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It was Midsummer and I was on Victoria Station, among a multitude of people who were milling around, not quite sure what was to happen next. I had of course been to Victoria Station hundreds of times, but today was very different. I had received my calling up papers to join the Pioneer Corps. The crowds awaiting instructions were a reasonable cross-section of the community. The fit and unfit, young, middle age, middle class and working class. I spied two upper class, bowler hated, who despite the crowds had managed to acquire space for themselves. They weren’t going mix with the rest of us.

But, horror of horrors as one cast a more discerning eye over the assemblage, this was not ordinary army. There were men with eye patches, peg legs, some walking with walking sticks. Others coughing and spluttering clearly had lung and chest complaints. Worst of all, a number were mentally disabled and suffering various degrees of stress and distress.

How could this have happened? In the 20 years between the wars, the walking wounded were a common sight. Some had suffered the effects of gassing, shellfire and their medical condition was obvious to everyone. Why had they been called up? The simple answer, the Government and Military had panicked and small wonder.

A week or so before, I had stood on the same station platform to welcome home the survivors of Dunkirk. Bruised, battered and bloodied they were a sad, defeated and dejected army. My brother had been in the merchant navy and joined the Royal Navy at the beginning of the war. He was then on a minesweeper which was heavily engaged in the rescue operations at Dunkirk. Fred was not very articulate in expressing emotions but I know he was profoundly affected by his experiences at the channel ports.

The call up of so many medically and mentally disabled citizens was a national disgrace.

There mere many uniformed NCOs around. A Sergeant with flaming red hair glanced at me many times. Eventually, he introduced himself and then I noticed he had a glass eye. He said he would be one of my Sergeants in 201 Company Pioneer Corps and yes, I would be alright provided I obeyed his orders. He then placed his hand on my arm, ‘See you later’, he said. Rather a decent person I thought. However, Sergeant Glasseye was to cause me all sorts of problems in the shower rooms a few weeks later on. That’s another story.

Time to say ‘Cheerio’ to Fred and Connie and board the train. I was told later that they returned home in tears, very upset and concerned what kind of army I was joining. I was too!

It was standing room only on the train. Next to me was a large, stocky man with a shock of ginger hair. A rough diamond I thought, perhaps a gypsy? He was leaning against me because of lack of space. He apologized and asked if I was joining 201 Company Pioneer Corps. He appeared pleased when I said yes. He told me he was a market trader at Tooting Broadway and his name was Ginger Holdstock. We warmed to one another and he kind of took me under his wing.

The two men with the peg legs had found somewhere else to sit and stretch their legs. Most of the men were dressed in their Sunday best, very quiet and apparently lost in their own private thoughts. A couple of scruffy youths were taking the piss out of the unfortunate ‘cripples’. Several times, Sergeant Glasseye eyed these yobbos up and down. I wonder what he had in mind. For once I wished I was a mind reader.

When we arrived at the security centre we were greeted by a barrage of abuse and obscenity which was the hallmark of my Sergeant Major. If the stories at Deepcut are true, things haven’t changed.

Whilst we were waiting to be posted to the Training and Induction Camp, I was assigned to a military medical centre. My job was to go through the medical papers of soldiers who appeared to have been incorrectly called up. There were many pathetic case histories, the mentally ill, those with serious heart conditions, the hard of hearing, the severely crippled, etc. Horror of horrors, men were kneeling down, tugged at my trousers and pleaded to be sent home. No words could describe my disgust and dismay. In a bleak moment and to my shame, I asked myself ‘what are they going to do with the poor sods? Use them as human sandbags against the Germans?’ Having slapped my own wrists, I’m entitled to say the Government and military had clearly lost control of the situation and the poor sods were just another example of their incompetence.

Eventually, in the army’s good time, we were transferred to Pwelli, Cardigan Bay, North Wales. There we found a large tented camp on the edge of the beach. We had around 16 soldiers in our tent. Typical summer weather with a heatwave for a day or so and then hurricane winds and mountainous seas. Some nights our tents took flight and disappeared into the night and in the pitch dark we had to sit the storms out until daybreak.

For training and drill it was an ideal base. 6am every morning we were sent running out to sea about ½ a mile away as soon as we got our ankles wet the bloody ape blew his whistle to return to base and our tents. We spent long days in the baking sun marching often few miles on the cinder hot sand and climbing up the mountain side was exhausting but exhilarating. During our stay, we had the full quota of injections and vaccinations. This was an illuminating experience. As we stood in a queue under a blistering sun, many macho men nearly passed out, some even before receiving the jab. My tent was littered with twelve hunky, sweaty bodies lying on the floor feeling sorry for themselves. As so often happens with jabs, I was ok. Not for the first time I was tea boy for a couple of days. I was quite chuffed.

After completing our Training and Induction Programme we arrived at our barracks where we were introduced to CO Officers and NCOs. We were accommodated in Nissan huts and the layout of the camp was modern and generally ok. It was here that I learnt that making friends with the cook house could make life easier. For a little wink you could ‘earn’ a really good greasy spoon breakfast. But the real bonus — hot water to shave with. I used to be a bit of a hacker with a razor and cold water.

The Pioneer Corps and Home Guard became an alternative option for Officer on the Reserve as well as those returned. In England, we were unlikely to be involved in military unless we were invaded. Abroad, we would be in the theatres of war like all our military. It was nice to be referred to as the ‘dregs of the army’ and the laborers of the Royal Engineers. However, many of the Pioneer Companies did sterling work and became jacks of all the trades and slowly we established ourselves as integral and invaluable cogs in the war effort.

The officers were able to relive the glories of and enjoy the benefits of the Officers Mess and Bar. The company commanders were a mixed bag. Major Cullen, a member of the fashionable group of food shops was barely ever sober and at times had to be literally assisted onto the parade ground. Major Frank Waugh, brother of Evelyn Waugh was a nice person who made little impression.

Major Beadles, a real ‘so-and-so’ who came from a large coal merchants in SE London. A caricature of an old time Sergeant Major, he talked the language of a thug ‘you will march until your feet bleed’ — not very original but a nasty sod. In contrast, Major Amos, a university lecturer was a real gent.

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