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17th August dawned bright and clear, a good omen! I was joining with a well-heeled school friend, Leslie Nathan, nickname 'Shaggy', a good lad, but not really very military in outlook or bearing. He was to face a hard time ahead, but that was to come. His stepfather was 'Something-in-the-Ministry' - wartime saying - and he had invited my mother and myself, along with Leslie's mother and sisters to a slap up lunch at a very expensive West End restaurant. The sort of place where rationing was purely hypothetical, and you would never know a war had been on for years.
After lunch he drove us down to Maidstone in a Ministry car - God knows what went down on his journey sheet, no doubt some official-visit crap, but he was very senior so ordinary rules and regs didn't apply to him! We off-loaded outside the barracks gates, said our farewells, and we were in.
Surprisingly there was very little of the hanging about that epitomised so much of our future military life. I suppose they were desperate to get us in, counted, branded, and under lock and key! We were greeted with fatherly noises by a Sergeant Major and other assorted NCO's, and herded together with a growing band of nervous-looking idiots in civvies, just like us, clutching suitcases, bags and cardboard boxes. Three actually had tennis racquets, and one a cricket bat. God only knows what they thought they were joining, - a sports club? There was a certain amount of jocular, ribald comment from the NCO's. Ho! ho! ho!
Shortly after, we were transferred to the back of a 3-tonner and driven to the Quartermaster's Stores, of which much has been written by better men than I. There, assorted items of kit were flung at us as we moved slowly along a wooden counter. "BOOTS, LEATHER, BLACK, PAIRS 2, SIZE 11" bellowed the Lance Corporal on the other side of the counter, banging them down in front of me. We progressed through "GAITERS, WEBBING, CANVAS", UNDERPANTS,WOOLLEN, LONG, PAIRS 2", finally ending up with "BADGE, CAP, BRASS, REGIMENTAL". Not necessarily in that order, but each item roared out above the general hubbub. All these exciting goodies we stuffed as best we could into the "KITBAG, CANVAS, WHITE", then blindly signed for our kit, innocently trusting the QM lads to have given us everything. In most cases they had, but their choice of size left much to be desired. I say 'their choice' because most of the time they measured us up with their eyes and gave us a size from their experience. Not exactly Saville Row couture.
We staggered out into the sunshine gripping our suitcases in one hand, dragging our seemingly enormous kitbags along with the other. At this stage, we were informed with some delight by our minders that we had taken our last joyride for some time, and from now on it was shank's pony!
The NCOs circled round us like sheepdogs, separating us into various groups, all the time uttering orders and instructions in a sort of hoarse strangulated scream, most of which were totally incomprehensible. We milled about like lambs to the slaughter.
Once lined up into some vague - very vague - semblance of military formation, we were 'marched' to our barrack room. If it was not for the bright sunlight, a spectator could well have been forgiven for mistaking us for Napoleon's finest shambling back from Moscow. The barracks were old, pre-war, - pre first war. Ours was named Crimea, and I could see why. High ceilings, stone walls, stone floors, and two rows of two-tier wooden bunks, one down each side.
"RIGHT! GIT YERSELS SOR'ED AHT. GRAB A BUNK. YER 'OME NOW!"
Nathan and I grabbed one as instructed, I took the top. We all dumped our kit onto them in an unsightly jumble, and slumped down with sighs of relief to rest our weary feet, on the wooden bed boards. However, it seemed that this was not part of the Great Plan.
"ON YER FEET! Come on. Don't just sit there. Fall in ahtside." (That 'fall in ahtside' was to become an integral part of our waking, - and often sleeping, - life.)
"ROIGHT!" - all NCOs seemed to speak in capitals, - DAHN TER THE BEDDING STAW FER BISCUITS AND BLANKETS!" That seemed an unlikely combination, but as no further enlightenment was forthcoming, off we shambled. The NCO's marched briskly round us, immaculately uniformed, boots shining, stamping the ground as though they had a personal grudge against it. They kept up a constant flow of "LEF' , RI', LEF', RI'" and other friendly remarks like ' Oh my Gawd, jus'look at yer' and 'stop prancing around like pregnant .......... ballet dancers. Put yer feet DAHN!', 'swing yer arms', 'look to yer front', ' 'ead up, chest aht, stummick IN!'
