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Chapter 2: The Real Thing 1954 - Regular Army
Joe and
I were the only two posted to a Royal Artillery Battery at “You’ll have to get used to this, son. Trouble is, when you
leave boy service for the real world, it is hard. You are crap. All Regular
squaddies are crap, and while I am here you’ll do as I say.” Oh dear,
oh dear, surely not in the first week! Well, what has to be done, has to be
done. I said: “ The rest
of the room watched in amusement at what the boy soldier had threatened. Oh,
such fun! “One, two, three.” He was
still there. Well, I did tell him. I swung the coal shovel straight over my
head and brought it down with a nice sweep flat onto his face, which
exploded, spraying blood everywhere. “Next time I ask, you just keep out of my space. OK?
Answer, you little shit, or this shovel will really clout you next time!” He
groaned and rolled off my bed. The guys in the billet thought I was a madman,
but I never had any more trouble from Wilson or anyone else for that matter.
There is a sad lesson there, I guess. We were
alone, Joe and I. For a start, we were the only Telecomms technicians,
inevitably called “Wobblyheads”. Second, we were thought of as slightly
deranged because of our Regular Soldier status. All the rotten jobs came our
way, but it was like being in heaven after the Arborfield ordeal. We were
even allowed out at night! Our Saturdays were spent at the Nottingham Astoria
listening to the big bands of the day. Saw the Ted Heath band, Stan Kenton as
well. Heaven, man, heaven. Overseas Posting Then came
the news that I was posted to Johore Bahru, Every day,
the KOSB officer would arrive to announce a kit inspection. “Nay then, cheps, todear I want you to lay ate your p’jamas
for ‘nspection. Er Kear?” “But,
Sir, aren’t REME precluded from your inspections?” “When aye sear there is an ‘spection, it means everybodear,
end that ‘ncludes you. Is thet clare?” It
certainly was, so Tarbrush and I laid out our pyjamas and they were stolen.
The next day the same again. We were now down to one pair of pyjamas but were
obliged to put them out. They too were stolen. Brilliant
as ever, I thought about this for a while. The following day we were ordered
to lay out our eating irons, all gleaming. Whilst the entire KOSB complement
were on deck doing their morning drill I sneaked back into the cabin, cleared
up all fifty-six lots of eating irons - knives, forks and spoons - put them
all into an empty biscuit tin and threw them overboard. Grim faces, chaps,
grim faces! Officer to me: “Head you
anything to do with this, Tillear?” “No,
sir!” “I
dain’t believe you. You are laying. You hev an insolent way abait you, and I
shell git you before we arrive in “Would
that be a threat, Sir?” “Yes, it f*****g well would be a threat. Dain’t think you
ken git the better of mea.” With
that, he poked me in the stomach with his cane. Actually, my admiration for
him grew instantly when I heard him swear. He is real after all, I thought. The SAS
guys were great friends to me and my little escapade appealed to them. Unlike
me, though, these chaps were hard with a capital H. Spud Harding laughed without his eyes twinkling. You knew
instantly that it was better to do what he said. He later died in the jungle,
as did the other two. Pity, because they were something else. The
Sergeant Major from the KOSBs gave me the task of cleaning the urinals in the
morning. At a temperature of 100º Fahrenheit the sickly sweet smell, combined
with the rolling of the ship, made me very sick. Spud came in to relieve himself. “Sup,
son?” “I feel
really bad, Spud, and I’m going to be sick” “Go up
on deck, then.” “I
can’t, the RSM has detailed me to....” “f**k
the RSM, get up on deck. NOW!” So up I
went. The RSM was furious, and went down to see Spud. God knows what was said, but one of the KOSBs ended up
doing the job. Not only that, Spud
saw me at lunch time and told me he was going to punish all fifty-one KOSBs
on our deck. That night he sat on the stairs looking into the cabin, and
shouted very loudly: “Right, you bastards, I want everyone in bed with the
lights out, by seven o’clock. If I hear one word from anyone after that time,
I’ll beat the shit out of them. You all have two minutes to get to bed.” No word
of a lie, they all went quietly to bed. I’ll never know why, except that if I
had been included I would have been in bed as well. The SAS were lunatics, no
doubt about it. I was grateful that they all liked me, I can tell you!
