May 1957 to December 1957

Scene 2 – Singapore

n Thursday 30^th May 1957, we arrived at Singapore. Reveille was at 0500 hours. There were a few weary faces, and some sore heads. Even I, a teetotaller at that time, was feeling somewhat intoxicated with anticipation.

My next wonderment, at the army’s administration on the one hand, and apparent disorganisation on the other, came home to me that morning. First I received no less than nine letters from home; I cannot remember what address had been given, but they all found me, and for this, I was very grateful. Secondly, my WO2 casually said to me “Oh! by the way, Dave, you are not going to Hong Kong now, you are posted to Nee Soon.”

Nee Soon? What the helluva country is that? Never heard of it.

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Here in Singapore, came the cheerful response.”

I recall asking if it could be changed, but was told it was a good number, and anyway, Singapore is better than Hong Kong. Within a year, I knew that last statement to be true. Moreover, the posting itself was geared to me, so they said, “Because you want to be a teacher”.

Within a short time, a Captain and a WOI arrived. I was introduced, saluted the officer, and was quite amazed at their familiarity - because they shook hands with me. This sort of thing did not happen, in those days. It would never have happened at Reading when I was a rookie!

was posted to the Army Boys Trade School (ABTS) which was a part of the Malayan Basic Training Centre (MBTC) in the Garrison of Nee Soon, in the north-central part of the island.

Welcome to Singapore, sergeant!

There is no doubt that the posting was the best I could have possibly received in the British Army, although I was not to know that at the time.

On arrival at Nee Soon Garrison I was introduced to the Company Sergeant Major, or CSM, who was a bit of a stickler, so I had been briefed. I responded smartly to his welcome, and shortly afterwards I was introduced to the Officer Commanding, a major. Another shake of hands with warm words of welcome.

I was then taken on a tour of the unit, and met many – a dozen or so – chaps who were in the RAEC, like me, and most of them national servicemen. There was also a captain, and a couple of warrant officers, also in the corps. So this was all most encouraging. I found out that I was taking over from a chap who had been keen on art, and so my own interest was to prove useful and was soon to put me on the map.

y big mistake, on being asked the specific question, was to express an interest in cricket. My protestations at lack of ability were taken as modesty. Within two days, I was making up numbers as eleventh man for the garrison, in a match at Changi – and I actually scored one run. (The ball hit my bat and bounced away – I did not hit the ball). My batting skills were soon recognised for what they were, and they believed me when I said I could not bowl.(Too late, I remembered, that you must never volunteer for anything in the army!). I actually played in another match a few days later; no doubt, you will appreciate that I was detailed for this, as my name appeared on the list. My second attempt to hold a cricket bat proved that I was an impostor, and so ended my cricket career. To my great relief, I was never asked to play again.

A few weeks later, however, someone had remembered my ‘interest’ in the game, and so I was asked to umpire a match between units in the garrison. It is always hard, in the army, to refuse when you receive a telephone call from a superior officer! Anyway, my on-field decisions did not endear me to either side and so again, thankfully, my umpiring prospects never gained credence, although I did reluctantly umpire a couple of more times in the coming months.

My one other dabble in the world of competitive sport was of a different nature. The annual swimming gala was due, and the staff entered a team for most events, alongside the students. It was very much like a school-swimming gala, with the staff making fools of themselves and cheating, against the keen swimmers which all of these eleven to seventeen year-old Asian students were.

Instead of our morning drill parade at 0700 hours, we permanent staff had permission to meet at the pool to ‘train’ for the gala. This was good for blowing away the cobwebs, as well as encouraging what you could call mild training. The WOI APTC – Bill Fogarty, an Irishman, he knew my father of course – tried to build up a team, and managed to assign each of us to an event. Not being afraid of water, and able to swim, I was detailed for a couple of the crawl events. However, my big drawback was that I was unable to dive in off the side. Well, a couple of mornings of practice, and being held aloft by my ankles over the deep end and then being released, soon built up my confidence. On the day itself, I was confidently able to dive in off the side for the 400 yards crawl. I came last.

hortly after this heroic involvement, I found myself playing in two or three water polo matches in the garrison. I was involved, again, only because of number shortages, but also because I now knew several of the chaps from my unit who were playing. So this extra-curricular activity was quite pleasant, but the season seemed to end as soon as it started, and so what could have been a promising sporting future never took off.

