Transcript Detail
| Transcript Title | Poole, David (O2021.3) |
| Interviewee | David Poole |
| Interviewer | |
| Date | 01/01/2021 |
| Transcriber by | David Poole |
Transcript
Hertford Oral History Group
Recording no: O2021.3
Interviewee: David Poole
Date written: January 2021
NOTE: This is one of a number of self-recorded personal history transcripts. It is typed directly by the individual and, since it was not conducted by interview, is in a different format to that normally adopted by HOHG
Wartime and Childhood Memories
1. ARRIVAL IN HERTFORD
September 3rd 1939, Britain declares war on Germany, for the first year it was called the phoney war. Apart from the invasion and collapse of Poland, nothing very much happened, the real serious war started when Hitler’s blitzkrieg across Europe exploded and the Nederland’s, Belgium and France were overrun and the British expeditionary force became trapped at Dunkirk.
‘Operation Dynamo’ was quickly implemented and over 300,000 British and commonwealth troops, and a few of what was left of the French army, were evacuated from the beaches by an armada of ships and small privately owned boats which were commandeered and brought them back to the safety of Britain, in what has become known and referred to since, as ‘The Miracle of Dunkirk’.
By now Hitler and his Nazi hordes were in total control of Europe. He now had Britain firmly in his sights and in September 1940, his bombing attacks on London started this became known as The Blitz. The east end of London was the prime target due to the fact that it was one of Britain’s largest docks and in the heart of London.
I recall one incident of which my grandmother told me obviously; I remember nothing as I was only a baby. She was out shopping in Mare Street, Hackney when the air raid warnings sounded; she had me with her in my pram and started to make for the Air Raid shelter. She heard a very loud rat tat, tat, tat, sound and the next thing she knew was when a man dived from a shop doorway grabbed her and the handle of my pram and dragged us all into the shelter of the doorway; apparently a German plane had dived in low and was machine gunning people in the street.
A short time after this incident; the block of flats in stoke Newington in which we lived was hit by a bomb. Fortunately we were all in an air raid shelter and were uninjured. Finally after three days we were dug out from the ruins, but our home had been destroyed and we were homeless. With these constant attacks and no home; we were evacuated to Hertford, Mum, Dad me as a baby of one year and ten months old, and my grandparents. Hertford was only about twenty miles from London, but they had not heard of Hertford. As far as they were concerned it could have been in Scotland. We were brought to Hertford along with what could be salvaged from the ruins of our home; on the back of a local Hertford coal merchant’s lorry, Mr Fred Sadler who lived in Dimsdale Street.
Each town had an evacuation officer; an official whose job it was to find temporary accommodation for those people who had been bombed out of their homes. I believe the name of this gentleman was Mr Allen, though uncertain? We were all found two rooms of a four roomed cottage which we had to share with the tenant a Mrs Reed, and her two children, Pat and John, Mr. Reed was away serving in the Royal Navy. Obviously I cannot remember living there as I was only an infant but my knowledge of all of this came as I grew older from my parents and grandparents.
Obviously things were very cramped with six adults and three children having to live in just four rooms, a shared kitchen/scullery, no bathroom or hot water and an outside toilet, but we managed to survive for six or seven months and then we were found a furnished cottage to rent at number 61 Port Hill; then towards the end of the war we moved to number 81 which is where I lived until October 1954 when I moved with my mother to 17 Farm Close on Sele Farm Estate; which was just being built. My grandparents finally moved next-door to number 83 Port Hill, then later on to number 75 then finally in the early 1960s they moved to a bungalow in Burleigh Road, where they lived out the remainder of their lives
2. LIFE ON PORT HILL
Moving back to war days and life on Port Hill, this was the place where I was grow to up and learn all about life in general; for better and sometimes for worse. Though the war was far from over, these were some of the happiest days of my life and where I met up with my lifelong friend, Dennis Dudley. ‘Denny’; as I always called him is six months older than me and as kids we were inseparable. In all these years, and we are now both in our eighties, we have never fallen out, he is the oldest and longest living friend that I have. From 1940 onwards many people from all over London were bombed and made homeless and many of them; like us were sent to Hertford. In those dark and far off days, people never moved far from where they were born. Sadly I have to say that Hertford was a town which was very conservative in both its views and attitudes towards incomers and this reflected upon people from London, and particularly those from the East End; the opinion of many Hertford people was; that was where people lived in filth and kept coal in the bath.
This attitude caused many Londoners to feel alone and isolated, and because of this; is what prompted the ladies of the W.R.V.S. to do something about it and an evacuees club was formed so that other Londoners could meet once a week for a ‘chat and catch up’ over a cup of tea. I can vaguely remember going there with my Grandma sometimes. Meetings took place in the building next-door to Hertford museum in Bull Plain. There was also a kiddie’s nursery there and the thing I can remember most about it was that there was a fabulous rocking horse, very similar to the galloping horses which you see on carousels. All of the organising and running of the Evacuees Club was done mainly, by two W.R.V.S. ladies, Mrs Purkis-Ginn, who later on after the war became a councillor and Mayor of Hertford, the other lady was Miss Mildred Gripper both were extremely nice, kind and caring ladies both of whom I stayed in contact with long after I grew up.
One incident which I remember very well was when an army convoy was passing through and one of the lorries pulled up right in front of the Warren gates, in front of our house.
It was a Sunday morning and mum and gran had just finished preparing our breakfast. Sunday breakfast was the one and only extra special treat of the week. Because of the seriously strict food rationing which had been imposed, every person in the household was permitted to have just one egg per week and a meagre amount of bacon and I think only one or maybe two rashers of bacon. Therefore as at that time we were all living together in one house, all of our rations were put together and the weekly ration of eggs and bacon was on the table ready to be enjoyed.
The driver and his companion got out and appeared to do something to their vehicle, but the one who was driving kept looking across to our house and pointing, and then they walked over. That’s when we all got one heck of a shock and surprise; it was my uncle Fred, Gran and Grandad’s youngest son, my mum’s younger brother. They had hardly seen anything of him since he had been called up for army service. Needless to say there was great excitement from all of us, particularly from me because he was my favourite uncle and also my godfather.
They came in and, after getting smothered in kisses and hugs from us all, they were given cups of tea and asked if they’d had breakfast, which they hadn’t. The rest of the convoy was still passing by and uncle Fred said they could only stop for two or three minutes otherwise they would be in serious trouble if it was found that they had stopped to see relatives. After just saying that, a Military Policeman on a motorbike pulled up alongside their lorry and started looking all round it and he then started to walk towards our house. Uncle Fred told mum and gran not to let him know that we were all family, he would go to the door and do the talking and tell the MP that they had had a slight breakdown (they hadn’t) which they had now fixed and that these kind people had offered them a cup of tea and let them clean up. The greatest threat to it all was me, so uncle Fred told mum to take me out in the back yard out of sight in case in my excitement I called him uncle Fred, which would have let the cat out of the bag for them both. Luckily the MP believed his story and told them to finish their cups of tea and catch up with the rest of the convoy as quickly as they could, and off he went.
While uncle Fred was talking to the MP, gran and mum had taken all the eggs and bacon from the plates and hurridly made a stack of sandwiches with our limited bread supply and gave them to uncle Fred and his mat. So much for the weekly treat which we never had!
3. AERIAL DOG FIGHTS AND AIR RAIDS
During the war, England became one gigantic airfield, particularly after 1941 when America entered the conflict and the USAAF 8th Air Force arrived and started to construct even more airfields here. The areas around Hertfordshire, Cambridgeshire Bedfordshire and Essex were all within a 30 mile radius of Hertford, also, we had Hunsdon, North Weald, Duxford, Sawbridgeworth, Hatfield, Radlet, Panshangar, Nuthamstead, Bassingbourne and Cambridge.
When there was a raid taking place I well remember looking up into the sky and watching the fighters battling it out high above and making contrails all over the sky; I didn’t understand what they were then and when I asked my mum what they were she just told me that they were writing in the sky. I don’t know if that was just to stop me being frightened; or because she never knew herself? I also remember that after an air raid Denny and I would go out into the street to look for shrapnel, sometimes if the raid had been close we would find some large bits of exploded shells. Another incident which I can well remember was standing just inside the Warren Gate which is opposite to number 61 where we lived on Port Hill; mum and dad were looking across Hartham Common towards the direction of London. We were looking at the red and orange glow in the sky, and one said to the other “looks like London is getting it bad again” then mentioned names of family members still living there and said that they hoped they were all safe. All that they could do was to put their faith in God and trust in the Air Defences
Another incident which I can remember very well I think; it was on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Anyway, whichever is not important, but apart from being serious, it was also very funny to see at the time and it happened like this:
The air raid sirens had sounded and there was a raid on somewhere nearby but thankfully not on Hertford, it was probably on De-Havilland’s factory and airfield at Hatfield. Flights of RAF fighters were buzzing around, and then we heard machine gun fire and it was getting closer. The next thing we knew was when a German bomber flew over the houses; just skimming above the trees in the Warren. The engines were spluttering and there was some smoke coming from them, there was two RAF fighters chasing and firing at it. The bomber was so low that we could actually see the crew through its glass nosed cockpit. The German banked over to the right as if it was trying to get at Hertford, the next thing we saw was its bomb bay doors open and two objects fall from it, seconds later there were two almighty bangs. One of the local residents, Charlie Taylor, who was standing watching with the rest of us, shouted “Bloody hell he’s after the gas works”. This said, Charlie then jumped on to a bicycle (not his) which was parked against the wall of a house and shot off along the Warren towards St Leonard’s church. I doubt if Charlie had been on a bike in years; if at all? He was a very large gentleman, almost as rotund as he was tall and never ever seen without a very large cigar. To see him riding this bicycle was like a scene taken from a comedy film of Laurel and Hardy; but more about Charlie later. Luckily however, the bombs missed the Gasworks by a long way and landed harmlessly in a field between the church and some privately owned houses and cottages, just causing slight damage to a couple of them and no one was injured
4. AIR RAID SHELTERS AND PORT VALE SCHOOL
Denny and I both started Port Vale School on the same day in September1943, Denny had just turned five and I was 6 months younger than he. Our first infant school teacher was Miss Kiddle and the Head teacher was Miss Bradbeer, both were very nice ladies but Miss Kiddle was absolutely lovely, all of her pupils loved her to bits and when I grew up I kept in contact with her right up until she sadly passed away in the 1980’s. In later years after I was married she also taught my two sons, Stephen and Michael. By the time my daughter was born 1970, she decided that it was time to retire. when she told me this I suggested to her that she delayed retiring until she had taught my daughter, to which came the reply ‘to have taught three of the Poole clan was more than enough to ask of anybody’.
By 1943 and with America heavily involved, it was becoming clear that Germany was losing the war but air raids were still very much a threat. There was a large air raid shelter there which was big enough to hold all the pupils and staff. There was no lighting or heating in it; the sole source of light was from candle lit lanterns and each teacher carried a small torch so that during an air raid so they could read us all a story or we could have a sing song and play a game. I have never been happy being underground, even nowadays even though I do travel on the underground in London, I am always glad to get off as quickly as possible. It has been suggested that this ‘phobia’ which I seem to have is a psychological throw back to when we were in the shelter in London for three days; even though I was only one year and ten months old; but that is something for the ‘experts to decide and pontificate on?”
Another memory I have from the air raid shelter is getting a half day off, the reason being was. We had just started school that morning at 9.00am; and very soon afterwards the air raid sirens sounded so the lantern candles were lit and were hurriedly ushered into the shelter. And the teachers started reading, stories to us; my favourite story was, ‘The Magic Far Away’ Tree, written by Enid Blyton. Anyway, time passed by and the all-clear siren never sounded. We couldn’t hear anything happening apart from the odd spitfires flying over and sound of the anti-aircraft guns being fired far off in the distance. This particular air raid seemed never ending and we started to get agitated and nervous. Finally the all-clear sounded and we made our way out of the shelter and went to our classrooms by this time it was almost twelve-o-clock, time almost for our lunch break which was until 1.30pm. Some parents of us younger children were waiting outside the school to take us home for our dinner; my gran was one of them. As we finished school for the day at 3.30pm, Miss Bradbeer said that as there had been no lessons all morning it was pointless starting after lunch just for two hours so she went and spoke to the waiting parents and said that the school could have the afternoon off.
After America entered the war in 1941, supplies of weapons and food etc started to arrive. Food parcels started to occasionally get sent to schools to be shared amongst the children. We used to enjoy these as everything we had was strictly rationed; and sweets were particularly, no-existent.
My days at Port Vale School were happy ones and the teachers were lovely with perhaps the exception of one; Miss Stocks, and she was horrible. She lived quite near to me on Port Hill, very few of the children liked her though she did have her favourites, and they could do no wrong in her eyes. If any of her ‘blue eyed favourites’ did anything wrong, instead of just punishing them, she would punish the entire class, when this happened the rest of the class would get their own back on them later, after school or in the playground, they would get ‘bashed up’, rough justice indeed, but appropriate.
During wartime queuing at shops for food items became part of the daily shopping routine and one particular time which I well remember was when I was out shopping with mum and we were queuing in W H Woolworths; I think it was for some biscuits, behind us in the queue was an American soldier with his lady friend. I kept looking at him, as he looked so very smart in his uniform; next thing remember was, he tapped me on my shoulder and when I looked round at him he said “Hi sonny, would you like some candy and chewing gum”, then he handed some to me, wow! that was a lovely surprise because up until then I had never ever tasted chewing gum.
5. WINGS FOR VICTORY 1943
Wings for Victory week was a government-backed event which was held throughout Britain during March 1943, and cities, towns, villages and other various organisations and communities arranged special events to raise money to buy aircraft to fight the war.
I had a pedal-powered aeroplane which I could sit in. My dad acquired a selection of allied flags and decorated it up with them. He also got six National Dried Milk tins and banged a slot in the top of each one then he went to the local council offices and got the official stickers to wrap round them; and a couple of posters. I then sat outside our cottage on Port Hill every day for the whole week, during which time I collected eighteen pounds, which was a tidy sum of money in those days; equivalent to around £400 today.
At the end of the week, the town council held a special event at the Corn Exchange in Fore Street and all who had raised money were invited to go and present the money we had collected to the Mayor.
On the night of the presentation Mum and Dad took me down with my six tins of money. When my turn came to hand over mine, Dad lifted me onto the stage and handed the tins to me; one at a time and I in turn, handed them to the Mayor. After I had given him the last one he then shook my hand and thanked me; I was so shy and petrified in front of so many people I started crying and shouted very loudly, “I want my Mum”.
The next time that I was to step onto that same stage was about ten or eleven years later when I was a Boy Scout; this was in the Hertford Scouts annual ‘Gang Show’.
6. TERROR OF THE V-WEAPONS
Throughout 1943-1944 the air raids continued and started to ease by the end of 1943, by now it was clear that Germany was on the back foot and losing the war. Most of my father’s family lived in London and his mother (my grandma) and his sister lived in Brighton. Half of my mother’s family and (my grandparents) were living in Hertford, the other half in London, Epping and Hertford. If for any reason we visited family or friends etc, in places outside of Hertford the local Police and ARP people had to be notified of our whereabouts just for identification and search purposes in the likelihood of our homes were bombed.
One day in early 1944 we went to Brighton to visit dad’s mother and sister; and would be away for a few days. We had travelled to London from Hertford and were getting settled in the train carriage at Victoria station in London waiting to depart on the next part of our journey. Suddenly the air raid warnings sounded and people started to leave the train and run to the shelters. Dad was confident that as Germany was clearly losing the war, the raid would not be a big one; as the bombing raids on London becoming less frequent, so as we had been lucky enough to get a seat he decided to take a chance and sit it out in the carriage, which we did until the all-clear siren went off.
When passengers started to get back on the train, the train guard came along the corridor to our department and asked Dad if we had been sitting there all the time? When dad said that we had, the guard was shocked; he then said that ‘three of them bloody flying bombs have just gone over”. Dads’ response was “what the devil is a flying bomb?” Neither of my parents had ever heard of them, the guard then started to explain that they were a new weapon which the Germans had just started to use; he said that they were a pilotless plane that hadn’t got a propeller, it was filled with explosive and when the engine stopped, it fell like a bomb and exploded, he said “We call them Doodle Bugs and Buzz Bombs”. At that time they knew very little about them, and shortly after that the government made it public knowledge. A few months later on 2nd July 1944, Hertford really learned what damage a V-1 (‘Doodle Bug’) could inflict when one landed on Mill Bridge, causing a lot of damage, luckily the town was saved from far more damage but for the fact that it actually landed in the deepest part of the river which cushioned the blast. I think that the only casualty was my dad, he ended up at the County Hospital with some grit and debris in his eye, and dad worked at the hospital anyway.
After the ‘Doodle Bug’ came down on Mill bridge people were starting to get used to them and were taking the correct procedures when they were spotted, if they were not shot down by the anti aircraft batteries or by the RAF, and had got through the lines of defence. For a start you could hear them approaching and as long as you could hear them, you had time to take cover. Once the engine cut then you knew it was only seconds before it blew up.
However Hitler then decided to launch the second of his terror weapons and this really was a terror weapon. It was called the V-2; (the V meaning vengeance) and it was a rocket. It was launched from mobile launch sites and fired vertically to around 65 miles into the stratosphere; carrying over one ton of explosive in its warhead, curving in its flight towards its target then the rocket engine would cut and the missile would drop like a bomb. This weapon was also difficult to locate and destroy because it was launched from mobile platforms and once it had been launched everything was quickly disassembled and moved elsewhere. The speed of this weapon was in excess of one thousand miles per hour. It was impossible to shoot down and you could not hear it coming, you never knew a thing until something was suddenly blown to smithereens.
One Saturday morning, Denny Dudley and I were playing outside my house when suddenly there was an almighty explosion, so great that the shock caused us both to fall over, one of these weapons had come down in Bengeo, behind The Drive in a field close to Bengeo water tower. Fortunately it landed harmlessly in a field leaving a massive crater, a cottage in the field had all of its roof tiles blown off and all its windows were smashed but thankfully nobody was killed or even injured. The remains of the crater which it created were still clearly visible in the nineteen seventies.
7. BUILD UP FOR D-DAY 1944
By the start of 1944 things were really hotting up, it was plainly obvious that Hitler was losing the war on all fronts and that allied victory was only a matter of time. The Russians had got the upper hand in the east and Germany was in retreat there, Italy had surrendered and the tide had turned against the threat from the U-Boats in the Battle of the Atlantic.
Although for security reasons nothing had been officially said; there was definitely something very big happening. Huge convoys of British, American and allied troops were on the move all over the country, taking part in huge exercises and manoeuvres. Port Hill was like a military highway with huge Lorries, tanks, guns and equipment constantly coming past, we never knew at the time but all of this was the build up to D-Day.
All of us kids, along with our mums and dads, would sit on the railings which run along the length of Port Hill and wave to the soldiers as they went past. We used to really enjoy the Americans when they were passing because they would always stop and give us ‘Candy bars and chewing gum’ which up until their arrival, we hadn’t heard of the stuff. After a while the favourite catchphrase from us was “Got any gum chum?” Almost always we got lucky, and sometimes the American soldiers would give a pack of cigarettes to our parents, for which they were most grateful. For them cigarettes and tobacco were in limited supply.
During this build up there was one particular incident which I remember very well and this caused a real panic to the residents of Port Hill, one evening when a convoy of tanks was passing through, one of the tanks caught fire right outside the Reindeer Pub at the bottom of the hill. The thing that caused the greatest concern was the fact that the vehicle was loaded with ammunition and was in danger of exploding; people very quickly evacuated their houses in fear of explosion. Thankfully that never happened but the intense heat from the flames melted the road and the footpath and for many years after the war ended, the track marks on the road and footpath were visible.
