Service Career

AAS Chepstow

Can you remember the first day you arrived? We were met at Chepstow station having just got off the steam train, in my case from Paddington (London). I remember that I felt very embarrassed on the train because I was still in short trousers, and they had holes in them. My fellow passengers, other boys joining up, were from Grammar Schools - or so I thought. We were bawled and shouted at from the moment we left the train as we were herded outside the station to board the buses taking us the four or five miles to Beachley.

I came from a poor area in South London and had difficulty with the entrance exams; I only got into Beachley through good attendance at the Recruiting Office - I think I turned up there regularly each week for a couple of years. At Beachley it was with great satisfaction that I donned denims and parcelled up my scruffy civies that were sent home to my parents. It was now a level playing field - we were all dressed the same.

In HQ Company during the first term was the period when we were vetted. Remember, we went to all the workshops and had a bash at all the trades being taught? I ended up as a Fitter. There were two types of Fitter trained at Chepstow; one was Gun Fitter. They had a few guns there - 6-pounders, 17-pounders, 25-pounders, and a 37mm anti-aircraft gun. I mention this only because my brother joined Chepstow the following year - 50B - and became a Gun Fitter. I ended up as a Fitter (Engine & Pump); it sounds grand, but after the Passing Out parade I was posted to the Royal Engineers.

Many memories have faded - after all, it's 50 years ago! The Apprentice RSM from our intake was DICKINSON if I remember correctly. RSM BAKER, Coldstream Guards, I am sure had a genetic fault; his son looked a bit funny as well. Remember him looking over the gate of his father's married quarter? He was nearly as big as his dad.

In HQ Company we were watched over and kept separated from the rest of the boys in the other Companies. Our drill sergeant was a bloke named HULL from an Irish Regiment. Remember the barracks? All wooden huts, each heated by two coal fires? The bullshit was something that's long gone. If your barrack room over a term was the best you got an extra day's leave. Every Friday night all the beds and lockers were shifted out, polish layed - it was a vivid orange - and the floor was bumpered with a bloke sitting on the bumper to give it added weight. We even polished the brass screws in the floorboards! We got the extra day's leave.

It was during the second term when we joined a Company that we suffered. I can still recall the whole barrack room voting a boy to go to the NAAFI (Navy, Army & Air Force Institute canteen) on a pay night to get the rest of the room's supplies. The NAAFI had a black curtain hanging over the entrance door - I got caught by the Senior group after coming through that curtain. There must have been six of them sitting there waiting to catch a prat like me. I was made to climb a pipe to the ceiling twenty feet up; it fed hot water pipe to the radiator and it sure burned my hands.

Some of the things that the Senior groups did to the Juniors were not very nice. A lot of it was folklore, like putting kids into steel lockers and pretending they were floating down the River Severn; a sadistic sod would then pour a bucket of water over the locker. We had a homesick kid in our hut who tried to commit suicide - he used his pyjamas cords and looped them over the rafter. We all told him to jump off his bed but the bloody cord was too long and he landed on the floor snivelling. He was sent home.

I went into 'B' Company, the OC of which was a chap called NASH in the Green Howards. The CO at Beachley was Colonel PETERS. There were special meals at the cookhouse, I think every Thursday evening; for tea we got a pie and peas. I used to count the weeks to the next leave by pies - ten more pies to summer! I loved those pies. As for hygiene in the cookhouse, we used to wash our eating-irons and mugs in a large bath-type container filled with hot water; if you were amongst the last to use it the water was tepid and like dirty soup, and your mug came out dirtier than it went in. After all, at least 800 boys had used it before you.

I was keen on swimming and not very good at field sports. The swimmong pool was a mile out of camp in a field and the water was a dirty brown colour - I think it was pumped in from the River Wye. But I got into the School swimming team, and even into the boxing team. We got steaks and things if we did well. I had to fight a bloke called LECKIE from 'C' Company, a big Scot from Glasgow I think. Anyway, after the fight I was picked for the team and boxed against Arborfield (and got hammered!).

Last year (2001) I re-visited Beachley to see how much it had changed. It's not the same; the Severn Bridge now near enough crosses over the camp. The wooden huts are gone, replaced with modern concrete blocks. I went past the main gate and I think the camp was occupied by the Royal Anglian Regiment. I can remember, on some Sunday afternoons when I wanted a bit of privacy and time to myself, I used to walk to the Point and sit on the roof of a concrete pillbox to watch the Beachley Ferry clanking on its chain from Avonmouth across to Beachley. I sat on that pillbox again last year - it's still there but now hidden in bushes, and of course the ferry is long gone.

