. Things were not as bad as his first leave. Storing things seemed to become more natural, practice had made perfect the opening doors and negotiating an easy entrance to the carriage with hardly a bad word. As usual the rifle kept on slipping over his shoulder as he moved with the rest of the equipment to find the nearest seat.
All the compartments were full of service men returning from their leave. Royal Navy and Royal Air Force personnel carried reasonable equipment. As before space for relaxing became the positive occupation but now the impossible was now with some experience possible,

Piddington Transit Camp. November 42

The first stage of the railway journey to Temple Mead鈥檚 was over and now it was to find the platform for the train to the Piddington transit camp in Dorset.
His first need was a good cup of tea provided by the voluntary services. It had been a long day and was getting long and tiresome for him, with head up and eyes pointing in the right direction found these tea angels of mercy supplying their tea that tasted like the nectar of the gods in glass containers made from the round end of bottles to supplement the short supply of cups.
As beautiful as it tasted a bloody Gerry Air Raid had decided to join in the act and poked its priority into his heavenly drink. Nobody seemed to be too worried as they were directed to the nearest shelter. It had interrupted the tea drinking but nothing else happened in the station area. The action pinpointed by searchlights and anti-aircraft fire was taking place in some other part of Bristol.

As he sat there he felt insecure, the mind was working over-time. "Bugger them all, I'm staying put," this would be the only time his feelings over took the fear of army discipline, and even got a kick out of seeing the train disappearing from the station. The visions of being locked up this time were locked out; he didn鈥檛 give a dam, and wasn't in any hurry to get to Piddington Camp and decided to stay in that station for the night. There was no point in sitting in the shelter it was time to look for a place to sleep and wandered off to see the RTO. The excuse that he didn鈥檛 know the train was leaving was accepted and he was given a place to stay.

He was back again into the fold, this stay put would be a one off and he knew it. They now knew where he was and no doubt the RTO had given orders to make sure he was on the next train. Any way their appearance in the shape of bruising bouncers that were hungry for action made sure they were understood, He would be on the next train and told to make sure he was on it.

There would be no hanging back this time, the 鈥榝riendly鈥� Red Cap reappeared just before the arrival of the train and told him to get moving to the right platform and join the train journey to Pidddington.
The rest of the trip back was uneventful but the anxious thought lingered. They may have booked him for being absent from leave. Thankfully the air-raid excuse was accepted once again and he joined the Welsh Regiment.

First camp days.

As with all army camps the set up was the same but perhaps the weather conditions made it all look so damp and dismal as he reported to the guardroom with his papers. This time he would not be meeting of friends, the only advantage from his earliest days, there would be no difficulties in settling into the billet. Within its walls the same type of iron bed and straw mattress and the lonely patient combustion stove standing in its concrete stand. It was in its same place and as untidy as ever its concrete base with the remains of the day鈥檚 ration of coal.
He was a stranger to the people already there. Tired from his day鈥檚 journey all he wanted to do was to unload his equipment and prepare the bed for a good night鈥檚 sleep.

For a while he sat around, and then finished storing away his things. The first break in the silence came with usual question, 鈥渨here have you come from鈥�. From this opening a few hours of talking developed. Most were Welsh with all the different dialogues of Wales. There were differences within the regions of Wales that he had not understood before and was put on the slow burner until he was accepted into the group.
It was a difficult time; the local gossip hardly reached him. At last he became a part of a group it was normal discussion within such groups to speculate on the rumoured big move, second the local brew and most important the local talent. The first there was plenty of it, the second regulated by the shortage of cash and the last almost impossible. Most of the lads were bored with the lack of activity with-in the camp but grateful it was only a transit-camp. This was an austere camp in the middle of no where. Perhaps it was a crafty plan to encourage the feeling that any-other place was better than this. If it was then it was working for the lad.
The first period was spent in preparing for over-sea service. Medical personnel parading in their nice white coats were having their sixpenny worth with the extra inspections and jabs. As always some of the jabs hurt like hell and made the miserable body even more miserable. To make things worse this was the wrong time of the year to be in this camp. Perhaps a bit of sunshine in the summer might have masked the dreariness of the place and could have been acceptable. This was wintertime at its worse and cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass monkey.

Early morning winter ablutions.

Early morning was a particularly bad period with its NCOs blasting wakey, wakey. Bed was the only warm place to be in and these clowns had to spoil it all. It was out of the warm bed then to grope for the shaving kit and towel and off to the ablutions.
Its barrack-room鈥檚 fire had long gone out. That heavy scent of smelly feet, stale cigarette smoke and the leftovers of beer was preferred to the cold air outside, whatever the conditions he would have remove himself from that seemly luxurious warm bed, then with a lot of hesitation moved to the door, and opened it.