Another memory which I have is of three German prisoners of war their names were; Fred, Peter and Paul. Fred in particular was really nice and he was popular with all of us kids. They were brought in each day from their POW camp each day to work at the drill hall of the Hertfordshire Regiment on Port hill. They were three really nice guys, and in spite of the fact they were our enemy; they soon became very popular with most of the local residents on the hill; in fact after the war was finally over and they were to be repatriated to Germany, the locals got together and gave them a farewell celebration party in the Reindeer Pub. I was not there of course, but what I remember, was what I was told by my Nan and grandad later on was, that the three of them were so overcome with emotion that they all broke down into tears, the one who’s name was Fred in particular; everyone felt sorry for him.
After Germany surrendered in 1945, Berlin was divided up into three zones. Each zone was be controlled by; America, Britain and Russia. Peter and Paul were each going back to the American and British zones but sadly Fred came from the Russian zone and citizens there (east Germany) were enduring terrible conditions under the Russians. To make matters even worse for Fred was that after his capture, he had lost all contact with his wife and baby son; he didn’t know of their whereabouts, or if they were even still alive. On the day he finally went back he cried uncontrollably.
8. 1944 D-DAY, INVASION & ARNHEM
June 6th 1944; this is a day which has gone down in history, never to be forgotten; D-Day, ‘Operation Overlord’, the allied invasion of Europe and the beginning of the end of Hitler’s Nazi dream. We were alerted to the sound of aircraft, not one or two but hundreds, the sky was filled with them, bombers, fighters, and transports, many of them were towing large troop carrying gliders, I well remember the residents of Port Hill standing outside of their houses trying to count them and saying, “There’s something really big going on”, I was only six years old but I was trying to count them as well. Later on that day the Prime Minister Winston Churchill, announced on the radio that the invasion to liberate Europe had started. It caused great excitement amongst all of us who were watching sadly we never realized the true reality of how many of those brave men and women would die in the process and how many more would die in the following months in order to bring about total victory.
In September 1944 an operation, codename Market Garden was launched in Holland at a place called Arnhem, the purpose of this operation was to capture all the main bridges over the Rhine River This again brought about another big airborne operation, and once again we witnessed another spectacle of huge transports and bombers flying over towing gliders and everyone was out in the street watching them fly over. It was hoped that this would bring the war quickly to an end. People were hoping that the war would be over by Christmas but sadly that was not to be the case, and it dragged on for another seven months, finally ending with the death of Hitler and the unconditional surrender of Nazi Germany on May 8th 1945.
9. VICTORY CELEBRATIONS AND STREET PARTIES
Sadly in early January 1945, five months before victory, my father suffered a severe stroke while at work at the Hertford County Hospital where he was a porter, he never recovered. He was completely paralysed down the right side of his body; as a result of this, he finally passed away on the 14th May 1949 aged 44.
After the allies landed in Normandy, once they had gained a foothold, the bombing of Germany by Britain and America was stepped up. The war dragged on for another eleven months until finally on May 8th 1945, Hitler was dead and Germany agreed to unconditional surrender and people went wild with jubilation all over the country and particularly in London around Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus.
On Port Hill the residents were dancing the Conga up and down the hill and the chain they had formed was running through people’s houses; including the Reindeer Pub. I think the landlady, Mrs. Hartley just opened the doors and kept them open, she had good reason to celebrate because her son in law; the husband of her daughter, grandson Michael who lived with her; was a Petty officer In the Royal Navy and had survived the war and would be coming home; as were several other husbands, sons and fathers; Denny Dudley’s dad was one of them. Very shortly after the announcement of peace a street party was organised on the Hill, largely funded by Charlie Taylor, and what a party that was; food rationing and shortages was temporarily suspended, (unofficially of course).
From what I can remember, what Charlie did for my mum and dad after dad had his stroke; Charlie can only be described as a ’Saint’, he was a larger than life man with a heart that matched his stature. He was a very influential man who did not suffer fools gladly and always got his own way. He spoke to everyone at the same level, irrespective of whom or what they were and that included the local vicar and the police inspector and if one or the other walked into his office he would think nothing of saying “What the bleeding hell are you on the scrounge for, piss off, I’m busy”.
For the VE Day street party he had been in contact with both the police and the bus company beforehand, and told; not asked them, that we were having a street party on the hill and he wanted all traffic including the busses stopped because all the tables were being put in the road outside the Pub, needless to say Charlie got his own way. At the party I think almost the entire neighbourhood of Port Hill were involved, funded mainly by Charlie. His pal and ‘Sidekick’ was Jack Skinner; Jack was the proprietor of ‘Bridens Bakers and Caters so he provided much of the cakes, sandwiches, jellies, and ice cream etc. Charlie ordered a batch of specially painted Mugs with the date and VE 1945 painted on them and every child and OAP living on Port Hill was given one along with a little brown envelope containing Half a Crown, which at the present day value would be worth well over a pound. That day was certainly one to be remembered, and went on well into the evening and was enjoyed by all.
But the world war wasn’t over yet; the conflict was still raging in the Far East and in the pacific areas, and people were still getting killed. The Japanese were stubborn to the last, spurred on by their loyalty to their emperor Hirohito, who they revered as a god and to the code of bushido, which was belief in the glory of dying in battle and no surrender. However, by now they were being beaten on all fronts and in early August Americas top secret weapon was used; the atom bomb. Two bombs were dropped on Japan, the first on Hiroshima then three days later the second one on Nagasaki, after that Japan surrendered unconditionally on August 10th 1945. So once more there were celebrations worldwide and yet another street party on Port Hill.
After the victory celebrations families started to prepare for the coming home of men and women who had been fighting the in the war. Houses of those who returned home were decorated with flags and bunting. Sheets and table cloths and any other material which could be used to make a banner of some sort were ripped up and were painted with WELCOME HOME on them and the name of whomever was painted on to it.
My pall Denny Dudley’s dad Reg, was one of the soldiers coming home and his neighbour, Billy Lambert. Both men had been in the Beds and Herts regiment and had fought in the desert and Italy as part of the eighth army. Denny’s uncle, George Thompson was another, he had been in the Royal Navy. Mrs Hartley who kept the Reindeer Pub, her son in law, also served in the Royal Navy. Sid (Rocky) Taylor; Charlie’s brother had an adopted daughter, Jean; she had been in the WRAF and her fiancé, Fred who had been in the army and was captured and tortured by the Japanese in Burma, they all returned as heroes.
Denny had a sister, Evelyn and a brother Reggie It wasn’t very long after his dad was demobbed when the three of them had another brother arrive, Ronnie.
10. HARD TIMES
The war was over but the strict rationing of food, coal, clothes and many other things continued for several years after; in fact well into the nineteen fifties.
Our lives became even harder; Dad after being struck down with a stroke was totally incapable of being able to work and Mum couldn’t work because she had to do everything for Dad as he couldn’t be left on his own for long. Our only source of income was the few meagre shillings Mum could earn by going out and cleaning for other people and what was referred to as a Parish relief payment which I believe was less than a pound per week and this included two shillings and sixpence allowance for me. Any other income was purely from any other charitable hand outs which occasionally came along, and that never happened too often, there was no unemployment pay in those days or all the various benefits which are available today to the work-shy layabouts, drunks and drug addicts.
I remember particularly well, one Christmas though I am uncertain which year, I think it was probably 1945 or 1946. Mum was worried sick because we hadn’t got anything for Christmas dinner other than our meagre rations. Nan and grandad helped out as much as they could but it was still a struggle. Suddenly on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, there was no knock on our front door; it was suddenly flung open and in walked Charlie Taylor carrying, not one, but TWO chickens, he simply laid them on the table and said to mum, “Here’s your Christmas dinner Ollie, enjoy it”, and before she could say a proper thank you, he was off; that’s the kind of person he was. I have many fond memories of him and I have always said of him he should be made a Saint.
The winter of 1946/47 was severe, one of the coldest on record. After a heavy snowfall the ground then froze solid and ice was the problem. Suddenly the weather changed, there was a rapid thaw followed by heavy rain and this combined; caused severe flooding throughout the country. Many houses in Hertford were flooded out. We were safe enough on the hill but nearby Chambers Street, Dimsdale Street, Port Vale, Molewood Road all suffered badly.
Coal was still very much in demand and households were strictly rationed so it was a case of when your coal ran out you had to burn anything that was available. We used to go into the Warren which was opposite to our house and collect wood from the trees, Pine cones used to be a favourite; they burned well and also smelt nice as they burnt.
We had gas lighting, one in the living room and one in the tiny kitchen which also housed the little gas cooker. Of the two small bedrooms only one had a gas light, this was the bedroom where Mum, Dad and I slept. There was no light in the small bedroom where Nan and Grandad slept, so they had to get by with candle light, candles were another commodity which was hard to get hold of at times. The gas supply was controlled by a slot meter which was in the cupboard in the front living room, it only operated with pennies (the old money) so you always had to have a stack of penny coins to hand in case you were suddenly plunged into darkness.
Yes times were very hard but we had to make the best of things and in spite of all this we were; in our simple way of life, happy to have survived the dangers of war and fear, in a world where millions had lost everything like lives, homes, loved ones, country and identity.
Moving on to around 1947/1948 a great tragedy occurred in the Dudley family which also shocked all the residents on Port Hill. Denny’s baby brother Ronnie, who was by now just about two years old suddenly went missing. Immediately a massive search was launched. Unlike the little cottages on our side of the hill which had no gardens at all, just a tiny back yard, the ones where the Dudley family lived had very long gardens and at the bottom end of it was the River Bean. Naturally because of this that was the very first place to be searched; to no avail. The police were informed straight away and they organised people into small groups. At the time Denny, and I were around ten years of age so we; with two or three other kids from Port Hill formed our own little group and said that we would go into the warren and search; which is what we did.
It started to rain and before very long it was raining quite heavily and none of us had got coats on, so after a little while the girls said that they were going home. Den and I said that we would go down to the spot we called ‘the willows’, cross over the bridge onto Hartham common and back to Port Hill via the Folly Island, we finally ended up in the town centre at Bull Plain.
By now we were soaked through to the skin, cold, hungry and it was starting to get dark. We started to head back home via Maidenhead Street Mill Bridge and Old Cross. When we got to the end of Maidenhead Street, there was roadwork’s being carried out in the Middle of the road right outside the Castle Gate. In those days when repairs were being made, there were no battery powered Flashing Lanterns to put round any holes, simply paraffin oil lamps which only gave a dim red glow, so when work finished for the day there had to be a Night watchman on duty to tend the lamps until the workmen arrived back on site the next morning. He would have a small tarpaulin shelter to sit in and eat his sandwiches and a brazier fire made from an old oil drum to keep warm and boil a kettle to make a cup of tea.
As it happened, the night watchman was one of our neighbours from Port Hill; Mr Salvage who lived at number 71, he was a lovely man and we knew him very well. The first thing he wanted to know was why we were both out at that time in the evening, in the pouring rain? We told him all that had happened, he told us to stand in front of his fire to warm ourselves up and to dry out a little then gave us a mug of tea, then that finished, he told us to quickly get ourselves back home; which is what we did. As we walked over the railway bridge on Port Hill we met a group of adults who were now looking for us, my mum was one of them and she was in a right worried state.
Sadly things never turned out well; Ronnie had been found drowned in the river right at the end of their garden, the very first place which was looked at in the first instance. Somehow he had got through a gap and fallen in. His body had got tangled up in the weeds which held him under. This was a very tragic ending to a young life.
11. MOVING ON
The next tragedy to happen in my life was the death of my dad on the 14th of May 1949. The result of the effects of the stroke which he had four years earlier, had played heavily on dads mind and for a couple of months before he passed away he became very deeply depressed and finally four weeks before his death he was taken in to a specialist hospital at Woodford Bridge in Essex where he finally died. My mum and I were absolutely devastated, mum was widowed at 38 and I was under 11. The only comforting thoughts we had were that my Grandparents were living next door,(by now we had all moved to numbers 81 and 83 Port Hill) and mum; after having to struggle to look after us would now be able to get a proper job rather than to have to rely on going round cleaning other people houses as well as having to clean ours as well. During the four years following dad’s stroke, Charlie Taylor and his wife Lillian, had employed mum for a few hours each week just to help with the housework and answering the telephone in Charlie’s office, they had been very kind to us over the past four years; as I mentioned earlier; Charlie was nothing less than a Saint.
The day before dad’s funeral, his coffin was brought home to our house and placed in the front room and many of the neighbours came in and out to offer their condolences’ and pay respects. Charlie came in to see us and look at dad. Charlie wept like a baby, his words were “Poor old Fred, he didn’t deserve this”. This was a new experience for me because I had never seen a grown man cry before. This was May 1949; four months later, in September, Charlie suffered a massive heart attack and died.
And so time passed by and the pain of dad’s passing started to ease a little, though for me since then and right up to the present day, the biggest regret that I’ve always had is that I never really had a chance to get to know him properly. He had never been a fit man. He was in hospital recovering from Tuberculosis when I was born, then struck down by a severe stroke when I was six, and died before I was 11, at an age when a young boy starts to need the guidance of a father. Fortunately the few fond memories which I do hold of him were that he was a good kind man who loved me very much.
About a month after the funeral, mum started back at Simpson Shand printers, where she had worked before dad had the stroke. Around 1952, mum became friendly with a man who worked there and after a while they were seeing each other regularly. I quite liked him and he seemed to like me and often when he came to see mum he would bring me a present or some sweets. In the summer of 1953; around the time of the Queen’s Coronation, they married, and put their name on the council housing list for one of the new council houses which were being built. Almost immediately after they married, his attitude to me changed, it was plainly obvious that I was in the way and he was jealous of me
It was around this time that the Dudley family moved from Port Hill and were given a council house in Cranborne Close on the Horns Mill estate
I turned 15 in November 1953 and left school that Christmas. Mum managed to get me an apprenticeship at Simpson Shand and I started work on Jan 4th 1954.
In October 1954 we were allocated a new house which had just been built 17 Farm Close, on the new Sele Farm estate. It was like moving from a slum to a palace. The luxury of having electricity, a bathroom and separate inside toilet and hot and cold running water was unbelievable.
12. FROM MISERY TO HAPPINESS
The next two or three years were probably the unhappiest years of my life. All of my mates who I used to hang out with had happy home lives, we all used to go in and out of each other’s houses and listen to radio Luxemburg or play records; couldn’t do this because it used to annoy my (for want of a stronger description) stepfather; I hasten to add that I never ever regarded him as such. If I went to the cinema or the snooker hall and wasn’t home by 10:30pm, he used to get into a foul mood and take it out on my mum. He never would say anything to me because I had now got to the stage in my life where I would retaliate and had become a little sharp tempered. I couldn’t wait to to leave home, and I knew that when I reached eighteen I would be conscripted into the army.
As well as having happy home lives, three of four of my mates had found girlfriends. I hadn’t got one as I knew that in the future I would be going in to do my national service, I was not too sure of what the future had in store for me and I didn’t want to get involved with a steady girl friend
However, by this time it was the 12th February 1957, and this was to be the day which changed my life completely and forever. There was a gorgeous young girl in the office that I was really keen on and I heard via one of the lads who also worked in the same office, that she had an eye on me, so that evening when we finished work at five thirty, I dashed out of work and waited for her to leave and when she did I asked her if she would come out with me on a date, she straight away said ‘yes’ and we went out together that same evening. Her name was Joyce and four years later she became my wife. We were together very happily for over fifty three years, a marriage which resulted in the raising of two sons, one daughter, and five grandchildren. She was the love of my life until she passed away very suddenly and unexpected on 23rd March 2010. If she had lived another three months we would have celebrated forty nine years of marriage.
Part 2 – National Service: When Boys Became Men
1. THE BEGINING
My story begins on Saturday 14th May 1949 that was the day when my Father passed away. I was ten and a half years old and an only child. From the time that I was born in November 1938 my Father had never been a fit man, in fact at the time of my birth he was in a hospital at Godalming, Surry recovering from tuberculosis. In January 1945, five months before the end of WWII, he suffered a severe stroke which paralysed him completely down his right side including his speech, he never recovered and as a consequence, he died. My mother became a widow at the age of thirty nine.
Mum worked in the bindery department of Simpson Shand Printers in Parliament Square in Hertford. About three years after dad died she became friendly with a man who also worked there and with whom I got on well with, he was kind to both of us and he often brought me a nice present. Eventually he came to live with us in our cottage on Port Hill; they eventually married in 1953 around the time of The Queen’s Coronation. Immediately after they married his attitude towards me changed, it was plainly obvious that I was in the way; the cuckoo in the nest? This change of attitude also reflected on my mother as she was tied between of her feelings for me and for her new husband. Consequently I became very unhappy at home and I began to long for the day when I could leave school and leave home.
As the time approached for me to leave school, I hadn’t the slightest idea what I wanted to do. I had joined the Air Training Corps when I was thirteen, I had always been mad about aeroplanes and anything military and the only thing which I was keen to do was to apply to enter the RAF as an apprentice when I was sixteen. I mentioned this to mum but she wouldn’t hear of it. She knew that I was unhappy at home and she refused to sign the application papers and wouldn’t give her consent, I was under age (the age of consent in those days was 21) so I could do nothing about it.
One evening mum came home from work and told me that she had been speaking to the manager in the printing department, a lovely gentleman, Mr Anderson. He told her there was an apprenticeship becoming available and if I was interested I should go down to meet with him and he would show me around the department. I did this and he was impressed with me and he said that the job was mine if I wanted it, at this time I still had eight months left at Cowper School and by now I was Head Boy. I finally left school at Christmas 1953 and started my apprenticeship on the fourth of January 1954.
The apprentice wages were a pittance and I had to have a Saturday job with Jack Nash, a local greengrocer on his mobile shop to supplement my wages, but I didn’t care, at least I was earning my keep and unknown to anyone else, even to my grandparents who I loved very dearly; I had a cunning plan. In those days, once you had signed up to an apprenticeship it became a legal and binding contract between two parties and was countersigned by two independent parties as witnesses and could not be broken only by mutual agreement or by the employer for misconduct, if you got fed up with the job you could not simply leave and get another one. In those days boys knew that on reaching the age of eighteen, and if you were medically fit, you would be required by law to serve a period of two years in HM Armed Forces with no exceptions. You had to register for national service when you were eighteen. The only concession made was that if you were serving an apprenticeship your employer was duty bound by law to release you for two years and keep your job open for you for this period and to allow you to continue when you were released. Alternatively, on registering for service you could apply for deferment of call up for two years, finish your apprenticeship and go into the forces on completion. Either way you were going to serve your country for two years.
As I said previously, I had a plan which was this. I was not going to apply for deferment; I would (subject to passing the medical) go into the forces at 18 or 19 then on completion of training I would sign on as a regular serviceman for 22 years with 6 year options, this would mean breaking my apprenticeship agreement and the law couldn’t touch me because I would be serving my Queen and Country. I would have accommodation, regular meals, a good job, good pay, and an opportunity to travel the world.....job done.
With all this planning of which I had not told anyone, there was one outstanding fact which I had not considered and that was, I would meet a beautiful young girl and fall hopelessly in love with her.
2. MY LIFE CHANGES
Tuesday 12th February 1957; this was to be the day that my life changed completely and forever, it was to be the day of my first date with Joyce and the start of a loving partnership which was to last for over fifty three and a half years. I had just turned eighteen in the past November and Joyce was approaching seventeen in the coming April. We both worked at Simpson Shand Printers, I worked in the print room and Joyce worked in the estimating office.
