Chapter 3

I suppose it was the same bright individual who had the storm trench dug who thought of the idea of burying a pipe to carry away the cookhouse effluent down into the eastern hillside tunnel. I found this out by accident. Having seen Fantasia the previous night and admiring Mickey Mouse's jaunty swagger I hummed the melody of Ducas' The Sorcerer's Apprentice as I swaggered down into the dark tunnel; I stopped abruptly when the fluid was over the tops of my gaiters; my humming stopped and my language was not nice at all.

From the mess hut one lunch time, gazing at nothing in particular but looking towards the north side of the camp, I became aware of a disturbance in the taller grasses on top of the low earth bank. I wondered why as the movement was not general as one would expect with wind gusts but was quite localised. While I mused over this a loud yelling came from that spot and immediately some 20 or 30 khaki clad figures emerged carrying rifles and with their faces blackened. This armed group charged across the battery, still yelling as they went out through the gate, past the stick sentry; he watched stupefied, head turning from side to side as they disappeared into Fort Austin Avenue. He had only ever expected unauthorised entry from without, never from within. By the time we had collected our thoughts and looked outside there was no sign of the intruders and we never saw them again. This was I believe an early training exercise of a commando unit.

At that time we were a fairly close knit group, our common bond being that we were all Bristolians and volunteers. There was virtually no crime apart from petty offences against military law, in fact the reverse was often the case as was demonstrated when one pay day I had to dash off from pay parade, dump my pay and pay-book on my unmade bed and rush to catch the lorry going into town to see a show. When I returned late at night my bed had been made and my pay and pay-book were placed neatly on my bed, by whom I never found out.

Military offences were few and usually petty but in the eyes of authority charges had to be laid and these were heard in the Company Office, the Nissen hut just inside the entrance gate. This hut was divided in half, the front portion being occupied by the clerical staff and their paraphernalia, while the rear part was further divided into two. The innermost portion was the private retreat of the CO and the rearmost portion, not very large, was where charges were laid, pleas were heard and punishments meted out. In accordance with military procedure a prisoner, hatless, had to be escorted in to face the CO. I was once detailed to be one of the escorts; we with the prisoner, assembled in front of the hut. "Prisoner and escort," barked the CSM who was about as unpopular as any of his rank, "fall in." We did, with the prisoner sandwiched between us. "Prisoner and escort, 'shun." We sprang smartly to attention. He strode up to the prisoner and snatched off his hat and, "Prisoner and escort, right turn, quick march." I was the leading escort and I could see before me the open door of the little room, in fact all the doors were open and daylight streamed in from the far end of the hut. We quick marched, the CSM following a short way behind us; there was only space enough for our trio and I knew that we ought to mark time once we were inside, however that was not what the military had impressed on us so I led our little group right into the CO's inner sanctum; out of the corner of my eye I saw the bemused look on his face as we passed by. Onwards we went looking straight ahead, right through the hut; surprised clerks watched us as we emerged into the open air again. I was happy that in obeying the last order as laid down by he military I had upset the routine and what was more enjoyable I had upset the CSM. He made no attempt to follow us through the hut but ran along outside to catch up with us as we strode out into the distance. "Halt!" he yelled and we did; and for a while that was all he could say, his cheeks turned puce and I thought he was on the verge of apoplexy. Gradually he calmed down, berated us, marched us back to our starting point, then gave us more precise orders. In we went again. I can't remember what the charge was nor what punishment was awarded but I do know that the CO carried on as if nothing untoward had happened.

Looking over the drawbridge into the dry moat Denis Cleese saw a group of fox cubs, two or three were dead but one was still alive and the vixen was nowhere to be seen so Denis climbed down and rescued the survivor, adopted him one might say. How the cub was fed I don't recall but he lived mainly in our hut and became quite tame. He travelled to Bristol in Denis' battledress blouse and was duly shown family and friends. He was still quite young and played happily with the troops though at night he used to steal our socks and shred them; he stayed with us some time but one day he disappeared and the sentry who had been on duty the previous night said that he had seen the vixen on top of the cookhouse roof so perhaps she had found her son and reclaimed him.

