Chapter 1: 1951 to 1954 - AAS Arborfield

Funny, isn’t it? Everything seems romantic just before the event, and when it happens you wish you had done something else. The Army Apprentices School was where it all began. Wooden huts with corrugated iron roofs, rows and rows of them; to think that I had taken an examination to get there. I don’t remember any of the questions, but I am quite sure that a Zulu with no knowledge of English could have obtained a pass mark. Was this what I had travelled from a cushioned life at a Grammar School for? It certainly was.

A New Language

“Ooh are you?”

I tried to look at the speaker, but he was silhouetted against the sun. Narrowing my eyes, I could just make him out. It was only some time later that I realized that all drill Sergeants only had one eyebrow right across the forehead. Anyway, apart from his speech impediment and demented appearance, he seemed all right. It is surprising how a young mind can adjust to the absurd and not make any comment. Incidentally, I am going to try to capture the accents or speech mannerisms of every character in this tale; just read the words exactly as they are written.

“I SAID: OOH ARE YOU, CAN YER ‘EAR ME?

“My name is …”

“Fook yer name, son, just gimme yer noomber!”

“I don’t know it.”

“Dorn’t know it, what?”

“Sorry, I don’t know my number.”

“Yer fookin’ will be oonless yer call me Sir! Gorrit?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Sperra!”

None of my fellow recruits made the same mistake, all meekly bowing to authority. Mind you, I don’t know how they ever understood half of what was said. Intuition caused them to jump, I suppose. The following is the first example that I can remember.

Sergeant Buckley was watching someone coming toward us when suddenly the command rang out:

“Parry, parry shoo ah!”

Nobody moved.

“PARRY, PARRY SHOOOOOAH!”

Nobody moved, but the white flecks of foam around the Sergeant’s lips said something, so we just shuffled a bit. The walking object turned out to be a Captain, and as he passed by, the Sergeant added the words “S’LUTE!” Again no one moved, but up went the Sergeant’s arm in a smart salute. We all thought it very smart, we would learn that one day.

“C’mere, you fugnigits! Sup wi ya? Dincha rear me or summink?”

“We (and here I spoke for all of us) didn’t understand you, Sir.”

“Din unnerstan me, din unnerstan me? Sup wi ya? I sharted plain enough!”

The explanation duly came after a small consultation and a bit of hand waving.

“Party, party, attention!” was the first call, and

“Salute!” the second. We were learning.

Administration

There were a variety of characters who enlisted at the same time as I did. It was a bit like an American movie, really, one of everything - a fat guy, a tough guy, a silent type etc., you know the sort of thing, only it was all real. We were called 51B because we had entered service in September 1951. The administrative formalities are a story unto them, and would take a whole book. Quite amazing that it is ever completed. Apart from all the paperwork, there seemed to be a million things to do.

“What size is yer ‘ead, son?”

“Seven and three eighths, Sir!”

“Well, yer ‘at don’t fit, an it’s a seven an free eighths. Quartermaster, give ‘im the f****n’ box is ‘at come in. Less ‘ope that’s big enough for ‘is bleedin’ ‘ed!”

I was a bit dispirited by about day three, I couldn’t get any of it right. The shirts were like horsehair, I itched all over. The boots weighed a ton, and the rest of the kit seemed useless. What did we need gas masks for?

“Nar den, you are gonner ‘av some character trainin’ ‘ere. Time we finished wiv ya, yer all gonna be like us - confident, mature an’ wiv a bit a f****n’ class!”

Character Building

Fatty Coates was victim number one on the character building scale. Sergeant Buckley had a brilliant idea; make Coates strip to his underwear and stand on one corner of the accommodation block then, holding a handful of darts, give Coates the command:

“Run, you fat bastard, an’ if I see yer arse as I turn each corner, you get a dart in it!”

Not too subtle, but effective. Coates was the first human I had seen with a pulse rate faster than a pneumatic drill. His head was bright red, his belly heaving. Everyone felt sorry for him, but not me. My thoughts were already turning to revenge for the poor sod. More of that later, and you will laugh I promise, though looking back on it …

This was just the beginning.