After several dates we both realised that our feelings for each other were more than just an infatuation, we were both deeply in love, this was the point at which we had a serious discussion on what the future held for us, if any? I had made Joyce aware that I would soon be going into the forces and that we would be facing up to two years of separation; how did we feel about that? Joyce was adamant that I was the boy that she wanted to marry and settle down with and raise a family, which was the only ambition she ever really had.
In May/June of that year I received notification that I was required to register for national service at the local employment office (referred to in those days as the Labour Exchange). On doing so I was asked by the clerk, “In what branch of the forces would I like to serve in?” My reply was “the RAF”; the response was “the RAF is only recruiting regulars at the moment, three, six or nine years only”. I knew that it was pointless saying the Royal Navy because it was well known that the navy had stopped recruiting national servicemen for some time, anyway I never fancied the navy very much, “well in that case it will have to be the army” I replied and with that said I went home to wait for the next call which would be to go for my chest X- Ray and my full medical at Saint Albans which I had in Aug/Sept, I can’t recall when exactly?
The medical was routine but quite intense, we were also given a general knowledge and intelligence test which really was a piece of cake, anyone who ever failed it would have to be really thick, basically all it did was prove that you could see, speak, hear, read and write and add up simple sums like those which we did in our early days at school.
After the medical was completed I was told by the doctors that I had been passed fit for military service. After this I was then shown in to another room for an interview by an Army Officer who was a colonel. He was very nice and friendly, he shook hands and told me to take a seat then he gave me a brief rundown to life in the army. He asked me if I had any preference to which regiment or corps in which I would like to serve, he asked for three choices, which were:
The Grenadier Guards
The Royal Armoured Corps
The Royal Army Service Corps.
There were no guarantees that I would get any of these. He was quite surprised when I said Grenadier Guards, he was quick to remind me that life and discipline in the Brigade of Guards was very hard and very strict and asked why I was so keen to join such a regiment. My reply was that at 6ft I was tall enough and that also two of my close mates were in the Guards, I also said that as I was going to serve in the army, I wanted to serve in a regiment of which I could be proud of. Interview over, we shook hands again, he wished me luck and bid me farewell, with that I left and caught the bus home.
3. ANSWERING THE CALL
As time passed I began thinking and hoping that I would not be called up until after Christmas. My best mate Dave Ling, who was just four days younger than me was engaged to his girl and had made plans to marry at Christmas 1957, like me, he was waiting to be called up, so he contacted the authorities to ask when this was likely to be, he was assured that it would not be until early in the new year, so they went ahead with the wedding plans. Naturally as there was only four days difference in our ages I assumed that this would be my time as well; oh dear, how wrong could I be?
Friday 22nd November 1957 and it’s my nineteenth birthday. I got up just before seven as usual, the last working day of the week and I was looking forward to going out that evening to celebrate my birthday with Joyce, family and some friends. I was sitting having my breakfast and eagerly waiting for the postman who was always there around seven thirty and I was keen to see how many birthday cards I would get and more important, would there be any cash with them? I heard the letter box rattle and mum went to collect the post, as I had hoped, it was all for me. I looked at each envelope to identify the handwriting to guess what one was from whom? There was one plain brown envelope with the ominous black lettering O.H.M.S printed across the top I tossed this to one side then opened the rest of the cards. Mum said to me “aren’t you going to open that one, it look’s important?” “It’s my call up” papers I said. Mum replied, “don’t be daft, you won’t be going in now until after Christmas”, we all had quite wrongly assumed that what Dave Ling had been told would also apply to me as there was only four days difference in our ages, how wrong could we have been? When I opened it up it said that I was to report 5 Training Battalion, Royal Army Service Corps, Blenheim Barracks, Aldershot on Thursday 5th December 1957, three weeks before Christmas, oh dear! My intake number was 23/57, there were 23 intakes each year of national servicemen and I was in the last one; I had less than two weeks to prepare.
I went off to work, wondering how to break the news to Joyce, but the first thing I had to do was to give in my notice at work I went straight in to the foreman and told him I was giving one week’s notice. His reaction was “you are required to give at least two week’s notice” my reply was, “I haven’t got two bloody weeks”. The next thing I did was to nip out of the factory and go round to the bus station to meet Joyce and break the news to her........more tears.
It’s strange how things change around as we go through life. After years of thinking about leaving home and joining the forces, since meeting Joyce and having spent the last ten wonderful months together, I was now wishing that I never had to go.
4. ARRIVAL AT ALDERSHOT
Thursday 5th December 1957 was cold, dull, damp and foggy and I was feeling very miserable, added to that I had a very sore throat and all the symptoms of a pending cold. Joyce had travelled over early from her home in Stanstead Abbotts to join mum and walk to Hertford North Train Station with me to see me off on my journey to Aldershot. We stood on the platform and said our farewells amidst our hugs and kisses and many tears, I finally boarded the train, and the guard blew his whistle and the train puffed out of the station. All the way to Aldershot I could think of nothing else but to wonder how long it would be before I saw them again, and would I be lucky enough to get home for Christmas.
On the train from Waterloo to Farnborough North Camp, this was the station which I had to travel to, I met up with some other lads of around my age, and all had their small cases or travel bags. We were all in a similar frame of mind, fed up and wondering what the hell was in store for us over the next two years, but at least it made the journey a bit easier?
When the train arrived at our destination, we were met by a fleet of Army Lorries, and NCO representatives, from the various regiments and units which we were to join. One driver called out, “anyone for 5 training battalion R.A.S.C. get on this lorry”, so we climbed in the back and sat down.
The driver was typical of all national servicemen who had been in for some time and was counting the days to demob, (I was exactly the same when my time was coming to an end). His cheerful greeting was “I’ve only got three weeks to do and that’s me finished, I’ll be home for Christmas”. Needless to say that made us all feel a whole lot better; I don’t think? He then proceeded to tell us what a terrible, god forsaken place Blenheim Barracks was; the drill instructors were a right shower of pure bastards and the food was disgusting, (he was certainly right on that point) it was no better than recycled pig swill. In all my life from then and to the present day I have never experienced such muck which they classed as food?
5. CORPORAL ‘JOCK’ GILBERT
On arrival at the camp we were herded into the gymnasium for documentation and assignment to our various training squads which we would be in for the next two weeks. By now the time was around 2 or 3pm and I was in need of something to eat and drink, as I was unable to eat any breakfast before I left and I had only had a cup of tea all day so far. After documentation we were then given some refreshment. I had a mug of tepid coffee and a very dry, tasteless Banbury Cake (which up until then I had always been partial to but not anymore).
The number of the squad to which we were assigned was written on a series of blackboards placed at intervals around the room, on these was written the squad number and the name and rank of the NCO in charge of that squad. We were told to go and stand by these boards and wait until our instructor arrived. I was assigned to squad 4B and the NCO i/c was Cpl Gilbert.
Finally Cpl Gilbert arrived; he stood to attention in front of us looking very severe and unsmiling. He was immaculately turned out from the top of his Beret to the toes of his boots, which were so “bulled” up they could have been used as shaving mirrors. His uniform had been tailored so well, it looked like it had been sprayed on, he then introduced himself, and he was a Scot. “I’m Corporal Gilbert your squad NCO, for the next two weeks you will be seeing a lot of me, in fact you will get sick of the sight of me, I have got the reputation of being the biggest bastard on this camp and I intend to keep it. This morning when you all left home and you said goodbye to your wives, mothers or girlfriends you probably broke their hearts; well you are not f...ing well going to break mine. Remember there is only two ways to do things in the army.......the easy way or the hard way, the easy way is not easy and the hard way is f...ing hard. Whenever I walk into your barrack room you will stand to attention until I tell you to do otherwise and just in case any of you have got other ideas, let me warn you, I am a Brown belt in Judo, anyone who steps out of line I will have you in the guardroom so fast you will think you are jet propelled”. My immediate thoughts were “Oh my God, I want to go home”.
As things panned out this was all a front to make sure we all knew that he was in charge. Over the next two weeks he was like a father figure to us and we all respected him. He was very patient and never minded how many times he showed us how to do something until we got it right, he never suffered fools gladly and if somebody said they could do something and then couldn’t he came down on them like a ton of bricks. We all in our squad developed a great respect for him; he proved to be one of the finest NCO’s that I ever met during my two years in the army.
6. KIT ISSUE AND FIRST ARMY MEAL
The kit issuing procedure was something to behold. There is a long standing joke relevant to the armed forces that all paper work etc is done in triplicate, and to a degree this is very true. On entering the QM stores we were given a large kitbag, a steel helmet, a service respirator, a full set of webbing which consisted of large and small packs, ammunition pouches, rifle sling and bayonet scabbard, a waterproof ground sheet/poncho, which could also be used as a tent, water bottle and mess tins, 1 pint china mug, 1 set of eating irons (knife, fork, spoon), 1 jack knife, 1 set of boot brushes, 1 clothes brush, and of course the all important “housewife” which was a complete sewing kit for repairing our uniforms. Then came the uniform, 1 greatcoat, 2 battledress blouses, 2 pairs battle dress trousers, 2 PE vests (1 red 1 blue), 2 prs PE shorts 1 pr gym shoes, 2 sets of denim overalls for drill training and fatigues etc, 3 shirts, 3 vests, 3 prs underpants, 3 prs pyjamas, 3 prs socks 3 towels, two berets, 2 cap badges, 1 lanyard 1 woollen sleeved pullover, 2 prs of boots. We were then told that every single item issued to us had to be marked with our name, rank and regimental number. If on an inspection or kit layout, any item found to be unmarked or incorrectly marked you would be punished with 3, 5 or even 7 days (Jankers) confined to barracks and fatigues. My number was 23439829, I still use variations of that number today for security purposes, it’s a number which was used every day for certain reasons and you never forget it. When we had done all of this we then had to march all the way back to our barrack room, carrying all of this kit, after which we were marched to the bedding stores.
The bedding issue was 1 mattress, 2 pillows, 2 sheets, 2 pillow cases, and 5 blankets. By the time we had done all of this it was past 8pm, and we still hadn’t had food all day, other than the tepid coffee and stale cake.
Finally, after we had taken our bedding back to the barrack room we were told to collect our eating irons and mug and fall in outside, we were then marched down to the dining hall where we would enjoy our first taste of army grub............Yuk.
I had always been accustomed to good food at home and to some degree I was a bit fussy. There were certain things which I wouldn’t eat particularly stews if they were thick and stodgy, or meat puddings, we queued up at the hotplate where the cooks were serving up and to my shock and horror, and the choice was stew; take it or leave it? I was so hungry by now, I took it along with a couple of slices of bread which were about an inch thick, and a couple of pats of butter, I then sat down with a few of the other lads to sample this culinary masterpiece. The thing I remember very clearly about it was, it was so thick that when I stuck my fork into it and released my hand, the fork still stood up in the gravy; it was so thick it could easily have been served up in slices. Was this to be a taste of worse things to come I wondered. However, by now I was so hungry I forced it down, thank god for the bread and butter and the mug of tea, which went down a treat. I remember well the words that I wrote home to Mum in my first letter which were, “Mum, I will never ever complain about your stews again”, she kept that letter for many years after as a reminder.
7. FIRST NIGHT
After the meal we were then marched back to our barrack room where Cpl Gilbert instructed us how to make our beds: the army way naturally, and how to fold our sheets and blankets to make up a bed pack, which had to be done every morning before parade and inspection, with the exception of Sundays. After he had done this the time was approaching 11:00 pm (or 23.00 in army time), he then told us to get ourselves sorted and into bed, normally in a training camp lights went out at 10:30pm (22:30) and reveille would be at 06:00.
I eventually got into bed and although I was really tired I couldn’t get off to sleep for ages. The small fire in the room had long since gone out, there was no more coal and I felt cold and started shivering, a sore throat and a pending cold never helped the situation. I laid thinking mainly of Joyce and home and how much I was already missing her. As I lay there, I could hear a couple of the lads softly crying. National Service brought together lads from all walks in life, the rich, the poor, the weak, the strong, the ones who were well educated at public schools or grammar schools, universities and secondary schools, sadly there were even some who had no proper education at all. There were the quiet meek ones and there were the loud mouthy ones who, when put under pressure, they just couldn’t take it; they were generally referred to as Barrack Room Barristers.
For many of the lads this was to be their first time away from home and mum and dad, being suddenly plunged into this environment, we were all reduced to an equal level.
I finally drifted off to sleep only to be woken up far too soon by the Orderly Sergeant screaming out “Wakey wakey, rise and shine, get out of bed you miserable lot, its f...ing freezing outside, I’ll be back in five minutes and any one still in bed will be in serious trouble”. I thought to myself, yes sergeant, its f...ing freezing in here too.
I jumped out of bed and went to wash and shave. There was no heating in the wash room and to make things even worse, there was no hot water. After what was to be the quickest wash and shave I had ever had in my life so far, I went back into the room and made up my bed pack as instructed by Cpl Gilbert, and swept around my bed space area. Once this was done we waited for the arrival of Cpl Gilbert, to march us down to the mess hall for breakfast, whatever that would prove to be? In training you are marched everywhere... (Possibly with the exception of the toilet) that humiliation was reserved strictly for prisoners held in the Guardroom.
As it turned out, breakfast was; to a very slight degree, passable. There was a selection of cereals or porridge, which was cooked to the same consistency as last night’s stew, there was cornflakes, popcorn, Shredded Wheat, Wheatabix, then there was the usual breakfast things like cremated sausages, eggs fried hard, boiled eggs again boiled hard, bacon fried so hard you could pick it up and snap bits off, and fried bread absolutely saturated in grease. There was also toast with jams and marmalade. Then there were the usual beverages, tea, coffee, milk, lemonade and orangeade, both made from crystal powder. Looking back to those days and with the benefit of hindsight, the food in the army was good food, badly prepared and cooked and if it tasted ok, then something had gone wrong. It was a standing joke that the army cooks could even burn water!
And so my first full day of army life had begun, what was in store for us today I wondered. It was to be a day of sorting out all the kit which had been issued to us, how and what to wear and when, how to assemble all the straps, pouches and belts, (referred to as FSMO), Full Service Marching Order. We were shown how to correctly fold and display all issued items in our respective lockers. Every barrack room had a notice board which displayed a regulation plan which we were obliged to follow without exception, the board also displayed copies of Battalion Standing Orders and Company Part 1 Orders, which we were told was our duty to read each day, and we would be in serious trouble if we never familiarised ourselves with them and also the Fire Emergency Instructions. Cpl Gilbert had also made a list of “Housekeeping jobs” which had to be done daily in the barrack room; each soldier was given a specific task to which he was responsible for.
Later on during the day we were marched to the camp barber for the obligatory regimental haircut. Only two days before I went in, I had been to my own barber and asked him to give me a ‘short back and sides’ as I was going in to the army the following day. However, this cut no ice with the army; I still had to have another one and the most annoying thing about it was we had to pay for it ourselves? The barber was a civilian; I’m certain that at some stage in his career he had worked on a sheep farm as a sheep shearer, I was almost bald!
8. FIRST WEEKEND
The weekend was particularly miserable for me, after being with Joyce for the past ten months and going out every weekend either shopping, dancing, cinema or a walk to the pub, I was missing her terribly. Most of the lads who had girls back home were feeling the same as I was, it was even worse for those who were married. Reveille for us trainees was still 06.00 even though it was Saturday, the only respite and a chance to have a lay in was Sunday, when we were able to please ourselves when we got up and we never had to make bed packs. Those who wanted to attend church could do so, as raw recruits, we were confined to camp; services of worship were held on camp by the regimental Padre and were compatible to all denominations.
We were occupied all day getting our uniforms and equipment up to a passable standard; at least that passed the time quickly. For most of us, our first priority was to write letters home to our families to give them our correct postal address so that they could write back. It was wonderful when I received my first letters back. Whenever I had a letter from Joyce it made the day easier to cope with. We were all issued with large sheets of brown wrapping paper, large labels and string in which we had to wrap up all our civilian clothes and write our home addresses on the labels then the army posted them back to our homes. We were not permitted to wear civilian clothes for the first the first six months in the forces.
We were free to visit the N.A.A.F.I. (Navy, Army and Air Force Institution) at any time it was open to have a cup of tea, coffee, beer etc or anything else we fancied, best of all you could get a very decent meal quite cheaply, if you had any money, sausage, egg, chips, beans, tomatoes, that sort of thing; it was a far better option that what the Army Catering Corps served up. There was also a TV room with arm chairs, a snooker table, table tennis. Dart boards and a Juke box with all the latest records, much to the delight of most of us.
Cpl Gilbert showed us how our uniform should be correctly pressed, how to scrub and Blanco all our webbing equipment, the correct way to polish our brass buckles and buttons etc, and most important of all, how to ‘bull up’ our boots to a very high standard and immaculate shine; if only mine will ever look like his, I thought to myself as I looked at his, I have never understood why we were issued with boots made with very tough leather which was covered in pimples, then made to burn out the pimples on the toe caps, heels and sides. Why couldn’t they issue us with boots made from smooth leather in the first instance? It was probably done to keep us occupied, not that we hadn’t got more than enough to do anyway. On all army training camps the NAAFI did a roaring trade with boot polish, Blanco, candles, soft yellow dusters, Bluebell and Brasso.
9. TRAINING AND AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE RSM
Monday morning, it’s the start of our first full week of square bashing. It’s bitterly cold and there’s a sharp frost to welcome us outside on parade, all we are wearing is our drill denims which are not very thick and our woollen jerseys underneath. We all stood there shivering and shaking like jelly. Almost the entire week was concentrated on training us to march properly and form ranks; we were also given some basic instruction in rifle drill. None of this drill was difficult for me as I had been in 936 ATC squadron for a couple of years, and marching and foot drill were the first things you are taught as cadets.
One of the very first things we were taught to do in the army was how to salute correctly; and to whom? We were told that when we were saluting an officer, we were not saluting the man; we were saluting the Queens commission. We were told that you do not salute Warrant officers, (WOII) and most definitely you do not salute the RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major – WO1) even though he wore a peaked cap and a Sam Brown (Sword belt), but when speaking to him, you stood rigidly to attention and called him sir. On an army camp he is the senior Warrant Officer over all other WO’s and NCO’s, he is the right hand of the commanding officer, and at times will even tell him what to do, in short, the Regimental Sergeant Major is ‘top dog’ second only to God.
Only a day or so later, three other lads and myself were just leaving the NAAFI where we had been for a cup of tea and a cheese roll, it was around 8:30pm and quite dark, the street lighting on the camp was not very bright. As we strolled back to our barrack room, we noticed a soldier approaching us on the opposite side of the road, he looked like an officer, so only having just been shown how to salute correctly, naturally we were keen to put it to the test, we started to march to attention and as we passed him we all saluted and said “good evening sir”. Instead of him returning the salute as we had expected, in a booming voice which I’m certain could have been heard all over camp, he bellowed out, “come ere you orrible little men”.....oh dear! We walked across to him and stood to attention. “Do you know who I am?” he roared, “no sir” we replied. “Can you see any pips on my shoulders?” he asked, again, ”no sir” we said. “I am the Regimental Sergeant Major and don’t you forget it, you never salute me”. After a short sharp lecture on rank identification and saluting, he took into consideration that we had only been in the army a few days and he mellowed, he then told us to carry on, said “goodnight” and marched away. We as ‘sprogs’ had been taught a valuable lesson which had been learned by so many soldiers before us, and a mistake which we would never make again while in the army.