The one duty we all loathed was that of swimming pool supervisor. It came round all too frequently, every three weeks. After a full day’s work – from 0700 hours parade to 1300 hours lunch – one was detailed to be at the pool from 1400 hours until closing time, at 2100 hours. What a drag! One could be in bathing costume, but wearing jacket top (to show rank) with armband indicating your authority. Some days the pool was very empty, others it would be full of kids and families.

Weekends were the worst – twelve hours at the pool. I could never get used to this lack of activity, as one could not read, or sunbathe (too dangerous to do that anyway), merely look at the clock and count the minutes. That is how I found it, anyway. Others might say that it was relaxing, but I felt that one was always on parade; one always had to be seen to be there and doing the duty.

ery shortly after arriving in Singapore, I was told that I had qualified for the General Service Medal, clasp ‘Malaya.’ The GSM was automatic for every person working for the Crown, who spent twenty-four hours in a combat zone. As the fighting was still going on up-country, against the communist terrorists, and as Singapore was once a part of the combat area, so the award of the medal was automatic. It meant that I could now wear a miniature on my white mess uniform, on formal occasions, and a ribbon during the week on my khaki tunic. I was told that the medal would catch up with me in a few years time, and that it would have my name and army number on the rim, or edge. Being a national serviceman it would not, they emphasised, have the rank of sergeant or the education corps letters after my name, as I was in an acting rank. Oh! Well. I did not mind – I always know when I cannot win.

shared a small room, or bunk, with another sergeant – Jock Kennedy who was a regular in the service corps, the RASC, as a clerk. He was known to some of the old lags as ‘Pozbee,’ so named after the Post Office Savings Bank, or POSB, because he was forever using this utility and never spending any money. He was rarely seen in the mess.

Pozbee had a chip on his shoulder. A big one. He felt that he had been belittled and insulted on the parade ground, by the CSM, and he was taking it to higher authority. It had reached CO level, and had been referred to Singapore Base District. He now wanted it to go the Brigadier. Phew!

My immediate reaction was why? I had already been put on a charge – my first and last in the army - by this same CSM, for some minor ‘dress’ offence at my first morning parade. It had never entered my head to challenge his offensive oaths and curses. Just for the record, my offence was not wearing the ABTS/MBTC badge – it had not yet been issued to me. It says a lot about the intelligence of this battle-hardened CSM, that he should be technically correct, but lacking that army ‘cover-all-sins’ jargon, namely ‘using one’s discretion.’ So he puts himself in the wrong. I was given a discharge, which in army terms means that the case should never have been brought. I am sure the CSM must have been a marked man, although he was near the end of his service life.

Pozbee was not doing his military career much good either, but he could not see that. I am amazed that he had not learned to grin and bear insults; you just do not retaliate.

I never knew the outcome of this case. The CSM left a few weeks after I arrived, and although Pozbee stayed for several more months, I never got to know him well. He eventually left on a posting, which delighted me as I was now left as sole occupant of the room. However, I often wondered how far he got with his grievance, and how it affected his military career.

arly in August the entire school left for the annual two-week summer camp. This year it was held on the island of Pulau Tekong Besar; this is located in the Johor Straits off the north east coast of Changi.

The island was still largely uninhabited, although there was the inevitable fishing kampong. We were to occupy the former 1930’s concrete barrack blocks, now overgrown with weeds. An advance party had arrived two weeks earlier, to make the place habitable.