Trade Selection

The selection tests were supposed to grade everyone, finally allocating trades according to intelligence, taking into account the wishes of the candidate. We had some Meccano to put together. The examiner tried mine out by turning a handle which should have worked something or other. Unfortunately, it all fell to bits. His comment was that I wasn’t trying.

“You are intelligent enough son, but you are what we call legarthic.”

“Do you mean lethargic?” I asked, foolishly, as it turned out.

“Mmmm, I have come across the odd clever sod like you, and you will come to regret it.”

My chosen career was Quantity Surveyor, mainly because I had seen an advertisement in a newspaper for one, and it seemed like an imposing title.

“Quantity Surveyor, eh? Well, my boy, we have news for you. You have a natural aptitude for maths and science. We need people in electronics, so you are going into electronics!”

There was no point arguing. This was it.

Accommodation

The huts were arranged in blocks of six, surrounding a washing facility. An aerial view would be like looking down on a spider, which is probably why each block was so appropriately named. In each of the six legs there were seventeen people to a barrack room, including he who was in charge, usually an Apprentice Corporal or Sergeant. These are the worst types because, as I found out, boys are very adept at dealing out punishment to boys. Anyway, our billet was full of a motley crowd. I remember each one of them, though many are now dead, mainly through unnatural causes – war, pestilence and suicide, the usual attributes of being defenders of the peace.

Daily Routine

The day’s events went something like this:

Reveille was at 06.30. Get up, have a shower and get ready for breakfast always served by kitchen staff who looked as though they had bathed in cooking fat, usually with acne, runny noses and finger nails the colour of mud. It seemed that every cheery comment I offered on these culinary adventures was deemed to be offensive, which is why I enjoyed the title: ‘record-breaking jankers man’ (109 days in one year to be exact!). I have discovered since that the record was broken by someone called Lovelace.

After breakfast, a quick dash back to the billet to face inspection. Beds all stripped down and made up into an exact square; all kit in lockers square; everything perfect. Then it all got ripped to pieces by ‘Atilla the Sergeant’. I have to say, for some reason my ever-smiling countenance caused the inspection team to go into a demonic spasm. No matter what was done to my kit I never worried. In any case they had to let you sleep at some time. Apart from that they couldn’t kill you otherwise there would be nobody left to Pass-Out and get on with defending the West.

Off, then, to the start of the day with the morning Muster Parade, where we all lined up for inspection by the dreaded Drill Sergeant.

“Sup wi you, eh?”

“Me, Sarge?”

“Yes, you! I’m beginning ter fink you ain’t f****n’ human. Every time you come art ‘ere you got summink wrong wiv yer turnart.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“Don’t try ter be funny wiv me, son, uverwise I’ll put yer where the birds can’t shit on yer.”

“But …”

“But nuffink. You got egg stains on yer collar. What ‘av’ yer got?”

“Egg stains on my collar, Sarge.”

“Louder!”

“EGG STAINS ON MY COLLAR, SARGE!”

“Gerem off by nex’ perade.”

“Utterly and absolutely, Sarge.”

The Sergeant pauses for breath and the cogs churn as he decides to top my comment.

“You fink I’m f****n’ fick, doncher, son?”

I pause to consider the terrible retribution that will follow my reply:

“Yes, Sergeant, as a matter of fact I do think you are f*****g thick.” Oops!

“Lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’, pick yer feet up smartly yer little shit, and git in the guardroom.”

Give or take a change in the banter, the sorry story continued on a daily basis.

After Muster Parade we were marched off to school to learn a trade. Funnily enough, the standard of tuition was high, and most of the Apprentices who paid attention obtained a few GCEs, and a National Certificate in their chosen technical discipline. I, and most others, went on to further education. My reasoning was that a better qualification would eventually lead me to a job where I was well paid but had to do absolutely nothing.

Following the daily grind we returned for the evening meal, and the interminable round of kit cleaning. Uniforms pressed, boots cleaned to look like glass and all that.

Punishment

Those like me who always ended up on CB (‘jankers’) had further pleasures to come. Jankers was punishment awarded for wrongdoing, usually lasted seven days, and consisted of some pretty rough tasks undertaken in what should be one’s spare time. In my case, scraping out encrusted porridge-boilers in the morning, and scraping the encrustation from urinals in the evening. Nice! The people who supervised these activities were either the cooks or the Provost Staff – nothing to choose between them, usually sharing one brain between six, and as charismatic as the average flagpole.