Underneath their tough exteriors, though, there was a tough interior, so all
round it was good to know they were on our side. When the
ship had a really heavy swell rolling it about, the SAS contingent sat at a
dining table opposite a narrow gap leading into the main dining hall. They would
collect their meals, mix their soup with a few vegetables and throw it all
down in the gap. Result: anyone going through the gap would slip and fall,
spilling all their food and drink. By the time the meal was over, there was a
mess everywhere, and the smell of warm soup made a number of chaps sick.
Since I sat with the SAS, I could join in the laughter! We
travelled through the Suez Canal and onward to We were
billeted for a while in tents fairly well into the jungle, I remember. When
we first got there, the place looked diabolical. It was raining buckets full,
everything was wet, everyone looked bedraggled, pissed-off and generally it
did not feel like a holiday resort. Difficult to keep kit clean, to say
nothing of maintaining a fair standard of personal hygiene. The SAS
would disappear for days on end. When they returned they would look like
something out of a Hammer Horror film. Every now and then they would carry a
body in. “Another Floppy for yer, mate,” was the cry as they dropped the body
in front of the guard hut. That always struck me as the lowest one could go,
because all of the “Floppies” were probably parents, or at least had a
family. Sometimes, the SAS came back short of one - that is what happened to Spud Harding - shot. It sounded so
remote when you first heard it; the guy was full of life, very funny and good
company, provided you didn’t annoy him! And now he was dead - bloody awful,
but hey ho, this is the soldier’s life. I kept the funny bits uppermost to
stop going around the bend. A good
example was Corporal Jones - an animal lover, he was - he reckoned that all
animals were trainable. On site, we had a guard dog called Kim. Apparently,
this thing had four kills to its credit and had been posted in from “When I
was in the Boy Scouts we trained a load of dogs, and I know Kim is
approachable. It is just a matter of patience.” As he
approached Kim with a tasty morsel of meat, the dog leapt forward on his
tether. His whole body left the ground as he struggled to get at Jones,
barking, with teeth bared. Christ, mates, we’ll keep away, I thought. Jones
persisted and by about a week later he could approach Kim and feed him bits
of food he had saved. The brave ex-Boy Scout got nearer and nearer Kim, who
even wagged his tail every now and then. The dog-handler kept telling Jones
that Kim was a killer. Never mind, Jones was going to prove a point. One day,
he went to feed Kim, who wagged his tail as he came nearer. The crafty thing
backed up on his tether, letting Jones get a bit closer. Jones held his hand
out. Kim sat there. “There you
are, I told … AAAAAHHHH!” Kim had eaten
his way up Jones’ arm almost to the elbow and like a raw steak before we
dragged him away. Thirty-eight stitches as I recall. While we waited for a
medic to take him away, we all stood round congratulating Jones. “Man,
have you got a way with animals, or what?” I said to him. “Did you
see that? And to think we thought you would never train Kim!” It was the
little things like this that kept us laughing. Another thing
- we were all on the range one day, firing Sten Guns. Sergeant Clarke was in
charge. “Nah
then, when yer fire yer gun, it might jam. If it does, make sure yer point
the f****n’ thing darn the range, and not at anyone.” OK, so
Bulmer was an idiot at the best of times, and during the auto fire sequence his
gun jammed. You guessed it, he turned round to face Sergeant Clarke and said: “Me gun’s jammed.” He
pulled the trigger to demonstrate the fault and about half a magazine
unloaded into Clarke’s leg; nearly crippled him for life. It is the sequel
that makes the story funny. A few years later Clarke, who now had a limp, was
kept on light duties back at Arborfield. He had the task of setting up the
sports field ready for the REME Sports Day, one of the jobs being to set up
the Tannoy P.A. System. A large lorry full of kit was driving to the
locations where the re-entrant loudspeakers, each weighing about fifty
pounds, were to be positioned. Clarke shouted over the tailgate: “Anyone up there?” “Yes!” “OK,
pass me one of the speakers.” A body
peered down at Clarke, holding a speaker in his hand. Clarke reached up just
as the body released the speaker, which crashed down, its edge landing on the
“That f****n’ ban will ornt be fer the rest ob be f****n’