10. FIRST WEEKEND OUT OF CAMP
We were told on enlistment that after being confined to camp the first week, subject to our progress we would be allowed off camp at the second weekend. As the weekend approached we were settling in and Cpl Gilbert was happy with the progress we were making. We were told that from 12:00hrs Saturday and all day Sunday (subject to passing inspection we could go off camp and go into Aldershot or wherever else we so wished; we had to sign out at the guardroom and be inspected by the guard commander. We were also told that we had to be back at camp no later than 23:59hrs on both days, (one minute before midnight), one minute after midnight and you would be absent without leave.
And so Saturday finally arrived and after training that morning we were dismissed. After dismissal, I collected my mug and eating irons and went to the cookhouse to sample the culinary delights which the cooks had probably ruined for Saturday lunch; as expected it was the usual pig swill. After I had eaten, or at least attempted to eat I went back to the barrack room and wrote a couple of letters to Joyce and Mum. This done I then changed out of my Drill denims, into my best Battledress and accompanied by a couple of other lads who I had mated up with, we went to the Guardroom, were inspected by the Guard Commander, signed out and set off to explore Aldershot. It was a fine sunny, chilly afternoon so rather than spending money on bus fares we decided to walk into town which was only about two miles from camp.
I found Aldershot to be quite an interesting town, though quite obviously a typical garrison town, there were military establishments everywhere, and wherever you went, be it in shops, pubs, clubs, cafes, there were soldiers. Many of the barracks were constructed around the time of the Crimean war period; I was told that Blenheim barracks where I was stationed certainly was, and I believe it.
There were plenty of things to do and places to go to. There were three cinemas; all central to the town and for those who wanted to watch a game of football, Aldershot Town Football Club was only a short walk from the town centre, through a very nice little park. Best of all there was a huge NAAFI Club which seemed to cater for all needs. It had a very large restaurant area, a large bar complete with dartboards and pinball machines, a large ballroom with a sprung floor and dancing every night to a band or disco, a TV room, games room, library and reading room complete with individual writing desks with all stationary provided free of charge. Later on throughout my training I was to find this particular facility very useful when I wanted to write home to Joyce or Mum, (much better than trying to write letters resting on a suitcase in a noisy barrack room).
After our recce of Aldershot town was over we then decided to go back to the NAAFI Club and have a couple of beers in the comfort of the bar, followed by a nice meal in the restaurant after which, we then went into the TV room and relaxed for a couple of hours, this was quite a novelty for me as we never had a television set at home in those days; not many houses did. Finally it was time for us to return to camp and bed, knowing that the next day being Sunday there would be no square bashing for us and we would not be turned out of bed at 06:00 by a noisy Orderly Sergeant. So Sunday turned out to be a day of working on our kit and getting it up to standard and NAAFI in the evening.
11. BASIC TRAINING – PASSING OUT PARADE
This was to be our final week at Blenheim Barracks, by now we had been trained up to a reasonable standard in marching and rifle drill under the watchful eyes of Cpl Gilbert. Thursday of this week was to be our passing out parade from out two weeks basic training and families and relatives were invited to come to the barracks to watch then join us in the NAAFI after for teas and refreshments after. I had letters from both Joyce and Mum saying that they were travelling down and were looking forward to seeing me, needless to say that I was longing to see both of them, particularly Joyce.
The sore throat I was developing when I left home had returned and was now developing into what I thought might be a full blown dose of flu. I just hoped that it would hold off until after Thursday was over and done with. By the time Thursday arrived I was feeling absolutely awful, and I told Cpl Gilbert who said he would speak to the Company Sergeant Major to try to get me excused from the parade. He did his best but to no avail, I would have to go on parade. We would not be able to see our families until the parade was over and we were dismissed, after that we could join them in the NAAFI where the refreshments were laid on.
The parade and inspection over, we marched off the square and were fallen out. By this time I was feeling really ill. I was sweating, shivering, aching and coughing. I had a pain in my upper back which really hurt each time I breathed in and my head was spinning. I never told Joyce and Mum about the pain as they would only start worrying and there was nothing that they could do, I just told them that I thought that I had the flu and that I was going to report sick that evening after they had gone home. All of this aside, and feeling as rough as I did, it was lovely to see them both again. We had a lovely couple of hours together before it was time for them to leave to get the bus at the camp gate to take them to Aldershot train station. I walked to the bus stop with them which was only about a hundred yards or so down the road, we said our goodbyes and they left, they made me promise that I would go and report sick straight away, which I did.
I went back to my barrack room where I momentarily passed out. The next thing that I remember was coming round and seeing several of the lads leaning over me, a couple of them had gone to get Cpl Gilbert. When he arrived he said “we must get him to the medical centre straight away”.
They did this and the duty Medical Orderly took my temperature which he said was 104 degrees; this was abnormally high. Soon after this the doctor arrived he examined me then he gave the orderly instructions on what immediate treatment I should have, I was having treatment for influenza; as was proven later, it was far more serious than that; I then passed out once again, after that I don’t remember anything else.
12.HOSPITAL
For three days I was in and out of consciousness, they could not get my temperature down. Finally the doctor decided that things were far more serious and that I should be moved to hospital as I required more intensive treatment and x-rays. He called for an army ambulance and I was taken to The Cambridge Military Hospital in Aldershot, where after further tests and x-rays I was diagnosed as having pleurisy, which was why I was in so much pain.
The state of in and out of consciousness went on for two or three weeks, I wasn’t responding to treatment at all, I remained like this all over Christmas. The nurses were sponging my body down with cold water every couple of hours day and night, in an attempt to lower my temperature. I wasn’t eating anything; all I was taking was fluids which were being fed to me by nurses, in a feeder cup. There was such a large build up of fluid in my lungs my bed was built up with extra pillows and supports to keep me in an upright position so that I could breathe better.
Immediately after Christmas my condition was causing such concern, the hospital contacted my mother and told her that as my condition was causing such concern, the doctors who were treating me had decided to transfer me to a specialist Military Chest Hospital at Hindhead in Surry; as well as pleurisy, I now had pneumonia. Mum was beside herself when she received this news. Neither she nor Joyce had heard a word from me since the day of the passing out parade. When mum told my stepfather he said that they should get to see me as soon as possible; they came down by train and bus to see me the following Sunday. To make a bad situation worse, Joyce wasn’t able to come with them......she had contracted Mumps?
They arrived at the hospital around 11-o-clock, visiting hours weren’t until around 2pm normally but in view of my condition and the journey they had made to get there, they were allowed to stay at my bedside from when they arrived, but they had to leave for two hours from 12:00 until 2:00pm, to allow patients to have their lunch and a rest after. So during this time they went to a nearby pub and managed to get a lunch there as well. After that they came back and stayed with me until around 4:00pm when they left to travel back home to Hertford.
As ill as I was, it had been lovely to have a visit from Mum, and even though I never got on well with my stepfather, I was grateful to him for bringing her down to Hindhead to visit me, I was sad that my Joyce could not have been with them though. A few days after their visit I started to show signs of slight improvement and the doctors told me that things were looking better. About a week later Captain Stratton, who was my doctor, told me that I was going to be allowed out of bed for one hour only each day but only to sit in an armchair; this was great news, I was able to write to Joyce and Mum, also the good news was Joyce was fully recovered from Mumps. All in all things were starting to look a lot brighter. My time allowed out of bed was gradually increased each day from one hour then two then three, then half a day and so on until I was told that I could get fully dressed and stay up all day, but the strict rest rule still applied. I was having physiotherapy each day; the corridor which leads to the physio department was 400 yards long, so one of the other patients who was a Corporal in The Coldstream Guards, he used to push me there each day in a wheelchair. I had also started to eat well; I needed to as I had lost so much weight. The food in Army Hospitals was really good, plenty of it and very well prepared and cooked, this a lone made one feel better.
13. HOME LEAVE AND DISCHARGE FROM HOSPITAL
It was now February and I had been in hospital for around eight weeks; three in the Cambridge Military Hospital and now five in the Connaught Hospital. One morning Capt Stratton was carrying out his ward round, he came to me, checked me over, read through his notes then smiled and said “I think you are now ready to go home for a spot of leave for a couple of weeks”. The conditions were that after leave I had to return to hospital for further tests and checks; I was not yet fit enough to return to my training unit. He told the ward Sister; Capt Shortland, (and she was short), to arrange a leave pass and travel warrant for me. I was overjoyed at hearing this good news. The conditions were there must be no late nights, hectic partying and do nothing which required too much excursion, in short, I was to take things easy.......? Two days later I was on my way home.
Nobody was expecting me as I hadn’t had time to write a letter home and in those days not many homes had a telephone, we certainly hadn’t, and mobile phones and text messaging was unheard of, so I couldn’t let anyone know. I couldn’t wait to see my darling Joyce again, it seemed like the train journey home would never end.
The journey from Hindhead to Hertford by bus and trains took roughly four hours. I left the hospital at around 10:00am, caught a bus outside the hospital to Hazlemere train station where I then boarded a train for Waterloo, then the underground to Kings Cross, then a train to Hertford North, I finally arrived home at around 2:00pm. I knocked at the door and when Mum answered it she almost fainted with surprise and excitement, even our dog ‘Brownie’ went barmy, what a welcome home? “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home?” she asked, “because I never knew myself until the day before yesterday” I replied. Mrs Foster who lived next door had seen me arrive she came rushing round to kiss and hug me. However, after a lovely warm welcome and a nice cup of tea and a sandwich, we all started to chat properly. Mum then asked when I was planning to see Joyce, I said that as she wouldn’t be expecting to see me I would get the bus into town and wait for her outside the office and surprise her, when she finished work at 5:30.
Needles to say, that she was so surprised to see me standing there, by the time we had finished kissing and cuddling.....in the street, she had missed her bus home to Saint Margarets, which always left the bus station sharp at 5:37pm, so we both walked round to Hertford East train station and caught a train, when we both walked in, Joyce’s Mum and Dad and her grandparents could not believe their eyes. Joyce’s Dad had only just got home from work and they were all just ready to sit down and have their evening meal, her Mum looked at me and said “I hope you are going to Join us”, she always put on a good spread. After we had finished the meal, Dad washed, shaved and changed then said “Well as this is a special occasion I think it calls for a drink.” As it was Friday night and the start of the weekend, we all later adjourned to ‘The Jolly Fishermen” which was his ‘local’; oh what a lovely evening we all had.
This was to be how my entire leave would work out, visiting friends and relatives, (particularly my grandparents who had practically brought me up as a child) they were absolutely ‘over the moon’ when Joyce and I turned up at their house. It was one round of partying; we even managed to get to a couple of dances, all of this was contrary to doctors instructions, but what the hell, I was home, I was alive and most of all I was with Joyce.
Needless to say that all good things come to an end and so did my two weeks leave. I returned to hospital for further checks and assessments, the doctor’s were satisfied that things were going well and told me that I was to be discharged and return to my training unit. However, due to the severity of my illness I would not be strong enough to continue with military training straight away. First of all I was to be sent to Southern Command School of Physical Training at Blandford in Dorset for four weeks of intensive physical training to build up my strength, thirteen weeks in hospital had left me very weak and I had lost weight which had to be put back on.
The downside of all this meant that temporarily I would be going back to the ‘Hell Hole’ of Blenheim barracks, not exactly a sobering thought. However, the day of discharge arrived and after breakfast and a final talk with the doctor and medical staff, I thanked them for the care I had received, said goodbye to all of them, collected my discharge documents and travel warrant and set off once again for Aldershot.
On arrival at Blenheim I reported to B Company office where I was interviewed by the Sergeant Major he told me that the next PT course at Blandford which I was listed to be on was to start in two weeks time and as I was not yet fit enough for regimental training and fatigues etc, I could make out a seven day leave pass and go home. As the leave pass had to be countersigned by the company commander it would be an hour or so to wait as he was not in his office, so while I was waiting I decided to go and find Cpl Gilbert and thank him for sorting things out when I was taken into hospital. I tracked him down; he was training a new intake of recruits. We chatted for a few minutes, we then shook hands and he wished me luck then I went back to B company office and collected my leave pass and travel warrant and set off for the train station.
Once again I wasn’t expected, so Mum couldn’t believe her eyes when she opened the door, the very first thing she asked was “Have you had anything to eat?” “Not since my breakfast this morning before I left hospital” I replied, so she immediately set about cooking me a plate of eggs, bacon and beans etc, which I duly polished off quickly, with a nice cup of tea.
After I finished eating, we sat and chatted for a while, naturally she wanted to know all of what had gone on in hospital with regard to my treatment and aftercare instructions; the usual questions mums always ask....! After this I went upstairs and had a nice hot bath and changed into my civilian clothes. By the time this was all done it was time to go and meet Joyce from work and surprise her, which it certainly did. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw me standing there. “What the heck are you doing here?” she asked; her first remark........blimey I thought what a welcome. Anyway, shock over; we were ready to enjoy another seven wonderful days together again, which we did.
14. BLANDFORD – SOUTHERN COMMAND SCHOOL OF PT
Leave over it was time for “goodbyes” once again and I set off back to Aldershot. When I arrived back at camp, after reporting to B Coy office and being told which barrack room to go to, I went to the QM stores and drew out all of my kit which had been placed there by Cpl Gilbert for safe keeping while I was in hospital. I found the designated room, found a vacant bed space and locker in a corner of the room then, after going to the bedding store and collecting my bedding, I then started to lay all of my kit out as per standard instructions. I knew that this would only be for a couple of days before I had to pack it all again and go off to Blandford.
On the day we left for Blandford, there were several lads all going to the same destination and as I had been in the army now for over three months, (albeit that I had been in hospital for most of that time) I was deemed to be senior soldier of the group I was put in charge and was responsible for all of the official documentation relating to all of the other lads and also responsible for their correct behaviour en route?
We were taken by lorry to Aldershot train station where I presented the booking clerk with the travel warrant who then issued the tickets. We had to change trains on the journey, from the main line to a little suburban line for the last few miles to Blandford Forum station. Rail travel in those days were far more nostalgic and interesting, we still had steam trains. On arrival at Blandford forum we were met by an army driver and taken by lorry to the camp which was to be our home for the next four and a half weeks.
The Army School of Physical Training was sited on the same camp as No1trg Battalion R.E.M.E. When we arrived there we were greeted by the soldier who was to be our instructor over our stay here. He introduced himself as Staff Sergeant Barnes and we were to address him at all times as ‘Staff’. All the instructors held the rank of Staff Sergeant or WOII and compared to all other army instructors, they were a special breed apart. They never shouted, bellowed, bawled, bullied or swore at you (only in jest). They were very strict disciplinarians, but in a kindly way, and they constantly encouraged you to do better.
After he had finished telling us what was what, and who was who etc, he then left us to unpack and stow our kit and settle in. Later he came back and took us to the bedding stores to collect our regulation bedding issue. After that, and as time was getting on he would take us to the dining hall for our tea, (we were given tea, coffee and sandwiches when we arrived).
The accommodation huts were of wooden construction, built in what was referred to as ‘Spider blocks’, all rooms were interconnected via corridors, it was a design very similar to the Connaught Hospital where I had just been discharged from. That was a Canadian Hospital, built by the Canadian Army during WWII. It was possible to circumnavigate the entire hospital without having to go outside, a design obviously to combat the severe Canadian winters. Our barrack room was clean, warm, light and airy and heated by radiators and hot water pipes; quite a contrast to those barracks rooms at Blenheim in Aldershot.
Once we had settled in, S/Sgt Barnes came back and marched us down to the mess hall. We had already enquired to some of the other lads who had been there for a couple of weeks, “what is the food like here?” We were told that it was fantastic. Could this be true we asked ourselves or are they just having a laugh? When we got inside, we could not believe our eyes (or our noses), we had been told the truth. The food looked, smelled and tasted fantastic. There were around seven or eight different choices at each meal, breakfast, dinner and tea times, second helpings if you wanted, and if you so wished, you could put your name in the supper book each day for a supper around seven thirty in the evening. We were told that as we were here to be built up to fitness, we had to attend all meal sittings, missing meals was not an option, with the exception of suppers. After we had experienced this luxury food, there was no chance that we would be missing any meals. Without wishing to be discourteous, it was as good as we would get at home. The next morning when we went for breakfast, the choices were unbelievable. Apart from the regular cereals and porridge etc, there was Smoked Haddock, Kippers, Poached eggs, as much as you could eat and more if you wanted. Our leading question after we had suffered the pig swill at Blenheim was, if the Army cooks can do it here, why can’t they do it there? All Army Cooks were trained at the Army School of Catering at Ramilies Barracks in Aldershot.
Our first full day at the unit was largely being made familiar with procedures and being told what was expected of us and what levels we should achieve week by week. We would spend approximately eight hours each day in the gymnasium, Monday to Friday, Saturdays 07:30 to 12:00. No training Sundays and at the end of the first two weeks, all we wanted to do was sleep. Each day a little more was added to the routine, at the end of which; we were shattered. Every day started with a one mile run which we were, at the end of the course expected to complete within six minutes, above this time and we would be failed. This might sound simple but the downside was, we wore our regulation issues PT kit but instead of running in our gym shoes, we had to wear our army boots which were heavy. Another bit that was added as the course progressed was, we would have to do one run not only wearing our boots but also wearing our steel helmet and service issue respirator which was a heavy piece of kit and was strapped to the chest, and this had to be done in less than ten minutes. Staff Barnes also told us that at the end of the first couple of weeks we would be feeling “absolutely knackered” his choice of words were right!
Another task we had to complete was to climb a rope to the top of a twenty foot high tower which was constructed with steel scaffold poles. We also had to climb to the top of this tower wearing our boots, monkey clime out to the centre and lower ourselves slowly down to the ground on the ropes which were hung in the centre; this was all achieved without the aid of safety harnesses or safety nets! Until this time I had never climbed a rope in my life, for me to even swing on a rope was an achievement, for me to climb a rope seemed to be an impossible task. However, as time progressed and with expert instruction, by the end of the four weeks I was getting to the top with ease; even, wearing my boots, I was very proud of that fact.
Although the course was very tough, as it progressed we were quite enjoying it, they were a great bunch of lads in our room and we all got on well with each other. The same thing applied to the lads in the other rooms so that was an added bonus. Everyone seemed to like their instructors; ours, S/Sgt Barnes was really great. Another instructor was S/Sgt Williams, a Welshman, he was a laugh a minute, you never knew what to expect from him, you just had to prepare for anything, and he was in the British Army Fencing Team. All of the lads on the courses were from various regiments and corps so naturally there was a lot of inter-service banter among us but it was all in good fun.
We were not allowed off camp at all while on the course but we were told that at the completion of the second week we would be given a forty eight hour pass starting from midday on the Friday so that was something to look forward to. As it happened that was to be the weekend of Joyce’s 18th Birthday. I had written to her telling her that I would be coming home, so we decided to take the opportunity and get engaged. I had previously written to her Mum and Dad, asking for their permission and they had written back in approval. We got away early from camp on the Friday I arrived home mid afternoon and went straight over to Joyce’s at Stanstead Abbotts then on the Saturday morning we caught the Greenline Bus to Enfield Town went to a nice Jewellers we knew and bought the rings, then we came back home to Joyce’s place and in the evening Mum came over and we all went to the pub to celebrate our engagement.
Those forty eight hours were the quickest that I could ever remember, Joyce and I had managed to fit in so much into so little time and after dinner on the Sunday it was time for us to once again say goodbye and for me to head back to Blandford Camp.
