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Part
1 – AAS Arborfield
Intake
53B, 'B' Company - Apprentice Tradesman Gerry PECK An
Overview of the life and times of the Army Apprentice during
the period spanning the late 1940s and early 1950s Day One – Baptism of Fire
My time as one of
Arborfield's inmates began on Still glowing from the
after-effects of this major triumph, we duly arrived at Wokingham Station and
found another six or seven equally apprehensive young lads disembarking from
the train, also clutching travel documents and bags or suitcases as though
their lives depended on them. The more I think about that first day the better my recall of it,
as in ‘seeing’ again, that some of the suitcases were actually carrier-type
bags. I had a very small case containing such items as pairs of socks,
toothpaste, shaving gear (in pristine condition), and of course underwear. The
toothpaste and shaving tackle were the only things that I got to keep; the
rest, along with the civvies I wore down there, was parcelled up and sent
back to poor old Mum. A tall, slim Sergeant from
a line regiment gathered us around him, and after telling us who he was asked
if anyone had a fag and was immediately surrounded by a forest of hands
waving packets of sundry brands. I remember he seemed very pleased to take
hold of a packet of Capstan Full Strength. As the rest of us started to put
our fags away, he said: "I'll take them all lads; no smoking permitted
at AAS other than with the Commandant's and your parents' or guardians'
permission". So a chastened and glum bunch of “sprogs” (recruits) found themselves being
bundled into the rear of a Morris 15 cwt (truck)
for the journey through the wilds of Once through the dreaded
front gates we disembarked a short distance from the cookhouse and were then
dealt with as regards basic roll call and such by a clerk from HQ Company
Office. A small squad of A/Ts
(Apprentice Tradesmen) marched past the rather untidy file that we had
formed into and sotto
voce we heard for the first time the dreaded four-letter word
“Jeep”. The rest of the day passed in a frenzy of activity, with kitting-out
and allocation of bedding and billets; we eventually linked up with a larger
group that had obviously arrived on earlier trains or by other means. My
first Army meal was quite memorable for the fact that it was my first ever
encounter with curry and hot chilli peppers; the fact that the cook made a
very creditable attempt to get as much on my thumb as on my plate was a
standout too. Anyone who succumbed to the heat and dropped the plate was
grabbed for cookhouse fatigues of course; luckily I was able to hang on to
mine. The latter end of the
day and early evening also passed in a blur of activity that encompassed
such things as learning how to fold and put away kit. Sew box pleats in
denims that were obviously made with covering hippos in mind, and being shown
how to clean brass equipment, and “beaze” boots. I had been allocated a bed
space in Barrack Room F4 under the auspices of one Corporal Roger TATLER, a
rather aloof sort of person with a decidedly upper-crust accent. F4 was the
closest billet to the cookhouse and we were chuffed at the advantage that it
would give us in getting to the front-end of the queue; how naive was that?
Someone had obviously done his homework as to everyone's height, because it
was soon obvious that we were all short in the leg in F4. The National
Elf Service personified! Later that first night, as we
sweated over burning toe-caps and flying knife handles, working ceaselessly
at the stubborn bumps on our toecaps, the room was called to
"Attention!" The Apprentice RSM had descended upon us! We were
instructed to: "Stand easy" by our beds until he approached our bed
space and then come to attention and name ourselves. As he entered my weeny
bit of territory I sprang to attention with all the acquired skill of an
ex-Army Cadet and bellowed (well, piped actually) my name and of course ended
up with a loud: "Sir!" I was rewarded with a grunt of what I
presumed was approval; after a couple of words from me I was asked
whereabouts in That first night was also
memorable for the fact that the billet “pecking order” was being established.
A thickset East-Ender named EVANS was chancing his arm and failed when he
tried it out on me. He then made the bad mistake of trying harder with the
shortest guy in the room, Bob MALCOLM. After two thumping disasters in
short order he gave up on the idea of being the ‘king’ and we settled for a
sort of loose democracy. Thus ended the first day of my extinguished career
at AAS Arborfield. AAS Organisation, Philosophy and Culture How to explain the concept
and actuality of Boys Service to the uninitiated? This is an honest attempt
to do so and reveal what life was like at any I suppose that most people
are familiar with the concept of recruits of both sexes being inducted into a
military career via a ‘Boot Camp’, this scenario being portrayed in many
films. The "break them down and rebuild them our way" method in
which recruits are taken apart, as it were, and moulded in the fashion that
the military demands were fairly common to all military training centres. For
normal recruits, usually aged from 18 years upwards, this period of Basic
Training – admittedly strenuous, demanding and very hard on the participants
- lasts 3 to 4 months and relaxes somewhat when completed, at which point
life returns to a more natural pace. This relatively brief
period of basic training did not apply to Boy Entrants or Army Apprentices
inducted into one of the three Army Apprentices Schools then extant –
Arborfield, Chepstow (Beachley),
and Apprentice Hierarchy
The Army Apprentice/Boy
Soldier of the era was the lowest form of khaki-clad life, a fact constantly
made evident when even App/RSMs had to defer to fully trained Private
soldiers on the Permanent Staff. In many Institutions where
large numbers of youngsters, graduated according to age and seniority, are
kept together for long periods, a culture develops that invariably
accords privilege to the inhabitants based on seniority. Rigid rules
applied and were ruthlessly enforced by the boys themselves. The most visible
manifestation of this culture of privilege by degree of seniority was the
noble art of “Jipping”. The name given to a complex but well understood
activity that took place in any queue that formed for services within the
AAS. e.g. Meals at the Cookhouse, weekday NAAFI breaks, the NAAFI Canteen,
and entry into the Camp cinema. Regardless of the initial
format of the line being formed, within five minutes or so it had assumed the
designation of Senior Division at the front with each of the other Divisions
from 5 down to the absolute “Jeeps” of HQ Division in strict numerical order
behind them. No matter how late their arrival, members of each Division
simply went as far along the line as their relative seniority permitted them
to go. Not a good idea to progress beyond that of course, so a thorough
knowledge of those senior to you was an essential prerequisite for continued
good health. So essentially, you bypassed anyone in any queue that was your
inferior by Division, in turn you were “Jipped” by anyone your senior by
Division. Everyone did it, or fell victim to it, according to one’s Divisional
status at any given time at AAS. The more “Juniority” you had, the longer you
waited! Apprentice NCOs With the pecking order
between Apprentices being hierarchical on a 'time served' basis and very
rigidly enforced against any transgressor/s, the appointment from Division 3
upwards of Apprentice NCOs was an added complication to the caste system at
the Schools. How this worked out in practice was thus: Apprentice NCOs of any
Division were accorded the privilege of rank in so far as they were obeyed when
on parade and so forth. As NCOs they had the power to prefer disciplinary
charges against other Apprentices and used these powers as and when
necessary. However, it was not wise for them to use them too flagrantly
against intakes senior to themselves as this, if it were seen to
be provocative or habitual, could result in the administration of a
painful lesson. To cite one example I
personally witnessed, an Apprentice Lance Corporal had annoyed some Seniors
by harassing them unnecessarily. As a consequence, late on a Wednesday
(sports) afternoon a “posse” grabbed him and he was then tossed in a blanket.
