Mémoire – Reg HARPER
(Arborfield
51A)
2002 Foreword “All this happened 50 years ago. At the end
of my time at AAS I was traumatised to the point of a mental breakdown. Ever
since then I was too ashamed to tell anyone about this, even Vera, who knows
me better than I know myself. I tell my story as I remember it to people
who really understand. The only names that I will use are of long-lost
friends and those obviously dead. I do know where this particular man is, I
have seen his profile and his photograph, but revenge is not what I want. To
bear grudges after all this time would just demean me. He and others betrayed
the trust that was given to them when they were given positions of
power. I didn’t know the phrase then, but it would have been appropriate for
me at that time: “What doesn’t kill me makes me strong”. In May 1963 I lost my leg in a very
traumatic accident, cut right through at the knee it had to be
re-amputated at the hospital to mid-thigh. As I was in the operating theatre
the surgeon informed me that I was so badly injured that I was likely to die.
For the next 7 days they gave daily bulletins to Vera, saying that I would be
lucky to survive another day. It has always been my honest belief that
my time as a soldier (of which I was, strangely, very proud) instilled in me
the bloody-mindedness not to give in. Arborfield gave me that. As I look
through the names and profiles, I feel a sort of pride that the majority of
you men did so well in the Service. I want my story told, but not for revenge
- let us leave this old feller in peace.” Reg HARPER “The King’s Shilling – Two Sides of the Coin” Introduction My name is Reg Harper and I was born on
1948 We moved to a small village near
1950 County Rifle Team - Reg HARPER
standing behind the WO2 1950 On my 15th birthday I left Wilton Secondary Modern School
where I was a pupil. We were educated to the level of farm labourer though I
must admit I was not an easy person for any teacher to have to deal with. Mr.
Ruffel, a strict but kindly teacher, quietly
pointed out to me that I could legally leave school on the day I was 15, and
the following week I started work at Wilton Royal Carpet Factory. This place
was like something out of a Dickens novel. As a bobbin-boy I had to replace
the empty bobbins on the loom, which involved crawling around in semi-darkness
to place them on the spools. The whole place hadn’t been upgraded for over
100 years, something the management were quite proud of. There were big rats
everywhere and the noise and filth was horrendous. I was the personal slave
of a weaver from the North of England who had an abiding hatred of Wiltshire,
weaving and bobbin-boys, but I eventually won him over. He was a veteran of WW2, having been an
air-gunner in the RAF. His experiences had left him quite traumatized so
every lunch hour he would go to the pub next door and make a hefty
contribution to the Johnny Walker benevolent fund. On his return he was too
drunk to work so I ran the loom as well as put the bobbins on. He finally got
caught and sacked but by then I was long gone. One day I read an advertisement for the AAS Arborfield
Reg HARPER, n/k, Jack FROST
Jack FROST Reg HARPER 1951 Arriving at Arborfield on a cold, wet, gloomy winter’s afternoon
I joined the rest of 51A intake. What happened next is a bit of a blur - I
remember the haircut, the kit issue, some of the worst food I had ever
tasted, and the continual yelling from the Apprentice NCOs who appeared to
have gone power mad. Sergeant Roberts The next day we were introduced to Sgt. Roberts, our Drill
Instructor. ‘’My name is Roberts. My first name is Sergeant’’ he yelled, ‘’I
am an absolute bastard” he went on, and so it proved to be. Strangely
perhaps, I have had Sgt. Roberts with me ever since. One day I was slow
responding on the parade ground and for the rest of the session he gave every
order including my name: “Squad, and Harper, right turn”; “Squad, and Harper,
quick march” etc. At the end of the parade he stood behind me with his pace
stick in the small of my back and said: “Harper, whenever things seem to be
impossible, remember I am right behind you”. Of course along with the rest of
the lads I feared him but to me he was fair and as far as I knew he was a
good soldier. During a life that has had some tough times to deal with I have
the memory of the tough old bastard with his pace stick and I have got on
with it. During HQ Company I seemed to be well ahead of things - after all I
knew all about beezing boots and blancoing equipment, a soldier’s life seemed to be what I
was cut out for. Trade Training We were eventually selected for our trade training. I was keen to
be a VM as I had a keen interest in engines from my days involved with farm
and earth-moving equipment. So quite naturally I was designated a Fitter [no,
I don’t know why either]. Moving on to 2 Division ‘B’ Coy and working in the
workshops, chipping and filing - we all remember that - then doing theory,
and my lack of comprehension soon had me in trouble. By now I had made a lot
of good friends and they tried so hard to help but I could not grasp even the
basics. The civilian instructors were at a loss so they reported me to the
Chief Instructor’s staff and I was put on a charge for ‘malingering’, though
no one had worked harder than I had. Then came a
trade test, which I failed miserably, and again I am on a charge for
malingering. This time I was given 14 days CB and told to report to the Chief
Instructor. My friends and I agreed that this was my opportunity to explain
my problem and perhaps obtain a transfer to the Infantry or the new Junior
Leaders Regiment that was being set up. The Chief Instructor, a Lieut.