Most days passed by pleasantly enough, we always had plenty to eat and time to dream up schemes to thwart authority. There are numerous incidents which in themselves could fill a book, but there are a special few which linger in the mind. On a cold, dank, grey English day, the thought of these deeds of daring often bring a smile to my gaunt old face.

1. My friend Joe, then sixteen, six feet two inches tall and weighing nearly sixteen stones, and I were usually paired off, and I remember one occasion when we were detailed to unload some potatoes from a lorry. Joe simply picked up the sacks by the top, carried them into the cookhouse and dumped them on the floor; that is until we were spotted by an old Corporal who was in charge of the Ration Store.

“Oy! You!”

“Yes Corp?”

“You can’t carry them spuds like that, boy, you’ll give yerself a ‘ernia! Let me show you how to do it. I will stand under the tail of the lorry in a bent position and you can lower the sack onto my back.”

The Corporal duly stood under the tail. Joe picked up a sack of potatoes and held them about four feet above the bent over figure.

“OK, son, lower the sack!”

“OK” said Joe and let go.

The sack dropped like a stone and landed on the Corporal’s back, propelling him forward at approximately mach three. He was running full tilt when he met the cookhouse steps. His body was flattened, and the weight of the sack had emptied his lungs down to the last square inch of life-giving air. He just lay there, and Joe strolled over and said:

“I think I’ve got the idea, Corp!”

“Lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’ … in the nick, you!”

That’s all the thanks you get.

2. On jankers the worst jobs were saved for the more adventurous types, and I fell well inside this category. The Provost Sergeant, who rejoiced in the name of Fred Silver, took great pride in the attachment for the front-end of the fire hose. This thing had to be clipped into place on the hose before the call went out: “Water on!” Anyway, the main task of the select band of janker boys was to take turns to clean the hose attachment for fifteen minutes each. It was brass, but by the time we had finished cleaning it, the look was more like platinum. One day, I was chosen to lead the fire drill.

“We’re gonna clean art the drains near the fire shed. Quick, efficient, no f****n’ abart!”

“You, boy! Cum ‘ere!”

“Me, Sarge?” I said, trying to sound surprised.

“Yes, you. I wanchoo ter run fast when I give the command, gorrit? Then do the drill in the normal way. Just before you shart “Wor’er on”, yer stuff the ‘osepipe end up the drain, so the wor’er will git darn the drain under pressure. O.K?”

“Yes, Sarge. O.K!”

I slip the nozzle into my belt, and an idea dawns. I weigh up the consequences and a few days nick seems like a fair exchange. I’m running fast, get to the drain and push the nozzle into the hose making sure that I don’t engage the retaining clip.

“WATER ON, 60 POUNDS PRESSURE!”

I see the water snake through the hose as the pressure builds, and shove the hose down the drain. The pressurised water hits the end of the hose, there is a “FLUNK” sound and my plan has worked. The nozzle, with a mass of water propelling it, had disappeared down the drain. The dreaded clean nozzle is no more!

“WATER OFF! WATER OFF! Something has gone wrong!”

Then, with as serious a look as I could muster, I summon Sergeant Silver. Holding up the limp hose sans nozzle I attempt some method-acting:

“You are never going to believe this, Sarge, but the nozzle has gone.”

“Gone where, you little arsehole. GONE WHERE?”

“I don’t know, it just went!”

“YOU ARE F****D, SON, F****D, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

“I imagine everyone within a ten mile radius can hear you Sarge. I am very sorry, but there is nothing I can do, is there?”

“Oh yes yer can. Yer can git yer f****n’ bedding. You’re goin’ in the nick.”

Next day.

“Lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’ … MARK TAME … ’ALT!”

“Apprentice Tradesman Tilly, SAH!”

Major Langely looks up. Archetypal Cavalry Officer, polite to a fault, a real charmer, looks a bit weary from dealing with the likes of me.

“Double two, double seven, one, double oh, one. Is that your number?”

“Yes Sir!”