As he reached a goodly height above Terra Firma one of the tossers called
out: "Tea up!" The blanket was dropped, Collaring
a “Jeep” as a fetch-and-carry man was a common practise by Seniors, so that
any trip to the canteen at night was fraught with the hazard of getting
lumbered with fetching food or drink back for others. That was not often a
problem in HQ Division though, as the demands on them with nightly full kit
layout inspections, coupled with the need to maintain boots and brasses at
the highest levels of glitter, and webbing well blanco-ed, left little or no
time for meandering down to the NAAFI Canteen. Training
Training at the School was organised
into six-month long semesters, the first being HQ Division, with subsequent
ones being numbered from 2 to 6. For the first six months of Boys Service in
HQ Division, no egress from camp for ‘recreational’ purposes was permitted to
the initiate Apprentices. Every waking moment, seven days a week, was given
over to the demands of the establishment, the only relief being for
those lucky enough to have been selected for a representative sport. Days in HQ Division were
given over to learning Drill movements on the regimental square, classroom
lessons in the 3-Rs, and in the workshops acquiring basic fitting skills.
Every night the barrack room floor had to be “bumpered” vigorously in order
to maintain a highly polished sheen on the wood. The “bumper” was a very
heavy iron tool that had a fine short-bristle base attached to a
swing-through wooden handle allowing it to be swung left and right as it was
worked across the floor. Every evening there was at least one full-kit layout
inspection conducted by the room NCO – kit had to be immaculate, or highly
“grovel” as the vernacular had it! Three uniforms were issued
to each Apprentice – best SD for special parades and occasions, second SD for
every day use, and denim order for use in the workshops. Best uniform had to
be in an immaculate state, ready to be donned at a moment’s notice. Second
uniform had to be almost as good because scruffiness was not tolerated –
hence the barrack room irons were well used! Boots, two pairs, had to have a
mirror finish front and back – this alone required at least 30 to 40 minutes
work every evening just to repair the ravages of the day’s wear. Although the weekends did
in fact have some “free” time once these requirements were out of the way,
most of the lads were busy with irons, whitening, Blanco, Brasso and boot
polish, bringing their kit up to a suitably “grovel” standard in readiness
for the coming week. This too was the time officially set aside for letters
to be written home, usually full of pleas to parents to send the incredibly
popular “food parcels”. Apprentices lucky enough to receive such were deemed
very worthy individuals and always accorded great respect on the off chance
that another one might eventuate in due course. Every Saturday evening the gymnasium became The Camp cinema;
a welcome break too. The most popular features of these shows were the
cartoons, particularly the Tom and Gerry ones, in which the sight of the
producer’s name - Fred Quimby - never failed to elicit a roar of approbation
from the seated horde. Another odd thing that occurred during film shows was
that inevitably, someone, somewhere in the audience would loudly call out:
“Eeeyowww!” The whole audience would then bellow out: “CLINK" as loud as
they could. The story behind this eluded me but I seem to recall that the
‘Clink’ referred to was a tall, gangly, ginger-haired bloke somewhat senior
to me by Division. Does someone out there have the answer to this mystery?
Every three out of four Sunday mornings there was a compulsory Church Parade.
The gymnasium on these occasions became the venue in which, following the
Parade, a service was conducted and long waffling sermon delivered by our
overweight C of E Padre. Quite literally, for all
intents and purposes the confines of the Camp became your whole world
because, as a HQ Division “Jeep”, you were not allowed out of camp at
all other than under exceptional circumstances. This privilege came later as
you progressed up through the Divisions. The "Short
Termers" – Some Great Escapes
It behoves me to mention
in passing some of the antics that were pulled by those amongst us that
wished to "work their ticket", thus being returned to their
erstwhile civilian existences as being ‘surplus to requirement’ at AAS. Let
me qualify this by pointing out that, although the majority of these
malcontents were from the group that had been inducted because a Magistrate
had given them a choice of HM Forces or time served at a Borstal Institution,
this is not a reflection on that group's failings. Far from it, the vast
majority of them turned into excellent soldiers, great mates and terrific
companions. As a general rule, the malcontents were regulars on punishment
parades and Jankers of course, so that by the time they pulled their
"Coup de Force" they were already marked down as "Dodgy". Case #1:
The first one that I actually saw in action was enacted whilst the evening
repast was being endured. It was not uncommon to see A/Ts take meals out of
the cookhouse and back to the billets, particularly during the 'flu season.
This was because the MO would hand out chitties for bed down in barracks for
a prescribed number of days; the norm was a C4. The bloke then had to get an
offsider to bring him his meals back to his bedside. Thus nobody took much notice
of the perpetrator until, instead of going to the billets, he went across the
road in the general direction of the Band Room. Next thing we know there is a
major flap on with the Orderly Sergeant, Orderly Officer, (Provost
Sergeant) “Fred the Dread” (Silvers), (RSM) Tara McNally
and sundry other Permanent Staff all hovering several inches off the floor,
so to speak. Matey had climbed to the top of the water tower, no mean feat
encumbered with full mugs and plates etc, and was sitting there with his feet
dangling over the edge chomping and slurping away at his tucker. Despite all
the threats, entreaties and bellowed orders, he sat calmly through the
tirades until he was finished eating and then, still calm, had himself a fag.
He then gathered up his gear and came back to Terra Firma. Buttonholed
immediately by Note: An old lag (Ted
BLOWERS tblowers@telusplanet.net) on the
Permanent Staff at AAS has been good enough to point out that I have told the
myth rather than the facts in the Water Tower incident (above). As no
Apprentices were allowed near the drama I suppose that it was inevitable to
see it romanticised. He took part in the unfurling drama and tells it just as
it actually was: “What happened was that (the lad in
question was) a chap that everyone believed was trying to work his ticket by
declaring he was a Quaker some time prior to the Water Tower incident. We
even had a visit from the Quakers to see Colonel Magee. I am privy to
that information because at that time I was the Adjutant’s runner and was
there. When the chap climbed the Water Tower
there was a flap on, and I was just on my way to catch the bus to go to
Wokingham only to find that we were all confined to camp until it was resolved.
I said I would assist, and as the Corporal on duty knew me (he) said OK. I
climbed to the top where a Corporal BURNE was standing, just
with his head and shoulders over the rim, pleading with the lad to come down
as he (Corporal BURNE) had a wife and family. I did not take kindly to being
unable to go out so told BURNE to go down or get below me, which he
did. I got on the Water Tower with the lad, and he said that
if I came near him he would jump. I said: “I came up to push you off, so
if you’re going to jump, jump or I'm going to push you off”. There was
some banter back and forth, then he was scared enough that he started to cry.
