BOY SERVICE NOSTALGIA.

(Continued)

© Author: Peter HUMPSTON.

(Jersey ATS 1938 – Arborfield ATS 1939)

Chapter 6.

No sooner had our subsequent elation over this great discovery begun to show it's self physically, as well as verbally, than a sudden, and what was by now becoming a familiar and somewhat anticipated roar, emanated from the sergeant in charge of our current deck activities. He was instructing us to return immediately to our respective accommodation decks and remain there until we received further instructions.

We were stirred by the excitement of the fact that things were finally going to happen and that we were nearing the end of this extended journey. Now we would know the final answer as to where we were going. The excitement brought about instant reaction to this instruction with a resultant mad dash by all concerned towards the bulkhead door and down the steel staircase. By the time our group had all assembled on our respective deck, contentions as to whether or not the land mass we had just viewed was really our intended disembarkation venue, and if so, where was this place?

Rumours were running rife. I was beginning to feel a little like the ‘Israelites’ approaching the 'Promised Land’ and could readily relate to the feelings of the ‘Pilgrim Fathers’ as they first viewed the shores of America.

The two prime contenders for our final venue being the north of ‘Scotland’ and ‘Northern Ireland’. Both of which, being well known British Army bases, made them sound like good common sense assertions. Especially the latter, in view of the sea trip we had just suffered. We could not, at that time, think of any other sea crossing from England with such a reputation.

As a result we were now virtually convinced that we were about to spend the first few years of our service in or around Belfast. Little did we know how very far out our contentions really were. Further more if we had used our brains in this regard we would have done the obvious. That is, asking one of the several boys from Northern Ireland, who were in this intake but in a different group, if circumstances of this voyage indicated the possibility of it taking them back home again.

Our corporal then duly arrived and instructed us to collect all our personal belongings and stand by our bunks awaiting further instructions. After which he, as usual, disappeared leaving us once again to contemplate our next move. At last the instructions ware given to once again proceed to the main deck and line up in our current group there with all our chattels.

When we finally reached the deck and duly arranged ourselves as instructed we naturally presumed that, by this time the land mass we had previously seen would be prominent and we would be about to disembark to it. That the land mass concerned was more prominent was true, but was still some distance away. Not only that but, where it had been dead ahead of us when we went back to our deck, it was now several miles away on the right-hand side of the vessel, and to our horror we were obviously passing it with nothing else in sight.

It was at this particular time when, in hind sight, I believe the R.A.S.C. Staff in charge of our contingent realised that we had already been travelling for well over 30 hours or more, including an extremely rough sea crossing, and could well do with a little respite. For ourselves, upon seeing the presumed ‘Promised Land’ slowly dissolves into the distance, our immediate aspirations dissolved with it and most of us just lost all our original enthusiasm for the enterprise. In fact, at that point in time, I think most us couldn't have cared less where we were going.

It was whilst we were leaning on the rails dismally perusing the passing of the presumed "Promised Land" that, a boy from one of the other sections, wandered over to our side of the vessel and leant up beside me on the rails. This fellow was equally, if not more, distressed with the passing of "Promised Land" than any of us were. I wondered about this for a moment or two then told him not to worry too much as we were bound to arrive at what-ever destination we were bound for very shortly now. Especially as they had brought us all up on deck with our gear.

That was when he dropped the bombshell on us. In a few seconds he gave us the answer to that all-important question of. "Where were we going?" He merely said, "Yes, he knew that we were to disembark shortly but, had hoped we were disembarking at the "Island of Guernsey" that we had just passed as it was his home. As there was a R.A.S.C. barracks there, he had been hoping that would be our destination ever since we embarked on the vessel, which he knew travelled that route from Southampton.

Naturally all those of our group within hearing distance were immediately ‘dumb-struck’. After all this time of wondering where we were bound here, suddenly ‘out of the blue’ was someone who, not only knew where we were but also actually lived in the vicinity. Naturally it took a few moments for us all to get over the original shock, and of course there was a degree of scepticism from one or two members of our group who decided to disbelieve him.

Then, having recovered somewhat we all asked him the same question at once "Where are we?" He seemed quite surprised that we didn't already know. Then said quite off-handedly that we were in the area of the Channel Islands and, having passed Alderney and Sark earlier that morning, we were just then passing his home island of Guernsey.

That only left Jersey, which had to be our intended final destination.

Whilst there was a general feeling of relief upon finally knowing where we were to be serving the initial part of our service, there were very few of us who knew very much about the Channel Islands, and many who had never heard of them before. Certainly virtually no one, except of course our now very popular informant, had any idea where these Islands were situated geographically, or who inhabited them etc. As a result our informant and new found friend of our group, was inundated with all the what's?" "Why's?" and "Where-fore's?" of this mysterious Island of Jersey where we were to be ensconced for possibly the next four years of our lives.