We were kept busy one way or another but not always fairly. Denis Cleese complained that over the previous 10 days he had averaged only four hours of sleep per night; this was obviously due to mal-administration. The officer hearing the complaint brushed it off, saying that fours hours of sleep was enough for any man. Later the duty rosters were reorganised. The army hated to see soldiers with too much spare time; whitewashing border stones or blacking the soles of boots really served no useful purpose except as make-work projects designed to keep us out of mischief. In keeping with this idea various little schemes were thought out to keep us occupied and sometimes bribes were offered such as being excused duties or being eligible for late night passes. So it was that late night passes were offered to the members of the hut that provided the best turned out soldier for guard duty. I regret to say that our principles had sunk so low that we all entered into the spirit of this with gusto. Some polished boots to a mirror-like shine not forgetting to blacken the soles and count the hobnails before metal polishing them; others pressed trousers and brushed the uniform of our protégé. Brasses were polished to an unbelievable lustre, then, as we were about to present our man we looked outside and saw the rain pouring down and the mud beginning to form. Not to be beaten we stood him on a short plank; with a soldier at each end of the plank and another behind to provide stability we carried him to the appointed place on the parade ground and deposited an immaculate Bert Hickman ready for the inspection of the guard. We won.

I think it was in 1941 that the GOR was relocated once again, this time to Area Combined Headquarters (ACH), somewhere in Plymouth; we were driven there for our shifts daily by lorry but I have no idea where it was exactly and I couldn't find it today even if I tried.

Anticipating the arrival of our ATS replacements the military had taken over some small houses facing the southern entrance to South Raglan Barracks; these were quite empty except for quantities of bedding (the girls were to be much more pampered than we were) and of course the houses required fire-watching at night. This duty was not so onerous as might be thought. Much in the manner of the fairy story The Princess and the Pea we piled up mattress upon mattress upon mattress until a normal bed height was achieved and the addition of clean sheets and pillows completed the ensemble At no time when I was there fire-watching was there ever an air raid, or if there was I slept through it. With the coming of the dawn I replaced all the bedding just in case a snap inspection was called, then I caught the lorry back to Bowden Battery where I was granted the morning off to compensate for my exhausting night duty.

There were many air raids on Plymouth, some were minor but there were also some major ones. I seem to remember four but I was never down in the centre of town for these; for many raids I was in the GOR but for two I was in a pub, The George in Crownhill; I recall the noise of the planes and of the exploding bombs and shells and seeing the fires over the city with the occasional brighter redder flare-ups as planes crashed. Walking back to our billets one could see some damage and some of the houses in Fort Austin Avenue were burning but the city centre and the docks area bore the brunt of the action. AA fire was credited with the downing of 16 planes in the major raids, other "kills" being credited to the RAF. Going into the city after a heavy raid was a rather sickening experience, smouldering ruins and desolation and the knowledge of untold deaths and misery. Before I left Plymouth in 1942 the guns at Rame and Down Thomas were either replaced by or augmented with rockets ("Z" batteries).

Around this period Bristol became the HQ of the 8th AA Divisional Signals and Plymouth became the No2 Company. Our shoulder flashes now changed, the red flames were extinguished and were replaced by an 8-pointed red star smack in the middle of the bomber; still very pretty and prophetic.

Of the many thousands of characters whom I encountered during my six-and-a-half years of army life most have drifted into obscurity but some are still with me; such a one was Brigadier Barbary of 55 Brigade. Without my knowing for sure rumour had it that he had a firm in Cornwall and I assumed that it was an engineering firm; I also assumed because of this that he was a Territorial Army officer. He was a shortish almost portly figure with a definite bearing. His articulation was not exactly that of the BBC but he had a pleasing Cornish accent and over the many times I saw him he never appeared to have the aloofness of rank. Occasionally he would visit our GOR and having discussed things at a higher level would exchange a few words with the other ranks. During a lull in operations I was seated at the plotting table reading a not very intellectual magazine when I became aware of his presence; I sprang to my feet. "No, no," he said, "sit down." I obeyed. "What's that you're reading?" he asked. I gave him the magazine which he scrutinised. "What's your job in civvy street?" he enquired. I told him. "Then you don't want to read trash like this, get some technical magazines to read, if you don't keep up with things you'll finish up with an addled brain." Then wishing to speak with Exeter he said to a telephone operator, "Gimme my brigade."

In the days when our GOR was in Hamoaze House one of our signalmen, Bill Lambert, had to take a message into another room where a meeting of some top brass was in progress; assorted crowns and pips were there together with their ATS drivers. The meeting was about to break up and Brigadier Barbary picked up his baton and asked, "Where's me 'at?" Up jumped his ATS driver and said, "Here I am, Sir." :"No, no, not you dear," said the brigadier, "I means the 'at wot I wears on me 'ead." Many years later this story was confirmed, word for word, by an ex-colonel who had also been present.

Other unusual characters often come to mind when I recall those days; one lad arrived alone one morning wearing khaki but sporting an RAF pilot's wings on his chest. He had been transferred from the RAF and he told us bits of his story but never the reason for his transfer and we assumed because of his nervousness and his habit of constantly looking back over his shoulder that it was LMF. He told us that with others he had been ordered to machine-gun soldiers, presumably enemy, on the beach near Brighton and offered to bring in his log book but we didn't press the matter.