Colonel whose name I don’t (want to) recall, leaving me standing to attention
asked me what my problem was. I thought that at last I was going to get some
help, but his reply actually changed my life. He went purple and frothed at
the mouth - I was a useless piece of human excrement, make no mistake, I
would conform even if I stayed there for the next 12 years of my service. I
was a smart Alec malingerer who was trying to buck the system and I was not
going to be allowed to win. Escape and Capture Later that night I went over the fence and across the paddocks
till I reached the road, then at dawn I crept under a hedge and slept the day
through. That evening I set off again not really knowing where I was going.
As I was feeling very hungry I saw a milk van making his deliveries. I
followed him until he was away from his vehicle and stole 2 bottles of milk.
Later that morning I did the same thing with the bread van - I had now joined
the criminal classes. Some time later I was in a place called Hartley Witney;
there was an apple tree in a garden and as I stood on a wall to get some
fruit a middle-aged man on a bicycle approached me. He was the local Police
Sergeant off-duty; he could see the state I was in and the fact that I was
wearing the remnants of an army uniform. He was a kindly man and it was not
long before I told him the whole story. He took me to the Police house and
his wife cooked me the best meal I had ever tasted, I had at least 2 helpings
of an apple pie that I will remember to my dying day. Later that day a truck with two MPs came for me. The policeman’s
wife told them to make sure that I was looked after - you can just imagine
the fun they had with me on the way back. I was questioned at length on how I
survived without food, and I told them I took bread from the cookhouse. These people didn’t believe me so they made
me do tricks, like standing on one leg in the back of the truck as it went
along; refusing to let me urinate until I just did it out the back of the
truck, then as it blew back in some of it going over them; knocking me down
and telling me that I was going to die. Looking back at that 15-year-old lad
on his own, being degraded by two thugs, I wondered how I survived. All these
things were building my resolve if I was going to die I wasn’t going to go
quietly. Punishment Back at Arborfield I was dragged out of the truck and booted up
the Guardroom steps. I was put on a charge and charged with being absent
without leave; breaking out of barracks; breaking in (that’s right); stealing
bread from the cookhouse; and being improperly dressed. I stood impassively
as this pompous pillar of society sentenced me to three days detention in the
cells. I was marched to the Guardroom where I was welcomed by Sgt Furneough (no one else seems to remember him) the Provost
Sgt. I had to strip naked and was put under the freezing shower and scrubbed
with a bass broom until I bled. My head was shaved, and when not running
around ‘on the double’ outside my bootlaces and belt were taken away so I had
to hold up my trousers and shuffle around. Another dangerous criminal like me was a Welsh lad called Pymble.
