Mémoire - Peter McGUIGGAN

A.A.S. Arborfield - Early Days and Trade Aptitude Selection

The early days were a blur of rush and bewilderment; getting a uniform and lots of other things including a housewife! (Now that was a disappointment!).  As we were only 15-year olds, brought up on the post-war Labour Government rations, we were normally small in stature and skinny, and as the uniforms were designed for adults, then, drastic surgery was necessary to get it to fit. Rather like super-models, safety pins were the mainstay of our sartorial splendour – safety pins in the back of the trouser waist to take up a slack of at least six inches; safety pins in our denim jackets to reduce the voluminous material at the back to a manageable size. Enormous berets needed shrinking in boiling water to look just a little more warrior-like; oversize boots of pimpled leather needed the pimples burning flat with a hot spoon and black polish. Brown plimsoles needed a change of colour with black polish. Just why the kit couldn’t have been issued in the correct condition?

The sense of bewilderment was enhanced by the urgings of our senior NCOs to “F***ing hurry, f***ing move it, you little f***ers.” There was no doubt about it; the Anglo-Saxon words added an emphasis and urgency which would have been missed with more polite language. Anglo-Saxon epithets were adopted wholesale by the boys to pretend their manliness; my favourite was the splitting of words with a profanity, making almost poetic utterances, such as kangerf***ingroo’. We were boys using profanity to pretend our manliness; at an AOBA reunion, I noticed many ex-boys using profanity to pretend their youth!

There was an overbearing sense that we had done something wrong; no-one would tell us what we had done wrong and we had no clue what we had done wrong, but by God, we were going to pay for it!

I remember being quite miserable to the sounds of Paul Anka singing Diana on the NAAFI radio. Queues were never ending because everyone else had priority over us. The food was appalling. I remember my first breakfast of Bubble and Squeak, a dish that surely gets its name from the bubbly buttered frying potato and squeaky green cabbage slipped in at the optimum time. Our poor ACC staff had to produce a dish of that name using pom and dehydrated cabbage! Using all of the culinary skills at their disposal (I suspect they were not many) they could not produce a palatable dish. Never mind, there was an unlimited supply of bread with the consistency of brick, fried to a deep brown. And dark-brown tea aplenty to wash down this cuisine and dampen our ardour.

There were marches down the road to the wooden hut near 3 Battalion where a short-tempered dentist dressed in riding livery would give us a peremptory examination. I never did understand the riding boots and whip – was he a cavalry vet?

To fill in slack hours, we were set to cut the grass around HQ Company huts. A good idea you might think, but we were told to use our ‘eating iron’ knife to cut the grass! This was a touch of genius, as it (a), put us firmly in our place in the hierarchy of honour, and (b) would keep us occupied for as long as necessary.

One day I was told to put down my knife and go to the NAAFI hall. Here I was told I would be tested for my Trade Aptitude. I was given sheets of paper and asked to do some jolly difficult sums. I was given more sheets of paper which asked me to find the association between various animals such as elephants, cats, cows, mules etc. I must say that I jolly well had to guess at some of the associations! Then they gave me a Meccano thingy and told me to make a crane. They looked a little puzzled at my offering, so then they gave me a tray filled with various sized holes, some with pulleys in. They told me to insert the correct gear wheels so that these and the pulleys would cause a heavy weight to be lifted by turning the small gear in the bottom right-hand corner. I had ten minutes to complete the task, but I am afraid I got into a bit of a pickle, and nothing seemed to work correctly. I smiled at my monitor but he seemed in a bit of a bad mood that day. Then there were some English tests which I found quite easy.

“Right”, said the Sergeant, “Piss off and we will tell you the next time we want to see you”. So I pissed off and was quite happy cutting single stalks of grass with my knife to the sound of Paul Anka, eating ghastly food and scrubbing  belts and gaiters in the blanco room. “This is the life for me” I thought.