As previously arranged on the journey up to London on the Friday, myself and the other lads who had travelled up with me, all agreed to meet at one of London’s most famous meeting places; which was beneath the clock on the Concourse of Waterloo Station, where for decades past and since, has been the rallying spot for thousands of people to meet and greet or to say their farewells. It’s a place where many friendships and romances have started and, sadly ended. I would think that second only to Big Ben, it is possibly the most famous clock in Britain.
All the lads were there as we had arranged and the journey back to camp was quite routine and uneventful apart that for most of the journey I was the focus of a lot of banter and leg pulling from the other lads, after I had told them that I had got engaged, and it never finished there, the next morning the lads told Staff Barnes and he really piled it on, however it was all in good fun and we all had a good laugh even if it was all at my expense.
Our final two weeks passed by very quickly and by now all of us were feeling very fit and confident. The training was becoming easier. At the end of our final week we had our tests and complementary to our instructors, we all passed with ease. As we were going back to our respective units and regiments, on our last night we all went to the NAAFI for a few beers together; there were a few thick heads the next morning.
We had all packed our kit the previous evening so all we had to do in the morning was to get ourselves dressed and after breakfast just sit around and chat until the truck arrived to take us to the station. Staff Barnes came into the room and sat chatting with us; he really had proven to be a great instructor. Finally our lorry arrived we all said our goodbyes to him; he shook hands with all of us and wished us well. We loaded our kit on the truck, climbed aboard and set off back to Aldershot and very sadly; the ‘Hell Hole’ of Blenheim Barracks. After four weeks of comfortable rooms and wonderful food, once again we were going to be subjected to antiquated, cold, damp and dull cattle pens they called barracks and pig swill for meals.
15. 2nd TRAINING BATTALION R.A.S.C.
During my first two weeks in the army, just before I went into hospital, all new recruits had to be interviewed by the PSO, Personnel Selection Officer; he was the guy who outlined all the various trades which you could choose to train in, whether or not you got your choice was another matter? I applied to train as a General Duties Clerk who in the RASC, were trained right here in Aldershot at 2 Training Battalion, my thoughts being that if I were sent there, it would mean that on weekends if I was not on guard, fire picket or cookhouse fatigues, it would be easier for me to get home to see Joyce, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath on that one.
The next morning after arriving back from Blandford, I was ordered to B Company office to see my platoon commander who informed me that I would be posted to 2 Training Battalion, Willems Barracks on the Wednesday of the following week. I was really chuffed when he told me this; it was exactly what I had hoped for. Willems Barracks was almost in the town centre, just two minutes’ walk to the big NAAFI Club and only about 5 minutes’ walk to Aldershot Train and Bus Station, I could not believe my luck. The training course lasted eight weeks, the first four weeks was drill and combat weapons, Rifles and bayonets, Sten sub machine gun, Bren gun machine gun etc. The second four weeks was our trade training in clerical duties, typing, filing, manual amendments, telephone procedure, that sort of thing.
In the meantime until I was posted to 2 Bn, I was put on general fatigues at Blenheim, which varied from peeling potatoes and washing up cooking pots and pans, to riding on the back of a 3 ton truck delivering coal to all the barrack blocks and buildings on the camp.....a right filthy job! One day I got lucky and was detailed as Company Runner, basically this was a messenger for the CO and the CSM......in other words I was now what is commonly referred to as a ‘Gofer’, quite a cushy little number, most of the time I just sat in the office chatting with the other clerks, most of which were sergeants and corporals.
The day of my posting to 2 Bn finally arrived; at last I was leaving the Blenheim Barracks Hell Hole and oh boy, was I glad. I hoped that the next few weeks would be successful and that I would get a decent permanent posting somewhere in England.
On arrival at Willems Barracks we were met by a Lance corporal Whittle, a short, loud mouthed ‘Geordie’ with a funny walk, who over the next eight weeks we all came to absolutely detest. However, after he had given us our squad ID number, which for us was 467 he then showed us our barrack room which was on the third floor of the block. After drawing the regulation bedding issue, we were told to find a bed space and locker and get all of our kit laid out for inspection, after that it would be time for dinner which was 12.00 to 13.00. at 14.00 we would be called out to parade in our respective squads and marched onto the main Parade Square, we were not told for what reason?
The designated time arrived and we all paraded in the road outside the barrack block, then we marched to the main square. When we arrived there, we were surprised to see that dozens of other soldiers were forming up in ranks. In fact the entire battalion which consisted of around 600 men and included all Officers, Warrant officers and NCO’s, we thought this was strange as Wednesday afternoons in the army was confined to sports activities and all soldiers could participate in any of the various sports facility that was available, and we still hadn’t be told the reason we were all there?
The RSM gave the order for the parade to come to attention, the door of the Guardroom, which stood at the side of the square opened and the CO, Lt Col Potter marched out. He came to attention in front of the parade we were then told to stand at ease, he then told us the reason we were all there, (I was about to witness an example of military justice and punishment), and all I will say is that I am glad that it wasn’t me who was being punished. After he had finished speaking, the parade was ordered back to attention and we waited in silence.
The guardroom door opened again and the Battalion Adjutant came out carrying a document in his hand, he was accompanied by the Provost Sergeant, they both came to a halt then a private soldier, wearing no beret or belt was double marched out, escorted by two Regimental Policemen, he was made to stand to attention the whole time. Apparently he had been found guilty of stealing money from another soldier. Stealing from a fellow comrade in the army is considered a very serious offence and the punishment is always severe. The lad had been Court-martialled, found guilty and sentenced to serve six months in the Military Prison at Colchester. The Adjutant read out the findings of the court-martial and the sentence to the entire battalion. This humiliation was to be part of his punishment, also this soldier, who was only a 2 year national serviceman, therefore the six months he had to serve in prison, with no remission for good behaviour, would not count as part of his service and would be added to his two year engagement. The humiliation of all of this was bad enough, but six months in Colchester Prison would be absolute hell. Everything is done in double quick time, even being marched to and from the toilet, prisoners were worked and drilled from reveille until lights out, and all privileges are taken away. During my two years of service I met two or three soldiers who were real hard men and had been in Colchester prison, and after they were released they all said “Never again would I want to go back there”.
And so ended my experience of what army discipline was really like; an experience which was enough to make anyone ‘toe the line’.
Later on that afternoon we met Sergeant Colin McNamara who would be our drill instructor for the next eight weeks. He was a big guy and was immaculately turned out; over the next few weeks he became very popular with all of the lads in our platoon, quite the opposite to his number two, L/Cpl Whittle, who I mentioned previously; we all came to detest. We later discovered that Whittle was a re-enlistment career soldier who had originally had served in the Durham Light Infantry with the rank of Colour Sergeant. He had fought in the Korean war and, word was that he had been injured and had been medically discharged from the army as being unfit to serve in a Light Infantry Regiment and one in which you had to be ‘super fit’. Apparently after his discharge he couldn’t settle to civilian life so he re-enlisted into our corps. We were told that he had been crushed between two vehicles and his spine had been crushed (we all said that it should have been his head then only the vehicles would have been damaged) he was as thick as two planks; this became quite obvious; when he was marching he had a slight stiff appearance in his gait.
We were told that on Friday we would be given our first dose of inoculations and as a result of the possible after effects, we would be excused all duties and parades and confined to camp until Monday morning, only being allowed to go to the NAAFI if we felt up to it, a very sobering thought. These inoculations were referred to as 25’s, and the ones we were to receive in two weeks’ time were 75’s and would have similar effects and possibly more so, as they were a stronger dose. I still don’t know to this day what drugs were pumped into us and what for? All we were told was that they were protection against a whole range of diseases we were likely to contract if we were posted overseas?
The next day, Thursday, there was a passing out parade for one of the intakes ahead of us who had completed their training and were being sent to operational units around the world. Our platoon was marched to the parade ground to watch the ceremony. After we had formed up at the side of the square, we heard the Regimental Band strike up with our regimental march, ‘Wait for the Wagons’ and when they came into view and marched on to the square, who should the Drum Major be who was leading the band; it was none other than Sergeant McNamara? This of course caused great amusement among us all and some of us, myself included, started whistling the tune ‘McNamara’s Band’.
16. INOCULATIONS
Friday came and most of the morning was spent sitting in the dining hall filling out a huge questionnaire, (pages were foolscap size). As we were going to be trained as clerks this was the Official Secrets Act, and because we were highly likely to have access to classified documents etc we had to read and sign it. This process was called ‘Positive Vetting’; it was asking the same question over and over again in many different ways, which basically was ‘Are you or have you ever been a communist or a communist sympathizer?’ once we had signed it we were told that we were bound to secrecy for a period of thirty years.
After dinner we were then marched down to the medical centre for our ‘jabs’. These inoculations were given in two separate stages, the first dose was known as the 25’s, and two weeks later we were to be given the stronger dose, known as the 75’s. Again we were to be given our shots on the Friday afternoon after which were again all confined to camp all over the weekend and excused all duties.
We formed a queue and the doctor started the process. As we were waiting for our turn to come I was watching the faces of the other lads, some were ok, some were turning pale, and some were greyish, some even turned a pale green; one or two of them even fainted before they got to their turn. Myself I wasn’t affected one bit, I’m not boasting or trying to appear brave, because I’ve never liked needles but I think it was that over the thirteen weeks that I had in hospital, I had so many needles stuck into me, blood tests and things, I had become accustomed to injections.
Over that weekend the after effects of these injections affected the lads in various ways; some were really ill and spent the entire weekend in bed while others were hardly affected at all. Myself just for one day I felt as if I was developing flu, a little shivery and a pain in my arm where the needle went in, by the time Sunday morning arrived I was fine. However, two weeks later when it was time for our second dose, by a strange quirk of fate, two or three of the lads, and me included seized on the opportunity of how not to have the 75 dose and after over sixty years I think it is safe for me to confess to the truth and it happened like this.
The second Friday arrived and as before, we were all marched down to the Medical Centre and told to form a queue and wait our turn for our jab then we were to go back to our barrack room and rest all over the weekend until parade at 07:30 on Monday. While we were waiting I noticed that once we had given our name and number to the medical orderly who was marking our medical records, there was no check made on us after he told us to go down the corridor to the treatment room where the doctor was giving the jabs. I mentioned this to the couple of mates who I was with and they had also noticed it, so when my turn came I duly went down the corridor and straight out the door back to my room without the pain of injection which my medical record now showed that I had. Needless to say my two pals did likewise. Next morning being Saturday and we were excused all duties until Monday, I got up, made up my bed put on my uniform, grabbed my small attaché case and set off to the train station and made my way home to my Joyce. My two pals did the same as they both came from London and they both had girlfriends. If checks had been made on us we would have been in very serious trouble indeed, but ‘Hey ho’ one does lots of silly things when you are young and in love.
17. THE REAL TRAINING BEGINS
The weekend was over far too quickly and I arrived back at camp around 23:30 on Sunday evening, and Monday morning came far too quickly.
For the next four weeks life was going to be a constant mix of foot drill, weapon and combat training, live firing on the ranges, tests and guard duties, with a good dose of PE and ‘Bullshit inspections’ thrown in. After this the following four weeks would be confined to our trade training as GD clerks, typing, form filling, filing, telephone procedure and amendments to military manuals, correct procedures for taking signals when duty clerk etc. In short it was a lot to absorb in a short space of time. At the end of training on both combat/weapons and trade, we were assessed, on our overall performance as soldiers and our trade assessment was a practical exam, including written papers and typing skills and the efficiency pass mark on this exam was 60%+
On top of all this training we still had to take our turns in Guard duties and fire pickets. Guard duties were the worst because you were mounted at 18:00hrs and dismounted at 06:00 the next morning. You were on stag for two hours and off for four hours during all this time you had keep all of your equipment on, the only item we could remove was our berets. Weekend guards were even worse because guard was mounted at 18:00 on Sat evening and dismounted at 06:00 on Sunday morning, when we were stood down and a new guard would be mounted at 18:00hrs Sunday evening until 06:00hrs Monday morning. In short, our weekends were completely messed up because all we wanted to do was go to bed.
And so our four weeks of combat and weapon training continued. Each day we seemed got fitter and more efficient, and to be honest, most of us were enjoying it. The Assault course was exciting but also very tough and dangerous. Live firing on the shooting ranges was great fun, and this was the only time that I’ve ever had to eat Beef stew, Apple pie and custard and drink my tea from the same mess tin without it being washed up between courses. At the end of our four weeks, on the Friday, we were tested on the skills we had been taught, if you failed the test you were ‘back squaded’ would and have to do another four weeks.
Happily none of the lads in our squad failed, so as I had no duties like guards, cookhouse fatigues or fire pickets over the weekend, I packed my case, dashed to the train station and went home for the weekend to see my Joyce. Friday evening we went to the pub, Saturday was spent visiting my grandparents and other relatives and friends; Sunday was spent at home until around 6pm then it was off to the catch the train back to Aldershot, eventually arriving back on camp around 11:30pm. Six – o- clock reveille came far too quickly.
18. CLERICAL TRAINING
So now began four weeks of trade training, filing, typing, documentation, telephone procedure, amendments to military manuals etc, an awful lot to learn in four weeks.
From the first day that I joined the army, my priority thought was how I could find a way where I would not get posted to some far flung place where I would not be able to get home to see Joyce. One of the duties trained clerks could do was to take a shorthand writers course. This was quite a long course and very demanding but if you successfully completed it, the chance of getting a really good posting was considerably improved, but I had to get through my clerical training first. I put in a request and was accepted, subject?
My trade training now completed and passed, my army number had S/ added to it, it was now S/23439829, I was now a trained soldier, my 5 month shorthand course was about to begin. All of the other lads in my squad received their various postings and moved into A Company, which was the draft holding company and they moved out of the barrack room leaving just me in it after we all said our farewells, wishing each other ‘good luck’.
Later on that day, a new intake of ‘Sprogs’ (new recruits) arrived; apart from the Lance Corporal in charge, who had a single room for himself; I was the senior soldier. So I moved all my kit into the bed space in the nice quiet corner of the room where I had; to a degree, a little privacy, and this was where I had a very strange and uncanny experience. The L/cpl in charge was a nice lad who, like me was a national serviceman, and was also one of the Shorthand instructors, his name Donald Walls and we became quite good pals.
Monday nights was always ‘Bull night’ and we were all confined to camp to get all the rooms and all our kit and equipment up to standard for the CO’s inspection on Tuesday morning. On this particular night I was sitting on my bed getting my kit sorted out and cleaned, Don was in his room doing likewise, when he came out and suggested to me to take my kit into his room and do it in there. “You don’t want to sit out there with all these sprogs; we can have a chat and get to know each other better”, so I did just that.
Our conversation started by asking each other our age and where we came from etc, what was to come after that was unbelievable? Our accents were identical so it emerged that he was from the London area as I was. We were both 19 yrs old, next thing was dates of birth, mine was 22 Nov 1938, his was 23 Nov 1938. He was born in Hackney Hospital, London; I was born in Hackney Hospital London. What was to make it even more incredible was, we were both going home at the weekend so naturally we both told our mothers and it emerged that they were both in the same ward in adjacent beds.
During my time at 2nd Training Battalion which in all was around seven months there were many happenings of all kinds, some good, not so good, many amusing and on one occasion frightening. The good side was that I was able to get home to see Joyce at weekends when I had no duties such as weekend guards or fire pickets. The not so good were there were parades and inspections and we were all confined to camp for ‘Bullshitting’ and we were only allowed to go to the camp N.A.A.F.I or the C of E canteen after the Bull sessions were over. One very amusing event (though not funny at the time) happened one night while I was on guard. There had been several raids on military establishments in the UK, by cells of the I.R.A, so all military establishments throughout Southern Command were on alert. Because of this, when you were on guard duty and patrolling your assigned route, you patrolled in pairs. On this particular occasion I and my partner were patrolling a route which included the armoury. It was about 1am, very dark and we were cold and tired. The armoury was adjacent to the N.A.A.F.I and at the rear of the N.A.A.F.I, was the waste dump for tins and bottles etc. As I’ve already said it was very dark and we were unarmed apart from our bayonets a pick handle, torch and whistles, a fat lot of use if we were if attacked? Suddenly there was a noise followed by the sound of tins and bottles being knocked over. We both froze and shone our torches in the direction which it came from; I called out the official challenge, “Halt, who’s there, come forward and identify yourselves”. There was no response so I challenged once again, still no response so we both blew our whistles to alert another patrol that was on another route nearby. They came running to assist us and just as they arrived we heard meow, meow, and meow; and out ran the N.A.A.F.I, cat, oh boy did I get some stick over that from the other lads.
There was another occasion; again while on guard patrol, it was around 10 or 11pm, suddenly there was a lot of shouting, whistles blowing and soldiers dashing across the parade square chasing someone. One of the prisoners in the cells in the guardroom had attacked the corporal of the guard and made a dash for it. However he was soon caught and put back in the cell. He never had a chance to get too far because when held in close custody, boot laces, ties, belts, knives etc are all taken from the prisoners to prevent any suicide attempts and boots minus laces were always kept outside by the cell door.
There was one occasion when I was, if not scared; I was certainly very worried. It was at this time when the troubles in Cyprus between the Greek and Turkish communities were at their peak. Although nothing had been said officially, we were all very aware that something was amiss.
Alongside our barracks on the opposite side of the main London to Farnborough road, were the barracks of 3rd bn The Parachute Regt. We always knew when they were going off on a jump training exercise because a fleet of army vehicles would move out carrying the soldiers and all their equipment to the airfield. This was happening this time but on a much more intense scale. All the barrack blocks, offices, garages, equipment stores were being secured with padlocks and armed guards were patrolling the camp? Later on it was announced on the radio and TV news that the situation in Cyprus had deteriorated and the Parachute Regt were being sent in. Later on that evening, I along with three of the other lads had prepared our kit for the next morning’s working parade inspection so we had changed into our civilian clothes and had decided to go into town to the N.A.A.F. Club for a drink and relaxation away from barracks. We were just going out of the room when in came our Sergeant and asked us where we off to, we told him we were going into town to which was his reply, “no you are not, get your kit all packed, this company is on emergency standby, you may be going off to Cyprus in the morning”. That was a most comforting thought, I don’t think?
That was the moment when the reality of it all hit us. After weeks of combat training, weapon live firing on the shooting ranges, at targets which weren’t going to shoot back at us, the next time we heard a gunshot, it could quite likely be from someone trying to kill us. I’m not ashamed to admit that I was terrified and the other lads with me, likewise.
Happily, it never came to be, but later on towards the end of the year, I was posted to another ‘Hell Hole’, Tripoli in Libya.
19. SHORTHAND WRITER’S COURSE
After completing my regimental and clerical training I started my 5 month shorthand writer’s course, knowing that I hadn’t got a ‘Snowballs chance in hell’ of completing it; I had only applied for it in an attempt to increase my chance of remaining in the UK as I was not at all enthusiastic about going abroad. As I’ve said earlier, I wanted to be here in England so that I could get home frequently to see Joyce. I had now been in the army for seven months and my thinking was if I can somehow get to my first year without a permanent posting, after that it wouldn’t be worthwhile sending me overseas.
As trainee shorthand writers, on two or three occasions we were required to do other clerical duties as general duties clerks. One was to spend a whole day, on a Thursday from early morning until late afternoon and early evening at 5 training battalion (Blenheim Barracks) the RASC selection battalion. Thursdays were always intake day for new National Service arrivals; our role was to complete their documentation as and when they arrived. This was quite an eye opener for me, and I was to meet lads from all walks of life and varying levels of education, from graduates down to those who could not read or write their name?