He wouldn't come near me but promised he would come down if I went down to
the bottom, which I did and he did. He was rushed to the Nick and I went
and caught my bus. I really hope that he told someone in authority that
he just fancied high tea, it’s a much better story, but he was a very
frightened young fellow”. Case #2: A brand new Coke machine had been
ensconced in the NAAFI Canteen and some bright sparks had discovered that it
had no bottom to it. The upshot of this was that one morning the staff found
it on its side with the cash drawer wrenched out. The entire School was
assembled in the Gym and we were given a real roasting by the Commandant, who
confined the whole lot of us to barracks until such time as the guilty ones
coughed up. Then he informed us that, as we filed out of the Gym, each one of
us would be fingerprinted by the Berkshire Constabulary's finest. Later that
day we heard that three lads had come forward and confessed to the dastardly
deed. Promptly awarded 28 days detention they were subsequently discharged al
la “Services no longer required”. Three months later the
Police showed up with the evidence of two sets of fingerprints from the cash
box of the Coke machine, two other blokes entirely of course, so another two
were given the Bum's rush. So this has to go down as one of the most
successful escapes from “Gulag Arborfield” on the basis of sheer volume. Case #3: Somewhat lacking in finesse but also
a high-volume effort. “Sweeney”, the camp barber, also had the ‘Mufti’
concession and his goodies were kept in a small hut adjacent to his
“tonsorium”. One bright Sunday morning the camp was rudely awakened by groups
of Permanent Staff clomping around the spiders asking who had acquired
blazers, flannels etc, since yesterday? The whole rear end of Sweeney's hut
had been removed and its contents liberated. The perpetrators, three in
number, were soon located, as their bed spaces were chocker block with
purloined gear sitting there in full view. The usual procedure was followed
and we were fewer by three. Case #4: An individual
effort that comes to mind was a strange one. In our intake we had an
East-ender named SMITH. He was a natural soldier if ever there was one
- one of the lads that had been “forced” into seeking a military career
and destined for big things. He rapidly made App/Corporal and was probably
the front-runner for the coveted rank of App/RSM. Then he came back from
leave and seemed to have lost the plot. After a week or so back, he went into
another billet, knocked on the NCO's bunk door and when he got no response,
kicked the door open, went in, helped himself to some cash on the bedside locker
and walked out. The sprogs in the billet told what had happened as soon as
their NCO returned and Smith was arrested and given the customary Bum's rush.
Rumour later had it that he had been shacked up with a woman while on leave
and had decided that he wanted out! Once again, there was no attempt at
subtlety; this was an out and out move for dishonourable discharge as a
desired outcome. The vast majority of us
looked on with awe, or amusement and then gritted our teeth and carried on.
Such events alleviated the ennui of the daily grind, as did the occasional
explosion from the adjacent fireworks factory...! Pay
The pay that we had to
subsist on was something of a pittance and was also incremental according to
service. Pay for an Apprentice in the early 'fifties, when I had my turn in
the barrel, commenced at seventeen shillings and sixpence a week.* This was increased incrementally as one
progressed through the Divisions of course, the snag was that one only
received part of it to lavish on yourself. You never saw the sixpence as that
was kept to cover “Barrack Damages, whatever they may have been. Of course
about one shilling and sixpence to two bob (two shillings) or so a
week was spent on such necessary items as cleaning kit. Such things as boot
polish, Brasso, dusters, and cakes of Blanco etc; these staple items of
absolute priority having a very short life as they were all used in copious
amounts daily. Ten shillings was withheld in credit for you and the rest was
all yours. *Comment: In 1949 when I enlisted, pay commenced in HQ Division
at the rate of 10 shillings and 6-pence a week; 4 shillings was paid in the
hand, 6-pence deducted for barrack damages, and 6 shillings withheld in
credits to be paid out when going on leave. (George MILLIE). Leave.
At the end of each six-months
semester, on the glorious day that you went home on leave, your accrued
'credits' were paid out to you and you felt as rich as Crœsus*.
Loaded up with all that money you swanned off home and luxuriated in such
things as lying in bed every morning, wearing usually forbidden clothes,
smoking openly, and even slipping into pubs for a beer or two. * Crœsus – a very wealthy king of ancient Lydia in Asia Minor, of the 6th
century B.C.; hence, a very rich man. The very first leave from the AAS was,
in my instance at least, a 72-hours pass (rare as rocking horse poo!) that
was granted to me because my family’s Prefab had burnt to the ground. My
first proper leave was a horse of an entirely different colour! On this
occasion I had somewhat more than three shillings and ninepence in my pocket
when I arrived home. The whole school had been paid their wages for the
duration of the leave and also their accrued credits of ten shillings per
week. Nestling in my pocket was more money than I had ever laid claim to in
my life before, quite a heady feeling! A fleet of local coaches were utilised
to transport the eager mass of affluent A/Ts to either I was travelling for the first time to
my family’s new home, one that Mum had paid a deposit on and then put the
mortgage in my stepfather’s name, this caused some acrimony many years later.
The new place was in Later that evening a significant
event occurred to change forever the relationship between my stepfather and
me. I was expecting some of my old mates to call and was having a wash in the
scullery when Bill Brown, my stepfather, started slapping me ‘playfully’
around the back of my head and taunting me about my supposed boxing prowess.
He was around fifteen stone in weight and always accorded a wide berth by his
peers, as he was a swaggering bully type of bloke. Entirely without volition,
I swung around and with a sweetness I was amazed at in retrospect, slammed my
right fist wrist-deep into his solar plexus. He performed an amazingly
complex manoeuvre for such a squat bloke; he doubled over, retching, as he
flew backwards until his heels hit the step up into the sitting room. At
which point he fell backwards and lay there on the carpet like a stunned
mullet. A comment by one of the boxing instructors at AAS, Bombardier Davies,
ran through my mind, he had said that I had an unusual wallop for one of my
size and weight. I weighed in at around seven stone at this time of my life
and I was astounded at what I had done, my kid brother had the biggest shit
eating grin I had ever seen all over his face and my mother was beside
herself. Mr Brown was green around the gills for quite some time after that
and strangely subdued too. He never again raised his hand against me until
the day, some years later, when he and I fought briefly as a result of an
altercation between him and my brother, in which I copped a punch from each
as I tried to separate them. As a result of the mess I made of him on that
occasion I was persona non grata at home for several years. The rest of my leave was a pleasant time
of late nights and late risings, reunions with friends, plenty of fags and
the odd beer from the nearest off license, unfortunately I still showed my
extreme youth too clearly to get away with drinking in a pub in civvies. I
did chance my arm in uniform twice though and got away with it all right,
probably because I went into the dimly lit ‘Snug’ and drank in there rather
than in the public bar. The couple of times that I did venture forth in
uniform seemed to cause some interest in the members of the opposite sex but
I was too naive and inexperienced to pursue the point, besides they were
always in pairs and I hadn't even heard of a ménage a trois at that
point in my life! On
several occasions I took someone home on leave with me, sometimes for the
whole period, sometimes on a split share basis. In the case of Bob Malcolm,
we split between Luton and Another lad that spent a leave with me was Bob Kessick, his
family were still serving themselves and he had nowhere to go for his leave
as they were stationed overseas, we had a great time and one of the local
girls took something of a shine to him, although it did not survive long once
we were back at AAS. I also took one of the Stevens twins on leave with me
too; he is laying next to me, on my left, in the ‘B’ Company photo. He was
one hell of a ladies’ man and would chat up sheilas at the drop of a hat. I
recall one night we were in the Odeon Cinema in Blondie Wright was yet another who shared time on leave with me;
he was another great bloke and was similar to Stevo in that he was a live
wire for the Sheilas. With the both of them I was often given the unenviable
task of amusing the "Woof " type companion that attractive girls
often trot around in the company of. This was not wasted time for me though,
as I discovered that looks were not the ultimate bait for attracting the
opposite sex, personality was! Having made this startling discovery I
put it into practise one sunny afternoon when Blondie and I were out and
about in 2 Division Onwards
(above) ‘B’ Company,
Intake 53B – (reclining, 2nd from left) Gerry PECK Passing from the lowest of the
low when you went from HQ Division into 2 Division was an epic milestone in
one’s passage through the AAS. Having someone lower than you in the pecking
order that you could actually “Jip” was the absolute giddy end after six
months of total obeisance to anything that moved on two legs and wore khaki!