“You are charged with wilful destruction of Government Property, in that you forced a fire hydrant nozzle up a drain under pressure, thereby loosing it. Do you understand what you are charged with?”

“Yes Sir!”

“And what have you to say?”

“Well, Sir, I only did what Sergeant Silver instructed me to do. It was only when I pulled the hose out that I saw the nozzle was gone, and I did try to get the water pressure reduced.”

“Hmmm … Very well. Sergeant, would you excuse me for a moment?”

Major Langely then leaves the room. There is a giant guffaw of laughter. He returns.

“Tilly, I take this matter very seriously. We simply cannot have individuals like you making a mockery of the regimental side of life. I therefore sentence you to fourteen days jankers. Do you accept this punishment?”

Do I? This is a real let-off!

3. One can only skim the surface of events which mould the character, but such happenings are legion. Like the time I was with Chalky Till on jankers. It was a Saturday and the Provost Staff were hard-pressed to think of anything we could do. So, in a blinding flash of inspiration, they obtained a large roller and told us to roll the regimental square flat! We duly trudged up and down for an hour or two, and then made our way back to the guardroom. On the way, the roller had to be guided down a fairly steep ramp. I looked at Chalky as the roller gathered momentum.

“Hey, Chalky, remember that film about China? The choges used to get their rickshaws moving and then jump up in the air for a free ride. Let’s try it!”

“OK, mate. Let’s go!”

We got the roller moving at tremendous speed, but I realised that we had no chance of stopping it, never mind riding on the handle. About halfway down the slope was the Gaumont Cinema so beloved of the troops on a Saturday night. I kept shouting at Chalky to let go of the handle, but he wouldn’t. The thing was moving at an ever-increasing speed down the incline, and gradually getting away from us. I let go. The roller skewed round and hit the cinema railings. Chalky had kept a grip on the handle, so he came to a sudden halt. His body rocketed into the handle at waist height and the handle was flung forward. Chalky was airborne and went like an arrow from a bow. Quite graceful he looked, right until he landed flat on a patch of gravel which he scorched along. The skin was ripped from his face and hands and his clothing torn to ribbons. Oh, what fun! We were both laughing, with blood streaming down his face. Hysterical!

“Lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’ …!”

The nick again. The Provos never did have a sense of humour.

4. All Apprentice NCOs were bastards and among the worst was one named T*****sh. He was the apple of the Staff’s eye. He played everything by the book, and was far worse to his contemporaries than any man NCO would have been. The plot, as I remember it, was to offer him a violent reminder that you can’t get away with this sort of behaviour for ever. The lot of delivering the message fell to me by full use of the democratic process. The object was to wait until T*****sh was asleep, creep into his room, clout him, run out and jump back into bed. The plan was perfect. The corridors were six feet wide, the same as the length of a trestle table. So, once I had entered his barrack room and dealt the blow, I would run into the corridor. The doors would shut and an accomplice would drop a table across the gap, preventing the door from opening. I enter, it is very dark and I can hear the sound of the sleeping occupants. T*****sh is at the near end of the room in the best bed space, as befits one of his standing. I swallow hard, because I dislike violence. Still, I dislike T*****sh even more, so I go for it. Bang! One clean punch in his stomach, he gasps and sits up in agony. Hooray, so far so good. Then I hear the table drop across the door and I am trapped. My accomplice was blessed with a real sense of humour. There is pandemonium, and in the confusion I jump through the window just before the lights go on, and race back to my billet. I leap into bed. I don’t believe it. Some swine has spread a pound of butter between my sheets while I was away. Never mind, I slide into bed and put my head on the pillow. The wrapping from the butter is neatly placed on the pillow and my head sticks to it. On go the lights. Irate Sergeant Major stands there.

“Orite, which wunner you cowardly shits as jus it T*****sh? If I fine art oo it is, ease in the nick frever!”

I decide to act out a small drama by pretending I have just woken up. I yawn and stretch up to see what is going on, rubbing my eyes to show the glare of the light was all too much. There I am sitting up in bed with a square piece of buttered paper stuck to my head – a dead giveaway, apparently.

“Lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’, ri’, lef’...”

In the nick again. In the course of any three-year training scheme you are bound to remember the events which influenced your attitude to later life, aren’t you? Jankers, and more jankers, were my lot in life I guess.