Unfortunately the poor fellow had never been to Jersey himself, although he lived so near. As a result he was not able to give us too much detailed insight into the place. But from what he had heard, and his knowledge of his own home island of Guernsey, he was able to provide a reasonable picture of what we could expect.

Little did we know at that time what a relatively short period of time we were actually going to stay in this beautiful island of Jersey, and the circumstances that were to later require our expeditious exit back to the mainland. Not only that but, neither did we, or anyone else, envisage the terrible sacrifices and suffering that the local inhabitants of all these four British Islands, situated in the English Channel, were to experience over the imminent four years of their German occupation.

With all the interest being directed towards getting to know as much as possible about this intended place of our future activities, we completely lost all interest in where we were actually going. Then suddenly the old call of "Land Ho", from possibly the same source, was heard very distinctly again. This brought all of us firmly back to earth and diverted our attention to the forward end of the vessel from whence the call had sounded. Sure enough, on the far horizon a smudge of land was showing and very gradually becoming more distinct. Immediately our new-found friend confirmed that this was, at last, "The Promised Land " of "Jersey, British Channel Islands ", or Jersey BCI.

Chapter 7.

The day was now bright and warm, and the seas relatively calm. A general ‘hush’ having descended over the whole of the deck area. Any talk that did occur was in equally hushed tones, with maximum attention of all boys directed towards the horizon. To such a degree that, it probably wouldn't have mattered if we had been in the middle of a cyclone, no one would have taken much notice. As we drew closer to the emerging shoreline the concentration increased until there was rarely a sound, other than the ‘chugging' of the engines and the constant lapping of the sea against the bow of the vessel. As it continued on it's consistent way. When I stop to think about it now, I realise how eerie those moments of waiting to see our future home really were.

At this time of writing it is over 64 years since the day we all stood on that deck and watched as the Island came into view, and I have never had the privilege of returning to Jersey since our rather sudden departure in mid 1939. The reader's consideration is therefore requested as to the accuracy of some of the landmarks that will be mentioned, together with the various changes that have occurred in St. Helier and the surrounding districts, especially that of St Peters (San Pierre), since that time, and particularly during the German occupation.

Gradually the outline of the coast became more distinct, with the vessel having now changed course slightly, leaving the majority of the landfall to our left, towards which, all eyes on deck were still firmly glued. Apart from the rather flat rugged nature of the initial part of the coastline to come into view, the first item of prominence that I remember seeing was a tall round tower standing completely alone. It was set on a rocky protuberant area of the beach, which I first took to be an old unused lighthouse. But as we passed a little closer, it became obvious that this was some form of ancient fortification that had withstood the ravages of wars, the sea and time. Later I was to learn just how correct my presumption had been, for this was one of the famous fortifications built on the Jersey coast by the Crusaders in the 11th & 12th centuries, of which there are many more around Jersey and the coasts of the other three Channel Isles. This particular tower, I later came to know, was namely "La Rocco Tower" situated in the bay of "St. Ouen's" on the west coast of Jersey. It was in the St. Ouen's Bay area that myself, and several of the boys in our company, were later to spend many happy hours during our stay on the island.

The vessel continued it's steady way, in what we later came to realise was a south/south-easterly direction towards the entrance to the Port of St. Helier. The very pleasant, picturesque countryside of the Island became more discernible, with its hillsides of well laid-out green fields and hedgerows. Interlaced here and there were roads and lanes, creeping their way through the landscape. This was definitely beginning to look more like a holiday jaunt to the seaside for us boys, but that idea was soon to be quickly erased from our imaginations.

Quite suddenly the atmosphere at the foreword end of the deck changed again. But this time, what had initially been an almost inaudible murmuring, suddenly gained momentum until it became a shrill blast of excitement steadily spreading over the whole deck area. Being situated towards the rear of the main crowd, it was a few moments before our gang became fully aware of the cause of this sudden excitement. But upon straining necks a little in the direction of the current attention, a tall, stately, white tower presented itself, situated atop a bulbous, high point of rock at the end of a long outcrop, extending from the mainland. After a few moments it became quite obvious that this very stately looking piece of real-estate was not just another ancient fortification, but a most elegant, well maintained and currently operative ‘Light-House’. Once again, later information proved all these original contentions to be correct. For this was the famous ‘Corbiere Lighthouse’ built by the British in 1874, and the first in the British Isles to be constructed in concrete. It actually stands on the one hundred-foot (30m.) high end of a 1,600 ft long, rocky promontory, extending from the mainland, which, at full tide, is completely submerged.

There was no doubt now that we were finally coming to the end of this virtual ‘Voyage of Discovery’, and would very shortly be back on dry land again. Our friend from Guernsey who rejoined us, pointing out La Corbiere lighthouse and naming it for us confirmed this. He also told us that La Corbiere was considered to be the principal landfall for the Port of St Helier, into which we must surely be turning very shortly. Whilst this was also his first visit to Jersey, he was quite familiar with the names of the various landmarks which he had heard at home quite regularly.