Derek was a different type; he also arrived alone. He was about 19 and this was the first time he had ever been away from home. He was a quiet retiring lad, one could almost say not quite of this world and what was unusual was that he couldn't shave himself, up to that time his mother had always shaved him; adapting to the army life was a real challenge for him but I suppose the army was happy to have another warm body.

Bob was near my age, maybe a year or so older and before the army got hold of him he was a school teacher. He found life just as boring as the rest of us but he surprised us all when he announced that he was going to apply for a commission. We enquired in what branch and he said that the only commissions available then were in the infantry. Our further enquiries elicited the following; he and his wife had a fairly large circle of friends and when they entertained their hallstand became full of uniforms, all with pips, crowns or rings. His wife pointed out that all Bob could rustle up was a standard army greatcoat without even a lance-corporal's stripe, so Bob decided to remedy the situation. Well, good luck, Bob, I thought, if you don't make it, as you probably won't, your wife can always hang your posthumous medals on the hallstand together with all the bowler hats.

In the early part of 1942 in bitterly cold weather I was on daytime guard duty at the gate (what else is new?); I was bundled up in my greatcoat and a leather jerkin, one of the more acceptable pieces of equipment supplied by the army, when the duty sergeant approached "you're to go up to the GOR and take a teleprinter test this afternoon," he said, "teleprinter operators are required for an overseas draft and so far four from different units have been found to be inefficient, it's your turn to try." Not having touched a teleprinter for a couple of years I said, "It's no use, sarge, I'll fail, it's a waste of time." He was a regular soldier and he found it difficult to understand that anyone would voluntarily drop in pay. "You mean you're prepared to forfeit your trade pay without even giving it a try? you'll revert to general duties." An idea had begun to form in my mind, if I were to revert to general duties then I would be free to apply for a transfer to another branch of the services to a trade more in line with my civilian job, possibly into the Royal Engineers or the Royal Army Ordnance Corps and I told the sergeant so. He thought about it for a moment and then agreed, he went into the Company Office, saw the CO and returned within half-an-hour with the necessary papers for a transfer application.

A few days later I was at Devonport railway station awaiting a Southern Railway train bound for Salisbury. On arrival there I found my way to the private house where I was to be interviewed. I forget the officer's rank, he was probably a major but it was an informal affair, one-on-one. I suppose that my answers to his semi-technical questions were satisfactory and eventually he asked, "Have you ever thought of a commission?" Now in this world there are leaders and there are followers and in matters concerning the life or death of others I come in the second category. "No, Sir." I replied. "You could be compelled to." he said. I was non-committal and we left it at that. Back in Bowden Battery I was called in front of a visiting officer, Captain Barbary, son of the brigadier. Apparently certain selected individuals were to be sent on an intensive physical training course to develop their full potential and Barbary was there to sort out those most likely to benefit from the scheme. Reflex actions and the speed thereof were checked and I suppose that a general assessment of physique was made, anyway a couple of days later I was bound for Westward Ho on the north coast of Devon with all my kit. My destination was a pre-war holiday camp, taken over by the military but the holiday spirit was gone and the conditions were spartan. However before my course really got started I was ordered to get moving once more, this time to Tidworth to take a trade test.

I had only ever heard of the place before as being the site of the Tidworth Tattoo and I wasn't quite prepared for the fact that it appeared to be in the middle of nowhere and that the railway tracks finished there; my spirits sank. The one redeeming thing was that I would only be there for a couple of days. Military personnel of all corps and regiments seemed to be there and it had an atmosphere of bustle, squads marching and counter-marching, urged on by the drill-pigs, little dictators strutting their stuff. There were military vehicles also including a few tanks, probably the only ones Britain possessed at that time and pips and crowns abounded together with some red tabs. But there was one little haven of relative peace, the Drawing Office where I took my trade test and for two days I could shut off the military world. When it was all over I returned to Bowden Battery as it was too late to re-join the intensive physical training course.

Some days later I was ordered to go to a holding battalion at Oxshott. Once again I gathered up all my kit and headed east, this time as a private in the RAOC, a draughtsman class III. I detrained at Oxshott station and plodded up the hill to the holding battalion that was in a large private house set in a very large garden on the road between Leatherhead and Esher. It was about five o'clock when I got there and the first thing to do after reporting in was to get something to eat. This done I next went to the QM stores to get my kit sorted out. I exchanged my leather bandolier and black leather gaiters for webbing bren gun pouches and gaiters all in pieces and in different shades of khaki. I also exchanged my gas mask for an identical one which seemed silly to me but I still didn't have a complete issue of army equipment.