I can remember feeling a touch of jealousy watching the VMs (Vehicle Mechanics) going out motorcycle training. The best we were offered as Fitters was to start a bulldozer and move it over a piece of vacant land. There was also an old Ruston Bucyrus tracked crane; I felt very clever playing with those toys. Our instructor, a very old bloke with a handlebar moustache, was competent with steam engines and we received a thorough grounding in Merryweather steam engines when we should have been learning about diesel engines, but I eventually Passed Out of Beachley as a Fitter IC&P (Internal Combustion & Pump) Class A3.

Regular Army

I was posted to the Royal Engineers Depot at Barton Stacey, near Andover in Hampshire. The RE was a very large Corps in those days, consequently the Depot comprised four camps (all wooden huts again). There must have been a couple of thousand blokes waiting for their postings to all parts of the world. It was here that I joined up with about 50 other ex-Apprentices from Harrogate and Arborfield; we just happened to make up a platoon. We were all shipped out via the Hook of Holland to Osnabruck (BAOR) where we joined an Engineer Regiment.

I thought the days of bulling boots and blanco-ing webbing were past - I was wrong. We were to complete a six-months course to become what was called 'Field Engineers'. The barracks were great - multi-storey buildings with central heating. We were 'ribbed rotten' by the rest of the Regiment, mainly (National Service) conscripts. Every morning we ex-Boys paraded all shiny and smart as a platoon; we knew we were good at drill - after all, had we not been trained by the Guards? The bloody conscripts used to hang out of the windows watching us. In the evenings it was 'bull you boots and press the BD (battledress uniform)'; during the day we learned about explosives, bridging, mines and booby traps. It was awful; I was hoping for the good life, but it was not for us.

One day in the dining hall I was having lunch, sitting opposite one of these conscripts. All of the ex-Boys were quite used to the leg-pulling and he asked me how long I had to serve. "12 years" I replied. He then showed me his 'chuff chart' (also known as a demob chart); he had about a month to do. He smirked and asked me if I had a girlfriend! Well, you know what it was like in those days; I had not even spoken to one - the original virgin - like you I suppose. This bloke, a 'brummy', said he had been a journalist (tea boy I expect) and had written to the 'Birmingham Gazette' asking for female pen pals and had received a couple of hundred replies. He was selling photos and addresses for sixpence each - he had them plastered all over the wall of his room. I had my sixpenny-worth and started writing; within a month I was smitten, but there were three more months of the course to go.

I used to write to Shirley nearly every evening, then sit with the lads 'bulling' my kit. One night a bloke called WATSON (ex-Chepstow, 'C' Company) said he knew of a way to get off the course and get back to England. He could see that I was lovesick! I asked him how it could be done, but he said: "Wait and see". The course ended and I found myself posted with another bloke called ROBINSON (ex-Chepstow, 'D' Company) to Minden (BAOR), but before joining that Regiment I had 14 days wonderful leave. I met Shirley in Birmingham; I had to stay with a load of tramps in the YMCA Hostel but I was in love and could put up with anything. We had a 'snog' - that did it for me, my very first 'snog' - no sex, just infatuation. Too soon my leave was up and it was a tearful farewell.

You know the routine - you arrive at the Unit and have to go on OC's Orders for an arrival interview. ROBINSON and I were marched in by the SSM (Squadron Sergeant Major). The OC said: "Hullo!" and then asked us what we would like to do in his Squadron. We both wanted to learn to drive. 'Robbo' was short and chubby; I was skinny and lanky. "Right, Kelly" said the OC, "what do you want to drive?" "Jeeps" says I! Then ROBINSON chirps up, he wanted to drive Diamond-Ts and Scammells (both being heavy recovery vehicles). We were swapped around, and I was told to report to the MT (Motor Transport) Sergeant.

I changed into fatigue dress (denims) and the Sergeant presented me with a Scammell and low-loader with a bulldozer on board - it was covered in mud. "Clean it Kelly!" It took me three days with a bucket and rag; then I started driver training. I think the sign said 'Fahrschule' - learner driver. It still had a D8 bulldozer on the back. With four days driver training done my name came up for OC's Orders the next day! I couldn't think what I had done, but there I was, bulling up again for OC's Orders in the morning.

I was marched in; the OC now seemed a bit sarcastic. "Don't you like my Squadron?" he asked. I was a bit perplexed and didn't know what was coming. "Are you not happy with your driver training?" "Yes" I replied. "Well then, why do you want to stop it and go on a parachute course?" PARACHUTE COURSE? What's the fool on about? Bingo! The penny drops - WATSON the bugger - this is my ticket to England and the love of my life ... my Shirley!

