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My papers (The King’s Shilling) arrived with a Postal Order and a Railway Pass. I was to report to the Army Camp at Carlisle. It was the last winter of the war. The excitement of joining up to fight the Nazis was dwindling: Hitler was on the run and it was only a matter of time before the Japs would follow. Still, I thought, I could be lucky and get in on the invasion of Japan.

Rationing was biting hard, but I hadn’t wasted my clothing coupons on clothes that I would need once in the Armed Services, particularly as I had two sisters always desperately short of nylon stockings. Mind you, I had become a dab hand at drawing a line up the back of their legs after they had put cocoa or something similar on their legs.

Quiet goodbyes

The goodbyes were not emotional - there didn’t seem to be room for that in those days. I left the council flat in Camberwell Green in London, where the family had recently moved after being ‘bombed out’ by a flying bomb (V1) on our home at Kennington.

I caught a bus to the Oval, where I picked up the tube to take me to Euston Station. The station was crowded as usual with servicemen and -women from the Army, Navy and Air forces of many nationalities. There were Yanks galore - some of the thousands who had descended upon London for their leave. It seemed as if they always had a pretty girl on their arm. It wasn’t my London and I felt out of place. The West End was just a place to be on leave. The Army was not of my choosing, but there in front of me was a new life about to begin.

‘Surplus to requirements’ the letter from the Air Ministry said. My years in the ATC and ambition to fly now meaningless. All a question of supply and demand. What the hell! Lets see what the Army is all about.

A new life begins

The train left Euston at 10.00am and steady progress was made with the usual wartime delays and stops. Somewhere around midday a lady from the WVS boarded the train and put a very welcome parcel of food in my hand. I duly devoured the food and drink - I was famished. As I was six feet tall, as ‘skinny as a rake’ and permanently hungry, the food went down well.

At about 6.00pm the train eventually arrived at Carlisle, 300 miles from home - I had checked on the map before leaving. It was just about as far as you could go from London and still be in England – some journey!

To the camp

I along with all the other conscripted 18-year-olds who had arrived at the station were taken in Army trucks to the camp.

We were left to our own devices in empty huts. It was my first encounter with the many dialects that are spoken in the British Isles. I found them hilarious. Of course, there were plenty of comedians, even though they were pretty fed up. One Yorkshire lad, who was a keen dancer, was a bit upset because he should have been at a dance that night and his girlfriend was bound be there dancing with someone else.

In no time at all rumours started flying about - 'The Cooks said...'. In the British Army all rumours of troop movements, as far as squaddies are concerned, start in the cookhouse. The cooks always claim to be in the know because they prepare the food rations. The story was that we were not staying at that camp, and were moving out that night.

On the move again

Sure enough at about 8.00pm we were told to assemble at the guardroom, where we once again boarded trucks and were taken to the station.

No one knew where we were going, but we were definitely going north. Looking out of the window was not much help - it was pitch black because of course the black-out was operating. It became colder the further north we went, and there was no heating on the train.

The joys of Nissan Huts

I did manage to get to sleep, but was woken up around 1.30am as we had arrived at our destination. It was pouring with rain as we marched about a mile to a transit camp where some food was prepared for us. Soaked to the skin, we piled into the Nissan Hut. It was warm in there and in no time it was like a Turkish Bath with our clothes steaming. Nissan Huts lend themselves to condensation, so matters were made even worse with water running down the metal after condensing on the impervious surface.

The food was good and hot, we all soon ran out of conversation and dozed off to sleep with our heads on the table. At about 5.30am we were roused and formed up outside. It was still dark, but it had stopped raining. Our clothes had pretty well dried out but we were beginning to look a bit bedraggled. Off we were marched once again along the road, Dawn was breaking. Suddenly seagulls appeared, wheeling about in the morning air. I realised we were marching into the docks at Stranraer.

Bound for Northern Ireland

We were shepherded aboard the Ferry bound for Larne in Northern Ireland. Some of the lads were talking about U-Boats. I thought, wait till I tell Mum they are sending me abroad on my first day in the Army.

The sea was rough, about three-quarters of the lads were seasick. It was pretty awful, but no one could help them.

We arrived around midday at Larne, the weather had brightened up, but the place reeked of stagnant seaweed, it was foul, and the smell just hung in your nostrils.

We were marched up to the local Army camp, where we paraded, mess cans in hand, before a line up of Dixies under the supervision of the Sergeant Cook. Our food was doled out in regular Army style with ladles doloping the food into the mess tins provided.

'That man!' bawled the Sergeant 'Come back here.' I returned.
'Give him some more,' he ordered.
I thought it must have been my lucky day.

En route again

After the meal we were once again assembled and marched to the railway station where we boarded a train. It was a very strange train journey across Northern Ireland.

The railway seemed to zig zag. There was a number of stops and each time we stopped the engine would be disconnected, then chug past us on the rail alongside, then hitch up to the rear coach and we would continue in the opposite direction. We eventually arrived at Omagh, County Tyrone. It was about 6.00 in the evening.
'Get fell in,' was the shout from an Army Sergeant. We ambled out, tired and fed up. That didn’t last long, the Sergeant was screaming at us to 'look lively' as we marched up to the camp, thirty-six hours after I had left home.

Six weeks later I was posted to the Parachute Regiment on the Isle of Wight, an even longer journey.

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