life.” Never
was a truer word sboken – sorry - spoken! If you ever come across an old guy
with a shattered leg and a flat nose, if you buy him a drink never offer him
Bulmer’s cider, it could spell curtains for you! Back to R & R in The days
passed, we repaired radios and talked of what we intended to do in life, never
looking forward more than a week or two. Then came R and R - back to “Where
is Watkins?” “He is
in ward 16. Leg injury.” Poor sod, I would
think, when actually it was third leg rot! Brothels et al One
chap, as dim as a Toc-H lamp, asked me to go to a brothel with him. We were
asked to wait in a corridor, the lady of the night in attendance was utterly
revolting, and luckily put me off these places for life. Anyway, Charlie did
his stuff - I heard him groaning and moaning for about three seconds,
emerging with a triumphant grin. “You
lext?” Not likely, madam. “Me give you good jiggy jig. Coss berry rittle!” I felt sick
at the thought, so off Charlie and I went for a Chinese fry-up. Rice with
eggs and prawns cooked in a wok, oil mixed with a few beads of sweat from the
cook for flavour, served in a banana leaf and eaten on benches, with the
smell of stale food wafting across the nose, and the odd tickle as a
cockroach sauntered over your sandals. A couple
of weeks later Charlie developed a painful rash on his back, which in the end
turned out to be shingles. I told Charlie it was VD, and if the rash came
through to the front he would die. He was scared almost to death thinking
about it, and kept on looking for signs of a rash on his chest! One day, to
console him, we had a drink with Charlie. After a few beers we all trooped
off to the toilet, leaving Charlie alone in the room. We had put a pint mug
in my locker full of liquid soap, which was light pink in colour. We all
turned to Charlie and said: “Whatever you do, don’t be tempted to drink the Charlie
nodded, but we all knew what he would do. After we had all been gone for a
couple of minutes he rushed into my locker, took out the mug and downed the
whole lot in about five seconds, obviously thinking that he would have a
laugh at our expense. When we came back, Charlie was on the floor singing
“Mammy, my mammy, the sun shines east, the sun shines west etc ...” and there
were green bubbles drooling out of his mouth. Stomach pump, fifteen days in
hospital, lesson learned. That’s the way to do it! On most
Saturdays we would go out for a Chinese meal. One day we made the mistake of
taking our resident Scotsman with us. I never knew why it was, but all
Scottish squaddies were about four feet tall with no neck, and always looking
for a fight. Into the restaurant then, having a nice meal and a laugh, as you
do when suddenly, a Chinese guy gets up and hits a waitress straight in the
face. Big crash, food everywhere, lady laid out on the floor. Jock says: “See tha’? Tha’ bastart jes nutted the wee gerly! Arm nay
stondin’ fer tha’!” Oh no,
not again! Jock flies into the entire table of Chinese. Suddenly, all the
doors and windows shut, and about twenty more Chinese appear from nowhere!
Pandemonium breaks out. Fit as I was, I felt that laying on the floor until
it was all over was by far the best option. Anyway, whilst in the recumbent
position, I see Ginger Fleck
cowering in a corner with his hands held up in surrender. I did wonder a bit
at this, because Ginger was big,
mean and very hard, and not at all squeamish about spilling a spot of someone
else’s blood. Two young Chinese have him cornered and Ginger looks terrified. As the two assailants rush in for the
kill, Ginger quickly lowers his
right hand into his billowy black shirt whilst a big grin spreads over his
face. Out of the shirt comes a lead pipe about a foot long. Big swing
straight into the first chap’s mouth. You can hear a sort of squelchy
crunching sound as his teeth part company with his gums. The second man does
a smart about turn, just in time to turn his head away but not quick enough
to stop the pipe almost tearing an ear off. Ginger has had a good time, it seems. Certainly impressed me.
Military police arrive - as usual. We are all carted off - as usual. Then we
are all let off - as usual. In fact, the MPs have as big a laugh as we say we
had. These
are the memories that remain. No trace of the eighteen-hour days to get kit
ready for the forward troops, no real recollection of the deaths, except the
three SAS who seemed invincible, and in a way were because I still remember
them as though it were yesterday. By the
time I was twenty I had greatness thrust upon me, being promoted to Corporal.