He was basically a natural comedian who couldn’t under stand why we were
being treated as convicts. Pymble was a real hero and he would throw punches
at the RPs until he was physically restrained. He
suffered a lot but he wouldn’t give in to them. When any of the Apprentice
NCOs gave Pymble an order he challenged them to a fight behind the air raid
shelters. One day one of them did, and he got a real
belting. Give him his due though, he never said anything about it - Pymble
became someone to fear. 1952 - Friends and Foes This was something that kept me going at this time - we did have
some good times as well as the bad. The Apprentice Sergeant occupying the
bunk in our room was an eccentric - he used to visit a place called “Smokey
Joe’s” some nights, and come back at Next morning I asked him about it. He looked at me for a while
through bloodshot eyes then told me to stay right where I was. He came back
in a few minutes with two of his mates and they gave me the biggest hiding of
my life. They dragged me around the adjoining barrack rooms, punching and
kicking, until we got back to our room whereupon they threw me head first into the wall. As I got up my head hit the
bottom of a fire bucket filled with sand so there I was blood running from
the cut on my head and blood and snot out of my nose. The blokes in the
barrack room stood around me in disbelief as these three brave warriors
walked away. I saw the fear in the eyes of my friends and one was crying - it
could have happened to any one of them. After a while righteous indignation
began to take over and they all urged me to report it, but I was getting wiser
every day – one beating like that was enough. At the muster parade next day I
had to account for a swollen lip, two black eyes, and a cut on the head that
required stitches. At the time of this incident I was one of the camp buglers
so I said I had taken a fall down the steps of the air raid shelters when I
had gone there to practice. The Apprentice Sgt. never spoke, or even looked
at me again; I wasted many long hours planning ways to kill him but as you
get older you realize that there are worse things in life than a coward,
which he was. By now I had decided to incur as many days ‘jankers’
(CB) as it was possible to get; I was determined that I was going to
get transferred to anywhere. Every week I would put in an application to
another Corps or Regiment, everything from the Paras
to the Medics. Even the application forms were pure grovelling, i.e. “Sir, I
hereby respectfully submit my application to transfer to The Royal Ballet,
hoping this meets with your consideration etc. I am Sir, your obedient servant
etc.” I would be marched in front of the CO and earn another 14 days CB for
insolence. I became an expert on jankers. A good mate of mine - one Lovelace - and I were
doing some serious long-time CB, and I bet him that I could be clear of all
of it by the end of the week. The bet was made, so that night we paraded at
the Guardroom as usual at around 2100 for our final inspection. We had our
freshly blancoed webbing, still wet, over our left
arm. When I had blancoed mine I swapped my belt
with a mate (Dave Hooper, where are you now?) and told him that he would be
questioned about this. “Tell them I stole it. “ I said. On the inspection the
Corporal walked past me so I said very quietly: “This is not my belt
Corporal.” “Where did you get it from?” was his reply. “I stole it,
Corporal.” Straight into the cells I went. In front of the Commandant next
day: “How do you plead?” “Guilty, Sir.” “Three days detention. March him
out.” Now I had discovered after my last sojourn in No 1 that on completion
of detention the sheet was wiped clean. Lovelace paid me my 5 woodbines and
did something like AWOL so he could receive the same benefit. Next day I was
back there, building my score. On my 17th birthday I was sent to the Officers Mess.
They were having some sort of booze-up, entertaining fellow-officers from There was a butcher’s shop on the Camp. I believe the man running
it was a Sgt. on the Permanent Staff.