There was no electricity, and a very noisy generator powered the refrigerator. This refrigerator was regarded as an essential piece of jungle equipment, and served the needs of the combined officers’ and sergeants’ mess. The mess barman, Satu, (which means ‘number one’) was also with us, and made sure that the fridge was never empty.

For two weeks we had an enjoyable school, trekking around the island, playing football with the native boys from the kampong, and having a sports day. One of my duties was to travel with the emergency motor launch to collect the mail from Changi pier. For the most part, though, I was attached to the engineers in the school, and on the day of the GOC’s visit – with retinue of photographers – I was seen (in published photographs) ‘supervising’ the boys on their descent down an aerial ropeway. You will know that my actual knowledge of all such feats is minimal, but I looked impressive and knowledgeable in the photographs.

The whole camping fortnight was one hell of an experience for this ex-grammar schoolboy; a remote island, full of palm trees, with brilliant blue-sky overhead, just eighty miles north of the equator. I was light years away from Thornton-le-Moors, and Chester City Grammar School.

Due to a bizarre incident on the beach, my physical attachment to the Army Boys Trade School almost came to an abrupt end. In rounding up a group of boys from the water’s edge, I had picked up a large coconut husk lying in the sand. I was fascinated by the thickness of the wiry outer covering – the stuff about which I had written in my geography exams. One of the students asked me if I liked coconut, and I replied in the affirmative. The next thing was that several of them were around me, grinning widely and pointing, and inviting me to eat it. They obviously thought that I had picked it up with a view to drinking the milk and eating the flesh. Consequently murmurs of derision started, and great squeals of laughter as I made a gesture of drinking from this rotten hulk. In fact, the boys could not stop themselves in their hilarity, so I left them to it with the ultimatum to meet me at the top of the bank in a couple of minutes.

The whole scene was witnessed, from a great distance, by a captain and couple of warrant officers from another unit, attached to us for the summer camp. They reported this apparent loss of face and lack of discipline. (National service sergeant instructors were not always well liked; their rapid promotion was the cause of much envy). The outcome was that I was given a fatherly chat by the CO, who told me that a posting up country might be to my advantage. I was very confused by the whole thing, as I did not feel that I had lost control at all, but had merely joined in the fun.

Well, I gave my version to my colleagues who were most sympathetic, and the new RSM – Bill Kibble, a frightening six-footer with large handlebar moustache – announced that I would not be transferred if I didn’t want this, and that he would have a word with the major. I also had other allies amongst the warrant officers, particularly WOI John Birch, in the RAEC, who seemed to have taken a paternal liking to me. I made it clear that I wanted to stay with the ABTS, and that clinched it. It was quite something to have these senior warrant officers supporting me, telling me not to worry, and that nothing would happen. They were right.

I have often reflected since on how many other poor little buggers like me have had their actions misinterpreted, in either service or civilian life, and their futures thus affected, by a misinformed observer? Perhaps luck had been on my side. However, I also think it was also an example of inter-unit rivalry; and our chaps were not going to allow ‘visitors’ from other corps deciding that one of us was not up to scratch.

The camp was evacuated in the middle of August, at the end of the two weeks, and we returned via Seletar to Nee Soon Camp. We now had three weeks holiday, as the boy soldiers (as I was now learning to call them) travelled all over Malaya to be with their families – for the most part in kampongs. This now gave me a period of relaxation, and a chance to discover a little bit more about Singapore Island.

ne of the first places one gravitated to was the Britannia Club, a senior NCO’s and WO’s club with bars, lounges, and a vast swimming pool. It was right opposite the Raffles Hotel. I remember the ‘Brit Club’ as being very lively on a Saturday night, when there would be personnel from all the services, not just the army. The Navy types were generally in their uniforms; this was because of the very brief nature of their shore leave, which might be just for the one night only. It was a great atmosphere and I enjoyed it. We were also very close to the red-light, off-limits areas of Bugis Street and environs. Having been issued with a small map, showing the streets that were out of bounds, we had no excuse if caught there. The military police were also strategically placed, under orders to ‘save the chaps from themselves.’ Obviously, no GOC wanted to hear of a regular morning parade of those caught in forbidden areas. Far better to give the MP’s permission to lock up any drunkards for the night, and release them without charge the next morning.