I was put in charge of a roomful of
half National Service, half Regulars. My job was to outwit the RSM at
every turn, not much of a challenge really. RSM Viant, of huge imposing bulk,
and an inversely proportional IQ. But, as in the old Arab proverb, he knew
not, and knew not that he knew not, therefore was a plank and easy meat to
mix a few more metaphors. “Where
you bin, Tilly? You sposed ter be ‘ere at eight. It’s nah nine. C’mon, less
‘ave it!” “Well, sir, I have been around the entire compound to make
sure everyone is doing their job. I can report all is well. Surely that
justifies a mere hour late.” “There
will come a day for you. All my NCOs are pissed orf wiv your attitude to the
Regimental Staff. Juss cos the f*****n’ OC finks that the sun shines art o’
yer arse cos yer good at sport don’t cut no ice with me, son. Don’t you
ferget it.” “That is
unfair, Sir. I’ll do my share. You say it, I’ll do it!” “Jus’
got one thing to say to you, Tilly. F**K OFF!” Not nice,
given my helpful stance, but life is cruel. The
Malayan campaign was unreal. For one thing, the civvies who were taken on to help
with the camp chores were probably the same guys who shot at us at night!
Funny thing was, I never felt in any personal danger, and I think many of my
comrades felt the same way. It is only when an attack takes place, or you are
waiting to attack, that panic starts to grip you. The throat goes a bit dry,
and you get very edgy. Some chaps go very quiet, others joke a lot. That was
me. Talk at nineteen to the dozen and just keep going until it is all over. Robinson
was a nice lad, quiet, with a good singing voice, I remember. Good technician
as well. Just finished his stint on radio repairs, opened the door of the
repair wagon, took a breath of the fresh air and BANG! Four bullets in his
head, just like that. The few minutes following an event like that are
dreamlike. Call the medics, watch them carry the body away, walk around in a
crouching position, just in case. No good really, because a bullet up the
rectum will kill you just as quickly as one in the head, I guess. Guards
deployed, lots of talk of killing the bastards who did this, but overall a
sense of preservation. Don’t do anything rash at this stage! I came
back to the My task
was roughly as follows: A simulated ravine in the form of a deep ditch was in
front of me. Lengthways along the top of the ravine was a scaffolding pole
with a structure attached holding a pole about ten feet off the ground
stretching the length of the scaffolding pole. I was given five men, a barrel
full of “precious” instruments, a wounded soldier on a stretcher, one long
and one short rope, and told that all must safely get across the ravine. The
barrel of instruments was the obvious first thing to get across the void. One
of my soldiers was told to throw the long rope over the central pole, swing
into the middle and stay there. We would tie the barrel to the rope and swing
it across to the middle. The soldier could then simply swing to the other
side with the barrel. Theory great - practice not so good. The soldier got to
the middle OK, but when we swung the barrel to him, it knocked him into the
ravine with the barrel. We did manage to save the rope, though! My strategy
for getting the men across was very simple. We threw the long rope over the
centre of the overhead pole and managed to grab the end as it swung toward
us. One of my team then used the rope to swing onto the central pole. He
attached the short rope to the overhead, released the long rope and swung to
the other side of the ravine taking the end of the long rope with him. OK so
far? He then pulled a length of the long rope toward him and threw the end
back to me and my team. Thus we now had two rope lengths across the ravine.
Then came the terrible mistake! I told the guy on the other side to put the
loop around himself, I tied the ends together on my side, completing another
loop which I then encircled my body with the rope and dug in. At the time I
was very strong, weighed over fourteen stones and was a competitive
weightlifter training six days a week. I made the mistake of thinking
everyone was nearly as physically strong as I was. “OK
mate, dig in and lean back like I am doing. Then we will send two guys over
to you with the wounded soldier on the stretcher, using the taut ropes as
rails!” “I’m not
strong enough to hold the weight.” Said he at the other side. “Of
course you are! Just go down almost horizontal and it will hold!” It
didn’t! The two soldiers walked on to the rope with the stretcher, the guy at
the other side came upright at the speed of light and was propelled into the
ravine where he met the wounded soldier, the stretcher and the two soldiers.