I was sent down there one Saturday afternoon to defrost the fridges,
this man was a bit of a grumpy fellow but after a while he told me he was
pleased with the good job I was doing on the fridges. Rare praise indeed, but
I had been doing a lot of cleaning in those days! After a while he told me to
take a break, he had brewed a pot of tea and opened a packet of biscuits
which we devoured outside in the rare English sunshine. We finished the break
with him handing out a smoke before getting back to polishing up the now
defrosted fridges. When I was all done he gave me a Swiss roll to take away
with me, I believe this was a traditional butcher’s thing. My growing powers
of self-preservation were now coming to the fore so I asked him if he wanted
me next week would he tell the Provost Sgt. This he did and I had a great
little racket going for quite a while. Saturday afternoons were
looked forward to, the work would only take an hour or so, the rest of the
time we yabbered on about every thing under the sun. Under the circumstances
we became good mates, the Sgt and me, and the Swiss rolls soon became two
which were shared by Lovelace, Pymble and Harper – ‘The Three Musketeers’ -
sorry, janker wallahs. The ‘Mafia’ On of the darker side of Arborfield were the so-called ‘Tobacco
Barons’. For a while I was recruited by one of the Senior Apprentices to act
as a sort of runner delivering smokes, then on payday collecting the money.
This was a disgusting business, but as an addicted smoker the few fags I got
for my work eased any conscience that I may have had. One of the hardest places for a man on jankers
to be sent was the Sergeants’ Mess. However, this was a place of some rich
pickings, and I worked very hard to please the man in charge. On Mess Nights
he would ask for me, and when I had finished I had a tunic full of goodies
and was becoming very popular with my roommates. Then one night I had an inspiration.
The ashtrays were full of cigarette butts (no filter-tips around there in
those days) and I filled a couple of paper bags with these and hid them away.
Later on at bugle practice, sneaking off on my own, I cut the burnt ends off
with a razor blade and packed the baccy away in a tin with some dock leaves
to keep it fresh. When I got paid I bought an ounce of A1 rolling tobacco and
carefully mixed the lot together - I would trade 10 generous-sized roll-ups
for 4 tailor-mades. I couldn’t keep up with the demand. Looking back it is a
wonder someone didn’t get sick (perhaps they did). I did this on a regular
basis and no one noticed that it shouldn’t have been very profitable. This is
the first time I have ever mentioned this to anyone, so if any reader did get
sick I can only say: “Tuffus titatus”
or words to that effect. Boxing One fine day, despite my aversion to volunteer, I became a member
of the boxing squad. Now despite the fact that I had boxed at school and in
the Army Cadets I did not join out of love of the sport, quite the reverse, I
thought (and still do) that it was a bloody silly way to spend my time.
However, there were two good reasons; one was for some strange reason we got
two breakfasts, and as I couldn’t stomach the food except for the greasy cold
fried eggs and beans this was a good way to keep myself fed. The other was
that people always thought twice before getting into a stoush with a member
of the squad; this gave me an advantage when tempers were getting frayed. I
did enjoy getting up early and running around the place with a towel around
my neck (what was that for?), and the other team members were good blokes. I
hope they never smoked any of my tobacco! Memories Are Made of This One lad in our room - Wevill was his
name - was a lanky lad with a great sense of humour, who would often hang
from the rafter on a broom. With the head of the broom on the rafter he would
swing backwards and forwards like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. One
day the head came off the broom and he fell; Wev
was sort of skinny and when he fell he broke his arm, so it was a term of
light duties for him for a while. Some months later we had someone visiting
the room and the subject of the accident came up. This fellow asked Wev how did he break his arm?
