November 1956 to May 1957

Scene 1 – Square Bashing

left Chester early on the morning of 1^st November 1956, and entrained for Reading - using my travel warrant. I changed trains at Crewe; in those days, it seemed mandatory for every train in the country to go via Crewe, in order to make passengers change platforms and trains.

At Reading station, I found the khaki three-tonner easily. This was my transport to the barracks. Other young men, most being smartly dressed like me in shirt and tie, blazer and slacks, were already in the back of the truck. We had been advised to carry only a small bag each, with toothbrush and comb, and other such essentials and mementoes - but no spare clothing whatsoever.

e arrived at Brock Barracks, the home of the Royal Berkshire Regiment. After the necessary roll call and checking of details, we were shown to our dormitory. This was a long barrack room, with about a dozen steel-frame beds each side. A wooden locker-cum-wardrobe was for storage of clothes and equipment, but was by no means private as it was subject to daily spot-checks for tidiness.

I had been advised by the old soldiers of Chester not to have a bed near the door, as one was subject to being nabbed for quick errands and duties and litter clearing. Even worse, if the ablutions were not clean the zealous junior NCO’s would grab the first handful of soldiers they saw, and detail them to clean up the mess. So near-proximity to the only door of the block was not strongly recommended.

“But that’s not all,” the former veterans would continue, “Don’t have a bed on the window side of the block, because you’ll forever be responsible for cleaning the damned thing.” The burgers continued in the same vein, about the horrors of having a bunk near a window. “Not to mention the inconvenience of chaps creeping in after lights out - they’ll tap on your window and wake you up; then they’ll put their muddy boots on your bed as they climb through.”

“And whatever you do, don’t get a bed near the stove.” Each barrack block had one old-fashioned stove, which could get the room surprisingly hot. We became used to sitting round it at night to keep warm, and you could even go to the cookhouse and acquire some bread and butter, in order to make toast. However, “Having a bed near one of these would be an invitation to disaster,” my old cronies in Chester had said; “Chaps would be sitting on the end of your bed all night, chatting and smoking. And you could get very hot, and then in the early hours you’ll feel very cold, and above all your bed will always look in a mess; and you’d get the blame if the stove was not clean.”

Well, all this advice was well meant, but it did not help the conscript who has little choice in these matters. I was allocated the second bed down from the door, on the window side. There were no negative results because of this location; on the contrary, I was always one of the first outside and on parade. Those at the far end of the room, near the stove, having the responsibility of polishing the floor behind them, as they exited in the morning, so that the room remained in a spotless condition.

e were now taken quickly to the cookhouse for lunch. This event always aroused much mirth amongst the ‘old hands’ in their smart uniforms, seeing the ‘newies’ in their civvies. There would be appropriate banter like ‘Where’s your dummy?’ or ‘Does your nanny know you’re here?’ All we could do was grin and bear it, little knowing that in five weeks time, when the next lot of conscripts arrived, we would be dishing out the same sort of stuff.

On that first day in the army, it was essential for new arrivals to be kitted out, so that they gave some semblance of being a soldier. That meant being issued with every item of military clothing we could possibly need, down to a change of underclothing and even spare shoelaces. Our civilian clothes would be of no use whatsoever, so we were told, and indeed they encouraged you to “Pack ‘em up in a brown bag, and send ‘em back to ‘yer dear old mum; give ‘er something to remember you by.” (snigger).

It was then regarded as being very important for us to be shown how to make our beds properly - that means in the correct military style. We were given several demonstrations on this, with particular emphasis being placed on the double lines down the centre of the blankets which were our guide to a well balanced and made up bed. Woe betides the soldier who could not keep these lines straight.

We were subjected to numerous talks and lectures on military discipline. We were also physically assaulted with various vaccinations. These latter made us feel very drowsy, as well as encouraging large scabs to form on the arm. The ‘film show’ at night was on the evils of venereal disease, which we were all expected to catch at some stage in our military career. The disfigured, bloated, swollen genitals shown on the screen was not easy viewing, particularly for those feeling queezy from the jabs they had received earlier.