5. In the kitchen, Turner and I had been given the task of peeling potatoes, all mechanised it was. Dump spuds into machine, abrasive stone grinds the peel off, all the waste is deposited in a large bucket. Now, the average age of those supervising the Boys was only eighteen or so, drawn from the ranks of National Servicemen. They ordered us about with great vigour. I said to Turner: “Don’t think about this, mate. When I say “Go”, just open the cookhouse door.” So he did. Outside, sitting on a step taking in the sun and having a laugh, were the offending supervisors. I swung the bucket back to throw the peelings into the large dustbin near them, and as the contents left the container, shouted: “LOOK OUT!” The cooks are now covered from head to foot in potato peelings mixed with water and mud.

“Sorry, chaps, just a little misjudgement on my part!”

Fourteen days additional! Just for a small joke like that. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?

6. Another favourite task for jankers was to grind carrots into a sort of mash. The cooked carrots were put into the grinder and collected in large tubs which were then taken to the serving area. The lucky diners had a large ladle-full dumped on their plate. Now, one day whilst carrying out this boring job, I noticed a large bag of sugar nearby. “Get some of that sugar, mate!” I shouted to Turner. We could have a nice candy feast while working, I thought. The stuff turned out to be crystallised soda and it tasted really horrible. I thought that we should empty the whole sack of soda into the carrots and see if anyone complained. Nobody did, which has puzzled me for many a year. Turner was a good bloke, though he did eventually get a dishonourable discharge. Our favourite time of year was when a new intake arrived. I would go into the newcomer’s billet with Turner. He would wear a baseball glove, and I would carry a baseball.

“Right, lads, see this guy here? His name is Turner, and he has the fastest hands you are ever likely to see. Let me show you.”

With that, Turner would stand at the end of the room and I would pitch the ball to him. With a deft movement, he would nonchalantly catch the ball.

“Anyone think they can get the ball past him?”

There were always takers, usually some budding athlete. Turner crouched at the end of the room, hands held up in readiness. I would say:

“OK, when you are ready!”

to the thrower, who would wind up and unleash the ball as fast as he could. Turner never moved. The ball whistled past his head and took out the plate glass window at the bottom of the room. We loved to hear the tinkle of glass cascading to the floor. At this point Turner would shout:

“OK, mate, I’m ready!”

Innocent fun, fourteen days again. Can you believe it?

Pompey Barrow was a firm believer in sleep. He reckoned that nothing could wake him. Turner and I knew differently, so we bet him we could wake him on a Sunday morning without shaking him. “You’re on!” says Pompey. On Sunday he slept as though he had taken a short course in death. I collected all the Sunday Newspapers which had been read. We stacked them under Pompey’s bed and Turner set fire to them. OK, so the flames had to get a bit high before he leapt out of bed screaming that he would kill us. The point was proved, but the joke was not altogether appreciated by Major Langely. But fourteen days! I tried to look hurt, but when my eyes met those of the Major I detected that he was about to laugh yet again. Actually, he once told me that I was quite likeable, and I had the intelligence to go far. The farther the better, I think was what he said!

Bullying

You may not believe this, but I was bullied. Baldy B**l, so called because he had a vast mop of hair, took great delight in trying to break my spirit. He would make me crawl the length of the room with my nose stuck in a tin of boot polish. The threat was that if I took my nose out of the polish, my head would be lashed with a mess-tin. Then, as I crawled, he would stick a pin in my backside, I would lift my head in pain, the mess-tin would crash onto my head and my nose would have to be lowered into the polish again. Nasty! Still, you win some, you lose some. At the weekend Baldy would sneak into Reading to see his mother. I had to make sure all his kit was clean, bed made and so on, and he would sneak back at night when we were all asleep. Sitting on my bed, he would light a match and hold it close to my nose, so that when I breathed it seared my lungs. Not surprisingly, I woke up, and Baldy would say:

“Thanks for all the work, Tilly. Now, as a treat, you can watch me eat this cake my mother gave me.”

Despite all that, I quite liked B**l. Unreal, isn’t it? Baldy died in a road accident before his Passing-Out Parade. Coming back from a night out in Reading he was a passenger in the back of a taxi. The taxi hit a bus and the bus won. Luckily Baldy was pissed, so at least he went whilst singing and laughing. Can’t say fairer than that, can you?