must not forget to mention Saturday 31st August 1957. This was Merdeka Day, when Malaya received its Independence from British rule. I recall lying on my bunk bed listening on the radio to the ceremony from Kuala Lumpur, with the two national anthems being played at midnight. It was quite an emotional occasion, and I recall being happy for the Malayans as we, the Brits, were their ‘best friends’ and were staying on to help them with their security – particularly in squashing the communist terrorists.

ne of my early duties – as the latest arrival to the unit - was to take over the UK Sunday newspaper racket. They arrived towards the end of each week, and I had to check them and deliver them to all those on the permanent staff who had ordered them, and collect their cash. It helped to put me on the map, I suppose.

I started the new term as i/c woodwork, also art, so that gave me a psychological lift. The school was very much like a typical UK educational establishment, in this case with seven periods each lasting forty minutes, per day. The major difference was that students and teachers were in uniform, and subject to military discipline. The students’ timetable concentrated on the English language, on the academic side, with parade-ground drill being the important military input. Both morning and afternoon sessions would start with a half-hour drill session on the parade ground. The staff formed their own squad for the morning drill, and inspection.

n October 1957 I heard that I had been accepted at Chester Training College, for admission in the following September. This was provisional, depending on my having a satisfactory interview on my return to the UK. It was quite something to receive airmail letters from the Principal, addressing me as “My Dear Sgt Hunt.”

I had been fortunate in being a Cestrian, of course, as the headmaster at the Grammar School would have had a good word for me. In addition, my father had put in quite a lot of ground work, in acquiring and sending me the forms for completion. So that helped clear my mind and ease the worry – I now had ‘a place’ for my future study, and teaching had never been an alien thought of course.

t was about this time in my life – but I cannot put an exact date on it – that something happened to me that, firstly, should never have happened, secondly it should never have been allowed to happen, and thirdly it would never have happened many years later.

The young sergeants at the school, mostly national servicemen in the educational corps, with a couple of regulars in the signals and the service corps, were a lively bunch and very much the backbone of all mess functions. The old soldiers envied the youth and vitality of these fresh-faced twenty-somethings, and I was very much a part of the gang. Indeed, I even had a role in our ‘band,’ where Sgt Pete Bailey would play the piano, another would be on the drums, a couple on the guitars, and me on the various ‘special effects’ like castanets, the rattle, the cymbal and so on.

Well now, at one of our Saturday afternoon sessions in the mess, when we were rehearsing for the evening performance, the lads said to me (not for the first time, I can tell you): “Why don’t you drink, and smoke, Dave? It won’t do you any harm, you know!” They knew that I had never touched a drop of alcohol, or had even one drag in my life. In fact, I was unique – if not a freak.

Anyway, because of coercion, but not force, they persuaded me to have a sip from a pint of shandy, and a puff from one of their cigarettes. This led to a repeat, and I was then given a small glass of shandy with a cigarette. Over the next half an hour or so I consumed both – with pleasurable, rather than the anticipated ill effects – and the lads made sure that my glass was discreetly re-filled, with the ever ready and oh!-so-cheap fag packet lying to hand.

Thus, I was initiated into the ‘evils’ of alcohol and tobacco. Rather than feeling any guilt, I was quite chuffed with myself at being a ‘full member’ of the gang, rather than an ‘outsider.’ Consequently, at that night’s mess function, and forever after, I was able to enjoy the long slide down the slope of pleasurable inebriation. The only ill effects that I ever experienced were the headaches in the morning – I believe they were called hangovers.

I have to confess and say that I am glad all this happened, as I think it helped me to adjust myself to adult life. It prepared me for the future service venues to which I was posted, and for the style of life I was to lead with (and this is arguable) some acceptability.