uch was my first day in the British Army. I also had a number - 23352787. That number is unique to me. You were advised, cajoled, told, and ordered to remember that number. You did - and you never forgot it. Years later, when meeting up with former national servicemen, that number revealed a lot. Firstly, if you met someone who could not remember their number, then you endeavoured to escape from their company as quickly as possible (to save embarrassment) because it indicated that they had never done national service. Secondly, the first four digits were a clue to the progression of call-up; those with 2334 would have been before me, and it was always gratifying to check the dates that former members gave you, with their number. They always tied up. In some regiments, particularly the Welsh, the last three digits of your number went with your surname. Thus, it was quite common to hear of Sapper Jones 285, who was a completely different soldier to Sapper Jones 721. In addition, in the Minutes of a wives club meeting, you would read of the chair being taken by Mrs Williams 439. Such is the army way – an answer for every conceivable situation, easily and acceptably resolved!

uch has been written about the abuses to which conscripts were put during their first ten weeks in the Services - ‘square bashing’ - and many films accurately portray the indignities and insults which they suffered. Having been one of them I can confirm that everything you have read in books, or heard and seen on the screen is absolutely true, so I will not bother to relate any of the old tales and barrack room jokes, and parade ground stories. They are old hat now. Every single National Serviceman heard the same jokes, from deranged NCO’s, at every parade ground in the country. It would be impossible for me to try to relate any one tale that has not been heard before. I think most ex-National Servicemen can modestly say they have heard ‘em all.

The only difference between the real thing and the film and TV portrayal of national service is that the real thing was worse! No film censor would allow the f’s and c’s to which we were subjected, as a part of everyday, normal, parade-ground-speak

For no doubt many others - coming from a sheltered grammar school background – as well as me, it was a great cultural shock hearing grown men using such language. Nothing I ever heard behind the bicycle sheds had prepared me for this. I think that at first the new conscript was just numb with disbelief. Then, after a few days the effects wore off and we became used to it until, finally, we began to see the funny side of some of the remarks.

We finally retired, after our first day in the army, feeling utterly exhausted physically - many came from Scotland, indeed, from all over the kingdom, and were very tired - and emotionally whacked. We were from all walks of life, most straight from school but with a smattering of those lags whom had been working since they were fifteen. We shared one thing, namely, a common reluctance to be in the army in the first place, and a determination to keep out of trouble.

eveille came at 06.00 hours, and was a cruel shock to the system, on a cold November morning. No gentle alarm clock, but a crazed lance corporal whose job was to make you loathe him. Much banging of dustbin lids and screaming of the penalties that awaited the last one out of bed. The corporals loved that first morning. Normally just the one allotted NCO had the duty of waking you up. For the new arrivals they would go around as a pack of four, to each block in turn, just for the hell and the pleasure of watching these unfortunates in a dazed condition trying to get out of bed in a freezing cold room, with a wooden floor.

You then lined up outside the washroom, for your turn at the sink. Clean teeth, wash - and shave, if you were old enough! I was not the only one who had a nice new electric shaver that had not yet been used. The sanitation was always above reproach, although concrete floors are never inviting. With a large number of men queuing for the toilets, and the consequent breaking of wind from those inside the cubicle as well as those outside, the early morning ablutions is a memory best forgotten.

Once finished you returned to make your bed and waited until everyone had performed, to the best of their ability, in the toilet block. Then the order was given to line up outside in your casual fatigues, to be marched to the cookhouse for breakfast. This was the army way of doing things - although surprisingly we were allowed to make our own way back to the billet.

Now came the big clean up of the barrack block, ready for morning inspection at 07.00 hours. By this time, you were also correctly and smartly dressed in your uniform, with jacket, trousers, khaki socks, khaki vest, khaki underpants, black boots, khaki gaiters and black beret in place. On the first morning we got away with murder in the sloppy way we dressed, and with the ‘dirt and filth’ found in our billet, but received dire threats as to our fate should there be any repetition.

he popular films depicting life of the national serviceman were never more correctly portrayed than in those parade ground scenes, where conscripts are drilled for the first time. Remember, we all wore tunics as portrayed (some ten years later) in the TV series ‘Dad’s Army’ - the battledress having been the basic uniform for years. On the parade ground we were lined up into three ranks, and taught how to stand to attention correctly, how to march, how to stop marching, and how to salute.

There were three categories of recruit. Those who had been in the cadets, or some other uniformed society, who were familiar with the basics of drill - they shone like beacons against the rest of us. Those who had not (the rest) but who picked up the basics quickly, although lacking in conviction of movement; I can put myself into this category. And those who hadn’t, couldn’t and didn’t. These latter were a nightmare, with two left feet, two right arms, and a brain that was slow to respond to any instruction. We turn right, and they will turn left; we halt, and they carry on marching. Those black-and-white films made in the fifties are so funny, and so accurate.