In this madness he can only get some relief by swearing out loud, and cursing the makers of this hellhole. Cursing over it was out into the cold winter鈥檚 morning to reach the ablutions. His young blood is chilled and his body shaking all over. He knew it would be made even worse by having to wash and shave in cold water. The only protection from the cold weather a corrugated roof that barely spanned the bloody ablution. Taps were fitted to a single pipe that ran almost its full length supplying the cold water with provision of some space to take the bowl; below it the outlet pipe to take the wastewater. The over generous designers of this hellhole even provided a place to rest the holdhall and shaving kit. They really spoilt him with all these luxuries.

Looking over to the officers鈥� quarters he could imagine the Batman running about and getting the officers ready for their tough day ahead. He was trying to understand their reasoning that it wasn鈥檛 right for them to stand in these open ablutions with hands so cold there was even a problem in holding the razor. Think it was a bit of sod you. I鈥檓 ok jack but in army logic it could have been to toughen up the ordinary ranks? again looking across at the officers鈥� mess one of the officers was on the move the PU standing there on the ready to take on their most prized procession the bedroll. His batsman would always be there to provide them with their other necessaries, hot water and the like. Cold damp and despondency had reduced him to a moaning nut case; he had to take his silent anger out on some one for these terrible conditions. Why not them? There was another slight problem for the lad; he tried to reason it out, if it was helpful for him to freeze, why didn鈥檛 they join in the fun?

With little further delay he joins the others standing on duckboards the only luxury concession to the conditions of the concrete floor. A place is found soapy and awash with remains of the previous man ablutions. Half naked he lined up behind those torturous bountiful taps the suppliers of that horrible cold water. It took a lot of courage to use the stuff, progressing around the unclothed parts of the body in short dabs was as much as he could do. Thinking aloud he joined in the chorus of distorted almost human noises that unanimously proclaiming to all that wanted to listen that this was a hellhole. The absolute minimum of the blasted water would be used to move that razor over the face. A lick and a promise to the rest were as much as he could do to complete his toiletry. What seemed like ages he prepared for the return journey to the barrack room? Blast the army and their misery making ablutions.

There was no doubt about it he felt that he was in completion with a refrigerator. Thawing out the slow process started with breakfast tea. Hands gripping the cup did at least get the blood circulation working again. Taste meant nothing, the heat could have burnt his mouth, and it just didn鈥檛 matter. Slowly a little normality was returning to his body. Nothing about him seemed so drastically low now; it was another cold early start out of the way. With a sigh and a shake of the head was able to reflect that it was only a transits camp.
Within a short time he would be on his way to another army delight with their cooked up meal mysteries that nobody could ever dream up name for.

Waiting period over.

Waiting period was over and the Orders were posted; the move to this new place was set in motion. What was thought to be the last day in Piddington Camp they were paraded on the square to be loaded onto trucks for the trip to the railway station? With a deep sigh of relief for him the last orders to the drivers and a bit more saluting between those left on the ground the troops were on their way to board the train to some mystery place yet to be named.

Start of train journey.

Their welcomed train was in one of the sidings; with some luck it may be a little warmer and not so cramped for space. It was only a Private鈥檚 dream; it was from one cramped place to another. With little choice the NCO stands there pointing with鈥漼ou and you鈥� in there, filled the allotted carriage space. It was going to be a long trip. Where possible army mates sat together to talk or eat a meal and puffin at the un-ending supply of cigarettes, when this ended each in the carriage picked a place to try and stretch out in and have doze. Nobody had claimed the rack and took it for himself and climbed up into it. It was not very wide but at least for him there was less chance of being disturbed but soon found out that the rack wasn鈥檛 the height of comfort. Tiredness was the good antidote to the aches and pains and shuffled around until he found the best place to fit his aching body in that restricted space and stopped there, only to drop out of it for the normal reasons, toilet and food.

Arrival in Scotland.

Hours later the train arrived in Scotland after a seemingly interminable period were allowed to disembark from the carriage to stretch the legs and have a wee in comfort.
Lots of things were going on, officers and things moved about looking very officious with handfuls of paper work. Then finally with lots of waving of the hands the NCO鈥檚 were given the story and ushered off to the browned off privates in the railway carriages. Something had gone wrong; all troops were accounted for and back into the train for the return trip to Dorset. It was here we go again, that return trip would be bad enough but the thought of returning to that blasted camp was even worse.