About a week later I was called back for my Trade Aptitude Results. Inside the WVRS room was an array of scrubbed and blanketed tables with three Officers sitting behind. I had never met Officers before, so I was really looking forward to it. “Sit down McGuiggan” said one, evidently the most senior. I inspected the name boards on their lapels – Mitchell, Brown and Coles. “Thank you Brown” I said, as he was the one who had spoken to me. They looked at one another. “I believe you have been cutting grass.” said Mitchell. “Yes,” I replied, “jolly interesting work too!” “Would you like to be a full-time grass-cutter McGuiggan?” asked Coles. “Wouldn’t mind, Colesy” I said, “it is a very interesting job”. “Call me Sir” said Coles. “Certainly I will, Colesy.” I said, “Just give me your telephone number and I will give you a bell. Oh, and by the way, no need for formality Colsey, no need to call me Sir”. They looked at each other again. “Look here McGuiggan, the reason we asked you if you would like to be a grass-cutter is because we are having great difficulty placing your aptitude in the range of trades on offer”, said Brown, “In fact, although we may wish to make you a grass-cutter no such trade exists and we have to fit you into the trade most suited to your aptitude, or rather, the trade in which your ineptitude will cause the least damage”. “Jolly good”. I said. “We thought of making you a VM” said Mitchell, “But you are the only candidate to have actually broken the gear-wheels in our kit!” “Yes” said Coles.  “And what on earth was that Meccano crane you made; we have never seen anything like it.” “Bit of difficulty making the wings I am afraid” I said. “I say, you didn’t expect it to fly did you?”

They looked at each other again. “Well you can’t be a VM”, said Mitchell, “You would cause too much damage”. “Nor a Gun Fitter” said Brown, “The consequences firing live rounds could be catastrophic!” “Similar reasoning applies against becoming an Armourer” said Coles, “Someone would die eventually”. “You see” said Mitchell, “In your case it is not a question of matching your aptitude to a trade, but more of a case of matching your ineptitude to the trade that will cause the least damage”. “You are not clever enough to be a Radar Mechanic” said Brown. “All we can think of is a Telecommunications Mechanic” said Coles, “At least with that trade, the worst you can do is sending out a broken radio that was already broken when it came in! What do you think?”

I went into a reverie. Ah! Tele Mech! Leaning back at 45 degrees from the top of a telephone pole with my yellow hard-hat at a rakish angle, a cigarette drooping from the corner of my mouth as I crimped the final joint of a telephone connection which allowed the General to communicate with his forward troops! Taking a rubber glove off, I would wipe the sweat of my brow, and agilely slither down the pole whilst the General would cry “Who is that man?” I would walk into the café with a playful smile on my lips, letting my golden curls tumble over my forehead as I removed my hard-hat. Placing my Avo on the table full of pretty girls I would smilingly ask them to look after it whilst I ordered tea!

Suddenly, all three, Brown, Coles and Mitchell were shaking me – “Wake up McGuiggan, you dozy f***er. You are to become a Tele Mech”. I proudly left the room and walked the length of the NAAFI with a swagger. A Tele Mech!

Square Bashing and Boxing.

Having become, by default, a Tele-mech, I was now herded into a squad with fellow unfortunates to become adept at stamping our feet and being shouted at!

Really, there is not much skill in walking in step, swinging the arms and saluting to the right, although my somewhat unpleasant drill-instructor soon discovered I had a form of marching dyslexia!

I must say that his ministrations to improve upon my condition had quite the opposite to the intended effect, as I was reduced almost to paralysis in fear of his reprimands.

I was also upset in that he seemed quite impervious to my arguments against the futility of drill. He did not seem to understand that at times in the past, drill had been an essential component of military tactics.

The Greek Hoplites with their trotting, hacking squads depended absolutely on a drilled response to the word of command, as did the Roman Legions with their squares of centuries with shields protecting the man to the left and the gladius stabbing and cutting the enemy to the front.

The most famed, and perhaps the most effective of military drill formations (you will understand, Sergeant) was of course the British Square, a fearsome combination of bravery, firepower and massed unified response to the word of command.

Our Sergeant did not seem interested in the fact that those days were long past, and now the only use for drill was either drill-instructor employment opportunity or plain theatre!

In fact, after telling me to f*** off you little s***t he seemed to make my life a little worse after I presented these arguments!

But we all passed and could then march swinging our arms in unison and stamping our feet as one, so that when our parents came to see passing-out parades they could ooh and aah at how smart little Willy was and what a man the Army had made of him! (Ah there’s a man! See him swing his arms in synchronism with his mates! Look at him stamp his foot!)

Believe it or not I was quite proud of my newly acquired skills.

Whilst scrunching the pea-gravel of the square, I had noticed a squad of boys trotting around with towels around their necks and tucked into their track-suit tops or gym-shirts. They would punch the air whilst blowing out from puffed-up cheeks. Very peculiar! They always seemed to go to breakfast early, which had the advantage that the fried bread had not had the time to set to its concrete-like consistency and the fried eggs had not congealed in their lard.