What they don’t portray is that the rest of us had to carry on drilling until these weaker souls were up to scratch; so we all suffered, including the NCO’s. When it came to official parades, of course, there were always one or two poor sods who just had to be kept out of the way, and out of sight; cookhouse fatigues, so essential, generally did the trick. These unfortunates were generally the sort of chaps who, through no basic fault of their own, spent a thoroughly miserable and wasteful two years of their lives doing menial tasks. They were just not the right sort of person to be in uniform

t the start of our first full week we all piled into trucks and set off to Aldershot to have our eyes tested. I often wish I had kept my metal-framed gas-mask-type spectacles. Fortunately, I was not required to wear them, but they always had to remain with my kit for possible use in ‘the war’ and they later became a souvenir, now alas lost.

Drill immediately took on a sinister note when, after just a couple of days of non-stop practice, we were issued with rifles. This was the .303 rifle, a large awkward thing to handle, but it became your responsibility for the whole of your ten weeks, and was never to be left out of your sight, unless it was secured in your locker. We were even told we could take the rifle to bed with us, as long as we didn’t abuse it and get our parts caught up in it (cue snigger and laughter from the NCO’s).

Almost immediately after this we fired the .22 rifle on the twenty-five yard range, to give us the feel of a small weapon, and the next day - my nineteenth birthday - we fired the .303 for the first time. The cosiness of grammar school life was light years behind me; indeed, the days were so hectic that we did not have time to think about anything but the next practice, drill or lecture. Padre’s hour was immediately after pay parade, once a week, and it was incredible that he should try to lecture to such an exhausted group of men, in a warm smoky atmosphere in the club house, with many chaps nodding off. We were all so weak from our non-stop physical efforts that, just sitting down, doing nothing, was enough for the eyelids to slam. For this reason I found padre’s hour very difficult, and I thought he was fighting a losing battle anyway as those who didn’t go to church were unlikely to be converted in their current strict military situation.

ur first big military tryout was the Armistice Day Parade; we had our greatcoats on, lovely thick warm jobs. The corporals were not going ballistic on this parade, as we had only to march into place - without rifles - and stay put until called to attention. We were not a threat to their careers at this stage.

All spare time in those early days, and weeks, was spent on bulling; cleaning boots, the webbing (belts and straps), and the brasses (buttons and badges). They all required non-stop attention. The slightest speck was classified as filth and muck, and punishments were appropriately awarded. Being ‘on a charge’ before the company commander - a major - was a serious offence which stayed on your records for twelve months. Punishments varied from ‘ten days CB’ (confined to barracks), to extra duties or, in serious cases, a ‘reprimand.’

fter a couple of weeks, we were ready for guard duties. These came all too frequently - every few days - and meant that you lost a night’s sleep. Although the basic army rule was ‘two on four off,’ the two hours duty walking around the camp in the dead of night seemed interminable, and the four hours rest on a mattress, with boots on of course, was not conducive to sleep. I was not alone in being so exhausted, but you just kept going. In fact, the bus trips we had to the rifle ranges were a positive forty-five minutes of bliss, as we all slept. The hardest part of army routine was attending talks and lectures, as it was difficult to keep awake. It was much easier for us automatons, used to non-stop physical movement, to do a road-march than to attend a lecture.

The road-march itself was the thermometer of a soldier’s battle-worthiness. He was deemed ready if he could march five miles in full battle order - rifle on shoulder, helmet resting on his packs - in less than one hour. I know we did it with just two minutes to spare; it was a gruelling exercise which we undertook a few times, to prove the point. Even the corporals cajoled us to finish on time as they, too, would be subject to a re-run the next day.

fter four weeks of drilling, bulling, shooting, listening to talks about battalion structure and the imminent third world war, and doing guard duties, we all had a thirty-six hour pass. This was a highly coveted prize - you even had a travel warrant to say where you would like to travel to - and it always, traditionally, ended on a Sunday at one minute to midnight. This was the dreaded ‘twenty-three-fifty-nine-hours’ - there being no such thing as midnight in army jargon.