I do not think this ‘social rape’ would have happened in a mess in the UK; the lure of the tropics was itself quite intoxicating.

ll parts of the British Army, world wide, had an annual Administration Inspection. Colloquially, this was known as the Admin Parade, and preparations (the ‘bull’) started weeks in advance. There were several rehearsals, when all staff whom one never normally sees are on parade. Cooks, clerks and drivers, parade with privates, warrant officers and officers. All are in uniform (with medals), and in marching boots and puttees (gaiters around the ankles).

The Admin Parade is when the RSM comes into his own. His authority is absolute. Even the junior officers tremble; some can never get the hang of saluting with a sword. Finally, when all ranks of all units – in a pre-determined order of seniority – are assembled, we are stood at ease for several calculated minutes. The RSM then stiffens and, using his finest Aldershot voice calls the whole parade ground to attention, as the officer commanding walks on.

Salutes are exchanged, and we are stood at ease yet again. The OC is now in command. Another psychological wait, designed to build up our adrenalin, and the OC finally spots the CO walking towards the edge of the parade ground. As soon as his foot touches the hallowed tarmac, the order is given and we spring to attention. More salutes, at which the state of representation of the complete unit are given. “Two hundred boy soldiers, fifty permanent staff, eight staff excused boots, and with the exception of four cases hospitalised, on parade and awaiting your inspection, Sah!”

After some two or three weeks of this, we are then ready for the band to join us. What a difference a band makes to a parade. Marching is so much easier, as the beat of the drum keeps you in time. It also meant that we could practice the general salute, when our rifles come into their own, as we present arms.

The big day arrives, and when the inspecting officer’s car purrs towards the saluting dais, the atmosphere is electric. We had a Brigadier, who looked most impressive with his red tabs, rows of medals, and gold braid. The salute was given, after which he starts his inspection, along each row. This is where the big, the fat and the ugly, the halt and the lame have a field day, as they are useful targets for the inspecting officer to stop and have a chat to. I was also picked out, because I looked so young (in those days). “What’s your engagement?” I was asked. “Er, I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t understand the question!” The CO piped in “Sgt Hunt is a national Servicemen, Sir.”

“Ah! Jolly good show.”

So the Admin Parade ended; congratulations all round, with the CO putting in his own words of praise in the daily Orders. I’d experienced my first Admin Parade at Reading; we then had a ‘mini’ one at Beaconsfield; and now this one which was the biggest, and the most impressive of all.

ee Soon in the Autumn of 1957 was the place to be! Beautiful blue skies, palm trees, and the mess to repair to for refreshments, and the ever present conviviality. I was quite happy with my lot, and could have continued with this way of life indefinitely.

was now about to make a big mistake in the army. I went into the mess for the Sunday curry tiffin at exactly twelve noon, which was the correct time for the start of meals. I had decided by now that it was better for me to eat first, and it doubled as my brunch, before going into the mess for a session. Anyway, I was kept waiting for a long time, as much as twenty minutes, before the staff had a meal ready. I could have been in the bar by now!

So I put my complaint in writing, in the messing book, whilst I sat at the table fuming. When I sit down at the table, I expect service! I thought my words of cynicism, about waiting and doing nothing, whilst the indolent staff started to get things ready well behind schedule, would sort them out and make a few heads roll.

Well, only one head rolled, and it was mine. In my naivety, I had not realised that all entries in the messing book, which was both a complaints and suggestions book, was dealt with by the messing member. I had assumed that Satu, our Chinese number one, dealt with all this, and that he would sort his staff out. Wrong. The messing member was a reluctant WOI, with lots of medals and war service, and with no love for national service upstarts.