I asked my drill-mentor who these people were and he told me that I would f****g soon find out for myself, now shut up or I will climb up your f*****g nostrils and poke out your f*****g eyeballs with my f*****g pace-stick!!

And he was right, for one day a Sergeant gathered us all together and told us we were now going to f*****g box one another, and if anyone showed any f*****g talent, they might box for the Company or even the School!

This elicited a nil response, as by now we were becoming worldly-wise to any show of any enthusiasm for anything.

So, I found myself in both the Company and School team, not because I evidenced any boxing skills or packed any weight behind my punches, but rather because my opponents were more intelligent than I and did not share my enthusiasm for being knocked around a boxing ring.

I joined the squad trotting around the school early in the morning with a towel around my neck, punching the air and trying to simultaneously expel air from my puffed-up cheeks.

I had no idea at all what this routine sought to achieve, but in male-bonding exercises such questions are not asked.

It was rather good to go to early breakfast, and the towel tucked into the track-suit top had a sort of cachet to it.

And I travelled all over southern England with the school boxing team, to strange, Spartan public schools and other apprentice training establishments. Unfortunately my boxing career was short-lived. Word soon got around about my prowess in the ring, and the Ministry of Defence (Buildings and facilities) sent me a letter requesting me to send a report on the state of maintenance of the ceilings in the various establishments we visited. Nike requested my CO to see if they could advertise their products on the soles of my boots! This made me somewhat despondent, so I approached my PTI (physical training instructor) for counselling.

‘F**k Off you Pratt’, he said, (counselling was in its early stages in1957)

‘I am pi**ed off with you losing every fight – you are out of the team.’

So there was a little parade of shame where I was ceremoniously stripped of the towel around my neck and made to walk between two assembled rows of boxers with their backs turned on me.

Fling

How strange a confection was Fling!

Never seen outside the AAS Arborfield, it was the drink of choice amongst apprentices, with a pint-of-milk-and-blackcurrant following a close second. Thursday evening by the Wall’s chocolate ice-cream bar dispensing machine (in itself the object of major criminal heists) was the ritual time to observe its consumption; two bottles fitted neatly into a pint glass and gave the impression, from a distance, that a pint of beer was being consumed by the lean young soldiery with slicked-back brylcreemed hair and trouser-waists adjusted with safety-pins!

Why Fling, and why the mystery of its exclusiveness?

It is rumoured that the drink was a social/commercial experiment by the MoD. First they could make a bit of money by its sale and secondly, well more of that later. It was said by the cognoscenti that there was a colonel in Whitehall given the remit of producing a beverage for young soldiers. To this end a manufacturing and production facility was established near Spitalfields, manned by the cream of the Army Catering Corps (who happened to have the most difficult trade in the Army, no-one having passed the 1st Class Cook trade test!)

The design of the bottle, a tapered column with a starred bulge toward the top was said to be the inspiration of an eccentric brigadier for whom the top-brass could find no convenient colonial war.

The whole mystery was enlivened by the fact that if you picked up a bottle of Fling and looked at its base toward a light source, a single MoD arrow could be discerned!

Now Health and Beauty! The pornography of the soldiering fifties! How we young soldiers yearned for the curly fair-haired maidens with large breasts and soft-focused lower regions!

How the more intellectual amongst us puzzled over the captions – f-stop 8, 1/250 sec- whilst the more practical (VM’S) simply ignored them.

These ladies always seemed to be throwing beach-balls or running across wooded fields that bore a sinister similarity to the ill-named nearby California nature reserve.

As for me, after leaving AAS, I was convinced that young ladies had blurry nether regions and was delighted to discover that they did in fact have a certain distinction to them.

Health and Beauty remained my definitive pornography until I discovered the real thing at Port-Said en-route to Kenya.

Such things posed a serious question to the authorities at the AAS. How could they possibly contain 1000 lusty, Health and Beauty-reading young men between the ages of 15 to 18 whose only discernible ambition was to sneak out on a Saturday afternoon in 12” bottoms and yellow fluorescent socks to s***g anything they could find in Reading?

Which is where the second part of the cunning Fling plan came into operation, (so I am told). The pale brown colour of the drink was no accident or marketing affectation, but due to a saturated solution of bromide applied in 1 part per thousand.

This was very clever move as most of the young men suspected that the tea contained bromide and hence avoided it, little knowing that they were actually paying to imbibe it with Fling!

First Published: 11th November 2006

Latest Update: 1st November 2010

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