My first pass I spent with the Toms in Farnborough. My father turned up to see how I was getting on. He had left me completely alone once I had joined up of course, as there was nothing he could do for me anyway. The two or three PTI’s (physical training instructors) at Brock Barracks all knew him, as I had mentioned his name to them. It didn’t help me at all, the fact that I was a major’s son, in fact it made things worse as they expected better from me during P.E. lessons

e now had our first big parade - the passing-out parade of the intake ahead of us. We were kept very much in the background, although we had to march on and off in time to the band. We had shaped up pretty well and, incredibly, it meant that we were half way through our basic training. But these boys in front of us, well, we still had a long way to go to match their perfection of drill, presentation and confidence; they were real soldiers compared to us.

We now graduated to the firing of the LMG - the light machine gun - that is located on a tripod and can fire single shots or the whole belt of ammo. It is a frightening experience, but not so lethal as the Sten gun, or Sten Machine Carbine. This latter is one of those that you fire from the hip and, once started, cannot be stopped (so it seemed to me) until the magazine is empty. The NCO’s were particularly edgy about this weapon, and drilled into us that we must always keep our eyes on the target, and ‘never take ‘em off.’ Apparently it once happened, so they would have us believe, that one recruit turned to his corporal whilst this thing was firing rapidly - and on turning to speak to his mentor, the gun, clasped firmly to the side of his hip, swung round with him. We did not dare laugh at this, as we could see the serious potential of the slightest hiccup. It was the only time that you had an NCO standing right behind you, his nose touching your neck, his knees touching the backs of your knees, when you fired the sten gun.

The hand-grenade was no less dangerous, as it was up to you to throw the thing as far away as possible. We had a couple of dummy runs - you throw a grenade not as if it were a cricket ball, but with the throwing arm kept straight so that you lob the thing into the air, and away from you. Then, at Churn Ranges, in deep trenches, wearing our tin helmets, we each threw two live hand-grenades. No matter where you are, or who you are, when you throw a hand-grenade the order is given by the platoon commander, when he has seen where the grenade has landed, “Down!” - at which you all crouch down until you hear the muffled explosion.

was becoming a real soldier now, if not a rather bewildered one. More guard duties and even the Annual Admin Parade to cope with, this latter event being the cause of much panicking and raging. Then, when it was over, smiles and Christmas Passes were issued. I was one of those detailed to stay behind, which meant I would have New Year at home. In the meantime I experienced the army Christmas Day, which occurs a few days before the actual Festive Day, with tea in bed at 07.00 hours, and a Dinner with the full works and all the old boys of the Royal Berkshire Regiment in attendance. Those medal ribbons had us recruits mesmerised. To think, the chaps around me had fought in both world wars, and some had served under Queen Victoria. I always remember the seating arrangements for that Dinner, which had us recruits in two’s and three’s together, but amongst the old soldiers, also in two’s and three’s; this excellent arrangement meant that everyone was with his peers as well as those of a different generation.

I was on guard duty and fire piquet over the seasonal break, although it was my turn to have a rest and I actually got away to Frimley Green on Christmas Day. I had also attended midnight mass, but I can’t recall whether there was a garrison church or whether I went to a nearby church outside the barracks. Certainly this was the age when servicemen were welcomed with open arms, particularly at Methodist and Congregationalist churches or chapels (which were less formal), and the cup of tea and meat-paste sandwiches afterwards were a treat. We were always in uniform of course.

In fact, a regular - daily - happening that many garrison towns like Reading, Chester, York, and Aldershot used to see was the movement of troops along the high street, marching from one place to another. The sight of uniforms was so commonplace; now of course they are so rare.

e had an educational-type lecture with a sergeant instructor in the RAEC, and afterwards I went up to him to ask about my chances of joining the corps. I was stood rigidly at attention, but he told me to relax and take my cap off - this latter being a signal for casual, but careful, manners. Hearing of my GCE’s he immediately said there would be no bar on being a national service instructor, indeed, I was more than adequately qualified. He said he would put my name on the list of those who would go on to the Depot at Beaconsfield. I was delighted.

In the army, right at the beginning they make a note on your records of which unit, regiment or corps you would like to join, and if you have any relative so serving therein. In my case eyebrows were always raised at the rank of my father; and even though they accepted that I did not want to go into his corps, I’m sure they felt that I should at least have been attending the officer training unit. I was also asked the question “Where would you like to be posted, if you had the chance?” I know many chaps wanted to go back to Scotland, or to Wales, and one was married and requested Preston. When I said “Hong Kong”, it caused a startled reaction. I said that I wanted to take advantage of my service days and travel as far as possible - Honkers being the furthest. Therefore, it was entered on my records.

ew Year’s Day 1957 I was at Thornton, having been to a local dance the night before. Army leave passes don’t last long, and the next day I was on the train back to Reading.