Believe it or not he demonstrated it and broke the other arm! Poor bugger had
a job explaining it away but as he was never in any trouble and was good at
his studies he was rightly bollicked and forgiven, In ‘B’ Coy 2 Division there was a lad called Strachan
- he was from Clackmananshire - who pronounced his
name ‘Strakken’. One day he was ordered by a
Sergeant to refer to himself as ‘Straun’ as this
was the correct way. To our amazement he obeyed. He was the only A/T in our room that
actually enjoyed being there - he loved the food so we gave him ours. One day
he was sent to see the MO; he had been complaining about foot pain, When he
got back to the room he was in a state of shock, he had fallen arches or something
and had been discharged on the spot. He was a big strong Scottish lad and
here he was absolutely heartbroken at the news. We were wondering what kind
of awful place was Clackmananshire. He was going to
find it difficult to catch any sheep with those feet. For myself this was a time for
reflection and the study of fallen arches, their causes etc. However I still
had another year or so to go - woe is me! Having a laugh at someone else’s expense was the order of the
day. On one particular drill parade the Sgt thought that two fellers were, as
he put it: “Poncing about like a couple of fairies”. He ordered them out in
front, with their left hand on their hip, their right hand behind their head,
and skip as high and as fast as they could, up and down the square, yelling
out: “I’m a nig-nog!” at the top of their voices. I
was so glad it wasn’t me. It was pure pleasure to see the discomfort of some
other poor bastard! “On The Road to Church parade was held on three Sundays each month, this was
compulsory as far as we knew. One day Lovelace told me that King’s
Regulations clearly stated that it was voluntary, and we decided to test this
theory out. We marched off to the gym [Church] and as we got to the door we
stood to one side at attention until the Orderly Sergeant asked us what we
were doing. “ We are atheists.” we informed him. He
looked at our pay books; “It clearly states here that you are C of E” says he. Lovelace
patiently explained how we had seen the light so to speak and it didn’t have
any room for Jesus in it. Personally I thought the good Sergeant took all
this information rather well considering. “This is a parade” says he, “and
you belong to me”. He doubled us to our barrack room where we did a rapid
change into our work denims, then a quick double down to the incinerator. We
had to rake all the ashes etc out of the incinerator, separate the cans and
bottles from the ash and shovel the ash into a separate heap. Then back to
get changed again and down to the church to join in the parade. Later, as we
were being inspected, the Sergeant pointed out to the officer that we were
looking rather grubby. We rolled up our sleeves and pulled up our trouser
legs - I learned that day the true meaning of apoplexy. Filthy on parade was
the charge. “Do you have any excuse?” snarled the long-suffering Major. “No
Sir” says “Free Sunday” Foray On the spur of the moment on a ‘Free Sunday’ Lovelace, me, and a
chap called Williams got dressed up in our best SD and went out the back gate
- we were not eligible to leave camp due to our CB. We got a lift in the back
of a builder’s truck which ended up in Basingstoke; we walked around for a
while and decided it was a bit like the morgue, so we walked onto the railway
station and onto a train which took us to - I think – Next morning an RP retard appeared and announced that King’s
Regulations stated we were allowed 3 cigarettes a day under supervision. We
had never heard of such a thing and I remarked that the old King was going
soft in his old age. Corporal retard was most upset at this so I apologized
saying I didn’t realize that he was a personal friend. Anyway, he gave us
each a cigarette and stood ready with a match. When Will said he didn’t smoke
and had never even had one we both offered to smoke it for him, but the
walloper wouldn’t hear of it. He said: “Kings Regulations so-and-so clearly
states blah-blah-blah and you WILL smoke it or else!” so Willy did and turned
green. Later that day back to see the Commandant and 7 days detention this
time for Lovelace and me; Willy got 14 days CB and a stern lecture about the
dangers of associating with known criminals. This time the Provost Sergeant
was one Fred ‘the looney’ Silvers [I hope he had a
horrible life]. Fred Silvers Fred, God be praised, was instrumental in setting up a vegetable
patch at the rear of the fire shed further down the road. By the time we copped
our 7 days it was ready to plant and we had to put in cabbage plants and
water them in by carrying the water in buckets from the fire shed. Lovelace, being a boy from the city,
suggested that we should find a way to kill these plants. Me
being an original Swede-basher said they would commit suicide as the soil was
wrong, and the plants had been left out in the sun too long. I was right
about that and the following day they were well and truly kaputt.