Return to Piddington Camp.

Nothing happened on the return trip, it was bad enough going but now the over aching body was having to be subjected to the uncomfortable carriages rack once again. Thoughts about the transit camp had changed, at least the bed was at a reasonable height, and nature鈥檚 demands could be met without having to walk over anyone.

Another embarkation leave.

His unnamed draft was to stay for a short time longer at the camp, then the good news. The best news ever, he with the rest was sent on another embarkation leave. Packing up all the things he possessed was a pleasure. Any tiredness had long disappeared; he was going home nothing else mattered. Maturity had come quickly, there were no remaining mysteries about rail travel, and beer and cigarettes held no fear. He was his own man.

As he approached Cardiff doubts about his welcome started to creep in. His welcome was the same but somehow felt a little embarrassed when reminded that his last leave was an embarkation leave and were surprised to see him.
The leave was going to plan, and more balanced. His hours were real and being swallowed up in anticipation of what lay in front of him when it was all over. Early hero days were over and done with, military dress so common it was normal, for him that,'when you are going back was often met with a stony silence.' This is life, a shrug of the shoulders, and the conversation carried onto other things. Booze and all the things that go with it were as enjoyable as ever but hoped that the next embarkation train journey would be the real thing. No more of those long useless trains journeys. This time there would be no self imposed delays at Bristol. There must have been some sort of madness in his soul; he was even looking forward to getting back to Piddington camp.

Orders to move again.

Time back in the camp was short lived, orders were given prepare a trip of a lifetime. This time the move was the real thing. Everything about it had that finality about it. Nothing of interest filled that open end of the truck as it left to join that awaiting train. That previous trip had removed any mystery on where or what to expect. Nothing had changed the carriage looked the same; it shared nothing with the comforts of home and got his usual sleeping place in the carriage and was happy to be on the move.

Arrived at Greenock embarkation port.

Hours away, stiff and hungry the big stop came, the train had landed up in Greenock in Scotland, even food seemed less important than stretching the legs. Tiredness seemed to dissolve with the excitement of seeing that dock, embarkation and all the implications had taken over. It was almost dark and added that extra thrill as he and the rest of the draft entered the dock area.
Activity was limited to a few short moves; it was into the final waiting time with not much to do. The blackout was effective; tops of the buildings were only vague shapes against the sky, their bases almost welded into one shape. At last they were taken to the assembly place. As usual Red Cap controlled the traffic and directs the lads through the dock gates.
Provisions had been made for tea and something to eat, the time without food had changed it into something special. Groans and moans about it were non existent, nothing was wasted, then as a way for relaxing follows the signs on the wall to the cinema. Bing the old moaner was displaying his talent. Things were going well, big eats and now the film. Bing Crosby with Dorothy Lamour in 鈥楬oliday Inn鈥� fitted in well to the nostalgia of the missing people in his life. He was about to enter a New World; nothing about it would compare up his previous years. Going back for him was impossible; it was if his life was starting afresh.
Nothing like it had happened like this before he could now see that Troupe ship that was to move him to other parts of the world. The feeling that it may be a one way ticket crept into his mind; things had changed his present and future.

Eats and entertainment were out of the way; weariness had started to eat into this resilient youth. At last the main action was to start with the boarding passes being issued; now boredom and tiredness had disappeared and was replaced with that eagerness to get aboard, the eagerness had percolated through the rest of the troop, each comparing the information. Smiles all round, all seemed to be wallowing in the prospect of getting this new experience. His troop-berthing card showed section 7D lower and the mess table as 116.
Once issued with their boarding passes they were all assembled to board the ship and marched off. There it was his ship, with these small bits of paper his pass; he had becoming a part of her. Closer he got to her the more he enjoyed her lines. To his untrained eye she was a beautiful thing. The obvious structural parts pointed out dozens of times by his mates added to this. Traffic moved about feeding her for a long journey made it even livelier. As they progressed in the journey the gangways positioned now stood out; there they were like drooping tongues to carry them aboard then close and may never reopen.

Boarding for the first time had that something special about it. It had that feeling that the ship was alive as any other thing on the planet. As he was being marshalled about his eyes tried to take in all at once.
In theses early hours every thing looked big, and was impressed with the shape of the ship. It was his first real live ship experience and was thrilled to be aboard her. From her innards the constant mechanical sounds of the air conditioning fan. It had all wetted his appetite! His youthful impatience wanted the thing to become alive and moving out to sea.