I was now throwing thunder flashes and firing blanks, and my final classification was 1^st class for the sten gun, having scored 68 out of a possible 75 points (don’t ask me how I did it), and 2^nd class for the LMG. I also managed to run a mile in seven and a half minutes - wait for it - in full battle order. I have no doubt that at this time in my life I was fitter than I had ever been before.

I was also pleased to be the ‘stick man’ on one occasion, and so didn’t have to do guard duty on my allotted night. The army has this little ruse of detailing the required number of soldiers for guard duty, plus one extra. It counts as a duty for all of you. Then, on inspection at the mounting of the guard, the duty officer ‘appoints’ one soldier to be ‘colonel’s stick man.’ The chosen soldier salutes and exits, his guard duty being deemed finished. The qualification for being ‘stick man’ is an excellent turn out, with not a speck of dust on your person. I knew I stood a chance when I saw that the duty officer was the RAEC sergeant, with whom I had had a good chat not so long previously. I bear no shame; it’s a callous thing anyway when all these poor recruits spend hours bulling, knowing that it’s a waste of time, but always in the hope they could be the Chosen One.

he home straight was in sight, when we had our first rehearsal for our passing-out parade. This is when the insults start again, and the threats about the ones who will have to ‘stay behind and repeat their basic training.’ This was a very real fear for all of us; although we didn’t know if anyone had ever stayed behind for a second dose of ten weeks, we all knew that it was in the sadistic minds of our NCO’s to make us do it. We believed them, and the last thing any of us wanted was to repeat the dosage.

On our last Tuesday, we had the mandatory church parade, in our best gear (“Take yer fuckin’ hat off soldier, don’t you fuckin’ know where you are?”) and this was followed by more rehearsals on the parade ground. The rest of the day, and most of the night was spent in the non-stop bulling of all our equipment; we seriously believed that if any speck of dust was found then we would have to repeat the ten weeks.

On the Wednesday all went well, however; no undue panics, and no-one was made to do the basic training again. Uncle and Auntie Tom came from Farnborough to see the parade - the army even put on some sort of eats and nibbles for all the visitors. And that was it. I’d completed my ten-weeks square bashing, and had ‘passed-out.’ That night, the several chaps all going on to the RAEC Depot were put together, and the next day we were taken by truck to Reading Station, and set off for Beaconsfield.

he eight-week course at the home of the Royal Army Educational Corps was completely different to that at Reading. At the former we were treated as undesirable amoeba, fit only for latrine duties (“You look like a shit, you act like a shit, so you may as well go and work in a fucking shit house, soldier!”). At the latter, we were treated almost as gentlemen, potential sergeant instructors whose job was to educate. So no more swearing and foul oaths. Instead of being members of a platoon, we were now part of a syndicate, and within a day of arrival we were removing our shoulder flashes bearing the Royal Berkshire Regiment wording, and replacing them with the Royal Army Educational Corps insignia. Although we were still only private soldiers in the corps, we felt as though we were half way there.

traight away they had us on duties and, as part of our training in pretending to be a sergeant, we were made Duty Syndicate Sergeant. This entailed having a large armband, bearing those words, in case you forgot who you were supposed to be, and you were ‘watched day and night to assess your potential.’ Life was much easier, but the sword was hanging over the heads of us all – one foot wrong and you would be RTU’d. This dreaded acronym meant being ‘returned to unit’ and indicated failure and shame. We were all sixth form types at Beaconsfield, with something of an education behind us, and we were being assessed for our ability to wear three stripes and go out into the field and educate others. The thought of failing, and removing the pale blue flash of the corps and replacing the red flash of the Berkshire Regiment, was just too awful to contemplate. Just imagine returning to Reading – so we thought at the time – and facing the taunts of the corporals. (It was only much later that we realised that we would not actually return to our basic training unit but would be posted elsewhere).