The other two occasions were, statistics recording on an Army inter service Sport Pentathlon, these were a very interesting and most enjoyable experience which lasted for 5 days and at the end of which, we were given 48hour leave passes, starting from Friday lunchtime, until working parade Monday morning. The downsides of these two enjoyable tasks was the fact that during the time we were involved with these two events, we had to temporarily be billeted at Blenheim’s hell hole and the ‘Pig swill food’ that went with it. However, we were only there temporarily for five days each time. We were limited to what kit we could take with us, and so we put up with it, the thoughts of a 48 hour pass were the only inspiration we needed.
As time passed by, each week was dragging more slowly; I was steadily getting more and more bored with the course and all I ever thought about was getting home as often as I could to see Joyce.
By now we were well into November and I was not enjoying the shorthand course, mainly due to total lack of interest. At the end of each week we were tested on what we had done so far and I was not achieving the required standard levels. Finally I was called up in front of the training officer who informed me that I was being taken off the course and transferred to ‘A’ Company to await a posting to as a general duties clerk to a permanent working unit. This suited me fine, all I wanted now was a nice little posting not too far from home so that I could get home regularly to my Joyce.
20. POSTING
‘A’ Company was purely a holding company which, where a soldier who had finished his training was sent to await a permanent posting to a working unit. You could be there for just a couple of days or it could be a couple of weeks, it was all subject to where, when or how many, were required? It was quite boring really because you never had a regular assignment. After working parade each morning we were assigned various jobs each day, mostly like cookhouse fatigues, QM stores or company runner. The good side was that ‘A’ company never had to do guard duties. It was a soldier’s duty each day to read daily company orders, if it was discovered that a soldier had missed an order through not reading them he would be in serious trouble. By now we were into mid November and I had been in the army over 11 months so I was quite certain that I would not be posted overseas, it seemed to me to be a waste of time and public money; how wrong could I have been with such thoughts?
I had only been in ’A’ Coy a couple of days and, as required, I went down to the company office notice board to read daily routine orders and postings. I carefully read the list of postings and..... there was my name, 829 Pte Poole D.R., posted to Tripolitania. My immediate thoughts were, where the bloody hell is Tripolitania, I had never heard of the place? After I recovered from the shock I went looking for my mate, Derek Marshal, before the army he had joined the merchant navy at 16, he would probably know. He had been a steward with The Cunard Line. He lived in Gravesend, Kent. He was 25 years of age. He was married with two children. His wife had become tired of being alone with the children for long periods so he decided to leave the MN. What he hadn’t realized was that as he was still under 26 years of age, he was still eligible for National Service. If he had waited a few more months before leaving, he would have been exempt. However, I caught up with Derek and told him about my posting. I asked him where it was and had he been there and what it was like. His reply was very precise. “It’s in North Africa; it’s a God forsaken dump, with nothing but sand, camels, flies and f.....i.g Arabs”. This really had made my misery complete, I now had to break the news to Joyce.
At lunchtime that day I went to the phone box on camp and rang Joyce at her office to give her the news, it was only two weeks to Christmas and New year, A couple of days later I was on the train with all of my kit on my way home for 16 days embarkation leave, the good side of this was that I would be home for Christmas.
Like all good things, the leave passed far too quickly. We had a wonderful Christmas but then three days later I said my farewells to Joyce and family and friends and set off for our depot battalion, Bordon Camp, in Hampshire. There was about eight of us going to Tripoli and on the day of as I had been in the army longer than all the others, I was the senior soldier and made responsible for the entire squad and given responsibility for the travel documents .
21. BORDON CAMP
Another shock awakening greeted us on arrival at depot, it was a right dump, the rooms were freezing, no hot water and the food was disgusting, possibly on a par if not worse that it was at Blenheim barracks.
It was Wednesday and payday, we were all called out for pay parade, as usual I, like all of my mates, was broke and eagerly awaited my princely payment of twenty two shillings (£1:10p) in today’s money. The first thing we were told that we were all being deducted two shillings (10p) for Barrack room damages, what a bloody cheek, we had only just arrived and we hadn’t even got out kit unpacked and put away. However, as we hadn’t been in camp long enough to do any damage, we were determined to get our money’s worth while we were here; and we most certainly did. We were told that we would only be at Bordon Camp for four or five days, by then we would have out flight date and we would be off to Tripoli, in actual fact we were there for over two weeks. During this time we were issued with more kit and equipment, given more medical checks and more instructions etc. Each morning on work parade we were assigned to various jobs by the platoon sergeant, who was actually a very decent chap and with whom we all got on very well with as he was most helpful and co-operative. I was assigned to work in the de-kitting stores, it, was as it turned out, very handy as some of my mates had lost or damaged various bits of their original kit and I was able to acquire the replacement items at no cost to them. But most of the time was just hanging about doing absolutely nothing and getting bored and homesick.
Back in the barrack, room it was freezing cold, each room held about twelve men and there was one solitary coke stove in the centre of each room and very little coke to put on it, the fumes from it were awful and we were developing sore throats and tight chest as a result. There was never any wood around which we could use to light it, but, as we had been deducted barrack room damages when we arrived, as I mentioned before, we were determined to have our money’s worth.
Each room had six large widows, three on each side. Each window had the obligatory green drab military style curtains. These curtains were hung on runners with a wood and hardboard pelmet above them as decor. The room which was adjacent to ours on the other side of the landing was unoccupied but had the same amount of windows and pelmets........by the time we left Tripoli several of the pelmets had disappeared, but we had managed to keep the stove in our room burning.
All the time we were at Bordon, whenever our squad had to go somewhere on camp for whatever reason, it was always me who the sergeant instructed to march them about, this had also been noted by the other lads and I was getting my leg pulled by them, my mate Rod Smith, known as ‘Digger’ by all of us as he was Australian, was really giving me some stick and was referring to me as sergeants pet, and Blue eyed boy, it was all in good fun though.
Eventually we were given our flight date and were told to get all our kit ready to go. Things all came together in the morning before we were due to leave. The sergeant came in and told me that after dinner I was to collect two shillings from each man, fall them in outside and march them down to the Barbers shop for haircuts, after that I was to report to Company office 15;00hrs. When I asked him what it was for, he simply replied that I would find out when I got there, my thoughts were, what have I done wrong?
The sergeant’s orders were carried out and I marched the squad back to our barrack room and dismissed them, after that at 15:00hrs I then went along to the Company office where I was told to wait outside. There were seven or eight other lads also waiting there and like me, none of them had a clue why. We all started chatting and it emerged that like me, in the time they had been at depot they too had been detailed by their respective platoon sergeants to march their squads about the camp. Eventually the Company Sergeant Major came out and we were marched into the office.
We were halted in front of the company commander, a major, seated behind his desk. He told us all to stand easy then he proceeded to give us a ‘Pep talk’ and explained why we were all there.
He said that over the past couple of weeks that we had been there, we had been closely watched and monitored by our respective squad Sergeants and in their opinions we had been singled out as having qualities of leadership and discipline and as we were all departing to several parts of the world, to places as near as Germany or further afield like Cyprus, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Libya there had to be someone in charge, therefore with immediate effect we were to assume the rank of acting Full Corporal. He told us to go the QM store and draw our rank chevrons and get them sewn on to our uniforms ready for our departures the next morning. He then wished us all good luck and safe journey. We were then marched out by the CSM and dismissed to return to our respective barrack rooms.
When I got to my room and told my mates the news I really started to get some stick, like ‘we told you so’ Diggers response was ‘I said you were sergeants blue eyed boy, now you are Corporal Dave’. It was all in good fun though and he did help me to sew on my stripes so that we could all go to the NAAFI later for a couple of beers, the last we would be having in England for a while.
Next morning after breakfast, I went to the postings office to collect all of our documents and travel papers, I went back to our room to await the lorry which would take us and all of our kit to Bordon train station to catch the train to RAF Hendon.
22. OFF TO LIBYA
It was Tuesday, Jan 13th 1959. We arrived at Hendon around mid-morning and were now under the control of the RAF Movements Control people. After we had off loaded our entire luggage, with the exception of the documents which were my responsibility, we never saw it anymore until we arrived in Tripoli. All we had to do was sit around and wait to be taken to Gatwick Airport later in the afternoon. Dinner and tea was provided at Hendon, courtesy of the RAF.
Dinner started at midday so we made our way to the canteen; note that I use the word canteen; in the army we just call it the cookhouse (or even something less complimentary) considering the swill that army cooks had dished up since I was called up. When we went in and saw what was on offer for choice, it was more like a restaurant. We could not believe our eyes. There was Gingham pattern curtains at the windows, matching cloths on the tables along with condiment sets and sauces. We asked a couple of the RAF lads if the food was always like this to which came a very matter of fact reply “yep”.......how the other half lived?
After a very satisfying lunch followed by tea and coffee we then wandered back to the waiting lounge and enjoyed the comfort of the armchairs until it was time togo back for tea, which started around 4:30pm.
After we had enjoyed another very delicious meal we went back to the lounge where we were informed that the coach to take us to Gatwick would be leaving at 6:00pm. Our flight was scheduled for 10:15pm.
After a trouble free journey to Gatwick we arrived with a couple of hours to kill. I have always been mad about aircraft but, like all of the other lads with me; I had never yet flown so by now I was feeling a little bit apprehensive. Time came to board the aircraft, as we walked across the tarmac towards the boarding steps I was in awe at the size of the aircraft; I had never been this close to a Vickers Viscount before. It was a comparatively new aircraft and had four powerful Rolls Royce Dart turboprop engines and also very good safety record.
A couple of the lads were quite nervous, and one of them, who we only knew as ‘Blondie’ because of his very fair hair, was absolutely petrified. He never spoke a word or loosened his grip on the armrest of his seat until we landed; even the very attractive stewardess’s couldn’t get him to relax, he just sat and stared blankly in front of him. Someone asked him if he would like to sit by the window and he almost fainted. It was an awful night, wet, windy and cold and I and I could see the wings moving slightly in the wind, not a very encouraging sight for my first flight in an aeroplane I thought. The stewardess were at the top of the steps welcoming all passengers as we came aboard and jokingly I asked them if we were getting parachutes to which one of them smiled and politely replied “No sir, but there is a life jacket under every seat”, my response was “ that’s not much use if we come down over the Alps”.
I had a really good seat; it was right next to the window and slightly in front of the wing. The windows on a Viscount were extremely big and oval in shape. Seating was five abreast, double seats on one side of the cabin gangway and three on the opposite side. I was in a double seat, and had an unobstructed view, though for a large part of the flight, it was through the night and in total darkness.
After we had settled down the engines were started and were gradually run up to full power. The Captain switched on the speakers and welcomed everyone aboard hoped that we would enjoy the flight. He also warned us that due to the inclement weather over England it would be a little bumpy on takeoff but he assured us that once we crossed the French coast it would calm down. The lights to fasten seat belts and no smoking were switched on; the stewardess came along and checked us all to ensure that we were all buckled up correctly, the engines power increased and the aircraft stated to taxi out the end of the runway, after a couple of minutes, the engines were running at full power then the brakes were released and we were on our way to a foreign country of which most of us knew nothing about other than that it was very hot, and mostly sand and camels?
Almost immediately after takeoff, we hit the first air pocket and the aircraft seemed to lose all forward movement and drop like a stone, it felt like my stomach was in my mouth. This happened two or three times until we gained altitude then it calmed down until finally, the seat belt lights went off and we were able to unfasten our seat belts and relax.
We were very soon crossing the English coast and over the channel and after a very short time were crossing the French coast. By now we had a clear sky and although it was midnight, it was amazing just how much we could see below us it was a full moon. A few minutes after that the pilot switched on the speakers and told us that that the mass of lights that we could see below us was Paris, and it was certainly a Magical sight and one which I’ve never forgotten. After we had been in the air for about an hour, the stewardess then came round with the trolley with sandwiches, rolls, tea and coffee and a varied choice of other refreshments which were all very nice.
We continued on over the width of France, passing over the French Alps, they looked absolutely magnificent with their snow capped peaks glittering und the bright glow of the moon. Shortly afterwards the ‘Fasten seat belts and no smoking’ lights came on in the cabin and we prepared to land at Nice in the south of France. After we had landed all passengers were taken to the transit lounge where we had to sit and wait while the luggage of passengers disembarking was off loaded and the aircraft was refuelled and prepared for the next leg of our journey to Malta. After a couple of hours we were ushered back to our aircraft and were off once again. By this time it was starting to become daylight and our flight path took us clearly over the Mediterranean islands of Corsica, Sardinia, and the tip of Sicily, and finally landing at Luqua Airport in Malta, again we spent another couple of hours waiting in the transit lounge before continuing on to Libya,
Again we were ushered back to the aircraft and took off for the final leg of our journey. By this time it was around six thirty or seven a.m. the sun was up and I was about to witness what I’ve always considered to be, one of the most beautiful sights that I have ever seen. As Malta is a tiny island with only the one airport, all aircraft have to fly directly over it at a low altitude. We took off and circled round to the general direction of Libya and our flight path took us right over Valletta and the Grand Harbour. The sun, shining on all of the whitewashed stone buildings, gave them a beautiful golden glow, all the fishing boats, luxury cruisers and other vessels bobbing about on the brilliant glittering blue crystal clear water of the Mediterranean, it was a sight like I could never have imagined and certainly have never forgotten. After over sixty years when I think of it, I can clearly see it in my memory now as I did then.
23. ARRIVAL IN LIBYA
And so we continued on the final leg of our journey to Tripoli from Malta, it was only a short hop over the med, about 250 miles, less than an hour’s flight. Very soon the cabin warning lights came on and we prepared to land at Idris Airport in Tripoli, where our baggage was unloaded from the aircraft and transferred to an army bus which took us to our new home. It was a journey of about twenty miles to Prinn Barracks, which was situated around three miles outside Tripoli city. It was a dull boring but interesting trip of about twenty miles all on dusty bumpy desert roads. All we saw was sand, the occasional clump of palm trees, donkeys, camels, Arabs and more sand.
It was Wednesday 14th January, and eventually we arrived at our destination; Prinn Barracks, the headquarters of all British forces in Tripolitania district, and main base of the R.A.S.C. in Tripoli. We stopped outside the guardroom and unloaded all of our kit from the bus. As I was the N.C.O. of our party, I went into H.Q. office and reported to the chief clerk who introduced himself as Sgt Jones. He phoned up the duty driver who arrived with truck, we loaded all our kit and he drove us to the barrack block which was to be my new home for the rest of the year, thankfully for me I had only got a year to go until my two years were up but some of the lads in my squad were regular soldiers and they knew that they were likely to be there for up to three years (poor buggers). Our rooms were very large, during WWII; Prinn barracks had been an Italian Army cavalry barracks, until they were kicked out by General Montgomery’s 8th army, The Desert Rats.
There were several unoccupied bed spaces and lockers so we all singled out one and started to unpack our kit and get it stowed away in our lockers. Like all military establishments, every item of kit had to be stored and folded to a precise size and pattern, according to the plan which was displayed on the room notice board. By the time we had done all of this we were feeling pretty well shattered as we had not had any proper sleep for 24hrs during our flight.
Anyway, this finally done we decided to stretch out on our beds and catch up with some much needed sleep, but this was not going to be so?
One of my pals who had picked the bed space next to me was a little Scottish lad, who had a very Scottish name....John Smith?? We all addressed him as ‘Wee Jock’ because of his size; he only stood around 5ft.2ins, just about the minimum height to get into the army, but in spite of his lack of stature, if anyone upset him, he was like Rottweiler dog in bad mood. In spite of this we all liked him immensely, and we became very good pals.
In those far off days in the army, Wednesdays were always set aside for sports of some kind or physical training and gymnastics. We were all lying on our beds and at the point of dozing right off, when two guys, who had obviously been in Tripoli for some time, came into the room. One was wearing football kit, the other wearing P.T. kit. Without any form of introduction whatsoever, the one wearing football kit, in a very bullish manner demanded to know what we were doing lying on our beds and why we weren’t doing sports activities; the other one stood there and said nothing. This really rattled ‘Wee Jock’s cage who responded very aggressively by saying “what the f.....g hell is it do with you pal, and who are you? To which he replied that he was Sgt Batt and the other was 2nd Lt Peters. Respectfully we all stood up and ‘Wee Jock’ calmed down. As I was wearing the stripes I then explained that we had only just arrived and were getting settled in. I also politely but firmly pointed out that their way of approach was not correct as neither of them were wearing any rank insignia and we didn’t know who they were, so no further course of action taken, they both were aware that they were in the wrong, and that was the last we heard of it.
24. SETTLING IN TO A PERMANENT JOB
It was Thursday 15th January and this was to be the first working day in my permanent job. Reveille was at the standard time of around 5.30am so after carrying out all usual ablutions and making up the regulation bed pack etc, we went to the cookhouse for breakfast (such as it was). The standard of food was just about as bad as Blenheim barracks and Borden; (crap). Every mealtime was a constant battle between us and the flies to see who got the most; majority of the time the flies won, Libya was where I developed my intense hatred of these disgusting creatures.
Breakfast over I went back to the billet, collected the remainder of my equipment and at 7.00am, I went down to H.Q. reported to the chief clerk, Sgt Jones, who gave me all the necessary instructions on what my duties as a general duties clerk would be. He also informed me that I would not be working in Prinn Barracks H.Q. I had been assigned as an assistant to the chief clerk at a supply depot about nine miles away at a place named Gurgi?
Added to this, I was also told that as a part of H.Q. staff I would also have to take my turn on the rota as Duty clerk. This was a nightly duty which required a clerk to be on duty from 6pm until 7am each night Mondays to Fridays, and weekends 7am Saturday until 6pm, Sunday was, 6pm until 6am Monday. It was not a difficult duty but it was a long, responsible and boring one as we had to stay in the office all the time to take any messages, telephone calls and signals which might come through, a small folding camp bed was provided so that we were able to get a proper night’s sleep. Our only break was to be relieved by the next day’s duty clerk for meals and evening, from 8pm until 9pm for a half hour NAAFI break. The good side of being duty clerk was that it provided an ideal opportunity to sit quietly and read, or write our letters home, away from the disturbance and interruption of the barrack room. I used to write to Joyce almost every other day.
Once I had been told all this, Sgt Jones then said that the officer commanding the depot, to which I had been assigned, Major Perrins; would be calling at H.Q. later that morning and he would pick me up and take me to Gurgi himself. Shortly afterwards he did in fact arrive. After Sgt Jones introduced me to him, we went out to his car and set off.
The drive to Gurgi took almost half an hour, although it was a distance of only eight or nine miles, roads out of camp and through the city centre were not very good and were jammed with donkey and horse drawn carts and other traffic, we then had to negotiate our way through a shabby little village where a proper road never existed, simply a rough track. Apart from all of this, the journey was quite pleasant and Major Perrin appeared to be a very nice officer, an impression which I formed very quickly and my opinion of him never changed throughout the time of my service with him. He was the finest officer I ever met, a thorough gentleman who had worked his way up through the ranks, from an ordinary driver. He told me that before he joined the army during the war he had been a bus driver in Weymouth, Dorset.
We finally arrived at the depot where I was introduced to the chief clerk, who was in fact Maltese, Staff Sgt Charlie Galea, another NCO who I bonded well with and respected. He took me round the offices and stores and introduced me to all the other members of staff, majority of which were civilians and there was also a good mix of nationalities, English, Italian, and German and there were also two Libyans, one of who was just the cleaner and ‘Char Walla’, he spoke hardly any English and was blind in one eye, everyone called him Colonel.
Gurgi overall was a fairly large establishment with regard to British military needs. We were picked up in an army bus each morning at 07.00 at the Prinn Barracks Guardroom, picking up several of the civilian workers as well en route, we were then collected again and taken back to barracks at dinnertime. We only worked until 1300hrs each day because after midday it was too hot and our offices were not air conditioned.