For ages he and the rest walked in ever diminishing circles until he reached their deck. It seemed to be two coats of paint from the bottom of ship; any lower and would have been in the ship鈥檚 bilges. Time would come when his deck number became a significant importance to his safety. Thank God it was never put to the test. Within a short time details of 鈥榮hip life鈥� were handed out. It was a Dutch passenger ship with a name that sounded like 'Siberjac,' its luxury fittings had been striped out and had been turned into a troop-ship. Places allotted for his troop had all the bare necessaries. The messing place was adequate; its long tables were fixed to the deck, and noticed that there were strips of wood fixed to the table鈥檚 edge standing three-quarters of an inch above the surfaces. To this new green horn the necessity of such things was unknown. Running along the tables sides and also fixed to the floor, the long bench seating. Once seated it wasn鈥檛 too bad but had the minimum of legroom. The newness of it all buried all these new disadvantages. This was another New World he was entering and was feeling great about the whole enterprise.
She was riding at peace and tied up there in the dock, the 'pleasures' of her living in her own environment was yet to come. Once she put to sea he would know the value of these precautions of securing the tables and their protruding edges and hand rails on all walls. It was shouting out the message! That while he was on her, she was fighting the very environment she was built to live in. He was only an attachment that had to find a way of coping in her sea madness. Her little concessions to his wellbeing were placed low in her survival priorities.
Officers and senior NCO鈥橲 were billeted in some other parts of the ship. In the main their visits to D deck were made at meal times. Silence was only broken when a complaint was made about the food. Watching these visitors making the effort to taste it and give an opinion was laughable. It was carried out by the visiting officer with the same negative results to the complaints. They never resolved it and there was no other avenue to use.
Daily rations of cooked food arrived in trays; those at the head of the table shared it out. The food was substandard both in quality and Varity. The ship鈥檚 purser must have filled his stores with semolina; each meal seemed to use it. There were few takers for this non-appetising mix, hungry or not much of the semolina pudding never left the tray and when possible just passed along the table to the porthole. As long as the ship was tied up in dock the porthole was open; the end man had the pleasure of throwing tin and contents through it. Obviously trouble brewed with the authorities of the ship. Missing tins were noticed and we were warned. It stopped. Hating semolina pudding didn鈥檛. The only food never complained about was the white bread, it was the perfect loaf.

Things were in limbo, nothing to do except to wander about the ship. Its austere walls within the deck area painted in one colour, cream. The deck space was divided by simple steel partitions that divided the toilets from the mess room. As in all ships a further precaution to controlling flooding the threshold of the doorway was raised a few inches. Before long it became normal practice to step over it.
Spaced out in the mess room were full size rubbish bins tied to brackets fixed on the walls. At nighttimes a fatigue party detail emptied the contents over board. Dumping rubbish at night was precautionary measure we were told to get a bit of distance between the rubbish and the U-boats.

Sea and the environment continued to play with this man made machinery. He was amazed at her moods and her battling sprit. Her reaction to survive was to pitch and roll. Handrails were now seen as essential and positive features to meet the seas changing moods. This was the times when he was never sure where the floor was. Everything moved. As the bow reached the highest point the whole ship seemed hold that position for a split second, then plunge down taking the stomach with it. Then it was the stern鈥檚 end time to lift out of the sea and hover in space, for a short time the propellers were free to spin sending a shudder through the ship as it re-entered the sea. Any thing not secured found a new home to go to. Bad weather brought extra activity from the ship鈥檚 crew. Preparation for their known fight with this approaching storm was acted out with a skill only they knew. The ship would be battened down and made secure; seamen going about their business tolerated the 鈥榮quaddie鈥� holding on for dear life to anything that could support his body in total collapse.
The ship had left the calmer waters and entered the stormy waters of the Atlantic. Disaster was in the making for the mess-room space. A place had been found to store the rubbish, what seemed to be the simplest way was tie standard waste bins to brackets fixed to the walls of the mess room. It must have been a rapid response to an Admiralty directive. To our cost the fixings adequate in calm weather were a disaster in heavy weather. As the ship rolled and pitched the bins would brake away from the wall brackets and flop over onto their side spilling their smelly contents. Every thing in the blasted place wanted to move the eyes found it almost impossible to place them in their normal order.
Nothing had prepared them for un-natural movement, he with the rest were poor sailors; the might of the seas would turn them inside out. It was an illness like no other he had experienced; it can only be described as wanting to die. Amongst its list of bad things, the loss of control over the body functions and a feeling that cannot be described.