In addition to the duty mentioned above, we also had armbands for Dining Room Orderly Sergeant, and for Company Orderly Sergeant. The word ‘sergeant’ gave us a glowing feeling, but we all knew that it was a game of ‘pretend.’ There were virtually no junior NCO’s or privates at Beaconsfield; it was all senior NCO’s and officers. It is quite funny really, to look at the way the two camps viewed officers. At Reading, the sighting of a captain in the distance would bring the parade ground to a standstill. At Beaconsfield the several syndicate captains would actually be taking the parade themselves, all at the same time, on different corners of the parade ground, and giving the potential sergeant instructors commands to obey. At Reading, the sight of a major was regarded as a vision of the Deity, but at Beaconsfield, they were rather commonplace.

I remember one major who had to chair the camp’s quarterly NAAFI Meeting. I was there as the company representative – that’s right! I was wearing an armband with some appropriate wording on it. This major made it clear that the meeting was a necessary burden for him as well as for us. He started by demanding NAAFI tea and biscuits for us all. That was a good start, and put the NAAFI representative on the spot. However, my heart sank when, towards the end of the meeting, the major asked me if I had any comments to make. Too late, I realised that I had made myself conspicuous by my silence. All eyes turned towards me, awaiting my reply. No doubt they were impressed with my armband.

I said “No sir!” Let us face it, I hadn’t a clue what the meeting was supposed to be about.

“Everyone happy then, are they?” asked the major.

“Yes sir!” I replied, not having been instructed to say otherwise.

“Oh well, jolly good then,” he said, “We may as well all go home now.”

There was general laughter in my direction, and I blushed and laughed with them, pretending to get the joke.

he course at Beaconsfield consisted of writing the odd English essay and sitting the occasional Maths test; this was to ensure that we were up to the mark in these basic subjects. The AMR – army map reading – was part of the foundation of the eight-week assessment, as this is the soldier’s bread and butter. We have to teach it to them, so that they can go out into the field leading a small platoon. Therefore, we had AMR in the daytime, and at night-time, using grid and compass bearings. I was not too bad at all this, as it followed on from my A-level geography.

At a very early interview with my syndicate captain I again answered the same two key questions. First, that my father was a major in the APTC and I had no desire, or ability, to follow in his footsteps; secondly, that I wished to be posted to Hong Kong. I do not recall any unusual reaction, but he had already seen how young I looked and he asked me how confident I would feel ordering some war-weary corporals around. They existed in quite large numbers and would not get their third stripe until they had reached the appropriate army standard of education. Naturally, I told the syndicate captain that I felt very confident.

nother feature of the course was the five-minute lecturette. There were two versions of this torture. In one, the warm-up, you received a topic five minutes in advance. You then delivered your thoughts on the subject, to the members of the syndicate. The other version required you to stand in front of the class, pull a slip of paper out of the captain’s cap, appraise everyone of the title, and speak non-stop for five minutes on that subject. For the life of me, I cannot remember the subject about which I had to speak, but I did manage to make them laugh.

More lectures, teaching practices (TP’s), duties on guard or in the dining room, forced cross country running, drill parades, Admin briefings – the pressure was non-stop. And to cap it all I was told, on 21^st February 1957 that my chances of being made a Sgt Instructor were negligible. However, shortly afterwards I had a TP which I have recorded as being ‘not bad’ and after that I gave a lecture on ‘Germany.’ I can’t imagine what I must have spoken about, but it did the trick and on 4^th March, I was promoted to Sergeant Instructor RAEC. I know that, in our intake, there was one timid lad who did not make it. I seem to recall that we all felt that his case was a bit obvious. I was next in line for rejection, because of my youth, but at least my voice carried and I did not go to pieces in front of the syndicate when addressing them.

The sewing-on of those stripes was a very serious affair, and it kept us occupied the whole evening. How heavy they felt on the arms. We were so proud of them. To think, we now outranked all those horrible little lance-corporals who had made our life hell. We spent the night fantasising about turning up at the guardroom at Reading, and asking to see Corporal so-and-so. We each had a different version of what we would say, but were agreed that we would order them to ‘put themselves on a charge for not standing properly to attention when a superior non commissioned officer addresses them.’

hree days later, on 8^th March 1957, I was informed that I had been posted to Hong Kong! I was thrilled to bits, and very excited. Even the chaps going close to their homes, because that is what they had asked for, were now starting to envy me.