A couple of days later I was sent for by the garrison RSM (not our own unit RSM), and he gave me a royal bollocking. All the staff in his outer office had known what was coming, and his voice was heard blocks away. I was the absolute idiot of course, and everyone in Nee Soon knew about it. I was ordered to make an appropriate entry of apology in the messing book, and to stand by to take over the duties of messing member at the next mess meeting. Phew!

y twentieth birthday was a Saturday, and I celebrated by being on swimming pool duty – weekends were the worst as they were ‘all-day’ duties, from nine in the morning until nine at night. I am sure I must have had some sort of a celebration in the mess afterwards, but I cannot recall the details. Actually, it may well have been a low-key affair because I was in uniform the next morning for the Remembrance Day Service at the garrison church.

was now involved a lot with ‘the lads’ in mess functions; half a dozen of us (yes! I was now regarded as a ‘qualified’ member!) were the very backbone of mess life, and entertainment. We would have a Games Evening against other messes, and these were always popular – with many eats (usually curry and rice) and plenty of drinks. Even a night versus the officers, in our mess, turned out to be very popular.

I will always remember the party piece of the CO, Colonel Fry. We were all ordered to stand in two ranks (in the mess), then to move well back. We wondered why the RSM (as the host) was giving the order and not the colonel, who stood silently at the end. Then the colonel held a lighted match at arms length, and suddenly a great jet of fire shot from his mouth and in between our two ranks. He turned to the bar and quickly rinsed his mouth out, with a pre-arranged bucket waiting for him to spit in. Apparently, he had a mouthful of petrol fuel, which he then spurted through his teeth in a neat jet. Christ! Were we impressed with that. What a party piece, but not one that any of us was ever tempted to copy. We often talked about it, and the dangers of suddenly swallowing a bit of the fuel. It is the sort of stunt you never forget.

We were now busy planning the various Christmas functions, and I was very much involved with staff sergeant Lea Scales in doing the scenery. We had a childrens’ party, and we performed one of our mime sequences with me in drag. In fact, the half annual general mess meeting was now due, and we lads were being talked about as the new entertainments ‘team.’ Previously it had been just one member, working on his own. But such was our liveliness – we were into everything that came under the broad headings of ‘entertainment,’ ‘social,’ ‘gastronomic,’ or ‘alcoholic’ – that someone had come up with this idea. However, I had a particular problem.

I went to see WOI John Birch and confided in him. I told him that the garrison RSM had got me lined up for the food member slot, as a punishment, and that it would severely limit my involvement with the boys on the entertainments side. John Birch, being of the same rank as the RSM, told me not to worry and assured me that he would fix it.

Come the day of the mess meeting, the only absentees at such events being those in hospital, I started to feel queasy as the election for a new food member drew near.

“I need a nomination for food member,” said the RSM. “Any volunteers?”

Laughter at his joke; the post was never a popular one, let us face it.

“Sergeant Hunt” came a pre-arranged response. I froze.

I managed to turn my head to look pleadingly at John Birch, who was sitting nearby. He leapt into action.

“Sergeant Hunt has been excused,” he said. There was silence in the mess.

“Oh! yes!” said the RSM. “I need someone else. Sergeant Hunt will be involved with other duties in the mess.”

Phew!

Shortly afterwards I was elected onto the entertainments committee, along with the gang. I was saved from an onerous post. Seriously, I was to put in many hours (all enjoyable) in the coming months, planning mess functions, painting scenery and so forth. I certainly could never have been accused of being a shirker or a waster.

However, I had taken on the RSM and had won. Perhaps he had gallantly given way in the interests of the mess, with no desire to settle any issue. I will never know what the old soldiers thought about this coup of mine. My colleagues merely asked me how I had managed it, so I told them it was John Birch who had fixed it for me.

e had an M.O.R. night in the mess. This was the Malayan Other Ranks evening. The RSM had imposed a three-line whip on the members to attend this annual chore. So we had all the Malayan sergeants and warrant officers, standing around with their glasses of juice, whilst we stood around with our pints of ale. They did not consume alcohol of course (at least, not in front of other Muslims), and it was a stilted evening. After a while, as the beer slips down, the Brits all become a little jolly, but the Malays just stand there trying to be polite and laughing at all our jokes. Their command of our language varied from very little, to fair. Our command of their language was zilch. The food was always a welcome respite, for both sides. We never involved them in any of our bar games, as we knew they could not play them and would be embarrassed.

