大象传媒

When we arrived at Windsor Barracks our original squad was disbanded. We were sent to different units within the Training Battalion, where we would learn the expertise of war; handling the rifle and bren-gun, bayonet fighting, unarmed combat, enemy aircraft recognition and basic fieldcraft. To find out whether we had brought with us any special skills from civvi street we each went before a selection panel where the presiding officer asked us about our civilian jobs. As a result, Alf Lycitt, who'd helped his father with his butchery business but never been allowed to drive the van was pencilled in as a driving instructor. Fred Chell, an analytical chemist became an officers servant. A bricklayer was sent on a stretcher bearers course. And so on. The whole purpose of the interview seemed to be to make absolutely certain that only square pegs were put in round holes.

The rest of us, bus conductors, shop assistants, students, factory workers, clerks and a male nurse, were destined to become ordinary infantrymen.

It was at Windsor Barracks that we first met our regular guardsmen, old sweats who'd wangled cushy administrative and instructional duties for the duration. From then on we began to soak up vulgarisms and regimental jargon which soon became part of our everyday speech. We learned the obscene words which, for the rest of our lives, we would silently hum to ourselves whenever we heard one of the famous regimental marches being played. We were made aware of the differences that existed between the Guards and 'ordinary line regiments'. In the Guards, for instance, there were no 'one stripers', lance-corporals wore two stripes. And there were esoteric ranks like lance sergeant and colour sergeant and drill sergeant (who was actually a warrant officer). In the guards, the regimental sergeant major wasn't just a senior warrant officer, he was omnipotent. He was feared as much by the officers as by the guardsmen. One or two RSMs became legendary. RSM Brittain of the Coldstream Guards and RSM Brand of the Grenadiers were media figures. They had such authority on the parade ground and such a repertoire of invective that one terrified guardsman wet himself when he became the object of the RSMs holy wrath. There were stories of RSMs so besotted with bulshit that they saluted the telephone when an officer was speaking and did a smart 'left turn' drill movement when pushing a pram round a corner during an off-duty stroll.

A Guards RSM was waiting at the quayside, immaculately turned out, when a boatload of dead-beat guardsmen arrived back from Dunkirk. They began to shamble away to their waiting transport when a frenzied cry of command from the RSM stopped in their tracks. They formed three ranks in front of the dapper despot and were marched off with their heads held high and arms proudly swinging.

The few months at Windsor passed quickly, probably because we were doing interesting things at last. After all the foot-drill and bull at Chelsea it was marvellous to be engaged in adventurous field-training projects. After all, most of us were in our late teens or early twenties and we'd joined up to get away from hum-drum civillian occupations. I'd been a bus conductor in Derby.

One morning we were hustled into trucks, without so much as an inspection, for a whole day at Bisley, where the finest marksmen in the country competed every year for the kings cup. We took turns firing single shots and 'five rounds rapid' on the famous 1000 yard range, lying prone in the dust and taking the spiteful kick of the 303 rifles through our whole bodies. The six-foot targets appeared tiny in the distance and we were quite chuffed if we registered a hit at all. our results were signalled back to us by a team of markers who worked out of site in a pit somewhere below the line of targets. A marker-pole with a disc on the end would appear from nowhere waving, pointing or bobbing, according to where the previous shots had gone. On the day we were there most of the marker-poles were waving monotonously from side to side, signifying complete misses. Afterwards, we had to pour pint after pint of boiling water through the rifle barrels to get rid of the powder stains. We pulled them through the rifle barrels to get rid of the powder stains. We pulled them through with several changes of 'four-by two-cloth' until the time worn bores gleamed like new. When the rifles had been inspected we threw ourselves down in disarray on the grass and ate our packed lunches.

"I suppose there'll be stacks of boiling water laid on when we invade France" Harker said, "I don't want to be tekken prisoner wi a mucky barrel!" But in the Surry sunshine of 1940 the real war seemed a long way away.

It wasn't often that discipline was relaxed though. Our Company Sergeant Major was dead regimental. He must have been pushing forty and he had a face that was ugly almost to the point of beauty, it was so grotesque. In spite of the way he did everything according to the book we considered 'shithead' Joy a decent sort of bloke. At least we did until the Robinson episode.....