Fiddling a Posting - There Must Be an Easier Way

It must have been half way through 1953 when l departed from BAOR on the train to the Hook of Holland and across the sea to Harwich. I was to report to the RE Depot again, at good old Barton Stacey. There l was to await calling forward to join the selection course for the Airborne Squadron of the Royal Engineers. I seem to recollect that l had a few days free, these l used to visit Birmingham and see my Shirley. On return l saw that l was to report to the Airborne Forces Depot at Aldershot on the Sunday afternoon.

Airborne Forces Depot (AFD) - Selection Course

I checked in at the Guardroom, then reported to the Stores to be issued with an airborne steel helmet, a Dennison smock, and a toggle rope, and told there was a kit inspection at 1800 hrs. I went to the barrack room l was allocated and there met some of the other hopeful's that were on the course. They came from every Regiment and Corps in the British Army.

Before breakfast we were out running the roads of Aldershot. I realise now that my time at Beachley stood me in good stead. Those PT sessions in the gym had strengthened me and l had the edge on a lot of the candidates. Within days blokes were getting RTU (Return to Unit) and was determined this would not happen to me - there was no going back to Germany - l needed to be near the love of my life, my Shirley. We learnt what the toggle rope was for - we used it to carry a telegraph pole around an assault course. Six blokes, two dragging and four carrying, just like Santa’s sleigh! The course got harder; we swung on trapezes at the swimming pool and jumped from the high board whether you could swim or not. We were introduced to the ‘Trainasium’ beside a disused canal. Scaffolding thirty feet high with single plank runways, running planks and jumping gaps thirty feet up, it was no place for the weak hearted. We climbed those telegraph poles while the team held them vertical. We lined up in two ranks, turned around to face the bloke behind and found he was your opponent in the “milling” (3 minutes in the boxing ring). You had to show aggression, thump the bloke non-stop for three minutes. I got a prospective Padre who wanted to be a Para. I can truthfully say l have bashed a Roman Catholic Padre and he bashed me! Selection at Aldershot lasted two weeks, the final run, in full kit was about ten miles; about 60% failed the course. On the final day they took us in the gym, showed a film called “Theirs is the Glory” then read out all the course numbers of those that had passed. We were to go on to RAF Abingdon for jump training, the blokes that failed, their numbers were not read out, but they were given the opportunity to do the selection again. Most went RTU.

RAF Abingdon

The Parachute School was run by RAF PTIs and was our home for the next month - a place of bliss after AFD at Aldershot. The day commenced at a civilized hour when we gathered in the training hangar. Fibre mats covered the floor and there were benches and slides that were cut off halfway down. For the next few days we jumped off benches, slid down slides and learned the art of cushioning a fall. We learned to fall correctly in a forward direction, then rearward, sideways, anyway, but not on your head. Then, how to fit a parachute, and how to leave an aircraft. There is even a drill for that! We practiced jumping in and jumped out of aircraft fuselages. They had some peculiar machines to scare us with.

The Fan was set up in the rafters of the gym. Imagine a rolling pin supported with bearings at each end, one end has 8x4 inch wooden paddles attached. A cable, wound around the rolling pin and attached to a parachute harness, was put on the student who was then told to jump off. It's about 30 feet down; your body weight pulls the cable from the rolling pin, the brake being the paddles turning against the wind resistance.

The Tower, like an electrical pylon, had a platform about 80 feet up and, at the top of the structure a horizontal jib with a pulley on its outside edge. Inside a tube running from the platform to ground level was a plug to which was attached a cable that ran over the pulley to the student's harness. The instructor told the student to step out into the void and is left hanging in the air. The system is controlled by the instructor who can open a valve in the plug that's in the tube allowing the compressed air above the plug to escape. Down goes the student and up comes the plug. Obviously the bigger the hole in the plug the faster the decent.

The Captured Balloon is the same as a barrage balloon, but has a cage suspended beneath in which four men and the instructor can ride. We are all bravado, we have all been brainwashed, and our parachutes never fail (no reserve in those days). So the four of us troop in like lambs: “Up eight hundred, four men jumping,” shouts the instructor to the winch operator. Meanwhile we are busy hooking our static lines that come out of the parachute pack to the overhead rail in the cage. There is a jerk as the balloon starts to rise and the instructor tries to get us all to sing. Gradually the noise peters out, the wind whistles through the suspension ropes and things look a long way down. The balloon stops at the correct height and l am asked to approach the door. My legs feel like jelly and l am scared stiff l will fall out, even though there is a parachute on my back. The instructor is the soul of discretion, he knows it's make or break time with this candidate. So he gently requests me to jump. Fool that l am! I do it!