Obergruppenführer von Silvers went mad; he
knew we were responsible he said, so we had to run up and down all the rest
of the week with a full bucket of water in each hand while he and his eunuchs
ran up and down screaming themselves hoarse. We were still putting water on
those plants long after they had disappeared. There were a couple of other
unfortunates there with us, so perhaps someone else remembers this episode. Another scheme of Fred’s was presenting us with a large quantity
of fire buckets out of the shed. We had to sandpaper them down, then we were issued with some dark green gloss enamel
paint. Now of course we thought this to be rather odd to say the least, but who with a vestige of common sense was going to suggest
that our hero must be colour blind? So away we went, literally hundreds of
buckets painted green and green paint all over everything in sight, including
us. Next morning ‘Himself’ comes to inspect our work
and away he went again, ranting and raving - he was an expert at it. Didn’t
we realize that ALL fire buckets were red? What had he done to deserve having
such cretins in his care? We started sanding again while he sent someone off
to get the correct paint. The mystery remains unsolved; was he colour blind
or was this an elaborate plan to drive us mad? The Pleasures and Perils of a Bugler’s Life I don’t remember exactly why I
volunteered to be a Bugler, but I was good at it, and to this day I love to
listen to ‘The Last Post’ played on Anzac Day, waiting for every bum note and
feel great if he gets it right. I don’t like to hear them play it on a
trumpet though. To go out onto the square to play ‘Reveille’ was pure magic -
a cold, frosty morning, two hours from daylight, perhaps a full moon. You
stand on the square, the whole place is deadly silent; you put the mouthpiece
inside your mouth and gently breathe into it to warm it up; the clock gets to
the hour and you start to play; the whole place is instantly ablaze with
light, orders are being shouted, the long-remembered sound of boots pounding
on wooden floors. As you walk off you meet the cooks going into the cookhouse
to get started on the breakfast. You return to the Guardroom; your 24-hour
shift is finished. During your shift your first call is the breakfast
‘Cookhouse’ - each British Army regiment had their own preamble that introduced
the call that you were about to play, i.e., da-da-dadadada
come to the cookhouse door boys etc. There were many calls during the day
that informed people that it was time to be doing something or other, On some
calls it was appropriate to add the ‘Double’ at the end of it, for instance
on a fire call it was the preamble followed by ‘There’s a fire, there’s a
fire, there’s a fire, then the double ‘Run you buggers’, ‘Run you buggers’,
‘Run you buggers, run’. Jankers call – ‘You can be
a defaulter as long as you like, as long as you answer the call’. And if you
felt like it, adding the ‘Double’.
There was Officers Mess call – ‘Officers’ wives are puddings and pies,
soldiers’ wives are skillies [now what on earth did
that mean?]. I never was game enough to play the ‘Double’ on the end of that
one! During the shift, or stag as some people called it, we lived in
the Guardroom. This could be a good
place as they cooked their own meals and it was a vast improvement on the
damage done to the food by the Cookhouse staff. Occasionally an emergency
fire call would be arranged to be set for around 0100 hrs and we would be
informed of this at about lights out. It was forbidden to tell anyone about
this, however it was an unwritten rule for us to tip off the other off-duty
buglers by saying something like: “It looks like being a long night, I cant see me getting much sleep before 0100 hours”. It was
a sight to behold when you sounded the alarm; people running out onto the
square in pyjamas, some with greatcoats and some without; the people that
came near me spitting the worst abuse as if it was my fault! On one memorable
night they repeated the exercise at 0300 hours and I spent the next few days
virtually friendless. On many occasions people responding to the bugle call
would shoulder-charge the bugler or worse, hit the bugle into his mouth. This
happened to me one very cold night as I was playing the last defaulters’ call
of the day. I fell-in as usual at the end of the line, I had a mouth full of
blood, and my mouth began to swell alarmingly. At the end of the usual
proceedings the Orderly Officer said: “Sound the Last Post”. My mouth felt
like a pig’s snout, and I knew that I was about to be burned at the stake but
I played it anyway - of course it was bloody disgusting. I was totally
ashamed because despite my attitude towards AAS, I believed then as I still
do today, that the ‘Last Post’ is a tribute to all the soldiers who had died