Guardsman Robinson was a french polisher by trade so, as you might expect his rifle stock was the envy of everybody in the platoon. But his real ambition was to get the whole platoons rifles up to the same standard so that we should be complimented by the adjutant when he carried out his weekly inspection. He went home on a weeks leave and when he came back he brought an old leather case with him - his french polishing stuff. For the next few weeks Robbo spent all his off-duty evenings working on our rifle stocks, rubbing and caressing the old walnut butts with bits of rag while we were out enjoying ourselves at The Smoke or in Windsor. The barrack-room reeked of meths every night but you never saw anything like the gleam on the woodwork of those rifles.

On battalion parade, the adjutant spotted them alright. He turned to shithead, who was about number four in the crocodile that was following him along in his inspection.
"Excellent turnout, Comp'ny Sarnt Major" "I've seldom seen better-looking rifles in wartime" But when he'd passed down the line a bit shithead took a close look at Robbos handiwork and we didn't like the look in his froggy eyes. After the parade, he stormed into our room and grabbed the first rifle he could lay his hands on. He peered at it, smelt at it and even stuck his tongue out and tasted the polish. "Right! Lay 'em all out on the floor, muzzles pointing the same way" he barked. We reverently placed our rifles side by side on the barrack-room floor and as we stepped back, wondering what he was up to. Shithead proceeded to march all over them in his ammo boots.

"Right now turn 'em over." And he came back up the room, grinding his studded boots into each rifle-stock in turn.

"Right, you're all confined to barracks 'til these rifles are properly polished as per army procedure," he said. "And think yourselves lucky you're not all on a charge of damaging government property".

Well we'd all suffered the tyranny of Trained Soldiers at Chelsea, but shitheads act of vengeance provoked the first threats of retaliation i'd ever heard made against a superior officer. A plot was formulated to 'do him' if we ever went out on a training exercise using live ammunition.

Many vendettas were provoked by sadistic NCOs and Warrant Officers and the confusion of battle provided the opportunity for the perfect murder to be committed. I know of two NCOs whose names are included in the Roll of Honour in their village church each of whom met an inglorious end at the hands of a member of his own unit. One unpopular NCO was given a lighter sentence; he was nicknamed Sergeant Heinz (57 varieties of bastard).

Most of those who rose from the ranks in the Guards were single-minded in their devotion to discipline and 'bull' but the qualities of leadership in our illustrious mob didn't necessarily include literacy. Below the rank of 2nd Lieutenant King' Regulations were more important than the Kings English. One of our sergeants had led his platoon - who were wearing Mae West lifejackets - ashore on an imaginary landing. The officer whispered "tell the men to deflate Sergeant Watson". The sergeant passed the message to his section leaders: "Tell 'em to spread out and keep down". A 'sanitary corporal' had just supervised the filling in of the field latrine pits as the company prepared to move on. To prevent the same spot being used again he erected a notice board with the legend 'Fowl Ground'. A guardsman had been charged with being idle on parade. When the CO asked him if he had anything to say in his defence he replied that he had a varicosele which was bothering him. Outside the company office afterwards, the CSM who'd charged the man was all compassion. "Why the 'ell didn't you tell me you'd got a bad foot?" he said.

One of the things I remember most vividly about Windsor was the beauty of Windsor Great Park, where we did a lot of our field training. Lying lush grass laced with daisies and clover it was impossible to treat with any seriousness such fire orders as "Bushy-topped tree - six o clock - sheep- prepare to fire!" I was reprimanded once for day-dreaming with a stem of grass between my teeth when we were supposed to be advancing in extended order towards the enemy.

Bayonet Practice was something else we found hard to accept as a serious matter. With ferocious cries we took turns in charging a stuffed effigy and plunging the blade into its straw guts. We did it as a sort of drill movement, advancing towards the 'victim' with the rifle and fixed bayonet carried at the 'high port'. The instructor insisted on the whole business being carried out with the utmost malevolence, though the idea that we might ever have to bayonet a fellow human being filled us with horror. (I never heard of a single case where the bayonet was used for any other purpose other than toasting bread, although I have a newspaper cutting in which members of my own battalion were wrongly reported as having used their bayonets against the enemy in Tunisia.

Another useless occupation in terms of winning the war was the practising of complicated foot-drill choreography. As none of us expected to ever take part in Trooping the Colour or the Edinburgh Tattoo it seemed a waste of time.

You can read Len Wallers full story by contacting him at [Personal details removed by moderator].

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