Our compound consisted of two RASC units, the one to which I had been posted, Barrack Services and the other was 123 Supply Platoon. Barrack Services roll was the supply of all domestic requirements for all British army married quarters, all officers and sergeants messes in the district of Tripoli and the large British military hospital; for example ranging from small mustard spoons up to a complete kitting out of a married quarters. Our military staff consisted of; Officer commanding, Major Jack Perrin, W.O.2 CQMS Phillip Birch, warrant officer in charge of the stores, a very nice man, S/Sgt Galea, chief clerk, myself (deputy), S/Sgt Eddie Steele, S/Sgt Eddie Bracken (stores) and he was a man who I and several others disliked immensely. Then there were three privates in the stores, Pte ‘Jock’ Kane, Pte ‘Paddy’ Kirwane and Pte Jock Dale. Added to all of this are those civilians I have already mentioned above.
The civilian Italian members of Barrack Services office was, a lovely attractive quiet lady named Lucia, we all called her ‘Lucy’ and was married, she was S/Sgt Steele’s assistant, aged at a guess, around late twenties or early thirties? The other girl was Carmelita Pastore’, who worked with me most of the time. She claimed to be only twenty three, but I think she was nearer thirty. She was a lovely likeable girl, quite scatty but spoke very good English. Because in the army ordinary soldiers like me were always addressed by our superiors by our surnames, mine being Poole, Carmelita nickname me ‘Puletino’, and that stuck with me for the remainder of my service. There was just one Italian man in the office named Luigi, we all referred to him as ‘Gigi’ and he was one of the loveliest, friendliest men that I had met; during the remaining time I was in Tripoli, we became very close friends, his wife who was also named Lucia, was lovely too, four days before I flew home for demob, they gave me a lovely party at their home and I met the entire family (as you do with Italians) more about that later?
We kept in touch by letter for a short while after I came home for demob but lost touch when the Libyans started making things very unpleasant for the Italian population, insisting that all Italian citizens take Libyan nationality or get out. This was very sad because most had been born out there and many had never ever been to Italy.
There were the two Libyans ‘Colonel’ the odd job man who also made the tea for us and Gemmel Marbruk, I’m uncertain if this is the way it was spelt but it’s certainly the way it was spoken? Marbruk was, as far as Arabs go, quite a nice man and quite well educated, he was an account executive clerk who worked closely with S/Sgt Steele, then there was the three Germans whose names I can remember but cannot spell. Two of them were quite nice guys but the third one was detestable. He was rude and arrogant, how he ever came to work for the British army was beyond my comprehension, I think his name was Günther Sekula. He was one of the civilians who lived in Tripoli city and was picked up each morning by our army bus. For whatever reason, he always came and sat next to me until one day he was in a very arrogant mood and going on about how great Germany was, I wasn’t in a very happy state of mind so in no ‘uncertain’ words, I told him to “shut up”......he never sat next to me again after that.
123 Supply Platoon was on the other side of the compound and their job was to supply all food stuffs to army bases in and around Tripoli. The commanding officer was a captain and his 2/ic. was a W.O.1., and the rest of the staff consisted of a mix of Army butchers, Bakers, clerks storekeepers, whose ranks ranged from S/Sgt’s to privates and civilians.
A short distance along the road from our compound was another compound; this was the base of the Royal Electrical Mechanical Engineers (REME). Their roll was the repair and maintenance of all things mechanical which belonged to the army; equipment ranging from typewriters to Centurion tanks. So that just about puts the Gurgi complex into perspective.
25. PRINN BARRACKS
Was the District Command Headquarters of the British forces in Libya, under the command of Brigadier Laing. It was also the H.Q of the RASC which included 38 Company RASC, and TABS, which was the Tripoli Army Bus Service, and was the largest single body, it also housed the Royal Army Pay Corps district pay office, the RAOC, Royal Military Police, and Army Guard Dog Unit and a company of WRAC, the Womens Royal Army Corps.
Our Infantry support regiment were the 2nd Battalion, Royal Irish Fusiliers; they were based about three miles from Prinn at Meddenene Barracks. Our armoured support was the 6th Royal Tank Regiment with Centurion Tanks, later replaced by the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment with Armoured Cars. These were all based at a place called Homs, which was about 90 miles along the coast from Tripoli.
Our main source of supply was from the Royal Army Ordnance Corps, their main base was a few miles east of Prinn barracks at a place called Kassala, but the soldiers who worked there were billeted at Prinn Barracks, in fact their billet was next-door along from ours.
I think that this just about identifies Prinn Barracks; the only other British forces based in Libya were a small detachment of RAF personnel, who were stationed at Idris International Airport. These people were basically there to take care of new British arrivals of troops and their families and other British arrivals. There were no RAF aircraft stationed there, though I believe that there was a small detachment of Army aircraft. The only other British forces were at Benghazi, which was about 600 miles along the coast from Tripoli.
26. USAF AIR POWER AT WHEELUS AIR BASE
All British military in Libya part of what was referred to as M.E.L.F, which was the abbreviation for Middle East Land Forces, and we were part of NATO.
Air power was provided by the United States Air Force who were a few miles away from us and they were based at Wheelus Airfield, and the base was enormous. It consisted of being virtually a small American town built within the confines of an air base. It had every comfort that could be wished for, from coffee bars to a small motel so that American personnel who might be on leave could get away from the military life and enjoy luxury.
It had its own internal bus service, so families could move around within the confines of the base. There was a drive in cinema, swimming pools, bowling alleys, baseball and soccer pitches, golf course, tennis courts, a Super Market (something which hadn’t arrived here in England at that time) as well as a large PX Store, which was equivalent to our NAAFI. No expense was spared in providing comfort for the American forces and their families.
It was Saturday 4th July 1959, American Independence Day; a big celebration day and public holiday for all Americans. As a good will gesture, the commanding officer of the base invited all British forces and their families, in the area to join them in the celebrations; the only stipulation was that for identification purposes, we were required to wear our uniforms. I was not on duty on that weekend, one of my mates was a corporal and a driver, and four or five of the other lads got permission from the c/o to use one of our small vehicles to take us to Wheelus. What a day we had; to be on an American base on Independence Day is an experience you cannot believe. We were treated like royalty by the Americans. Drinks and burgers were at our disposal, and the whole event was capped off with a wonderful flying display in the afternoon. By the time we arrived back at Prinn, we were stuffed to the limits with burgers, hot dogs, and beer and American hospitality; and because of the heat in July, we were ‘knackered’.
27. GETTING ACCLIMATISED TO THE HEAT
On the day that I arrived in Libya I was pleasantly surprised at the temperature, the sky was a beautiful cloudless blue and the air was gently warm, with a soft breeze ‘I’m going to like this’ I thought to myself, after a few weeks my opinion was going to change very quickly.
As the weeks passed by the weather changed from getting warmer to getting hotter and from the first week in April we were ordered from wearing Battle Dress, (BD) to Tropical dress, Khaki Drill (KD). This made things a bit easier and certainly a lot cooler; once you get used to the stiff starching. However, once the real hot weather started there was no remorse from the heat and it was not unusual to have four or five cold showers in a day, when a sandstorm blew up, if we got the opportunity to do so. We would lie on our beds beneath our mosquito nets and if you felt a trickle of perspiration running down our face and lifted your hand to wipe it away; that would make you perspire even more.
In Libya sandstorms were called a ‘Ghibli’, this was a hot wind which blows up from the Sahara desert, sometimes they would last a few minutes, or perhaps an hour or two, worse was when they lasted several days, when this happened the entire landscape often changed. Large clouds of sand would be blown around and when things finally calmed down, where once there had been large sand dunes, these had disappeared, whilst other ones had appeared where there hadn’t been one?
The heat in the desert during a sandstorm is really oppressing, I personally have experiences temperatures in excess of 110◦+ Fahrenheit and have been known to exceed 120◦+, and sand gets blown into places where you would not believe, eating army food at the best of times was not a pleasant experience but when a Ghibli blew it was , intolerable, every mouthful was gritty, so most of the time we never bothered to eat at all until we became really hungry, then it was a case of grin and bear it?
The hot wind was another problem in as much as, if you were riding in a vehicle and you opened the windows, the heat in the cab of army vehicles became worse because you also got the heat coming from the engine.
There was one occasion which was very frightening; it was as I remember around June/July. It was a Saturday and I was not on duty at all that weekend, it was a beautiful day with a cloudless blue sky, but needless to say, extremely hot. myself and a couple of my mates were all standing at the door of our barrack room chatting a smoking and gazing out across the camp at the desert beyond. It was a barren landscape broken only by the few odd palm trees, so we could see for miles. Suddenly we noticed that far out on the horizon we could see what appeared to be a black column of smoke rising upward into the sky. At first we all thought that some Arab was burning up some tyres then one of the boys said that it was more likely to be an oil strike; oil had only recently been found in that area and there were several American oil companies out there drilling. When an oil strike was made it was usual to light it until a cap could be fitted. However as we stood there watching we very suddenly became aware that this was not a fire at all; it was moving about and getting closer and heading straight for our direction, then a strong wind started, it was then we realized that it was not a fire at all but a tornado, we were absolutely terrified because when a tornado strikes you never know in what direction it would veer towards. As it closed in the four of us dived in to the room and bolted the doors and prayed like we had never prayed in our lives before, (four brave young British soldiers absolutely petrified)............? Within seconds it tore right through our camp ripping up and destroying anything and everything in its path. Moments after it had passed; and thanks to God that none of us were injured; everything became eerily quiet and calm.
We cautiously went outside to see what damage had been done and we could not believe our eyes, half of Prinn Barracks looked as if it had been bombed and shelled, walls had been knocked down, the roof of the corporal’s mess had been torn off, and the roof of the WRAC wing. Our entire camp was surrounded by an eight foot high steel wire fence topped with barbed wire; about 100 yards of this had been ripped out including the supporting posts. Several army vehicles were damaged and outside of the camp several Arab workers in an orange grove near to our camp had been killed.
Not long after the tornado had past and the ‘dust had settled’ a group of officers and the RSM with other senior NCO’s came round to all the barrack rooms on the entire camp looking for ‘volunteers’, in typical army fashion; “you, you, you AND you”, whether you were on duty or not, ordering all to get changed into working denims, parade outside and await for work party details...........we all had got to get the mess sorted out, there were four prisoners serving fourteen days in the guardroom cells they were brought out under escort by the Regimental Police, they were assigned to do the heaviest and dirtiest jobs.
Bang went our plans of going to the NAAFI after our evening meal to enjoy a ‘few’ beers? By the time we had finished all we wanted to do was have a shower and get into our ‘Bashers’ (beds). We were absolutely drained and the intense heat didn’t help. However, we had all survived this terrifying ordeal uninjured, and we thanked god for that. That night, in spite of the intense heat I slept like a baby.
Forgetting about the uncomfortable conditions of the heat and dust, the desert can also be at times, very beautiful. As there was very little pollution from artificial lighting when it got dark the amount of stars that appeared was unbelievable and absolutely breathtaking; millions would appear, there were so many that the very first time that I saw this amazing spectacle I felt that the entire universe was caving in on me, and when it was a full moon, it was so big and bright you could clearly see the craters on its surface without a telescope or binoculars.
In Libya in those days there used to be packs of wild dogs running around loose, they were completely white, they were known by the local Arabs as ‘Pyeards’, I believe that’s how it is spelt. They looked very much like small wolves and appeared to be quite harmless. Occasionally a pack of them would get into the camp, though I personally never heard of them attacking anyone, but I was told by one of the Arabs that it had been known.
One particular night I had been to the NAAFI with a couple of the other lads and we were walking back across the sand dunes to our barrack room, it was a beautiful clear starry night with a huge moon, it was low on the horizon and gave the appearance of being perched on top of the dunes, and we looked out across the desert silhouetted against its back drop was a pack of these dogs. In these days of digital photography (unheard of then) it would have made a fantastic photograph.
28. GUARD OF HONOUR
It has always been my view that there is only one way to wear a uniform and that is, the correct way. I always tried to look smart in my uniform and even now 63 years on, I still do my best to look smart particularly on special occasions. When I started my army training I quite liked foot, and rifle drill and as then I was 5ft 11inches tall, this had not passed unnoticed by my superiors.
Our district commander, Brigadier Laing was promoted and was replaced by a full colonel, Col Seaver. A special ceremony was planned to mark the occasion and it was ordered that a Quarter Guard (25) men would be formed and trained when. When notification of this appeared on company orders, my name was one of the soldiers chosen. We had about three or four weeks to train for this and were also issued with number one dress uniforms (Tropical whites).
We had to train for this alongside with doing our regular day jobs and duties. As we had to start or regular work at 7am every day, on mornings we were rehearsing we had to book an early 4am call at the guardroom so that we could rehearse for 2 hours before we had breakfast and started our regular jobs at 7am. The reason we had to train so early because it was the height of summer and would have been far too hot to drill in the middle or late afternoons. However, training eventually went well but the downside was that on the day of the ceremony it was at around 10am and blistering hot. Again all went well we were inspected by our new District Commander, and he spoke to some of us individually on the inspection then he addressed the whole quarter guard collectively. The best thing above all of this was all 25 of us were given 3 days off afterwards.
A couple of months later we had to do it all over again when our unit was visited by the Inspector General of The RASC, Maj General Helmslie. The same men were chosen again, the same Drill instructor and Guard Commander, the same rigorous training rehearsals and most important of all was another 3 days off after.
29. BOREDOM AND LEISURE TIME
Apart from the climate which, for most of time was uncomfortable and at times unbearable another problem which we had to overcome in Prinn Barracks, was boredom. Outside of the confines of the camp there were no nice places where we could walk and relax because once we had passed through the gate at the guardroom all there was to look at was a small scattering ramshackle houses surrounding a tiny Mosque (obviously), apart from that there was just desert. We were 3 or 4 miles from the coast so we couldn’t simply wander down to the beach and have dip in the sea to cool down and the was no swimming pool at Prinn Barracks, a luxury like that was only for the Americans at Wheelus Air base.
We did have a fairly regular bus service operated from the camp which stopped at our military police post In Tripoli and terminated at the NAAFI Beach Club at a place called Piccolo Capri. This was a nice place where all British service personnel and their families could relax in the comfort of the Officers and other Ranks club, this complex was owned and operated by NAAFI it had its own private beach sectioned off for swimming so that there was no intrusion from the locals; and there was a small cinema which was operated by the AKC (Army Kinema Corporation), which showed all the latest release movies.
Piccolo Capri was a nice place, and on a couple of occasions I and a couple of mates spent our entire day there when we were off duty. If you had money you could get a decent meal there at NAAFI prices and also decent English beer which was also fairly cheap.
We were fairly restricted to where we could or couldn’t go to other than into Tripoli city itself and even then there were certain bars cafes and restaurants that were out of bounds to British forces. This was largely due to the fact that the senior british medical officer had inspected these premises and found that the hygiene standards were unsuitable for use by british forces in which case notices were put up in them stating ‘Out of Bounds to All Ranks, or ‘Out of Bounds to British Forces’. Royal Military Police regularly patrolled through the day and if any brits were caught in them, they were arrested, charged and punished. This ruling applied mainly to Libyan owned establishments, and from the filthy state of some of them it was very much understood.
However there was a good selection of Italian restaurants and bars which we could and frequently did patronise and the food was absolutely delicious, always plenty of it and very reasonably priced. It quickly became our favourite for me and my mates, and it was here that I tasted Pizza for the first time in my life, at that time pizza had never been heard of back home in England, certainly not by me anyway. In over 60 years I have never had a pizza like it since.
Another place which we visited quite frequently was in fact owned and run by Libyans was Alli’s Bar, here the beer was always good and cold.
Tripoli city was divided into two parts, the new part, which was very much Italian dominated, and the old Arab quarter, which was strictly out of bounds to all British and American personnel of all ranks. It was regularly patrolled by both British and American military police and they would go around in fours in land rovers and jeeps and for their own safety, were armed. One weekend an American warship anchored in Tripoli harbour, the crew were given shore leave, and one sailor decided that he would go into the old city, against regulations; he never came out alive, a couple of weeks later his body was washed up in the harbour.
There were a couple of occasions at weekends, when our C/o Major Booth-Mason, arranged beach BBQ’s for anyone who wasn’t on duty and would like to go. Wives and children were allowed to go as well, so for the married men living in the family quarters it was a nice opportunity to get the wives and kids away from the army environment. Transport was provided in the shape of three ‘3 ton’ Army vehicles from 38 company and the catering officer and the cooks set up a field kitchen and prepared all the food, which incidentally consisted of steaks, chops, and sausages etc, cooking it all on the beach.
These all took place few miles along the coast on a quiet sheltered beach. They were two really enjoyable occasions just lazing around on the beach enjoying a beer, (which we had to provide ourselves) and a cigarette; I used to smoke in those days, and then, when it got too hot we would just get up and go and dive in the sea to cool off.
There was one particular occasion which I must admit to and of which I’m ashamed of now, this was when I went out with a couple of the lads and got really, really drunk.
It was one of the lads birthday, and so we had been out to our favourite Italian restaurant for Pizza and a nice steak, after which we then went to Alli’s Bar for a few beers. Well, a few beers led to a few more then a few more and the result was we all got very drunk, myself in particular. I was so drunk I don’t even remember getting back to camp, apparently from what the others told me the next day, we got a taxi back to Prinn. The only memory I have of this whole affair was waking up feeling absolutely terrible, lying on a very hard surface and in total darkness. I laid there for a few minutes until my eyes became accustomed to the darkness and that’s when the real horror became apparent. I looked up and could see a chink of light shining through bars; I was in a cell.
My immediate thoughts were ‘Oh my god, what have I done’; I have never sobered up so quickly in my entire life as I did then. I got up and staggered to the cell door and gently pushed against it and, surprisingly it opened, at least I hadn’t been locked in. Stepping out to find that I was back at camp, in the guardroom and there sitting at the desk was the Corporal of the guard, Jeff Hunt, checking all personnel in as they arrived back on camp. Jeff, was a very good mate of mine, we had met during trade training at 2bn. He looked at me with a big grin on his face and said “you drunken sod, I hope have a f.....g hangover tomorrow”.
When I asked Jeff, why was I in the guardroom, he told me that when we had arrived back that evening, I was so drunk and making so much noise that the safest place to put me out of the way was in a cell out of sight. Just before we had arrived back at camp the duty Orderly Officer had just been to check on the guard and any prisoners who might be in the cells, he was going from there to check all of our barrack blocks to ensure that there was no drinking going on. If they had taken me straight there in the state that I was in, I would have been in very serious trouble, as this particular officer was notoriously hard on drunken behaviour. Jeff knew that he wouldn’t be coming back to the guardroom; therefore in a cell out of sight was the safest place for me to be. Jeff then told the duty driver to get me into the land rover and take me up to the barrack block and make sure that I got into bed ok. Needless to say, I was eternally grateful to Jeff for what he did for me that night.
After that there were a couple of more occasions when I did get slightly inebriated, though never again on that scale.
30. 100 DAYS TO AND AN EARLY BREAKFST
And so the days rolled by slowly but steadily, and I had drawn up a demob chart and stuck it on to the inside of my locker door. It started at 100 days and I religiously crossed off each day when I got up.