With great effort the only things to do was hold on long as possible. As the ship battled with the element the deck changed from a solid platform into a seesaw throwing space with his body and any other loose object thrown into disarray. To add to confusion it rolled and pitched up and down at the same time. It was then the hands' just grabbed the handrail to push or pull on to stay on the feet. He was loosing out to the constant movement. Its effect was to leave him green and sweaty as he reached the nearest waste bin. They were already partly full with the mixed content waste of the day, for him the awful sight and smell reached deeply into his stomach and dragged its contents out to add to the weird concoction spread out before him.
Now the suffering squaddie again adds more mess with a lot of moaning. He was in total collapse; his legs refused to support him, somehow he again managed to get on his knees. Then re-gripping the sides of the bin with all his might he managed to put his head just above the top edge of the thing. Now faces down with tearful eyes that can do nothing but look into the stinking mess. It was scene that mirrored the plight of a victim preparing to meet Madam Guillotine. His whole personality was disappearing into that bin. Now so disorientated, he wished for a speedy end to it all, now he would have been happy to meet Madam Guillotine. It was now a dirty stinging disaster zone. Anything was preferable to this hell trip where the decks moved in so many directions. There seemed no end to hellish world.

It was a time when he thought things could get no worse, he was wrong. Repeated rolling of the ship and the now slack cord allowed the bin and contents to swing with a whip like action. Without warning the movement-changed direction, its securing cord allowed the blasted bin to slide over the deck and became slack. Now a change of tactics, the father of all big movements of the ship threw the container with its ex-stomach contents away from the brackets with such force that cord snapped. Now it was a free from any restraint and able to move about in any direction. With some speed it smashed its way into the other side of the mess room.
What mess had remained in the bin painted the floor in the many colours of the vomit? The whole area of the mess room was looking like a mad house. Most people were as green and almost as senseless to their own disturbed conditions. It was a personal catastrophe and cared little to the others; seasickness is selfish it had consumes him. There was no relief, up till then the only thing to share was the space. Now bedding and people lying on the rolling ship鈥檚 deck floor had to share the total stinking display of filth. Forever starring up at him in these bad times the mainly fatty meat stews that looked and smelt even worse when partly digested before being sent on its return journey to the bin. Cleaning up the mess drained the stomach even more. It would be some time before smell of it would make room for fresh air

Even more problems, he with his detail was sent the storeroom in the bow of the ship. Surplus equipment needed to be re-stacked. Conditions in that place were even worse than the mess room. The ship's movement lifted the deck below their feet even higher, then with that roller coaster delay feeling then fell away to the depths of the sea. Some how the task was completed, with what little energy they had left they returned to return to mess deck.
Every-thing was smelly, the diesel fumes unnoticed before now seemed to saturate the air making the fumes almost impossible to swallow. This overwrought youth was being allowed to experience the might of the sea. He was fortunate and would survive to gain his sea legs.

For him his final ire was using the toilets in the roughest of weathers. To his cost the seas bashing on her sides would find any weakness to penetrate the ships hull. The storm was at its peek his already punished stomach contents could not be contained. With that last bit of bravado he struggled to reach the right place to deposit the stuff and with little dignity kneed down to at least direct with certainly the unfinished business.
What was to happen had to be explained latter to him. It was that the toilet outlets covers to the sea sometimes remained open with the movement of the ship. This was the time when the pressure of the seawater plunged up the pipe and pushed the contents in front of it. With no where else to go it finds its way to the toilet pan, and wham oh! He had taken the full blast; it had taken his toll on him and swears that when he returns to Civilian Street he never take a trip in any ship. Not even an hour on a rowing boat in Roath Park. He looks at himself in a mirror and can hardly recognise himself. May-be an unforgettable experience but one that could have been done without. In these seasick times all he could do was to swallow plain bread and any fluid he could. This went on for days with the feeling that he should give up the ghost. Any food he looked at changed it to a devil brew; the most upsetting thing was to see was the fatty bacon in the morning breakfast. As things quieted down, food, limejuice and the taste of tea returned with the newly acquired sea legs he had been reborn! Ship and environment had become friendly; diesel smell oil no longer tore out his innards. That monotonous sounding air-conditional fan no longer filled his head with noise. The rhythm of the engine turning the propeller seemed to pulsate through the ship.
She was alive and he was a part of it, even the racing of the propellers when the stern lifted out of the sea and shuddering on re-entry to the sea was another reminder that he was alive.

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