B****t was, as I remember it, one intake below me (52A). We would suspend him in a laundry sack from a rafter at the end of the room. When anyone had an argument that got a bit heated, frustration was taken out of the system by grabbing a broom, rushing to the end of the room and knocking hell out of the laundry sack! The sack would leap about as B****t tried to avoid the blows. This must have been the forerunner of the mobiles that hang in sitting rooms. Very interesting shapes were formed by the wriggling sack, but there were not many staff interested in furthering the cause of art, so I went inside for that. Only a week, but it’s the principle, isn’t it?

B****t was athletic as well. We would toss him in a blanket. Twelve or so heaving at the blanket, B****t hurled upward to the roof. He would go right to the apex, touch the rafters, turn over and seem to glide in a very composed way to the waiting blanket before being propelled up again until, that is, I wondered if his expression would change if we dropped the blanket. Up he went, touched the rafters, turned over and wow! His face changed from a relaxed confident smile to one of terror in well under a second. He hit the floor with a bit of a bang, but nothing was broken, and he laughed about it afterwards. He laughed even louder when I got another fourteen days!

I could go on, but you can appreciate what fun we had. There were darker moments which are not too funny at all, and I will omit those, mainly because I couldn’t bear to read them myself!

Training

All of these fun things should not detract from the fact that our technical training was of a high standard, and so too was the military training, though sometimes it was difficult to appreciate its value.

“Terday, yer gonna lern ah ter clean yer rottle. After yer bin in all the shit, firin’ an’ killin’ the f****n’ enemy, yer gotta clean yer rottle, uverwise yer die yerself, specially if it jams.”

So spake Robbo, the Drill Sergeant, and who were we to argue?

“Nah, firss of all, yer git a shavin’ brush an’ clean the rottle as bess yer can. Any queschins?”

“Yes, Sarge, how can I fit a shaving brush down the barrel?”

“One day, Tilly, I’ll swing fer you! Yer f****n’ daft or what? Yer clean the artside a yer rottle wiv the brush. Inside yer do wiv string an’ a bit of four-be-two. Anymore crap from you an’ you’ll be in the nick agin, gorrit?”

“Sorry, Sarge, only joking!”

Robbo thought he would have a laugh at my expense and one day, when the class were out for a break, he fixed a detonator under my chair. When we all returned and I sat down, there was an almighty bang and I nearly died of shock. Everyone roared and though it was funny, which of course it was. Robbo liked what he called “rollies”, hand-rolled cigarettes, so when he was out I threaded a detonator into his tobacco tin.

“’ang on lads, I’m jess gonner av a rolly.”

Bang! Tobacco everywhere; Robbo was ashen-faced, and only me laughing. The cowardly sods in my class thought it was better to stay silent and, perhaps, in the light of the terrible week of jankers that followed, they were right. I think Robbo secretly though it was quite a good act of revenge, though he never let on.

Technical Instructors

Our Workshop Instructor was an old guy who taught us all the basic workshop skills. Every day without fail he would come from his office at 10 o’clock, rattle the door handle leading to the workshop and announce:

“Teas up, lads!”

For some reason this gradually got on my nerves, and one day I noticed that the door handle was made of brass. Just before 10 o’clock I crept up to the office door and applied a blowlamp to the outside handle until it glowed red. The handle inside the old boy’s office didn’t glow but it must have been at least Regulo 9! The old boy gets up, comes to door, and says:

“Teas AAAAAAAHHHH.”

How was I to know he was going to wrap his hand tightly round the handle? After all, it was only a light door. Unfortunately he left a fair set of fingerprints, still with skin attached, on the door. I wasn’t very proud of that, but I have to say we all laughed like drains when we recalled the screams. In this case, the nick was justified I guess.

By this time, as you may have guessed, I was about as popular with the Staff as rabies in a dog’s home, but we both managed to survive.

Passing-Out

At the age of eighteen I qualified as Tradesman 3^rd Class, with seven GCEs, so I felt really pleased with myself. I will never know what I could have achieved if I had worked as well.

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