for our country and to play it was a privilege and an honour. After the last
horrible note sank to the floor there was a long silence; most people were
looking at the ground in embarrassment. Finally the officer walked to the end
of the veranda and said: “My wife is the daughter of a General in the Indian
Army, she is always homesick for her former home, her
one pleasure is to listen to the ‘Last Post’. If it is good she goes to bed
happy, if it is not I am soon made aware of her feelings. Tonight I will
sleep in the Officers Mess, YOU will sleep in the
cells!” So I was marched away. Later,
having finished his rounds, he came into the Guardroom and saw the state of
my face. He was appalled - I told him I didn’t know who did it, which was
true, and he got someone to attend to me and take me back to my barrack room. A few days after this incident I was sent up the road to report
to his wife to spend my jankers time chopping wood
and getting in the coal etc. This was a cosy little possy
- they had two small boys who had extreme upper-class accents which at first
I loathed, but we soon became great pals and I was often asked to baby-sit
them when their parents went out. I used to tell them stories about life in
the Blitz, and how I used to go out at night poaching pheasants - they used
to sit there enthralled. They used to call me ‘Hawpah’
and say things like: “Daddy’s got a Rovah, Mamma’s
got a Citrown”, but these were really good people
and I always got paid for my baby-sitting and there was always a cup of cocoa
and a sandwich or cake after my jankers duties. I
am not sure, but I think he was the Adjutant at that time. I hope these lads
and their parents did well. The End Netley The continual punishment details were now beginning to take their
toll, I was working non-stop from reveille to
lights-out day in, day out with no end to it in sight. An unpleasant incident
with a RP moron saw me going berserk and I had to be forcibly restrained, put
in the cells, and the MO gave me an injection. I was removed under escort
that same day, taken by rail to Southampton and admitted to the The next day I was interviewed
at length by the MO, a young Captain who was one of the finest men that I
have ever met. After listening to my tale of woe he told me it was a load of
bullshit, however, a few days later he spent a day at Arborfield and on his
return he apologized for doubting my story. I believe he was instrumental in
getting the system known as ‘Mufti’ in place. He was appalled at the way that
Boy soldiers were treated and vowed that changes would be made. The hospital was a very large place with a railway line going
into the main building itself. This was used during the two world wars, the
wounded being shunted into the hospital right beside the operating theatres.
The place was so extensive that the Staff used bicycles to get around the
corridors. There was a cinema and a large ballroom; top variety acts were
frequent visitors. The place had its own bakery and I have never forgotten
the beautiful smell of that bread. Most of the men there at that time were convalescing; they were
from all branches of the Armed Services, many from After about four weeks I was medically examined and pronounced
completely fit. I informed the medical board that even if it meant prison I
was not going back to Arborfield. Our benefactor, the RAMC Captain, agreed
with me so as I was now almost 18 I could be transferred to the Infantry. At
first I agreed, but I had been spending a couple of weekends at home with my
mates and the good life was beckoning, so I asked him if I could be released,
which he agreed to, and I was subsequently discharged, ‘Services no longer
required’. Afterthoughts Almost 50 years have gone since I left, but some of it stays with
me like a tattoo or a wooden leg. I have had a good life, sometimes hard,
most times lucky. I have been law abiding [two speeding fines], and I have
travelled extensively in
the
January 1961 - Reg & Vera HARPER cutting their wedding cake Since I discovered [by accident] George MILLIE’s
The September 49ers I am so proud of the young men who made it through
Arborfield who became successful in both their Service and civilian lives. I
have recently met George Millie and ‘Greg’ Peck and their ladies, these
wonderful people were like meeting up with long-lost friends, and I thank
them for letting me exorcise some old demons and facing up to some things
that I have hidden away for so long. In conclusion, may I say that I bear no ill will to anyone from
that time, I do not know how I would have acted if I had been in the position
of an Apprentice NCO. Too much power in the hands of people too young can
have long lasting consequences. My hope now is that I may contact someone
from 51A ‘B’ Company before I visit the |