The first semester in HQ Division over and the newly acquired status of 2
Division attained, Apprentices were allocated to ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘C’ or ‘D’ Company
according to trade for the remainder of their time as an Apprentice. The
colour flashes worn under the brass epaulette titles – blue for ‘A’, red for
‘B’, green for ‘C’, and yellow for ‘D’ Company were the first status symbol
earned in the tortuous passage through the School’s hierarchy. From this point on, once any
allotted Saturday morning parades and fatigues were over and done with, it
was permissible to leave the Camp to mingle with real people for a few hours.
Before doing so however, one had to parade before the guardroom where the
duty provost would check you out for neatness - any real or imagined
shortcoming in the standard of turnout meant you had to go away and fix it
before re-presenting yourself. It was always a very good idea to commence
this procedure a goodly time before the bus that you hoped to catch was due!
Little gaggles of uniformed Apprentices would mill about in the lee of the
Gymnasium, checking each other out before returning to the guardroom and
running the gauntlet for the second or even third time. Wet weather played
havoc with plans of course as the whitener used with the suede (Slade-Wallace) belt worn with one’s
best Service Dress uniform had a tendency to run when it got soaked. Very
rarely did anyone pass muster on the first presentation, although it soon
became apparent that if you waited 5 minutes or so behind the Camp gymnasium
and then went up again you normally got the nod. The problem of course with
going out in uniform to the nearest towns – The Punishment Fits the
Crime? Punishments for petty
"crimes", usually defined under the auspices of the charge:
"Conduct contrary to the prejudice of good order and military
discipline", were dealt with by "Case admonished" if you were
going to get away with it. (Blessed words) For the less lucky majority the
punishments awarded were usually so many days "Jankers" or CB
(confined to Barracks) or alternatively an extra drill (Rodeo) or two might
be awarded. (Corporal of Horse) ‘Donkey’ WILCOX used to be a right pig on Rodeos; he would
march the lucky lads through the ploughed section adjacent to the boundary
fence at the top of the square and then give you 3 minutes to get back on
parade for inspection. To cover this you had to borrow a mate’s best kit and
of course the ratbag soon repeated the process, so that there were two sets
of best gear you had to work on after the parade was over. My last two Rodeos were awarded
for the heinous crime of smoking without the granting of permission from the
Commandant and parent. I duly performed these most unpopular Saturday
afternoon two-hour slogs on the drill square and come the third Saturday
afternoon I was quietly pressing my No 2 uniform, when suddenly a panting A/T
appeared in the billet and informed me that I was to report to Corporal of Horse
Wilcox, in best uniform, immediately! I clad myself in best gear in what must
have Guinness Book of Records-worthy time and doubled out on to the square.
Here I was subjected to a most severe bawling out and informed that I was on
a charge for being "Absent from Parade". I knew better than to
argue, so, fuming at the injustice of it and the incompetence of the HQ
Company Clerk who had inadvertently printed me in for a third week, I did the
"Extra" extra drill. When, on Monday morning’s
defaulters’ parade, I informed the C.O. of what had happened, I was overjoyed
to hear the Company Clerk confirm my story in full. Fully expecting to hear
the magic words: “Case admonished”, I received a rude awakening to the
exigencies of rough Army Justice and logic when I heard the CO state that I
was awarded an Extra drill as punishment. My face must have been a study,
because the Major, rot his socks, explained that my punishment was for
failing to answer my name when the defaulters roll was called at the commencement
of the Drill that I should not have been on! Almost fifty years on and I
still wonder at that one! So that was four for the price of two so to speak,
but it sure as hell cured me of getting caught smoking!
The reason for the smirk soon
became evident, because a handful of feathers laboriously plucked seemed to
expand and fly about all over the place. Realising that I would be there
until judgement day at that rate of progress I looked around for inspiration.
It came to me as I gazed upon a very large dixie full of simmering water on
the central stove, I took the chook I was handling over to it and dunked it
for a few seconds. A quick swill under the cold tap to cool it down a tad and
I set to. The feathers and the underlying down just fell away at the lightest
touch and being wet, they stayed clumped together. What a doddle! Within
twenty minutes, I had sorted out the chooks, found a fine sieve to trawl the simmering
water clear of the odd feather and bit of chook poo and was ready to go. The
feathers I had slipped into the big bins outside, where they would be less
obvious. A last quick but thorough check that I had left the place in good
order and had hidden every trace of my scurrilous deed and I took off. How
very nice to have won one for a change! The Provost Probably the most feared of the
Permanent Staff at the AAS, after the RSM "Tara" McNally, was
Sergeant Fred Silvers, the "Dread Fred", a dapper, sallow faced
little man of immaculate turnout. His dark green Rifle Brigade beret and
grim, mustachioed face was the bane of every Apprentice. Fred and his small
staff of Regimental Police or "Provost's" were the ones who dealt
with the Defaulters and pounced on the unwary, they exercised the power of
veto over leaving camp area at weekends and carried out arrests within the
camp as and when required. Anyone who had drawn either "open" or
"close" arrest was entirely at their mercy. Open arrest meant that
you had to report to the guardroom at certain intervals during the day and
evening, in immaculate order of course. Close arrest meant that you spent the
better part of the day and evening in the guardroom cells. Like just about
every other A/T, I loathed the sight of an RP armband and wondered what lower
form of life there could possibly be? An incident about halfway through my
stint at AAS changed my perspective for me. It was customary, on the night
before a passing out parade, for the Seniors to shuffle out on to the square
in a "Conga" line and then all the other divisions, in the usual
formation, would join on behind them. For fifteen minutes or so we would
weave in and out of the barrack block spiders and the square to the chant of
"aye aye aye CONGAAA" All good harmless fun! Except for this one
occasion, someone from the Seniors’ end of the line changed the chant to
"Lets get Johnny French, ah"!! Johnny French was an Apprentice
Sergeant and had obviously upset someone rather badly. The Conga line made
its way to Johnny French's barrack room and apparently a very scared young
A/T told the leaders of the line that ‘Frenchie’ had heard the chant and shot
down to the guardroom for protection. Somehow the mood of the lads had turned
ugly, you could feel it, like a current coursing through the line. We were
led down to the guardroom where a chant demanding Johnny French began; after
a moment or two Fred Silvers appeared in the doorway. Without saying a word,
he stood there, Mufti After the lofty heights of 4
Division-hood were reached, it was possible to apply to be permitted to wear
approved “Mufti”, or civilian clothes. This consisted of a blazer sporting
the regimental badge, grey flannel trousers, white shirt, regimental tie,
black military pattern shoes and grey woollen socks completed this exciting
ensemble. As it was as readily identifiable to the hordes of hostile Senior
Ranks as full uniform it was not universally popular. The lucky lads of
Senior (6) Division were permitted to wear reasonably neat mufti of their own
choosing, although still had to pass muster at the guardhouse of course, but
what a difference it made to those brief hours away from the confinement of
“Stalag Arborfield”. The “Barons”
Our “Cash” and “Baccy” Barons,
as they were called, normally consisted of entrepreneurs who worked at some
job while on leave and then used the cash thus earned when back in Camp to
loan cigarettes or cash at 50% interest, redeemable when Credits were paid
prior to the next leave. Each Baron had some Seniors on his payroll to act as
enforcers if necessary - rarely was a debt dishonoured - twice. Thus it was that not everyone went home
with his “Credits” intact. ‘Hazing’
In any establishment where
