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Even in wartime, a New Year is time for reflection and so it was in 1942. Strangely, I had enjoyed my service with the Pioneer Corps. I had grown up in a real man’s world. Before the war, the average person spent almost all their time in their home town or region. A yearly holiday visit to the seaside or to one of the booming holiday camps was about all they could expect away.

But being thrown together with a whole gang of men in all their rawness, vulgarity, roughness and as a counter-balance, unexpected tenderness, caring and humour was a new experience. Geordies, Scousers, Mancunians, Yorkshiremen, Scots, Welshmen, Irish — Uncle Tom Cobely and all. What a cocktail of so many interesting men. Life’s rich tapestry. It was a privilege.

Hard labour had produced calousesses and blisters on my hands and broken nails. In a way, I had returned to my Brixton urchin days when I used to throw around sacks of potatoes, boxes of bananas, etc. In the Pioneer Corps, I carried around two hundred weight of coal on my back, huge boxes of ammunition I handled with consummate ease. In the four years before joining the army, office work had made me a bit soft.

OK, I wasn’t unhappy but I didn’t feel fulfilled. Frustrated increasingly worried about my future both in the army and later in civilian life. What skills and experience could I point to in my determination to lift myself out of the administration post I held before army service. For many ‘stick in the muds’ they would be content to end their careers in the post. Oh dear, I would be bored to tears.

I started talking long walks to think about things. A habit which had developed when reaching a possible crossroads in life. It so happened I had an invite to take teas with the Revd. Dick Rowsell and family, the minister at the Baptist Church in Didcot with whom I had chats on previous occasions. Dick’s brother is the father in law of one of the Pennell’s daughter, hence the connection. A very clean minded person. Dick agreed I had to break out of the banana skin. Staying in the Pioneer Corps until demob would not have advanced my cause in any way. Non technical by nature, I could work my arse off labouring in the Pioneer Corps, but would not have acquired new skills for civilian life.

Resolved! New Year’s resolution to make an application for a transfer elsewhere. I had to talk to my CO, Major Amos, with whom I had developed an unusual rapport, chatting about the war and international affairs. Privates were not allowed to talk to officers, only in the presence of the Sgt. Major. No way did I want to discuss my ambitions in front of the ignorant bastard — a real cretin. So what to do? I needed to waylay the CO in a quiet corner of the barracks. I knew when he exercised his dog, but still a risky business. Yes, we met. He proved very sympathetic and helpful. Major Amos had apparently been in conversation with BOSA HQ in Oxford, which was the Army command HQ for Berkshire and Oxfordshire. My organizational potential had been recognized, talents which could be usefully employed at BOSA. The CO promised to pass on my case. Shortly afterwards, I was transferred to the Royal Army Service Corps, a necessary pre-requisite to joining BOSA.

BOSA sent me on an administration and typing course and soon became a dab hand at two finger typing. Absorbed into the office system, I realized I just had to rise above the ruck. The release from the Pioneer Corps cound not be the limit of my ambitions, but just a beginning. I intended going places. I was on the prowl!

BOSA was part of the command structure of the army, destined to stay in Oxford for the duration of the war. Looking around the offices, most of the personnel were quite content to serve out their time in BOSA. A comfortable pair of slippers sprang to mind. But as we got to know each other, I understood that many of our colleagues had already seen active service, indeed too much active service. They had earned their light duties and in an environment where they could believe that their services were still valued. My enthusiasm to make an early impact took a dive. This was not a place where you rattled the cage to attract attention.

I changed tact, looking for options outside strictly army duties. Very soon, opportunities came into view. Recently, there had been a suggestion to organize a fundraiser for the Red Cross, but there was no social committee. I picked up the idea and drove the project forward. The special dance and cabaret event became a great social success. The Duchess of Marlborough no less, President of the Red Cross was graciously pleased to attend and ran the tombola. A formidable lady, mistress of Bleinheim Palace, she was not to be trifled with. I think she was pleased with the financial result. Arthur Askey, a famous comedian of the day was invited to support the event. We received a ‘one liner’ saying that he was too busy to attend charity shows. Askey’s signature tune, ‘Big Hearted Arthur, That’s Me’ was greeted with derision in showbusiness circles, where he was known as the meanest man in the business.

Even in those days, successful football teams were status symbols much sought after by military units. In BOSA, we had a football team of sorts, no fixture list or programme of training. We had enough professional players to form a really good team. All the players were classified ‘B’ medical because of dodgy knees. They were excused duties on medical grounds but allowed to play football! After every match, their knees blew up like balloons but they were ‘on parade’ the next Sunday. We traveled in a lorry to our matches, usually nearby army units and RAF stations. We preferred the RAF. The food and drink was much more liberal! Three times our lorry landed in a ditch — something to do with our players drinking too much and losing their balance. We were a ‘strolling team’; ‘wanderers’, without a football ground of our own.

Our captain, Major Bateman was a ‘rugger’ player and not football. A nice, decent man, Bateman galvanized the players into a very good team. The development of the team gave me huge pleasure and proved a valuable prestige symbol for BOSA.

After a while, I was assigned to work for the commanding officer for the Home Guard in Berkshire and Oxfordshire, Colonel Wilson, a full colonel with the red tabs! The colonel was a toff and a gentlemen. Through my work I was to learn and appreciate the grace, charm and refinement of a cultured class. The opening salutations on letters were simple, ‘my dear Jones’, etc. Closing salutations were perhaps more significant, i.e. ‘yours fraternally’, ‘yours ever’, and when used, ‘yours affectionately’ — one knew a special bond existed.

Wilson, a large, bluff, cheerful man cut an impressive figure in uniform and ‘mufti’. He lived in a large comfortable house, nicely furnished but not ostentatious. I was sent to work for him as a typist. As always, I was not content with just the humdrum job of typing letters and memos.

I set out to be a more useful member of the establishment. I started making out making contact with the many local commanders of the Home Guard. There was really no regular or reliable information flowing into Wilson’s office. It was necessary to establish more accountability. Monthly reports, statistics and local security information were collated, giving Colonel Wilson a fairly comprehensive overview of the state of the Home Guard under his command.

The Colonel was also Chief Inspector of Railways. Whenever there was a rail accident, Wilson or a staff member would have to go poste haste to the scene of the disaster. At times, I typed his reports on the kitchen table. These reports had to be kept confidential until publication day.

Colonel Wilson was a wonderfully interesting man. We had many stimulating conversations.

Suddenly, destiny left a note on my bed, one fine Spring day in 1943. I was called to BOSA HQ and ordered to report to the Duke of York barracks in London. I was mortified and mystified. Leaving lovely Oxford, the River Thames, my mates at BOSA and my work with Colonel Wilson was a real wrench.

The circumstances of my posting were strange. Usually, postings were made on a company, platoon or detachment basis. But I was on my own. Everybody was surprised, including myself. I quickly packed my bags and traveled to London. At the Duke of York’s barracks, a medical examination, instructions to go home and await further instructions. Within a fortnight, I received orders to proceed to Liverpool and board the good ship Sumatra.

In retrospect, I was possibly the author of my own pain at that time. Ambition was doubtless the vehicle which propelled me out of Oxford into a sort of no man’s land.

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