We had our Passing-Out Parade, followed by a Church Service. Then it was ten days end-of-course leave. I returned to Thornton. One always travelled in uniform, of course, and at the main stations around the country, one had to keep a wary eye open for the RMP’s whose word was law. One did not argue with the lance-corporal, with his red cap, if he told you that ‘Your tie is not quite straight, and that means that you are improperly dressed, sergeant!’ (This latter word was always spat out with contempt to the easily recognisable national service ‘three-stripe-sprog’). The inference here was that they could take your particulars, if they were so minded, and report you to higher authority. This, of course, would really drop us in it. As ‘acting’ (rather than ‘substantive’) sergeant instructors, we had been left in no doubt that any disciplinary measures taken against us ‘would bring the corps into disrepute’ - and that would be the end of our three stripes. However, we had been briefed that we must thank any member of the corps of military police for their courtesy in drawing any short-comings to our attention, and we avoided any kind of confrontation.

ot only did I have this period of leave, but after three days back at Beaconsfield – staying in the sergeants’ mess – I had two weeks embarkation leave. (The army has an excuse for everything!). I had already been issued with my tropical kit, and had been to London, Millbank, for my yellow-fever jab. This was because we were going via The Cape (the Suez Canal was closed because of the crisis), and at this time in the history of the world all parts of Africa were declared (by Great Britain) to be suspect zones for contracting all known diseases.

said ‘farewell’ to Thornton on Easter Monday 22^nd April, and five days later stepped aboard the troopship “Empire Orwell” which was berthed at Southampton. I had been most impressed at Waterloo station, when the army truck drove onto the platform, and conveyed us directly to our train, and the carriage we were to occupy. Some kind of military transport officer was there, ensuring that we were the right mob to be entrained.

t Southampton I was even more wide-eyed at the train, which chugged (yes! – with billowing smoke) along the actual quayside. Up the gangplank we went, kit back on shoulders in typical gung-ho fashion. In fact, having seen plenty of newsreels showing soldiers carrying their packs in this fashion, it has to be said that it is the only way to carry such an awkward shape. Try rolling up a single mattress, tie it up with a piece of rope, and then carry it down the street. You will soon agree that the shoulder is the only place.

A unique feature of travelling overseas with H M Forces in those days was that no passports were required. It was enough that, for the duration of my service, I always carried my identity card. I was a servant of, and protected by The Crown.

ometime during the early evening of Friday 26^th April 1957 the troopship slid out of the harbour. I was now at sea, having left my native shores for the first time. Rather than having fear for what the future might hold, I can recall being positively exhilarated. This shows what faith I had in the army!

We NCO’s were in some kind of a dormitory in the middle of the vessel. No windows of course. I was on the top of a three-tier bunk, so my view was of a ceiling of pipes just a few inches above my head. A small locker held our kit bags. There must have been hundreds of us cramped in there. We envied the Warrant Officers who would have been a deck above us, and the Officers who would have had their own cabins. We gave no thought to the corporals who would have been below us, or the squaddies below them.

In true army fashion, we were all given jobs, areas of responsibility, and duties. My first duty was in the kitchen, but I hadn’t a clue what I was supposed to do, and so I stood around as a spare. Fortunately, I was not asked to do it again, as all the schoolies – about a dozen of us – were detailed for educational purposes.

he following Tuesday we docked at Las Palmas in the Canary Islands, and I was able to enjoy an afternoon around the town with a couple of other education sergeants. One of them, ‘Taff’, I was to meet up almost ten years later when he arrived back in Singapore as a Captain in the Chaplains Department. He had taken up Holy Orders at some stage after qualifying, and had signed on – this time voluntarily.

he troop ship was used to convey families overseas, as well as soldiers. The role of the educational corps was primarily to relieve the boredom of all those on board and make sure that everyone was doing something useful, although officially it was classed as an educational programme. Therefore, a need would be identified to educate some squaddies in their map reading, for example, in readiness for their next level of promotion examinations. Some schoolies might be attached to the entertainments team, and run tombola games and the like; I recall being envious that Taff ran the ship’s radio programme, and had his request slots and so on. I was detailed, and I must be honest and say that I had been asked to give a preference, to ‘look after’ the senior pupils on the ship.

This entailed drawing up a syllabus (of sorts) to cover English and other ‘relevant’ subjects. Well, this was quite a good number for me, as even at that early stage of my life I could confidently talk to pupils, and by drawing maps we were able to ‘do’ geography, a most important subject on the high seas. Visits to the bridge, the engine room, and so on formed the basis for essays. And art lessons were a must. So every student, and their teacher, had quite a good little thing going for them throughout the journey.