It was now that I was starting to think of what had happened during my time in the army and what I had done. I was asking myself things like, ‘Had it all been worthwhile or had it been a complete waste of two years of my life’ The answer to that was, no. Had I done my duty as a soldier, yes I think I had. Had I been a good soldier, I think I had, at least I would like to think so. The past two years had certainly made me a better person. I had grown up very quickly and become a man. I had learned discipline, respect and gained respect for others and I had developed confidence in myself. So the short answer to all of this is; no, it had not been a waste of time.
I had made some good Pals and friends and met some nice people, but sadly also met some very nasty people, but sadly that’s life. The sad part about making close friends in the army is you never knew if or when you would be posted to another unit and be split up.
As I have mentioned earlier, my own c/o, Major Perrins, was by far the finest officer who I ever met and judging from the manner in which he used to speak to me, I know that he thought well of me. Chief Clerk, S/Sgt Charlie Galea, who I was deputy to, I also got on very well with, in fact on the morning I flew home for demob, he and his wife drove the 20 odd miles to Idris airport to say goodbye to see me off.
The other persons of whom I must make special mention of was Luigi (Gigi) and his lovely wife Lucia. Gigi was an Italian civilian accounts clerk who worked in our office at Gurgi. From the very first day that I arrived at the depot, we bonded well and became good friends. He was a giant of a man and a big heart to match. He used to like to smoke Senior Service cigarettes and the only place they could be bought in Tripoli was through the NAAFI and as he was an Italian civilian, he was not permitted to use the NAAFI; therefore I used to get them for him, a 200 carton at a time for 60 Libyan piaster’s (about 12 shillings English money those days, 60pnow), we had to keep quiet about it because if I had been found out I would have got into trouble.
I wrote earlier about the terrifying experience of the Tornado, another occasion which I must mention was when we were caught up in civil rioting in the city one morning while we were on our army bus taking us to Gurgi, it was attacked by rioters. This was very frightening and I was very lucky not to have been badly injured or killed.
In the nineteen fifties there was a lot of anti British and American feeling in the Middle East, particularly in Egypt which was next-door to Libya and of which Nasser was president, he only had to make a short condemning speech in Cairo and it would stir up the entire Arab world. These people were so badly educated and misguided they would start venting their anger on anyone or anything, destroying their own properties in the process. On this particular occasion, Nasser had spoken out and lit the fuse and riots started in the city.
We stopped to pick up our Italian staff from the city centre; we then had to enter the Arab quarter in the old city to pick up Arab workers. To do this we had to pass through a section which we all referred to as ‘Shanty town’ because that’s precisely what it was; absolute slums, you would not believe that people could live in such poverty. Anyway, as soon as we got to this particular area ‘all hell’ had broken loose. Bottles, bricks, stones were being thrown at anyone or anything that moved. I was sitting right next to the bus window when suddenly a large piece of concrete which had been torn up, crashed through the window, showering me with glass and landed on my lap. How I survived that without any injury at all, I have never known, but needless to say, I was shaken up. When we finished work at 1.pm and the bus arrived to take us back to Prinn the rioting had spilled into the city centre, traffic lights had been torn down, chain link fencing had been ripped up and shops had been looted.
There was another occasion which I should mention and that was the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, where Muslims fast without food or drink from sunrise to sunset for forty days, then at the end of this they all have a good celebration and things sometimes got a bit out of hand and some would go a bit wild, in the old Arab quarter of the city they would ceremoniously slaughter a goat in the street to roast and eat. They would do this by holding it over a drain and slitting its throat with a large knife; not a pleasant sight.
31. HOME COMING AND DEMOB
And so, as the days on the demob chart on my locker door got crossed off, I was getting excited, my service to queen and country was coming to an end and I was looking forward to getting back home to Joyce, my family and friends and a life of normality. No more guard duty, no more, fire pickets, no more duty clerks and most of all, no more bullshit parades, inspections, and cookhouse fatigues.......Heaven; I couldn’t wait.
Finally the day that I had longed for came. Daily routine orders were posted on the notice board and one name on it was mine; 829 Poole D.R. Return to UK for N/S release, flight date from Tripoli Idris Airport, 29th November 1959, (two weeks time). This was one occasion which called for a special celebration with the lads, and there was, and a hangover to compliment it. A couple of days later my name appeared once again on routine daily orders stating that I was duty clerk on Sunday 22 November and that day was my 21st Birthday so plans for me to celebrate with my mates were completely ‘scuppered’, but I wasn’t too concerned because I knew that one week from then I would be on my way home and en route to demob and a proper birthday celebration with all those nearest and dearest to me. I did however have a beer on my birthday though; one can of Guinness at 8pm in the evening in the NAAFI when I was relieved by the next day’s duty clerk for my half hour break.
Next morning it was back to Gurgi for my last week in Tripoli. S/Sgt Charlie Galea told me that as it was my last week, he realized that I had lots of things to attend to back at Prinn so he suggested that I should take the remainder of the week as leave to enable me to get things sorted. A lot of my kit and equipment had got to be handed in; I had to have a medical check to ensure that I was free from infection (FFI). There was certain amount of documentation to carry out and also an interview with Major Booth-Mason and various other formalities, so time slipped by very quickly. When Major Perrin arrived at 9am he agreed with what S/Sgt Galea had said to me, he then called me into his office, told me to sit down and relax and then gave me the usual obligatory ‘Pep Talk’ as was the solemn duty of all good commanding officers (being fully aware of what my response would be). It was his duty to try to persuade me to sign on; to which I very courteously said “No” and he laughed and said that was what he had expected. However when I got his formal written report on my performance, it was onewhich would have got me a job anywhere.
I had made arrangements to go back to Gurgi on the Wednesday to say goodbye to everyone but Major Perrin had told me that he would be going to Homs later and would not be back until at least Thursday so he shook hands with me and wished me good luck and every success for the future. In return I thanked him and told him that it had been a privilege to serve under him.
On the Monday, 24th November, Gigi came over to my desk, and said that he had heard that I was going to be on leave for the remainder of my time and said that he and his wife Lucia would like me to go to their home for a meal before I came back to England, was really touched by this gesture and as we had become such good friends, I graciously accepted, he suggested Wednesday, 25th November, this was the day that I was going to go back to Gurgi to say goodbye to everyone.
Wednesday I got up early and showered and got dressed and went to catch the army bus at the guardroom at the usual time but this time I was wearing my civilian clothes. Gigi got on at his usual pick up point close to his home and came and sat with me on the bus.
My entire morning was taken up with saying ‘Goodbyes’, handshakes, from all the office personnel kisses, hugs and tears from Lucy and Carmelita particularly, who was sobbing; she and I had worked well together and in the time I had been there she had also taught me to speak a fair bit of Italian.
At one-o-clock the duty bus arrived to collect us and I left Gurgi for the last time. Gigi and I got off at his home and went in to a lovely welcome from his Wife Lucia, she had set the table with a truly magnificent Italian meal, which started with a huge dish of Spaghetti, which was a meal on its own, not to mention a huge steak and eggs and everything else that accompanied it, and the 2.litre bottle of wine which came from the vineyard of one of their relatives. After we finished the meal, we sat and chatted for a little while, Lucia’s command of English was not as good as Gigi’s, but was good enough to understand. When it got to around four-o-clock Gigi then said that we were now going to his brother-in-laws home to see the new bambino (baby) which had only just arrived.
It was only about a mile from Gigi and Lucia’s and a pleasant walk along Tripoli harbour sea front. When we arrived, it was a huge apartment where they lived and I thought half of the entire Italian community in Tripoli was there. Parents and grandparents, brothers, and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, and neighbours and friends. Gigi introduced me collectively to all, as David ‘Puletino’, the Englaisie soldier. This was all nice and friendly but as I looked around the room I could not see any sign of Mother and the new bambino. Shortly another door was opened and I was ushered into the bedroom, and there lying in bed was Momma with the ‘Star of the show’.
After this the celebration started. More food and more Vino, by the time it was for me to leave it was dark and about 8pm, and I was very ‘Tipsy’. One of the guests ran a taxi so they put me in it and thrust two 2.litre bottles of Vino in my arms and I was taken back to barracks; what a wonderful day it had been.
My final couple of days in Libya were spent by handing in my kit, more documentation and form filling, and a medical inspection to make sure I was fit and able to fly, and another interview and a pep talk, this time by The CSM (Company Sergeant Major), Leonard Rowell, who we all nicknamed him ‘Lennie the Lion’, this was because he was always roaring and shouting, but this time he was in a totally different mood and complimented me on how I had always been very smart in my turnout and disciplined.
With all of these little things sorted, Saturday was spent packing up my kit and personal belongings which I had to bring back to England, then in the early evening, after a farewell beer with the lads, I went to the guardroom to book an early wakeup call for 4:30am Sunday Morning, as the coach which was to take us to the airport was due to leave from the guardroom at around 6:30am. I was travelling back with another mate who was getting demobbed, Lance Corporal Pete Thatcher, Pete was our company store keeper, and he came from somewhere in Suffolk.
32. FREEDOM AT LAST
After leaving the NAAFI and booking my early call, as it was now around 8:00pm and in view of the fact that I had to get up early next morning I decided that it was time to get to bed as tomorrow was going to be a very long day. By now I was really getting excited about going home, and I kept wondering how many days I would have to wait at Bordon depot for my release, as my two years of service wasn’t finished officially until the 5th December which was the following Saturday, and there would be no releases at the weekends? With these thoughts running through my mind; I never slept very well, eventually did get to sleep, the next thing I knew was the orderly corporal shaking me with my early wake up call.
It was too early to get a breakfast in the cookhouse, I knew I would be given a meal on the aircraft so, I just got washed and dressed, I had packed most of my kit the day before so the little things like my washing and shaving kit could be packed in my hand baggage. My closest pals ‘Digger’ Rod Smith the Australian, Ian Laidlaw and Johnny Bone had all insisted the night before that I should wake them up for the final goodbye handshakes. After doing this it was time to get to the guardroom to get the coach and meet up with my travelling companion, Pete Thatcher. The coach was there waiting and after stowing our luggage on board we settled down for the hour or so drive to Idris Airport, think we finally arrived there at around 8:30am, our flight was due to take off around 10:30.local time.
Our baggage was taken off the coach and that was the last we would see it until we got to Gatwick. It was as we were walking across to the Terminal building, I got the biggest surprise of all; there waiting to see me off on my journey was S/Sgt Charlie Galea, accompanied by his wife, who I had never met. They had driven the 20+ miles just to say goodbye. In the year which we had worked together, he had obviously been satisfied with my performance. We all had a lovely chat and then it was time to say our goodbyes and board our aircraft.
33. TAKE OFF AND FLIGHT HOME
Pete and I were seated next to each other and like the flight out a year ago, I was lucky enough to have a window seat. After all the usual emergency drill instructions were given by the stewardess’s the engines were run up, the fasten seat belts switched on and the aircraft taxied out to the end of the runway. The engines were then run to full power and after a couple of minutes they were throttled back and the aircraft then moved forward slowly and taxied off of the runway and moved towards the terminal once again. The next thing was the captain came over on the speakers, apologising that there would be a short (hopefully) delay as there was a small electrical fault. Bearing in mind that this was only the second time in my life that I had flown this wasn’t at all encouraging.
We were all taken off the aircraft and put in the transit lounge to wait for further instructions. However, after a wait of less than an hour we were then informed that the problem had been located and fixed and we were then put back on the plane and this time we took off without any further problems, though I must admit that the thought of what could possibly happen were with me all the way until we landed safely back in England later that evening.
Our flight path back was exactly the same as when I came out; the only difference being was that it was in the opposite direction and in broad daylight on a beautiful sunny day. This time we never stopped at Malta; we flew over the tip of Sicily and over Sardinia and Corsica, nonstop to Nice.
About half way to Nice, rain clouds started to build below us and it was getting a little bumpy and by the time we started our decent through the clouds rain was pouring off of the wings like a giant waterfall and the aircraft started to bounce about quite a bit. I could sense the aircraft slowly dropping but could not see the ground, all I could see was the water deluge pouring off the wings. Suddenly there was a break in the cloud and I could the see the sea rushing towards us, my immediate thought was, ‘My God, we are going to crash into the sea’, then came a heavy bump and we were safely down. Nice airport is right alongside the coast so landings and take offs have to be directly over the sea. We were at Nice, waiting in the Transit lounge for about two hours then it was back on the plane and the next time we landed would be England.
As we flew across France, the weather cleared and before we had crossed the channel and approaching the English coast, the sky was cloudless. We crossed the coast over Brighton, I could see the Brighton piers quite clearly even though it was getting dusk; it was around 4:30 British time, I could also clearly see the London – Brighton railway line and a steam train speeding towards London, it looked just like a toy train, I was fascinated. A few minutes later we landed at Gatwick Airport; back in England at last. We collected our baggage, cleared through customs and were then boarded on to another coach and eventually around 9:00pm that night we arrived back at Bordon camp.
34. DEMOB AND FREEDOM
It was a bitterly cold night and by now I was feeling very tired after a very long day and journey. The duty orderly corporal showed us to where we could sleep that night and he asked us if we were regulars or National service, Pete was a three year term regular, I said that I was N/S so the orderly Cpl said, “Well in that case you will probably be demobbed in the morning after work parade, so don’t bother to unpack your kit”. Those words were music in my ears; I would be home tomorrow with Joyce. We were then taken to the bedding stores where the duty storekeeper issued us with our bedding.
There were four other lads in the room which we were in, they were all corporals and all had returned from a posting in Germany and were being reassigned elsewhere. They still had all of their kit which included their Army issue Greatcoats and winter underwear. Pete and I had only our uniform which we had flown home in, tropical underwear, no topcoats and our civilian clothes. We were freezing, in fact we were shivering so much our beds were rattling, and the four other lads brought their great coats over to us to put over our blankets, and we still shivered. I have never in all my life, felt so cold; I hardly slept at all that night. The worse bit of all was when we got up next morning and went to wash and shave, there was no hot water and ice had formed on the sides of the was basins.
At work detail the same duty Corporal who we had spoken to on arrival told me that I would be discharged that morning so after I had breakfast I was go to Battalion HQ for documentation and final release medical then go to the de-kitting stores and hand in the remainder of my kit then go across.
It was when I went to HQ that I Had a final encounter with an RSM, as I was walking along the corridor, he came out of his office and spotted me and before he had even asked what I wanted, he demanded to know why I was wearing the Tripoli District Division flashes on my uniform. When I explained to him to him that I had only arrived at the depot late the previous evening, his response was, “Well get them taken off now and report back here to me at 12:00, and get your haircut as well”. My thoughts were; yes mate, up yours, if and when we meet again, I will be a civilian and you will address me as sir or mister.
The release medical was just routine questions and a very quick check over from the MO then it was back to the barrack room, change into my civilian clothes, in to company office to collect all money that was due to be paid to me and most importantly, my train warrant home.
As Pete and I passed the guardroom gate for the last time we both said well ‘That’s all over with’, and I thought, freedom at last.
We travelled up to London together to Waterloo Station where we shook hands, wished each other ‘Good luck’ said goodbye and parted company. As Pete was a 3 year regular, he had to take a month’s home leave which was owed to him then at the end of it return to Bordon for official demob. It seemed a stupid rule but however, that’s the army for you.
35. HOME AT LAST
The train journey home from London to Hertford seemed never ending, I was getting so excited about seeing Joyce and Mum and my grandparents again. The thing was that nobody was expecting me; all they knew was that I was flying home to England on the 29th of November. As soon as I had learned of my flight date I wrote a couple of very short letters home to let them know but I couldn’t let them know what day I would be demobbed, as I never knew myself. In those days, mobile phones, computers and emails had not been heard of, and very few people had private telephones in their homes, apart from business people and those who were well off, therefore my unannounced arrival home would be quite a shock and surprise for them all.
Finally my train arrived at Hertford North Station at around 1:30pm, and so by the time I had struggled up to Sele Farm with my luggage, It was about 2:pm, I knocked the door and when mum answered it she was beside herself with excitement. She grabbed me, hugged and kissed me before I was able to get in the house, Brownie, our dog went absolutely berserk.
After she calmed down, mum then asked the usual questions that all mums ask like, ‘are you hungry, have you had anything to eat, would you like a cup of tea, are you ok, I expect you will want a nice hot bath’? The answer to all of this was, yes please.
After a nice meal of Bacon, eggs, tomatoes, baked beans and bread and butter etc, I went upstairs and had a nice hot bath and a shave. This done, it was now question time with mum and a chance for me to catch up on all that had been happening over the past year that I had been away. Mum had regularly posted the Hertford Mercury to me each week while I had been in Libya. She asked if I had a chance to let Joyce know that I had been demobbed or when did I intend to see her?
Joyce finished work at five thirty, so by the time she got home to Saint Margaret’s it would be turned six then have her tea and freshen up. I said to mum that my intention was to catch the 7:27 train from Hertford East which would get me to Joyce’s place at around 7:40, and this is what I did.
I arrived at the bungalow where they lived, walked round to the back of the house, tapped on the kitchen door and walked in unannounced. Joyce’s Mum, Dad and Grandma were al sitting talking and listening to the radio, (they hadn’t got a TV then), but there was no Joyce, the looks of surprise on their faces was amazing. When I asked where Joyce was, they told me that she had gone to Stanstead Abbots village hall for her evening classes. She had written and told me that she was starting dressmaking and needlework on Monday evenings for something to pass the time, I had completely forgotten this. Her mum said the class finished at 9:00pm, it was only a five minute walk home so I just sat and told them all about my time abroad and answered their questions.
About ten past nine, Joyce walked in and when she saw me sitting there her jaw just dropped wide open and the greeting I got was “What are doing here, and why didn’t you let me know you were home”? My immediate thought was, blimey, what a welcome from my fiancé after a year apart. Anyway, that said we soon got down to chatting and getting adapted to each other once again until it was time to get the 10:27 train back to Hertford. When we said goodnight we arranged to meet each other next day during her lunch hour and then I would meet her again at 5:30 and we would go back to Stanstead together where I had the evening meal with them, then after that her Mum, Dad and Nanny got ready and we all trooped over to ‘The Jolly Fishermen’ for a welcome back drink or two or maybe even a few more!!
Joyce managed to get the remainder of the week off from the Tuesday and we were able spend all of our time together catching up over the past two years.
Officially I was still in the army for two weeks after demob and could not start back to work until that time was up because in the event of a sudden national crisis I could be recalled at a moment’s notice to report back to my unit. With this in mind I was determined to make the most of the next two weeks. I was thoroughly enjoying my new found freedom from early wake up calls, work parades, inspections, and duty clerks etc. Instead I was having a nice lie in and mum would come into my room with a cup of tea. Only a few days after I had arrived home she came in with a cup of tea and the daily newspaper and a solemn look on her face. The front page had a large headline about a dam which had collapsed in southern France after days of very heavy rain and hundreds were feared dead or were missing. This was at a place called Frejus, it was only a very few miles from where I had been at Nice on the previous Sunday. Mum said to me that she never believed they had that sort of weather in the south of France, my reply to that was, ‘if you had seen how hard it was raining when we landed at Nice you could believe anything, we never saw the ground until we felt the bump when we landed’. At least one village was totally swept away and over 300 people were killed.
And so ends my own personal account of my service to Queen and Country, I hope whoever reads this will enjoy it.
Epilogue
I sincerely hope that whoever; whenever reads this account of my National Service, they will find it interesting, informative and enjoyable. I apologise by the inclusion of some bad language but please understand that it is a true account of what life as a National Serviceman was like in the Army. It was two years taken out of my life when I had to live in a different world and in a totally different environment with lads from a vast mix of social backgrounds, nationalities, religions and creeds. It was two years which I never wanted to give at the time but with the benefit of Hindsight, I am now proud that I did it.
I went in as a Boy and came out a Man