So there was only me and another person left from the team. Everyone was
laughing except the officer marking the task. I couldn’t think what to do
next. The officer shouted: “You have ten minutes left to complete the task. Say
something and do it!” OK, I
thought, so I shouted at the top of my voice: “YOU CAN
ALL SEE WHAT HAS HAPPENED. WE HAVE LOST THE BARREL OF INSTRUMENTS, THE
WOUNDED SOLDIER AND THREE OF THE TEAM. SO IT’S EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF, GET
ACROSS THE With
that we both tried to swing across the ravine, but fell in! Now, the point of
this story is to say that I passed the tests! This was because there was only
one applicant for the electronic course, and that was me! I was surrounded by
smart intelligent applicants who wanted to be vehicle mechanics, so most of
them failed even though they completed their tasks brilliantly. Final Interview When I went
for my final interview, the Colonel in charge said that I had displayed a
cynical attitude toward the Regimental Staff, and this was noted. They would
be keeping an eye on me during the course, and if this continued I would be
withdrawn. With that, I never caught sight of any of them ever again! Armament Artificer Course The
course was brilliant in terms of technical and management training, but the
regimental side of life passed me by. I failed everything, but the saving
grace was that it caused plenty of laughter as well as masses of extra
punishments for me. I passed the course with an excellent set of marks for
the technical and managerial elements coupled with the lowest marks ever
attained for Regimental things. I didn’t enjoy marching about or firing guns.
Indeed there were some surreal exercises such as training for a nuclear
attack. We all had a card to refer to: ON SENSING THE FLASH LIE FLAT ON THE
FLOOR. Oh, really? The 700 mph wind that follows carrying with it delta and
gamma rays as well as a melted population might give you a hint that all is
not well. Was that the “whurgh roomf
drubble” OK! Reply “mumph
wriggly” I
enjoyed Range Practice because there were opportunities to fire all sorts of
weapons. With the Self-Loading Rifle it was the usual practice to fire two
rounds into the bank in front of the targets to warm up the gun barrel, and
then five rounds into the target. The command went like this
“twinterbankanfyinlefantargit FIRE”. There were a couple of Ghanaians in our
squad. We were given the command and duly pumped our seven rounds out, but
the firing continued from a Ghanaian. When he had emptied his magazine he
rolled over onto his side and changed the mag, then continued firing. All the
while, the Sergeant Major was walking toward him. When the firing fell
silent, the Sergeant Major leaned over the guy and said: “Have you finished, mate?” “Yes
sir” said the soldier. “The target
is in tatters, son, but just to finish it off why don’t you FIX BAYONETS AND
CHARGE THE F*****G THING?” It’s a
very odd thing, but I was never liked by any of the Regimental Staff. I could
never take it all seriously. I guess
my sense of humour was too much for them. Once when we were on exercise in “Well, it doesn’t take much to work that out. There are
thirty Land Rovers to get through, so the chances of getting caught are very
small. Why don’t you just wrap the bottle in a sleeping bag and shove it in
your kitbag?” “Great
idea, Keith!” So that is
what he did. On our return, my vehicle went through before his. “Anything
to declare sir?” asked the Customs Officer. “Nothing” I replied “but don’t look up while I tell you
something. In the 3rd Land Rover from here, just ask the passenger
to unroll his sleeping bag. You may get a surprise!” The sight of
a grown man saying to a Customs Officer: “Believe
me, I just don’t know how that bottle got in there!” is something I will
always remember. In those
days they were strict, so bottle lost and fined as well! How very sad. In
fact Strachan had good cause to dislike me; I had been instrumental in
smashing his thumb to pieces whilst trying to help him push his Land Rover
out of a mud patch. To compound the problem I also lost his bunch of keys by
inadvertently dropping them in the Mind
you, it is not only the Regimental types who display a certain lack of grey cells,
some are quite bright and can even tie their own shoelaces. The Officers’
Training Establishment at There
was winter survival exercise in “Well, sir, are you prepared to lead this lot?” “Certainly am, Sergeant Major, looking forward to it.” “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, where is you Stopping
Kit? Remember you will be at the front and if you suddenly stop there will be
a pile of bodies in the snow. Did you
remember to get the kit?” “What kit is that?” “The stopping kit - brake lights for the skis and the
battery pack to light them up, SURELY someone told you about that! If they
didn’t then you can have a go at them when we get back. Meanwhile, I’ll wait
here while you go and get fitted with these things” “How do these things work, Sgt Major?” “I’m very surprised that you weren’t briefed before you
came here, and it is not up to me to tell Officers what to do. Still, just so
you know - there are two metallic contacts that clip on to the rear of each
ski, a thin wire is fed up your trouser leg to the battery pack and brake
light belt. When you have perfected the stopping technique, the metallic
contacts touch at the rear, the brake lights come on and the patrol can stop
in an orderly way. Now hurry up, Sir,
and tell the QM that Tilly sent you!” Off he
went, still not quite sure, but he did see the funny side of it which was
lucky. [To be continued]
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