Pre-Arborfield

While at the reunion, Dick WRIGHT brought a photo along which depicted a collection of weapons I kept in a shed adjacent to my home before I joined AAS - I won't go into the story too deeply now but it had one of everything that the infantry had at the time and more, including a Boys Anti-tank Rifle, Stens, etc. I used to fire these in a chalk pit on the farm wearing a local Army Cadet Force hat to provide authenticity. I don't think that would be received with such enthusiasm by locals now. Our landlord was an oddball who found himself as the Procurement Officer for the County Home Guard during World War II, the proceeds of which he kept to himself after the war. This is how I became fanatical about being an armourer and quite able to shoot and strip weapons down by the time AAS came along. If I had not got into the trade the Army adventure would have been all over for me. Sometime later in the fifties when a firearms amnesty was declared, the Royston newspapers featured a story of two lorries full of weapons, ammunition and guncotton explosives arriving outside the local police station. I used to blow out the roots of tree trunks with that - a 1 pound hunk with a 1 ounce detonator, two wires, a battery and a contactor made it feel like doing a man's-job!

A Boys Anti-Tank rifle is positioned immediately in front of the rifles propped up against the door

AAS Arborfield

Bob TEMPLE’s bit about Rodeos prompts an addition to his story, as I was one of the ‘others’. The offence in question concerns a return rail journey (from Waterloo Station) to Wokingham where a few of our intake were returning from a ‘free Sunday’. One of our number got over-excited when, half hanging out of the carriage window, he spied some well-endowed local talent walking by at one of the intervening stations. He engaged his rather large mouth, which rose to the occasion without also engaging the brain, and let forth a row of exclamations and words of Army approval that caught the ear of one or two elderly passengers who could not accept they needed such lessons on the English language. Needless to add, a full bevy of MPs/RPs greeted us at Wokingham Station and reported the contents of two or three compartments to the AAS. We all went on Company Orders and because none of us would give away the name of the entertainer with the big mouth, we were all referred to CO’s Orders to be dealt with together (it involved four Companies together with O/Cs and CSMs from each and the CO’s office had just as many occupants in it as did Waterloo Station at rush hour! I wonder why I only remember Lofty’s (THORNTON) name from the group of fellow ‘Rodeo-ers’? Thoughts of those Saturday afternoons of square bashing will remain in my mind forever as the worst examples of the traditional infantry NCO of the time. It was all part of the education that confirmed I was taking the better path in going the trade route.

I remember going out on a Saturday night to Poole with ‘Yank’ BOULTER and at least nine or ten others in, I believe, a black Packard that ‘Yank’ owned (the one with only a small vanity window at the rear). One such time returning from Poole in the early hours of Sunday morning, the occupants in various states of consciousness including YB, the said car, without any help, decided to wander off on its own and rolled over as it sped round a corner – needless to say all the occupants were qualified Arborfield and Chepstow September 49ers oblivious of the need to maintain the numbers of living September 49ers for future contacts in the Internet, or of lesser importance, to allow the MOD to get some return on its investment. At least one ‘late’ occupant found sitting in the hedge was heard to casually remark, as he woke to an exploring torch: “F’kinell, I don’t remember paying for the helter-skelter ride but I’ll have some more of that again if it’s free.” [He didn’t, and it wasn’t; he paid for it later in the day after getting back to Bovie (Bovington) to nurse a thick head and a crop of cuts and bruises]. I believe the car survived to fight another dark corner or two, but can’t vouch for what it ultimately did to the mentality of the young teenage occupants, poor unsuspecting sods we were. It was rumoured that passers-by stopped to search for the second car involved, as they could not believe we were all travelling in the one car. Needless to add, ‘Yank’ didn’t return any of his exorbitant overcharging for the pleasure of doing business with him. We had to put it all down as part of the cost of our accelerated learning programme, compliments of HM Forces, and we all continued to support his endeavours to be the fore-runner of the National Express Bus Service. Could he be selling unsuspecting Lottery Winners their new Rollers? I wonder where he is now? A VM’s oily rag to the person who finally tracks him down, or drinks all weekend to whoever brings him along to a reunion.

Having been a bugler in the Army Cadet Force, when the two Permanent Staff buglers at AAS Arborfield (one of whom being Lance Corporal KELLY – Sergeant Fred SILVER's favourite drinking partner at the guard room) packed up, I was one of the dozen or so who volunteered to do this chore for an extra six days leave a year, and a decent fry-up of eggs, bangers, chips and fried tomatoes with the night guard on my duty days. I even remember going into the cookhouse to get a mug of tea to warm up the mouthpiece on cold frosty mornings at 6.30am before sounding Reveille.

My Mum sent me a food parcel every week, which arrived on Saturday mornings so I was one of Post Corporal Bill PERRY’s best customers! (See photo in Max WARWICK’s photo album). It was all eaten by mid-day Sunday – I can still smell the choc bars and sundry goodies and cakes hidden in my locker and slowly diminishing over the weekend between visits to the Cookhouse, the NAAFI, maybe Reading for a black velvet and not forgetting the weekly read of “Reveille” etc. as we rested in our pits. When I think about what we got up to in our time off, I don’t remember one minute of study work (paperwork) being done – our skills were all in our hands – the only thing we used our brain for was to dodge any undue pressure or work allocation from our noisy seniors, how to deal with shirkers and obnoxious colleagues, and keep out of the way of the usual bullyboys – nothing much different I suppose from the usual passage of life!

I remember one return from Reading on the last bus on Saturday evening – as we all drifted/stumbled down the aisle, after the bus had stopped, waiting to go down the stairs of the double-decker, one of our company lifted the peaked cap off the head of the bus conductor as he trod the last few steps from upstairs and felt it necessary to deposit the entire contents of his stomach into the hastily upturned receptacle – phew, what a pong! The provision of such was a blessing to all of us in the shuffling queue as it saved our clothes. However, the slightly aggrieved conductor decided to move the bus on an extra 100 yards (which was rather nice) to the Guard Room where he vented his spleen on the RPs as they tried in vain to seek out the offending Apprentice. We never did find out where he got such a generous portion of fish and chips or what pub had provided the obviously strong brew in which they had had a really good pickling.

Regular Army

I am reminded of a sad story of my Army career at the hands of our resident RSM when serving in the Canal Zone - I was responsible for the security of our Regiment's four armouries at El Ballah during the time of the evacuation of said place and had to visit each location first thing each morning. They were sited at distant locations around the garrison, and not feeling too brisk at the start of day, had the opportunity to make the rounds on pedal transport being one scrounged Army folding bike - the only one in camp. Imagine my dismay one day to read on Daily Regimental Orders that the riding of bikes was forbidden within the Garrison perimeter. Not wishing to question the lack of intelligence of the author, the RSM (prior knowledge already adequate info) I knocked on his door to plead a case for restoration of rights. Guess who won? I got a dose of being Orderly Sergeant for riding over his nicely raked sand either side of the camp main road. Not being the one to further his education beyond his capacity, I didn’t wish to strain the situation any further by telling him the trails in the sand were the work of many stray dogs roaming the camp with dangling chains attached to their collars. The Married Families homes had been vacated in the weeks earlier and the pets had been kicked out and left to their own devices. Never did get to use my bike again, shame really as it was the only time I had my hands on an Army bike (with wheels and not legs) and they were usually the armourer’s responsibility to service and repair. Never did know why we spent so much time learning to build a bicycle wheel during our apprenticeship - it was all to no avail.