When they returned the compliment some weeks later, with a B.O.R. night, it was a different ball game. The same three-line whip, in both camps, so that no face would be lost by poor attendance. But now, in their own mess, they were ordered to ‘adopt’ a couple of Brits of similar rank for the evening (we outnumbered them) and ensure that their glasses were never empty – as they had been told that this would be interpreted by us as a sign of bad hospitality. They had also been instructed to challenge us to various games, like darts and billiards, as that is believed to be all that we do in our spare time. They were hopeless at such games, still less did they understand the rules.

The resultant B.O.R. night was a great success. Plenty of ale, lovely hot curries, many games with much cheating as we made up variations on the rules – and a good time was had by us all. By us, more than them, as they tend to retire very early and we do not. The one o’clock in the morning touch was just a bit too much for them, but for us it was a good night.

was now approached by the CO, and asked to paint a picture for the officers’ mess. Apparently they had been to the Australian Officers’ Mess, at which their hosts gloated over a large poster, behind the bar, which depicted John Bull is some moment of defeat at the hands of the Aussies.

Our officers had a large piece of canvas the size of an end wall, and when the Aussies arrived, in a couple of weeks, to pay them a return visit, they wanted them to see a large mural depicting a British bulldog knocking out an Australian kangaroo.

I took on this challenge, working in the afternoons in the corridor of the officers’ mess. I was bought the occasional drink, all the officers knowing who I was and what I was painting. This was certainly my five minutes of fame. The resultant picture was acclaimed by all, and I helped to hang it in a prominent position. I received much thanks and praise. Again I say to myself, ‘Why didn’t you take a photograph of it, you noddle?’ I would love to know how good or bad I was, at that age.

n Christmas Eve, I attended Midnight Mass in the local garrison church at Nee Soon. I’d had a couple of drinks myself, but was quite shocked to see a young officer who was inebriated to the point of having wobbly legs, and had to be coerced into a hasty departure. I wonder if he was bollocked like I know I would have been. Still, I suppose his heart was literally in the right place, having made the effort, so we had much in common, even though I could stand (with the aid of the pew in front of me).

Christmas Day 1957 arrived, and the officers all attended the WO’s and Sgts Mess for pre-lunch drinks. They stayed for an hour or two, of course, and then departed for their family luncheon. Some of them were a bit worse for wear, but no doubt blamed the colonel for not having left at a suitable time – it being a sin to leave before him.

On Boxing Day, it was a repeat performance, but in the officers’ mess. There was no rush on us, but even we youngsters knew when it was time to depart. It was all very friendly and jolly – and I was enjoying life to the full.

We always wore civvies in the mess, and to such formal invitations – as for every evening in our own messes – it was ‘planters order’ which meant long sleeved shirt, tie and slacks. All very smart. This formula was applied daily, after that magic moment of ‘nineteen hundred hours’.

We national service lads were well looked after by our regular warrant officers, and over the festive season we had many invites to houses – many with young children – to join in the fun and games, and with a huge traditional Christmas lunch. The night would then drag out into one long boozing session, until the early hours.

The next day and it would be on to another host, with many of the same people turning up later in the day. Thank you to all those families who looked after us so well; not only at Christmas but also at many other times throughout the year, with drinks parties, dinner parties, and games evenings.

We were always having ‘a conference’ in the mess; or it might be ‘a discussion’ or a game of ‘liar dice’ or a ‘planning evening.’ These were all euphemisms for ‘a session’ or ‘a thrash’ or, in plain language for those of you who cannot keep up with me, a booze-up.

As the New Year drew closer, we started to have functions in the mess again, with the big one on New Year’s Eve. This was the Garrison WO’s & Sgts Mess Ball, which went on until four in the morning. It was my first experience of an early breakfast in the mess.