juveniles were gathered en masse, bullying or “hazing” did often occur. For
the most part it was petty and indiscriminate but occasionally one of the
more vicious types amongst the rank and file got stuck into someone and did
some damage before they were stopped. At this point in time in a
particularly tragic incident, a fellow named BEAUMONT with whom I had at one
time shared a Part of the “hazing” all
Apprentices were subjected to was the occasional nocturnal visit from a group
of Senior Apprentices who would enter the billet and then turn over every
bed, dumping the occupants unceremoniously on the floor. On my second night
at AAS I was witness to something called “Luluing”. One of our number, a
case-hardened and cynical youngster from Pompey ( Fetching and carrying from the
NAAFI Canteen for Seniors was also quite common as and when one of them
demanded such service. Any inefficiency or infraction could result in a
Kangaroo court appearance in the Seniors’ billet, the usual sentence being
either to push a tin of boot polish the length of the billet floor with his
nose, or to run the gauntlet of bolster-swinging Seniors. Another occasional
practice was the “volunteering” of spare coppers for the needy Seniors’
Canteen requirements. Unfortunately, due to the odd
vicious swine that lurked in every group, some of the hazing could be nasty
and even dangerous. I have to say that I was lucky enough not to personally
encounter it, but I knew of others less fortunate. The worst bullying that I was
involved with occurred while I was in 2 Division. The room NCO was an
Apprentice Corporal Dave BULL and he was a huge brute of a bloke, well over
six feet tall and built like a brick dunny. He gave us the most miserable
time it is possible to imagine, full kit layouts every night and on most
occasions he would have the whole room marking time on the kit that he had flung
to the floor. He frequently physically manhandled anyone who really sparked
his ire, not to hit but to grasp and really shake them hard. I was lucky
enough to escape that aspect but more by luck than design I hasten to add,
probably because my bedspace was down by the fire door and he had vented the
worst of his spleen by the time he reached me. His downfall came about
because of a little Jock squaddie on the Permanent Staff who had one stripe
and an armful of G-flogs - ration orderly was his function I believe. BULL
was being really violent on this particular occasion and had reduced a couple
of the lads to blubbering wrecks and our kit to an absolute shambles when
suddenly this ancient little Jock Lance-Jack (Lance Corporal) stormed
in with a Provost in tow and screamed at BULL: “You are under arrest, you
cannot lay hands on men like that.” BULL was placed in close arrest and
summarily dealt with by demotion, open arrest and then discharge. The question needs to be asked, did I ever take part in hazing? Well
yes I did indeed. Blondie Wright and I often went around to catch up with our
friend Willie Watson, second from right in the centre row of the B Coy photo.
Willie was the room NCO for a bunch of 2 Division lads and as a result of a
bit of sauce from one of them, we grabbed a bolster apiece and got stuck into
them. Of course there were many more of them than us so it was quite a pillow
fight, this was great fun and we made it a point to do this at least once a
week, Willie was quite happy to let this go on as it was an outlet for his
lads and there was no malice in it whatsoever. Blondie and I got into some
bother as a result of one of Willie's lads getting into strife in ‘A’
Company's lines. As the weather was somewhat inclement, this silly lad made the
cardinal error of passing through the ‘A’ Company spider in order to avoid
some of the rain as he made his way to the NAAFI Canteen. A Senior lad would
have got away with it but not a sprog, he was immediately bailed up by a
Lance-jack in ‘A’ Company's 3 Division, he was a very upset young sprog when
he got back to Willie’s barrack room, having been made to double on the spot
for ten minutes and then placed on a charge by this friendly boy NCO. He had
been getting something for Willie and the delay had annoyed Willie, so
Blondie and I, Blondie being a 5 Division Lance-jack, wandered down to ‘A’
Company lines to ask this bloke to drop the charge that he had put the lad on
for insolence. The cheeky sod got right up us, so I belted him in the
guts and Blondie kicked his backside. We were both charged for this and had
to front the CO of ‘B’ Company, a rather nice bloke from a Scottish line
Regiment, he listened to our explanation and then "Pop" our
benevolent CSM, (from the Devons I believe he was) said to the Major that he
felt our standing up for the younger lads was not a criminal act but quite
laudable! As a result we were told not to make a habit of it and given
"Case admonished", so no punishment of any sort ensued. A word to
the ‘A’ Company prat from a handful of 5 Division lads from ‘A’ Company
saw that worthy pull his head right in. That was the only time I recall that
I laid hands on a junior bloke throughout my time at AAS, I would do the same
again today were the circumstances repeated, power mad little
"Hitlers" are a pet hate of mine. Occasionally a sprog would aggravate one of the Senior Division
bods and it was fairly normal for a "Kangaroo Court" to be convened
in the Seniors’ billet, the normal "Punishment" was for the sprog
to have to run a gauntlet of bolster-swinging Seniors, or perhaps push a
polish tin the length of the billet with his nose. I have heard of some cruel
variations on this but I never saw such, certainly neither I nor any of the
blokes in my billet would have condoned or participated in any potentially
dangerous hazing. Another venture that all of us took part in was the
occasional airing of the sprogs beds, while they were still in them of
course. This was something that had been meted out to us as sprogs and as
Seniors we in turn did it to others, it was traditional to do it on the odd
rare occasion. ‘B’ Company at that time, especially when I was a Senior,
seemed to be a pretty happy collection of fellows without any vicious sorts
lurking amongst our number and I am totally unaware of anyone being hurt
during the odd depredation that we carried out. Sport
Life within our restricted
and hierarchical world could be leavened somewhat if a person was good at
sport. One way of alleviating some of the restrictions that were endemic to
life at an Army Apprentice School was to join one of the team sports groups
such as Soccer, Cricket, Rugby, Athletics or, of course, Boxing. Participants
in these activities got to travel to other Units for matches, and so too we
often entertained sides from other Units. The round robin style competitions
betwixt the three Army Apprentices Schools then extant – Arborfield, Chepstow
(Beachley) and Harrogate, were always an immensely popular diversion, and the
opposition thoroughly booed at every opportunity. Every excuse for getting
out of camp was the order of the day for the lads, and training runs for the
boxing team were a special delight, even in winter. Likewise, if you became
known as one of the sporting elite, there was usually less likelihood of getting
bullied or hazed as much by your seniors. Boxing Prior to joining AAS I spent three years at Challney Secondary
Modern School in Luton, the thirteenth school I had attended, variously in
Australia and the UK. For the modest skill I displayed with boxing gloves in
the Gym I was appointed School Boxing Captain – quite meaningless really as
the team was formed just three months before my schooling came to an end and,
as a consequence, I never had a single bout. Silly me mentioned this in my résumé of course and as a
consequence, on the Monday evening of my second week as a moving target, I
was detailed to go to the camp Gymnasium and report to CSMI BROWNING, which I
did with the alacrity that all such orders had to be accorded. I went in
through the front doors, up some stairs and then out on to the Gym floor that
sloped down from the main entry for about a quarter of its length before
becoming a normal flat floor, with a raised dais (stage) at the other
end. No signs of life at all, just a big empty space flanked with wall bars
and some hanging ropes. Hearing a sort of scuffling noise from a doorway down
near the dais end of the Gym I knocked and called out that I was A/T PECK
reporting as ordered. Out bustled this very fierce looking little man hardly
bigger than me, with a real boxers nose; he looked me up and down somewhat
dubiously and nodded, and then fished around for two pairs of 16oz training
gloves that we then donned.