I look at my left foot on the sill of the cage, under that there’s just a big void. But l have explicit faith in my instructor and step forward. The drop goes on forever and I am certain l am at death's door, never again to see my Shirley. l am going to whistle in like a sack of spuds. I open my eyes to see my boots above my head, then my senses start working - l can feel the tugs of my deploying chute. No one told me that a parachutist falls about one 150 feet before his parachute fully deploys. At last mine deployed - it's a great feeling going from abject terror to a sense of achievement. You feel so clever hanging there and you're overwhelmed with a sense of virility. I have heard that it’s the second greatest feeling a man can have. But back to hanging there in space. Everything you have been taught about parachuting has left your head, it's awe-inspiring looking at the view. Nothing registers other than what a brave bugger l am! Then dimly seeping into your consciousness you register a megaphone - someone's shouting instructions. "Number one, get your feet and knees together!" but it's too late, fear has struck again and the ground that had seemed so far away is now jumping up at me. I try climbing up the rigging lines to get away, then CRASH! It's a wonder l never broke a leg, l had forgotten everything.

There and then, l vowed parachuting was not for me, never again did l want that falling sensation, but those RAF blokes know their onions and l was back in the cage doing it again within the hour. I think if there had been a third drop from a balloon l would have chickened out. The second drop was bad, because l knew what was coming. But the next six drops were to be from aircraft; they said l would feel much better from those, no dropping sensation, you just get blown away!

It was a very quiet and reserved cadre that went to bed that night, and if the truth were known that balloon had certainly sorted the men from the boys - some had decided one drop was enough and opted for RTU.

Air Experience. None of us had been up in an aircraft and the pilots must have loved this as their sole aim in life was to make all the passengers sick. We emplaned on a Valletta, similar to a Dakota, and strapped in on a bench running the length of both sides the fuselage. Leaning towards the nose because our backsides were trying to slide down to the tail, our postures became upright when the aircraft took off. The pilots had a field day, we went up vertically, then down the same way, with bumps and elevations supposedly in level flight. It took only one bloke to throw up to make it contagious and the floor was running with vomit. It's strange, but some blokes start passing a lot of wind when they run out of vomit! Needless to say it was our job to clean the aircraft on landing.None of this did my confidence any good, l had been petrified of the balloon and now l was sick in an aircraft. l didn't think l would ever pass this course.

Aircraft Descent. Finally we were ready for an aircraft decent, again from a Valletta, and if memory serves me right it took twenty-four of us. There was a spar across the fuselage that held the wings - basically a box across the floor a couple of feet high. Six blokes sat on the other side of the spar over which they had to clamber to get to the door, no mean feat when loaded down with a container of kit. But today we were going to exit the aircraft very slowly, just three blokes from each door on a run-in. It was called a clean fatigue decent with no kit and very slow departures. After the plane reached the right height the dispatcher removed the door. He stood by the void secured by a belt and chain to the aircraft, then called three of us to stand up and check our equipment. We formed a little queue facing towards the door. I was No 1, so the bloke behind checked my chute was OK while l hooked on to the cable running the length of the plane. We were then asked to report our checks were complete. This done, the dispatcher shouted “Action stations” and we shuffle forward in a military drill movement until l was at the door with my hands holding the top of the doorway. There are two lights above the door, both extinguished while l stood there quaking! Then one illuminated, red. The dispatcher shouts: “Stand in the door” and we all move forward one pace. l am on the door sill with one hand outside the plane flat against the skin of the fuselage. My rectum has suddenly shrunk, my knees are wobbly and l am seriously wondering why l am here. Next thing l know the light changes to green, a heavy hand slaps me on the shoulder and a voice shouts: "Go!" Without another thought l jump away from the plane (they insisted we jump as far from the plane as possible). We had heard horrible stories of blokes trickling out and bumping down the aircraft and nearly being decapitated by the tail assembly (it makes recruits do good exits though). All was well and l was blown away and the parachute deployed without the sinking feeling that l had endured from the balloon. From now on l could cope, or so l thought. Looking up to check that the canopy had deployed correctly l saw the rigging lines were twisted into a rope going upwards - I had not made the exit l thought was so good and must have exited the aircraft like a clown with arms extended, causing me to spin while the parachute deployed. From now until l hit the ground l was fully occupied kicking and trying to turn my body the opposite way to the twists. Yet another useless landing!

We progressed over the next few days to longer sticks - ten and upwards leaving the door - then to carrying a kitbag with rifle, and finally a drop at night. By the end of the course at Abingdon we had completed eight descents. We had a passing out parade, were presented with a set of wings to sew on our sleeve, and a red beret to put on our heads.