We straggled to a halt outside the bedding store, formed the inevitable queue, and passed out at the far end juggling with 'Biscuits - 3; Blankets — 3. Now, that may not sound excessive, but 'biscuits' should not be taken at face value. They were 3 foot square canvas-covered cushions, apparently filled with broken concrete. Three laid end to end along your bunk acted as the mattress, which you covered with a blanket, then yourself, then two more blankets. A rather posh voice piped up, enquiring when we got the sheets. The corporal's reply I won't elaborate on, but was loosely based on a mispronunciation of the word 'sheets'.
We then 'marched' briskly back to Crimea, not without several mishaps on the way, as these things were not easy to handle, and dumped yet another load onto our respective bunks. We slumped amidst the mess, but there was to be no peace. Our platoon sergeant, whose name, alas escapes me, was about 6ft 4ins and broad to match, but with a surprisingly quiet manner. Mind you, if you are that sort of size, you don''t really need to raise your voice much. People tend not to argue with you. We had two Corporals, hard men both, but excellent instructors, and a Lance Corporal called Kerr, small, highly intelligent, very public school, a talent for paperwork and admin, and a deep dislike of the army. He became firm friends with Nathan, who was also intelligent, well read, and very shortly also developed a deep dislike of the army!
The next step was to cause the sort of chaos that the army is so good at. Having all grabbed bunks on entering the room, as instructed, sharing with people we knew, or thought we might like, the sergeant then decided that we had to be in alphabetical name order around the room. The next 10 minutes or more was spent milling around being sorted into A's, B's,and C's etc, then collecting and transferring our junk to our new positions! Brilliant. As it happened, Nathan and I were still together as he was the only 'N' and I was the last of the 'Mc's'. Several other guys were separated from friends they had joined with, but it didn't really matter all that much as we all lived such a public, un-private life, we got to know each other well. Why the lowest rank in the army is called 'Private' heaven only knows, as anything less private would be hard to find on this earth!
Once all this was sorted out, we had the equally inevitable 'documentation'. This is a compulsive tradition in the forces, taken very seriously. We were lined up in file, in alphabetical order. At one end of the barrack room the mandatory trestle table was set up, covered with 'Blanket, woollen, grey, -1'. Sergeant Morris sat 4-square behind it, L/Cpl Kerr on his left, pen poised. One corporal stood at the head of the queue with a list of names, - we had already had a rollcall about 6 times, - the other paced up and down the length of the line, ready to pounce on the first signs of mutiny!
One by one our names were called out, we stood rigid in front of the sergeant giving names, addresses, dates of birth, and signing various things like the Oath of Allegiance to the King Emperor, and the Official Secrets Act, and were duly issued with the ubiquitous AB64, or Army Pay and Records Book/ Identity Card/ History of Wounds, Injections, Decorations, Desertion, and anything else that could happen to a gallant young lad, all rolled into one slim volume.
Things went very smoothly until it came to the turn of one HILL, Reginald. "Home address" barked the sergeant. "10 Downing Street" drawled Reggie, in a fearfully upper crust accent.
There was an ominous silence. Sergeant kept his eyes firmly focussed on the document in front of him. The two corporals stiffened, quivered like a couple of bird dogs scenting their prey, pointing their noses in Hill's direction.
"Home address, lad" growled the sergeant, "and don't ------- me about."
"10 Downing Street, sergeant." said Hill, now looking a shade anxious. The expected explosion followed, but in the end it transpired that Reggie did indeed live at 10 Downing Street, his mother being one of Churchill's most senior private secretaries, his father, Sir George Hill, 9th Baronet, having been killed serving with the Indian Army. After that Hill was always treated with a degree of wariness by the NCOs and Officers. Churchill was Churchill, and there was a certain reluctance to end up in the Tower......
After documentation we tried on our uniforms. That was hilarious. A lot of thought and effort had gone into the design of the British battledress to ensure that it did not fit anywhere. If it did, there was a good chance of being invalided out as deformed! Then we were shown how to piece together and hang round one all the odd pieces of webbing equipment so generously provided by a grateful country. Belts, ammunition pouches, water bottles, bayonet 'frogs' - (no, - don't ask, I have no idea) - small pack, large pack etc. It all took a little time. Some of it took a long time.....
Boots were next. Standing around a huge drum of boiling water, we labelled our boots and threw them in for several minutes, then gingerly fished them out with sundry sticks and rods. When sufficiently cool we slurped Dubbin all over them, then put them on and ran round in them for about 15 minutes a pair. The water softened them, the Dubbin suppled them, and wearing them still in that warm, soft state was supposed to mould them to the shape of our feet. By and large it worked well. I had very little trouble with mine, though others did tend to raise horrific blisters later. I found them terribly comfy.