Burmese Apprentices Three Burmese lads stick
out from my time at AAS, in particular Tin (or Khin) NYUNT, a Senior in the
Boxing Team in my day. There was another Burmese bloke who I fought in the
ring - he was a tough nut – and after hammering his head for two rounds he
caught me with a belter almost as the bell rang for the end of round two. He
knocked me diagonally across the width of the ring and really set bells
ringing! My second told me I was wasting my time smacking his head; “Go
downstairs” were his instructions. As a result of the attention thus lavished
on his gut the fight was stopped in my favour halfway through the third. The other Burmese bloke
was in the bedspace next to mine in billet F4 and mistook banter betwixt
myself and a wee Scotsman as insults aimed at him for some weird reason. He
went troppo and came at me with a knife. Pure reflex took over and I beaned
him with the boot I had been beazing - laid him out like a carpet. For this
callous act of thoughtless self-preservation I received a bollocking from
Roger TATLER, the Room NCO. He claimed that I had damaged the relationship
between Burma and England – as if! I did get a slight smile from him when I
asked if it would be OK to do a re-run and die for the cause? Not as dramatic
as it sounds though, as the knife he was lunging with was a standard issue
eating iron, and therefore more suited to beating someone to death rather
than stabbing them. Places of Interest and Amusement
A couple of kilometres
from the back entry to our military complex, which also contained the Medical
Reception Station (MRS) for Arborfield Garrison was a holiday tourist
attraction called "California". Among its varied attractions was a
speedway circuit. Once permitted egress from the Camp, many an afternoon over
the weekends was spent in that (to us) idyllic situation, as entry was cheap
it was much appreciated and nobody caused any mischief there to spoil it for
ourselves. Another place of interest
was the Fireworks Factory that was on the other side of the narrow lane
running parallel to the fence near the top end of the drill square. This was
because it would go off with a bang from time to time; on one memorable
occasion so big was the explosion that it threw me off my bed and caused a
mushroom cloud of magnificent proportion and colour. Some of our lads scaled
the two fences involved and were busy finding body parts from the six
fatalities of that one. That aspect of it was not at all pretty! At Dead of Night – ‘B’ Coy lines, 4 Division, 53B Intake Lights out had sounded some twenty minutes or so previously and
the soft burring of snores permeated the billet. Figuring that all were
asleep, I I very carefully pulled the blankets up over my scone before
lighting up, as bringing upon oneself the wrath of a patrolling provost was
not a good idea! No sooner had I done so than I heard the sound I dreaded
most to hear at that precise moment. An insistent "Pssst!" coming
from Satchmo’s pit! With a feeling of utter dismay I leaned over and
whispered, in a wailing voice full of agony and despair, "What"? My
joy knew no bounds when he replied. "Have you got a light"? He too
had saved a ciggie and like me, had stayed awake. Quick as a flash I
slithered out of bed and went over to his pit. It was pitch black but the
tiny glow from my fag was enough to show me this wee white thing projecting
outwards Without further ado, I stuck my lit fag against it and the sound
of Satchmo’s famous lungs was heard sucking in, then there was a short pause,
followed by an almighty shriek that woke the entire billet. The wee white
thing I had homed in on had in fact been Satchmo’s little pinky! It took me a
full half hour to get over the ensuing fit of the giggles as I listened to
the poor sod sucking on his sore pinky and whingeing that I had trod on his
fag when he dropped it! Landed on it more like when I recontacted terra
firma, after seriously challenging the standing high jump record as a result
of his unsolicited scream of agony. ‘In Dock’ – and
Relegation
Relegation was the fate of any Apprentice
who for any reason failed to meet the criteria set for each six-months
semester in the course of his apprenticeship. Such was to be my fate in 5
Division - the penultimate semester. I had developed haemorrhoids and they
slowly got worse until they became prolapsed and infected. I had three spells
in Dock (Hospital) with them, the first two at the local Medical
Reception Station in Arborfield, the object of which was to shrink them
sufficiently to allow them re-entry. The doctors decided that they had to go
and I was despatched in due course to Cambridge Military Hospital in
Aldershot. Here I spent another week having the usual unctions and cold
compresses applied to my terrified Tuchis, after which the operation was
carried out. A few days after the operation, the gauze-wrapped
drain tube had to be removed from my ‘harris’, a QARANC (Queen Alexandra’s
Royal Army Nursing Corps) Nursing Sister arrived to do that and
discovered that the plug was becoming very attached to me by virtue of the
flesh beginning to heal through and over the gauze. Being a direct-action and
no-nonsense type, she sorted this minor setback out by grabbing hold of the
end of the pipe and wrenching it out regardless. I passed out and the rest of
the ward later told me that even so my yells, curses and threats caused the
Sister to flee the ward in tears. I came to with the doctors and nurses
gathered around me cleaning up the blood and lymphatic fluid that had gushed
forth. This damage to my nether region caused them to delay my release for
almost three weeks, making a total of about seven weeks that I had
missed from the syllabus of 5 Division. The only visitors I received in that
time were my mother and stepfather and the Camp Padre. He informed me that I
was to be relegated and repeat 5 Division. Not a word from anyone connected
with the boxing team, so that decided me not to bother with going back to
that after my release. I was in the Ward with a collection of Squaddies
who had returned from the Korean conflict and who all had required surgery of
various sorts prior to their being fit for demob. They all got a bottle of
stout per day; I as a boy soldier was excluded from this but they raised such
a ruckus that the nurses gave in and served me one as well. They were a great
bunch of blokes, some with appendectomies, some who had hernia procedures and
one poor soul who had damaged his foreskin so badly on his first night back
in Blighty that he had to be circumcised. I believe this is referred to by
the Medical fraternity as a "Ball Gladder" operation. The ward was
full of laughter and groans of pain; telling jokes to men in sutures was a
painful way to have men in stitches. The poor sod with the circumcision had
to listen to others tell horny stories designed to get him shrieking too,
they never failed to get the desired response from him. They had a thing
going with a weekly practical joke that had to be pulled on a member of the
nursing staff. They lumbered me with the Matron, a half-colonel with a row of
medal ribbons 3 deep. She was a formidable wench and the Staff, from the
doctors to the lowliest nurse, were terrified of her. On the Wednesday, when
Matron came around with her large entourage in tow, she swept up to the foot
of each bed and after a cursory glance at the patients clipboard, asked the
patient if they were alright and could she do anything for them? The stock
answer of course being: "Good, thank you Ma'am and no thank you"!
