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My name is Leonard Ernest Scott. I was born on 12 November 1913. On 6 March 1940 I volunteered for Army service at Croydon Recruiting Depot. I was medically graded B1 (my defective eyesight), 'fit for garrison duties’ was registered as 7667890 Private Scott, L.E., took the oath of allegiance to H.M. King George V1, was given the King's Shilling and dispatched to the Royal Army Pay Corps, Foots Cray, Sidcup, Kent, as Clerk Grade 111. On 10 August 1941 (now Clerk Grade 1) I was posted to War Office (F.9) where a shortage of shorthand typists had resulted in my skills being needed (I was an ex-journalist).

The War Office in Whitehall was a squat, ugly building crowned with four improbable turrets. It was almost opposite Downing Street and close to 'The Fortress' a concrete structure, which, like an iceberg, conceals three parts of its bulk below the surface. The Fortress was supposedly bombproof. I entered the vast hall of War Office and halted at the Security desk. My papers were examined, a telephone check made with F.9. and I was issued with a temporary pass-card. F.9. was on the third floor and I had been told to report to the Sergeant-Major. He was a huge ex-Guardsman (everyone called him 'Panzer'). He looked disapprovingly at my hair (barbered on the previous day) and then presented himself in the guise of a heavenly messenger...

'Personnel living within an hour's travelling time and who have domestic accommodation (I lived in Warlingham, some 18 miles from London) can be "billeted at home". We are very short of barrack and billet-facilities in London. You will parade at 9 a.m each morning - and get your hair cut. Now,’ - indicating a corporal - 'he'll take you to Room 443.' That night I wrote to my wife, Minna:

'I reported to W.O. this morning and was put to work at once. I have not come up against anything I cannot do. We work on Sundays but have one free day in seven and every other Saturday afternoon. Fellows here are quite a decent bunch so far as I can gather - very helpful and informative. I met one I knew at Sidcup. The place is rather like a mortuary. I am on a month's probation according to a Colonel I saw this morning. I work in quite a small room. There are about a dozen of us. Four are newspapermen. I do very well for lunches, going to the Beaver Club, a Canadian Forces restaurant near the Admiralty. Excellent food at a shilling and twopence a time. My hours are from 9.30 a.m. (Parade at 9 a.m.) to 5.30 p.m. with an hour for lunch.

In mid-September my 'probation' period ended and I was on permanent posting to F.9. This brought me two stripes. No privates were employed at War Office. I worked for Captain Vallentine as a confidential clerk but he made few demands on my services though we got along very well. My main job was to take care of the Army pay of members of the Royal Household staff who had been employed at Sandringham and the overseas requirements of a number of Fleet Street war correspondents - some of whom I knew.

Room 443 was supervised by Staff-Sergeant Pett, a gentle man of 40 who was also a gentleman. There was some military training. We paraded for inspection before 'Panzer' each morning and carried out belligerent exercises on the War Office roof. We had to imagine that one of the turrets was occupied by the enemy. We had to advance, using available cover, but I found that my backside was always visible, wherever my head might be. In a field behind the War Office we indulged in bayonet practice against hanging sandbags, attacking them with appropriate blood-curdling yells. I learned how to dismantle and re-assemble a Bren gun against time, the drill sergeant using a stopwatch. It was at about this time that Henry Reed wrote that most memorable of war poems 'The Naming of Parts.'

We were taken to Wormwood Scrubs, that desolate spot, for a grenade-throwing exercise. We stood in a trench and it was explained that each grenade had a four-second fuse. One held a spring-loaded lever hard against the casing of the bomb this lever being secured by a 'pin'. One removed the pin and almost in the same movement hurled the missile towards the target area. Fine, except that one of my colleagues, having removed the pin, dropped the grenade at his feet. With one incredible swoop the drill-sergeant scooped it up and hurled it out with such force that it passed over the target area and exploded in the mud where the officer-observer was ensconced in a sandbagged revetment. The mud descended upon him. The officer had words for the sergeant who had words for my colleague. Unkind words.

We had to take our turn of night guard-duty both within the War Office and at the Fortress. Both sites produced comedy. After office hours (yes, the War Office kept peace-time office hours in the midst of World War Two) the building was dimly lit (black-out regulations), dusty and rat-infested. We patrolled all the floors. One night a tremulous corporal escorted a gold-laced general to the guardroom at gunpoint. The general had been challenged, asked to produce his security pass and had failed to do so. He was Field-Marshal William Ironside, until recently Commander-in-Chief of the Home Forces. The stunned guard-commander expected a rocket but was complimented on the dedication of his sentries.

Not so a civilian challenged at the entrance to the Fortress and who, similarly, was unable to produce his pass. This character launched into the 'don't-you-know-who-I-am?' routine. The sentry, unperturbed, remarked: 'If Jesus Christ turned up without a pass he wouldn't get past me.' The civilian was Anthony Eden, the Foreign Secretary. Such diversions were rare. Monotony, boredom and lack of sleep were the hallmarks of all guard duties everywhere. I never became accustomed to sleeping with my boots on.

Long after the threat of invasion had receded we carried out ‘invasion exercises' in which theoretical enemy parachutists landed in Trafalgar Square and Whitehall. I was posted, fully armed, near the main stair-well and spent a couple of hours longing for a cigarette and making do with chewing gum. Eventually one of the referees, complete with identifying armband, informed me that the staircase had suffered a direct hit and that I was a casualty. 'Can I go off-duty now?' He glared at me: 'Certainly not. You will await the burial party.'

This was the time when a momentous military decision was made. Instead of the Corps' initials appearing on our shoulders - R.E. for Royal Engineers etc. there would be a series of coloured 'shoulder-flashes'. The colour chosen for the Pay Corps was yellow which, predictably, invited insults... the 'yellow streak'. My only line of defence was to assert that in China yellow, far from representing cowardice, was a lucky colour.

Soon after the Japanese invaded Malaya I was in the elevator ascending to F.9. standing behind two red-tabbed brass-hats. I heard... 'Things look bad. The Japs have sunk Prince of Wales and Repulse.' This news was kept from the general public for a while. Careless talk.

At the beginning of September 1942 Captain Vallentine informed me that he - and I - would now work in Mayfair - in Allied Force Headquarters. The place swarmed with Americans. One day, summoned by my Captain, I found him studying a map, which he carefully concealed when I entered. On his desk lay a Service revolver. 'How would you like a trip overseas?' he enquired. Was I being offered a choice? I knew the question was mere theatre, like the revolver and map. I gave the reply he expected. I went home reflecting upon that map. I had caught a glimpse of a coastline with some islands in the foreground. These, I speculated, might be the Channel Islands and the coastline that of France. The long-awaited Second Front?

The map was of quite another place. So I became involved in 'Operation Torch’, which is a rather different story.

Read the second installment of Sgt Len Scott's story in 'Convoy to Algiers'.

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