OXSHOTT

It was Saturday. I was shown to my billet and started to get settled in, finding out the lay of the land, questioning my new companions. Were conditions very strict? No, not really, I was assured. What about Sunday, was there a church parade? Well, yes but you don't have to attend, many don't. My sister and her husband lived in Surbiton, close to a bus route passing through Esher and Esher was within walking distance from Oxshott, so on Sunday I set forth, catching a bus at Esher and spending a pleasant day with them. Arriving back just before midnight I assembled all my new webbing equipment and then slept well. In the morning my new companions informed me that there was to be a sergeant-major's parade at eight o'clock, in shirt-sleeve order and I felt a little apprehensive because I now had no time to blanco my equipment; there was nothing for it but to go on parade multi-coloured. Since we were not wearing battledress blouses I had another little problem. The previous Christmas one of my sisters had given me a pair of braces (suspenders in North America), very patriotic, in red, white and blue stripes and these didn't improve my appearance either. We assembled in the roadway not far from the big house and with the rest I fell in, waiting for the axe to fall.

The sergeant-major came down the lines, inspecting his charges. When he reached me he paused for a second or two as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He looked me up and down and then launched into a long tirade concerning my appearance. He drew my attention to the lad next to me and informed me that he had come all the way from Cyprus just to fight for Britain and just look at him, how soldierly he was. Without turning my head I looked out of the corner of my eye and took in this exemplar; in all honesty I had to admit to myself that there was no comparison between us but of the two I thought I was the better looking. Mentally I told myself that I had come all the way from Bristol via Filton, Plymouth, Westward Ho and Tidworth with the same idea but I had been in the army long enough to know that it was impossible to win an argument with a higher rank so I put on my wooden soldier's expression and stared straight ahead. Eventually he ran out of steam as I knew he would; he took my name and number and charged me with being improperly dressed. Fortunately for me the officer hearing the charge was not so impetuous and gave me the opportunity to explain that as a territorial I had never been fully kitted out; he dismissed the charge.

But Sergeant-major McCullom had seen his little fish slip through his fingers and I was now introduced to one of the meaner, petty characters that the army had seen fit to elevate. I was ordered to blanco my equipment immediately in the approved khaki colour and had to treat my gas mask cover with the mandated blanco, Pickering's khaki-green No.3. I often wondered who were the major shareholders in these blanco companies, most units required slightly different shades, but perhaps I'm being a bit cynical. Unfortunately the new gas mask cover had a flaw, it had a large grease spot that refused to take the blanco. The orderly sergeant said, "Do it again." I did. The results were the same, as were the third, fourth and fifth try. These orderly sergeants, there were two of them, now had a victim; at no time did either of them offer any suggestions or watch me as I assiduously blancoed away at that confounded gas mask cover. Eventually the truth must have dawned on them and I had the cover exchanged but from then on my name was the first one to come into their little minds when an unpleasant task came up or one invented especially for me and for three weeks I had practically no free time for myself.

One other incident stays with me from those days, a sad one really. A young lad of about 19, infantry I believe, was in quite a state. He told me that his mother was a widow and that he was the youngest of three sons. One brother had been killed in North Africa and he had heard that very morning that his other brother had been killed in a training accident; he himself was waiting for a posting to Lord knows where. I believe the army has been known in such cases to discharge a lone survivor but this lad was not to be consoled. I don't know the outcome.

Oxshott does not evoke very happy memories in my mind and for a long time afterwards I harboured thoughts of meeting those three after the war, on more equal terms or on terms more favourable to me but now I can't even remember what they looked like. The future became a little brighter when on a later postings parade my name was called out and I was en route to Aldershot, to Parson's Barracks.

ALDERSHOT

Accommodation in Parson's Barracks was in the comparatively new spider huts, six corridors emanating from a common hub terminating in our sleeping quarters. Again the beds consisted of three bed boards on wooden trestles and three biscuits; Four blankets completed the ensemble. I think that we were there just filling in time before we were sent on an overseas draft and each morning we paraded in front of the Company Office for roll call before being marched off to the Ordnance Workshops, there to be split up into our various trades. Initially I was sent to a fitting bench where my main unofficial job was to convert an English penny into a spitfire brooch for my sister. Later I was transferred to the Drawing Office. I don't recall exactly what I worked on, nothing earth-shattering but this was to be the pattern of things for the next couple of months.

This was a peacetime undertaking employing mainly civilians both in the offices and workshops and supplemented during the war by army tradesmen. There were relics of a bygone age when time was not of the essence; on the walls were some drawings on thick cartridge paper of weaponry with the various metals indicated by colour washes, blue for steel and yellow for brass while some drawings were in ink on tracing linen. Current drawings however were in pencil on tracing paper.