When she paused by my bed and entered into the ritual rhetoric I stunned
everyone by answering: "Yes please, Ma'am"! to the second question.
After a short silence Matron moved closer and said: "What can I do for
you"? "Please Ma'am" I responded in my most winsome voice,
"Could you pick up that cigarette for me?" There was a shocked
silence and a lot of glowers from the entourage while Ward Sister looked
about ready to kill! "Certainy"! responded Matron in a tone that
would have frozen lit candles, then, as she bent forward to pick up the
errant ciggy on the immaculate brown lino I tugged gently on the brown cotton
I had threaded through the fag. So there was this Doyen of the Hospital
pursuing this fag across the floor! She paused after a moment, turned to her
appalled hangers-on and said: "I say, this young chap has played a prank
on me, haw haw!" at which point the whole pack of sycophants erupted
into loud guffaws of laughter. Did that ever make my "Bones" with
the blokes in the ward - even the Sister treated me as a human being after
that. T 'Other End - Senior Division
Having touched, albeit
briefly, on the opening salvoes of AAS induction and again briefly looked at
some of the antics along the way, it is probably only right to balance this
Mémoire by looking fleetingly at the last of days at AAS. As each intake finally
took its allotted turn as Senior Division, the ultimate privilege was
bestowed upon them. This was the right to leave Camp at weekends in clothing
of their choice; this had to be clean and not too outlandish of course, but
who cared? Returning to Camp at the start
of the final semester, many of us were wearing our own civvies for the first
time while going to the Guardroom for signing back in. On the bus from
Wokingham station we had all been aghast at what one of the returnees was
wearing. He had on a “Teddy Boy” outfit, with knee-length drape jacket with
velvet collar and skin-tight drainpipe trousers; on his feet he wore “Brothel
Creeper” shoes with two-inch thick corrugated soles. As though this wasn't enough
to serve as a death warrant, he had got himself a special haircut - a
'Mohican'. His flaming red crest of hair was the last thing we saw of him for
a day or so as he was marched into a cell, the clanging door of which
resounded through the camp like a knell of doom! Out and About in 6 Division A typical Saturday evening out in Reading consisted of a slack
handful of civvy's clad senior lads catching the bus outside the main gates
and disembarking in Reading near their watering hole of choice. My little
group used to get off the bus a stop or three before the main drag and dive
into a corner pub that had a wine shop just over the road from it. Here we
would lash out on a whisky that cost one shilling and sixpence and a half of
mild that cost a tanner. As soon as these were dispatched we shot across the
road and all chucked in for a bottle of VP Ruby Port, this was priced under
six shillings and with what had gone before, provided us with the requisite
impetus and Dutch courage to make a visit to the nearest dance hall. Seldom
did the bottle make it past three turns each. One of the other lads in the billet told us about a Pub in a
small side lane off of the main drag that reputedly sold scrumpy
cider at a tanner a half pint glass. I believe the Pub was called
the Star. Next weekend, with all the skill of dedicated gluggers, we tracked
down this Pub in a dingy little laneway and in we went. The Pub lived up to
it's unsavoury facade, being scruffy and turgid inside. The landlord was a cadaverous and dubious looking character, the
only other customer was sort of propped up against the corner of the
bar quietly nodding to himself. We tentatively asked mine host if he
sold scrumpy cider. His reply was: "Yes I do my dears". This really
reinforced his resemblance to Charles Dickens' Fagin! The brew came in a large stone jug with a bung in the top and
when poured into the half pint glasses, was almost orange in colour and quite
cloudy. Once all the glasses were filled we paid our tanners and cautiously
sipped the brew; it was really strong tasting and immediately after
swallowing it you felt as though your teeth had been stripped of their
coating, every little imperfection seemed to catch on your tongue. It was
also very obvious that it was extremely potent too! About a quarter of the way down our glasses and we began to
notice a very unpleasant odour, several of us sniffed loudly and made
comment. Up sidled the landlord and said. "That's only old George in the
corner there, he's had four of what you'm drinking and he's shat
himself." Thirty seconds later we were all up on the main road putting as
much distance as was possible between us and the Star! Later in the evening
three of our number were quite ill and all of us suffered from a form of
Delhi belly for three days or so. That scrumpy was a health hazard at best,
or fairly toxic at worst! From that day to this I personally have only ever
drunk cider that comes out of a recognised, well-branded bottle. “Q” I suppose that every Division
had one to varying degrees - I refer now to the bloke who could never master
the art of swinging the right arm synchronised to the left leg. As I had been
relegated to Pass Out with 54A, I finally encountered one man who could
reduce a ‘wooden top’ (Brigade of Guards) Drill Pig to tears; a really nice
bloke, a cluey tradesman, but a disaster zone on any sort of parade. Any
squad in which he marched resembled a sort of mass audition for people doing
a ‘Dick Emery’ type stumble. If you were at the front of the file, you could
hear the scuffs, mumbled curses, and whimpers from within the ranks and howls
of outrage from whoever was marching us to our destination. Not a pretty
sight! We will refer to him as "Q", for that is the first letter in
his name. On the day that we had to
report to the 25-yard butts in order to qualify on the Sten gun, I was at the
firing point with a slack handful of others, including "Q".
Instructions came for us to load with a magazine of 28 rounds then, in bursts
of three to five rounds, fire at the target to our front. I should mention at
this point that the peculiarity of the Sten is that it pulls up and to the
right as you fire. "Q" of course depressed the trigger and kept it
depressed! After the first four rounds had chipped the bricks on the wall
behind the butts, the rest of the rounds began whipping off into the
firmament. The Sergeant i/c the range party yelled out: "Q********n,
cease fire!" As soon as "Q"
heard his name, he began to turn to his right. As he was on the extreme left
of the firing party, this caused a mass evacuation. We all abandoned weapons
and position and legged it towards the blast proofed exit from the butts, led
by our tutor for a few seconds. He, poor chap, fell as he reached the exit
and was used as a launching ramp by those of us that had been trailing him.