Serving With The Paras

Now a Rumpin' Tumpin' Para I was ordered back to the RE depot. But now l was different to the rest of the men in the barracks, my beret was a different colour and my webbing more modern (it didn't need blanco like everyone else's - they were still wearing WW2 webbing). I was never on fatigues like the rest of the blokes and was left entirely alone.

Off l went on leave to see my Shirley. I had 14 days of freedom in which time my Shirley plied her troth to me and she was mine forever. Young love, it sure is great! We lived for the day, visited Stratford and walked by the river Avon, but all too soon I was back in camp and a few days later l received my Movement Order. I hadn't given much thought to what came next but there in my hand were my instructions. I had another 14 days leave to come, then l was off abroad! How was l to break this news to my Shirley? I chickened out until there were just a couple of days left, then I told her l was going to join the Para Brigade in Egypt for 4 years and there would be no leave. She cried (I like to think she did, it's a long time ago) and said she would wait for me. We visited a photographer who took a big portrait picture that flattered her, and l shelled out for a large silver frame. Then it was a tearful goodbye - I was off to the desert with my silver-framed photograph.

When troopships were the order of the day I think l was one of the first troops to go to Egypt by air. We flew out from Stanstead airport outside London, where an enterprising ex-RAF bloke at the end of the War had bought a York bomber from the RAF and formed a company called “Skyways of London". The interior of the plane had been tarted up with nice seats and panelled walls but it was still a four-engine bomber with a short range. The din of the engines was overpowering and at night the outside of the aircraft was illuminated by the four-foot exhaust flames. We landed at Fayed in the early hours, tired, and I was directed to a tent in the transit camp. The sides were rolled up to let air in, there were four bed frames and I was issued a palliasse; l threw off my boots and kit and fell heavily on the bed.

Reveille next morning and l am scared out of my skin - the first morning in the tropics and l have a Krait snake by my bed, there it is by my boots. My Dad had told me all about these deadly snakes, one bite and your a goner. But now l am a Rumpin' Tumpin' Para and I've got to be brave. So I pick up my other hobnailed boot and use it as a hammer to belt seven kinds of misery into this snake but it doesn’t move. Silly me! It’s the other bootlace!

After breakfast on parade we are told that our units are sending transport to pick us up. 9 Squadron think of many ways to give a recruit a good impression on joining. I watch all the other travellers depart to their units in jeeps and cars and the time drags by - nothing from 9 Squadron - l just wait. Around noon the heat is very oppressive, then my transport arrives. It’s a 3-tonner, but it’s an RE 3-tonner, it’s a tipper, all steel construction. Yep, l am told to hop on the back. I think it was 25 miles down the treaty road to Moasca and l danced like a bug in a hot pan all the way. On arrival they allotted me a bed space in a building with the rest of the Troop. Out came my silver photo of Shirley to take pride of place on my bedside locker. “Nice bit of crumpet!” my future pals remark. My God that’s good to hear, l feel big headed, she is something to be proud of. Then one bloke says: "She won’t wait for you, she will be gone in a month!” “No way.” l reply. What a wimp l am, this scene has been played so many times before. In fact l later did it myself. “Bet she don’t last four weeks, then you get a Dear John!” “No way.” l reply. “Bet you a week’s pay then that she is gone in six weeks!” “You’re on!” and I take the same bet with six blokes. Four weeks later...”Dear John, l have found another!” I am broke for over six weeks and l have a broken heart as well, but the blokes are now my mates so we have an enormous booze-up in the Squadron canteen, play darts with her photo as the board, and all the beer purchased with the money l lost. If only she had waited, but l never saw her again. I only did nine months in Egypt, the British Army was asked to leave when the Egyptian Army overthrew the monarchy and King Farouk did a runner. We embarked on the good ship SS 'Dunera' and came home to Aldershot.

Addendum

I found Max WARWICK’s little missive concerning the Canal Zone very interesting. We both served there at the same time. As he remarks, we left in 1954, and much equipment was destroyed, lost, or misplaced. Being in the Royal Engineers at the time we had to get rid of a couple of tons of explosives. What a jolly jape it would be to crater the road in the Sinai. We found a gorge with the road running through it. Never had so much explosive to play with. Drilled a hole, put a small charge in and that manufactured a chamber six feet down capable of taking about 250 lbs of HE. Packed it, then retired to the cliff-face overlooking the road. The bang was a delight to behold - what goes up must come down. Bloody near killed us all, some of the rocks hitting the ground were as big as a car. Happy days, but l was glad to get home. Moasca was a bug-infested hole.