At some time during the evening we were 'fallen in ahtside' and marched to the cookhouse for our supper. About threequarters of the platoon moaned and complained about the food, but then, they hadn't been to expensive Public Schools! Personally I tucked into the swill with gusto, not exactly haute cuisine I know, and put on almost a stone in the 6 weeks I was there, in spite of the enormous amount of exercise we indulged in every day.
We were here for six weeks of 'basic' training, marching, drilling, learning all about the rifle, - ( "it's yer best friend, so bloody look after it....") - the Bren light machine gun, bayonet fighting, hand grenades, more drilling, and getting fit. It all passed in something of a haze, but small incidents stand out in memory.
Private McCulloch from Southern Ireland, the traditional thick-as-two-planks Irish farm boy, virtually incapable of taking in anything - except quite unbelievable quantities of food, - was a natural butt for all the NCOs to make fun of. He took it all in good part, largely, I suspect, because he could not take in the significance of what was said to him. In the end he got the last laugh, if you could call it that. He went home on a 36 hour pass, took his rifle with him, and never came back. Neither did his rifle, which no doubt surfaced many years later in Northern Ireland1

o o o o o o o

Another memory, - walking along one side of a vast parade ground with my hands in my pockets because it was cold, in pitch darkness. Remember there was a strict blackout then, not a light to be seen anywhere. Suddenly the darkness was pierced by the emasculated shriek of a totally invisible RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major, - a very important man indeed) from the other side of the square, yelling at me to "git yer 'ands aht o' yer pockets, yer disgusting little man." How the hell did he know? I never did fathom that one out, maybe that was why he was an RSM. Mind you. I was 6ft 2 and he was about 5ft 6, so it was a bit cheeky of him, but I sensibly didn't argue the point, but whipped my hands guiltily out of my pockets and slunk away!

o o o o o o o

Going 'Sick'.
On one occasion I had the temerity to go sick. It was a well-established reality in the Army that you have to be pretty fit to go sick. I should have paid more attention, but no, I told the Sergeant that I was feeling very unwell, bunged up to my eyebrows and beyond with flu. I was ordered to get ready and report to the MI (Medical Inspection) Room. I discovered that 'getting ready' involved dressing in 'best' battledress, well blancoed gaiters and belt, marching down to the MI Room and then standing about for three hours, most of it out in the open. Of course, one seldom saw a Medical Officer, 90% of cases were dealt with by RAMC (Royal Army Medical Corps) sergeants. The one I saw decided that I was not actually malingering, and I was ordered to report to the Sick Bay. Either that, or he was a sadist! It happened to be a Friday.
I was given a list of kit to take with me, and I marched back to the Barrack Room to collect it all. - Small Pack; mess tins; knife, fork and spoon; 2 prs sox; change of underwear; 2nd battledress; P.T.Shoes and shorts;. After that I had to hand in my rifle to the Armoury, pack all my remaining kit into my kit bag and deposit it in the Company Stores and inform the Orderly Office what was happening. I was then free to stagger across to the Sick Bay to be admitted and documented. There was only one other inmate, an old hand at this sort of thing, who told me I was 'bloody mad, mate, going sick on a Friday'. He was going out that afternoon- Saturdays and Sundays there was no facility for being discharged from a Sick Bay, - I was going to meet that particular problem again in India the following year!
I climbed into my iron bed, and lay looking pale and interesting while my companion moaned on and on about the Army. After 'lunch' he departed, having got the better of the system once again, and escaped all duties Monday to Friday, and was now free to enjoy a boozy weekend!
About 4o'clock an orderly brought in a couple of pills and my evening meal. This was a cup of tea, a plate of watery baked beans on toast, and a hunk of bread. That was all I would get, apart from a nourishing cup of almost unsweetened cocoa at about 9o'clock if I was lucky.
After that I was on my own until about 7 next morning when another orderly brought me another cup of tea, and a congealed mess of of cold sausage, baked beans, tomato and a couple of slices of toast which appeared to have already seen service as the soles of some squaddie's boots. And so it went on, hours of solitude listening to drill-type noises outside on the square, and seeing blue skies and sunshine through the barred window.
Fortunately Leslie Nathan and Willy dropped in to see how I was progressing on Saturday afternoon, after parades had finished, for the day. Needless to say, they were despatched with some expedition to the NAAFI to rustle up some decent healthy fry-ups to keep me alive. With strict instructions to succour me on Sunday, too.
My God, I was glad to get out of there on Monday. Even though I still felt pretty rough, I told the RAMC sergeant that I felt fine. "Had enough, you mean" he grinned, "thought you would!"