´óÏó´«Ã½

CALLED UP WITH THE KRRC’s

INTRODUCTION

My dad was in the 8th Army with the Desert Rats. He was a rifleman and radio operator in the KRRC in the North Africa campaigns in WWII under Montgomery. I remember him teaching me Morse Code as a kid. ‘Di-dah-di…’ he’d go and ask me what it was. I wish I could remember it all now. I don’t know how he did memorise it all even after all those years, but I suppose going through something like that it does stick.

I still have his army issue notebook. It is of a stiff card cover containing extensive notes about Morse, circuitry and radio valves and stuff. I still have his medals but, regrettably, I have lost his Desert Rat flashes he brought back when he was demobbed. I remember him explaining to me about the desert rat.

The Desert Rat was the jeroboam. The flash from his uniform was a black jeroboam, or desert rat. It was embroidered on a beige square of coarse cloth. He had two. One was taken by my uncle George to use as a template for my mum and dad’s wedding cake. George must have kept it because my dad never got it back. The other has since disappeared.

I have his War Office ID card for Mechanical Transport Drivers (Army Form A 2038) valid from 22/5/40 to 13/11/41 with his name and no: 6852157 (description) RFN B605 2nd Q.V.R. (K.R.R.C.). The ‘2nd Q.V.R.’ is crossed through and replaced by ‘B22 8th’ and something that I cannot quite decipher.

His Soldier’s Service Book mentions a Major Watson. His Release Certificate and testimonial is signed by a Major Cox at the No 4 Military Dispersal Unit and dated 4 Dec 1945.

His service medals include The Africa Star with a clasp marked 8th Army; The 1939-45 Star; The Italy Star; The France and Germany star; and The 1939-45 War Medal. He also earned some shards of shrapnel in his left arm, some slivers of which he carried all the way to his grave.

But I remember he never did like all that pomp and circumstance associated with war celebrations. He’d say, ‘War is something you have to do sometimes to put things right in the world; it’s not something you celebrate or glorify.’

He was born in 1910, the year of the Great Comet. His date of birth was the 6th of June — the day of deliverance for Europe in those dark days of the Second World War. Curiously, he died in 1984 when that same Great Comet was sweeping in toward the sun upon its return. He died one night alone, except for a nurse spoon-feeding him with morphine, in hospital of a cancer that had been diagnosed by his GP as arthritis and, previously, as malingering!

I am going to write his memories as I heard them, in the first person, as though he is telling the stories for himself. Here, he tells of the events surrounding how he was called up.

BACKGROUND

I was born in Brentford, Middlesex in 1910. We had to live on five shillings a week army pay. My father was in the army in India for many years. My mother had to work to make up the extra to live on. We were comfortable, but things weren’t easy. When I left school, there was the General Strike and all the unemployment that followed. You could be in a job one day, and then out on your ear the next because someone had offered to work for less money. No-one would stick together; that was always the trouble.

CALLED UP

The dairy farm where I worked wouldn’t pay out on the Savings Club money when we were called up. All the men were up in arms about it. An example needed to be set. So, I worked out what was owing to me and took it — no more, no less — out of the petty cash.

I was arrested and taken to Charing Cross assizes. I explained it all to the magistrates, that we were going overseas and might not be back to claim it anyway. I only took what was mine, after all. They couldn’t condone it, of course, but they awarded costs of only one farthing against me. Apart from that, I was free to go, along with my Savings Club money.

The dairy manager was livid. But after that, all the men were paid the money they were owed. It was a show up for the firm, do you see? They would have lost a lot of custom if people had got to hear about it. Fellows going off to war to fight for their country and not allowed to take their savings out! Why, they might never be back to spend it! These were chaps, fools and heroes, going off to do their bit while the dairy manager slept safe at home in his bed. That really wasn't good enough!

A lot of the chaps came up to me afterwards and thanked me for what I’d done. We were free to spend our hard-earnt cash, to have one last spree before we left, or lavish on our loved ones, whichever way it was we wanted.

We had to report to the barracks. We had been called up, but we volunteered to go overseas. I for one didn’t want all that square bashing and spit and polish. And I know a lot of the others didn’t want all that nonsense either. We were assigned training and I had to learn radio maintenance and morse and all the etiquette of radio communication. It was all rather a crash course. When we were ready, or they thougt we were ready, we were all shipped off up north to Liverpool to embark on the troop ships.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.