As luck would have it, "Q" had run out of ammo by the time he had
completed his right turn, otherwise it would have been very dodgy for any of
us over 25 feet tall. You tend to overlook such details though when some prat
is letting fly with live ammo! The Permanent Staff wallah
had his sadistic revenge on us for using him so ill just a few days later,
when he doubled us around the sports fields and then ushered us into a bomb
shelter; a Tear gas grenade was then let off and with us all well winded
there was no soft option. This piece of sadism was explained as being
“necessary” so as to familiarise us as to what the effects on rioters would
be if ever we were called upon to use it? I shared a billet with
"Q" and liked the bloke; he had the next bed space to me and was
never usually a ha'porth of trouble. Always the butt of every comedian's
little jape though and many a snide comment was directed his way. He snapped
one night without warning. I had dozed off with the usual mickey taking at
his expense in full swing and then I was suddenly awoken by a creaking
thumping noise, followed by all my webbing cascading around my ears, then
down came my steel locker, which fell across my bed. As a 6 Division bloke
and a relegatee at that, I was not going to put up with that crap. So I
called out for the perpetrator to turn on the light! I heard the patter of feet
towards the switch and as soon as the light came on I was placed right
where I could do some real harm. As the blow landed I saw who it was and to
this day I regret throwing it. All credit to him, he went down to the MRS at
the other end of the camp road and never put the bubble in; four stitches
needed in his lip. That was probably my worst moment in AAS; I would not have
hurt the bloke for the world had I known it was him. Strange to relate but
despite gaining my marksman's badge, the only time that I ever fired a weapon
again during my Service was when sent from (Middle) Wallop to do a
regimental course at Warminster. Such is life at the bottom! Friendships As
one would expect in such an establishment as Arborfield AAS, many friendships
flourished, some ebbed and waned, and some remained constant, lasting a
lifetime in effect! I made many friends, the first was a little nugget of a
Scotsman called Bob Malcolm whose bedspace was two up from mine in Barrack
room F4. Like me, he was a boxer, both of us being around the same weight,
and it came to pass that we had to face each other in the ring. Altogether we
had five bouts and the score ran out at three to me and two to him, all of
them split decisions. My ambition was to knock him out, the trouble was he
was so fast that it was hard to land a solid punch on him; whenever I see a
Looney Tunes cartoon featuring the Tasmanian Devil I find myself thinking of
him! One of our matches took place in the Wokingham Drill Hall in front of a
full house, the place was packed. We had both been scheduled to fight blokes
from the Wokingham Boxing Club, when neither of our opponents showed up we
were told to put on an exhibition bout - did we ever! The crowd threw silver
coins into the ring after the bout was over, "nobbins" was the
popular term for that I believe and it was a sign of approbation by the
spectators. My prize for winning was 14 bars of scented soap, while wee Bobby
got a three tier sponge cake for coming in second, we divided the spoils
between us, scoffing the cake in an orgy of cream and crumbs around the back
of the Hall. Although we were the best of mates we
managed to have a fight outside the ring too. As my kit was being inspected
one night by Roger Tatler, the room NCO, Bob made a snide comment; quick as a
flash I responded. Our reward for this piece of tomfoolery was to clean the
Blanco Room. As we were starting to scrub the place out Bob started blaming
me for our predicament, I said he started the ball rolling so why fix the
blame on me? After a short sharp exchange of compliments we were at it hammer
and tongs, slipping and sliding all over the floor, punching and swearing
away like a pair of fishwives! Without boxing gloves on to hamper me I was
doing quite well, when all of a sudden we heard the voice of the App/CSM
calling out as to who was making all the racket? We abandoned the scene of
the crime immediately, scooting into the adjacent toilets and sitting in
traps until all was quiet again. Then we came out, regarded the sight of each
other, covered in blood, snot and blanco and burst out laughing. Bob went
into a different Company to me but we remained close, even splitting a leave
between us, half in Luton and half in Perth. Bob was given a compassionate
discharge before his first full year was out, something to do with his
mother’s circumstances as a result of injury I believe. Sadly, we lost touch. Another particular friend during my time
in ‘B’ Company was Andrew "Blondie" Wright, a tall slim bloke who
was a real Lady Killer! He and I also doubled up on a couple of leaves. His
home was in Raynes Park, close to Wimbledon. Blondie’s Dad was a Major in the
War Office and a very stern sort of fellow, his Mum was a very sweet lady who
was a great cook! Blondie’s sister Ann was a year younger than us and while a
nice looking girl, was a bit on the toffee side. I think Blondie and Ann expected
me to show interest but I never really looked on her that way. One mealtime
Ann was talking about some of the kids in the Sunday School Class that she
helped with, mentioning that a couple of the girls were away with Chicken
Pox. Her Mother was in the kitchen serving up and over the clatter of
crockery and utensils asked Ann to repeat what it was the girls had. After
the third time of asking Ann got exasperated and called out "For
goodness sake Mum, they have the blasted pox"! I just went into hysterics
and had the giggles all through the ensuing meal, very embarassing! Blondie’s Dad was into home-made wines
and on one memorable occasion allowed the pair of us to sample his latest
effort, a Parsnip wine, I felt a tad queasy afterwards but daren't say
anything of course. I held everything together until we were about fifteen
minutes away from AAS on the coach up from Victoria Bus Station and then up
it all came. The driver had me swab it up when we got to AAS, fair enough I
suppose! After all these years I am still in
touch with a couple of blokes from way back then but not Blondie. Passing Out
–The Transition Into The Regular Army
Just as HQ Division had
been a furious round of activity, so too was Senior Division with Trade Tests
to take, Infantry skills to be polished up, and Passing Out Parade drill to
practice. We were issued for the first time with battledress (BD) uniforms, replacing the WWI style
Service Dress uniforms worn throughout the course of our time at AAS. After
the final rush and furore of qualifying for all that the Army required of us
to become tradesmen and Soldiers, the Passing Out Parade was a final
triumphant moment. Dressed at last in proper battledress uniform as befitting
a trained soldier we were ready to face the world. Passing Out was a great
thrill to all of us - we had endured all that could be done to us whilst
being the lowest form of life in khaki uniform; not only had we survived the
worst that could be thrown at us, we had thrived on it! After AAS I can
honestly say, and I am sure that others of my ilk would agree, that nothing
that life threw at me, with the singular exception of cancer, ever really
frightened me again. Those of us, who passed
through the portals of AAS Arborfield, and of our brother Units, became both
privileged and special. Forgive us our hubris, those of you who read this
account and wonder at us, for we are a proud group of men and that which made
us no longer exists in the form that moulded us. To that end we are, indeed,
a unique and special breed. That which we experienced is no longer there in
quite that format to be sampled by those youngsters who go to today's
equivalent. That ensures that we are singular blokes indeed and we take some
pride in that - why should we not? For it was neither easily nor cheaply
earned! |