I forgot to mention that there were only six pupils, five girls and a boy, aged between ten and about fifteen. So you can see how easy things were. In fact, I had a moment of worry when one of my charges casually said to me “My mum thinks you’re too young to be teaching us.” It was true, of course, that at nineteen I was their chronological equal, and as I looked young for my age I could – and did – seem to be very much one of them. I had fears that I would be relieved of my duties, and mentioned this to my immediate superior, a WO2 in education, but he told me not to worry about it. Wise man. Nothing happened.

ife on the troop ship was very happy. I felt at peace with the world, admiring the sunsets, joining in the various silly games, receiving my certificate from King Neptune on crossing the equator, and lying on deck at night to sleep as it was so hot, and there was no air down below. It was then that I could see, for the first time in my life, how bright and clear the stars were. As viewed from the Atlantic, alongside the West Coast of Africa, and away from the bright lights of Europe, they were magnificent. The word ‘pollution’ had not been brought into use at this stage. Later in the voyage, I was to see an eclipse of the moon, and that certainly brought everyone on deck. It was all so vivid and bright; the numbers of stars in the clear sky were beyond comprehension. At home, we would see cloud and a few ‘specks.’ We called those stars. Get into the middle of the oceans, I say, and you will then see what stars look like.

y arrival in Cape Town, on Sunday 12^th May, was memorable for two reasons. First, it rained most of the day, which meant that with poor visibility I could not see the Table Mountain. I did have a glimpse of it as we pulled out of harbour during that evening, but I felt I had been cheated. Secondly was the vision of all these ‘taxis’ lined up at the gates to the dock, waiting to ‘tout’ for trade. The queue went right along the perimeter fence, round the corner, and out of sight.

Well, I was wrong. As we all lined up on the dockside, forming an orderly body, awaiting our turn to be ‘picked up,’ a kindly old salt explained that we wouldn’t have to pay anything as these were not taxis but the private cars belonging to the expatriates living in South Africa. They knew that a troop ship was going to berth that day, and they wanted to take us around, show us the sights, and take us to their homes for a meal. Some had been waiting for many hours, so important was it to them to share a few hours with their compatriots.

And so I was with the novice three-stripers, who were taken around Cape Town, eventually to arrive at the large residence of our host, where his wife was eagerly awaiting our arrival with sandwiches and cakes, and strawberries and cream. News from ‘home’ was eagerly lapped up, and we each had to say where we came from, and so on. They seemed to be especially pleased to be talking to young national servicemen.

At the time, one thinks only how kind it was of them to take us in. Later, and with maturity, one reflects and becomes rather moved at the gesture. In the mid nineteen fifties, the barren dockside area of Cape Town, like Liverpool, had little to offer the soldier with a few hours shore leave. Even in the town every single shop, pub and café would be closed. These expats did something about it. I shall not forget the kindness shown that day, to so many hundreds of servicemen.

couple of days after leaving Cape Town, we berthed at Durban. A few hours on shore allowed us to explore the town, and I can remember having a bumpy rickshaw ride with a frightening tribal chieftain pulling the vehicle and jumping and skipping at the same time.

From Durban the troop ship moved silently towards Ceylon, and we used to put the clocks on by half an hour every night. At Colombo, I had another short spell on dry land. I have always regretted, as a memory of this voyage, not having a full portfolio of photographs taken of the sights of those days. I had acquired some kind of a camera, but it produced only eight black and white pictures per film, so one snapped very sparingly. A general shot and that was it. I have one photograph of my class of pupils on the ship, two of Las Palmas, non of Cape Town (rain means bad light – an important issue in those days for the little box camera) and just a couple of Durban. What a shame for posterity – let alone for me.

The journey entered its final stretch down the Malacca Straits, and the sight of that clear water, without a ripple, looking just like a sheet of blue-green glass, was for me one of the wonders of the world.

Our last night before docking at Singapore was one of high excitement for everybody. No doubt, the boozers were having a good old time in the various messes on the ship, for this was a classic occasion to have a drink and say farewell to all those new-found friends. Some would be going on to Hong Kong, some would stay in Singapore, and many would be posted to the various garrisons the length and breadth of Malaya. There was not much sleep that night.