Shortly after leaving Corbiere to our rear, steadily but very positively, the bow of our vessel began to turn towards the shoreline. Until finally, dead ahead of us, we could now see the beginnings of a long breakwater leading into, what we presumed to be the Port proper. Then, as we continued onwards, other vessels tied -up along side the wharf, came into view. The engines of our vessel having now reduced to a steady ‘throb’ as we slowly made our way towards our prescribed berth.

I particularly remember that, initially it was most frustrating, because, from the position our group found itself in as we lined up on the deck, it was not possible to see over the side of the vessel as we drew into the harbour and came alongside. All we could see initially were the tops of some buildings and sheds as the engines reversed and the vessel edged, blunt end first, inwards to the dockside. Then, I presume that the Sergeant must have realised the situation the majority of the groups were in. He relented by relining us all up along the rails on the port side of the vessel. Thus we were provided with an unimpeded view of all that was in progress on the dockside.

We had just completed this manoeuvre as the vessel straightened up along side the wharf. From our new and most advantageous position we could now see, laid out below us, all the various activities being carried out alongside. Several dockside hands were scurrying around collecting the fore and aft ropes that the deck hands were throwing down to them and with which they were making fast the vessel to the dockside. A further team of deck hands was in the throes of putting in place the gangway leading down from the bulkhead door in the ship's side. It was the same bulkhead door we had entered the vessel so very long ago in Southampton. It went down to the wharf and provided the main entry and exit to the vessel from the dockside. Immediately subsequent to this, my attention was drawn to a scene that stands implanted in my memory as being the first really significant item I saw upon our arrival. Positioned in a row along the wharf, stood four, or possibly six, I cannot now really remember, green coloured Double Decker buses. It was almost as if we had brought them with us from London, dumped them on the dock and painted them green. Along the sides of the vehicles was painted "JERSEY TRACTION COMPANY". Below the words was the equivalent in French, which, thanks to the little I learned at school, I was able to translate. Over the period of our stay in Jersey, this was to prove an advantage to many of us who had received the privilege of this subject at school. No doubt these buses were to be the transport to our next, and possibly final, destination. Little did we realise at that moment however, the number of we boys who would, a little later, equate these wonderful vehicles to being the orbit of one of the very few periods of regular entertainment we were to enjoy during our time here, especially during our first few months.

Finally the feeling that, the beginning of the end of this, now over 30 hour-long saga, was about to occur. The feeling emerged when the corporals once again started to organise us into single file. We commenced the journey back through the vessel to the inevitable bulkhead door and on to the top of the gangway. It was exactly as I had presumed when, from the bottom of the gangway we were directed straight onto one of the waiting buses. By this time all those previous feelings of trepidation that, emerged with each change of venue we were required to make, were long gone. At least they were as far as myself was concerned, and I cannot remember hearing any voices of concern from any of the remainder of our particular group, at this time. The principal feeling that I can remember at that time was one of excitement and anticipation for what the end of our journey was finally going to provide us.

Chapter 8.

As I recall, it was at about this time that, the division of our main contingent into the two Corps of RASC and RAOC became really evident .We had already been divided into small groups of approximately twenty boys each from the time we left London. The fact that each of these groups consisted of either all RASC or all RAOC boys hadn't appeared to be of any great consequence to most of us at the time. But now, as we lined up on the dockside waiting to board our respective buses, we noticed that specific reference was being made by the Staff NCOs to the fact that these groups were part of either the RAOC or RASC sections of the main contingent.

This was really the initiation of our true sense of belonging to the Corps we had joined, coupled with a feeling of special kinship with all the other members. This virtual act of bonding with our fellow Corps members, was for many of us, to endure for the rest of our lives, and was without doubt the foundation upon which our subsequent ‘Esprit De Corps’ was based.

For myself it was also the commencement of a personal friendship that was to exist until well after the end of our four years apprenticeship. Our friendship terminated because of wartime postings to different locations. It was on this bus that I first made contact with the boy who was to remain a close and very loyal friend for the next five years of my life. As was now becoming my normal want, I managed once again to scramble and secure myself a window seat on the top deck of the bus. I was sure of becoming as fully acquainted as possible with all there was to see in this Brave New World into which we had suddenly been pitched.

I settled in my seat and commenced viewing the local sights from my current advantageously elevated position. A rather skinny darkish complexioned youth wearing a school cap, and blessed with a long skinny neck encasing an ‘Adam's Apple’ the size of a golf ball, dropped himself, together with his little case of personal ‘knickknacks’ into the seat next to me. Saying as he did so "O.K. if I sit here?” To which I duly responded to the effect that "To the best my knowledge there were no reserved seats on this vehicle and he was most welcome to join me". I had, of course, seen this fellow many times before as he had been in the same group as myself since leaving London, but this was the first time I had held any direct conversation with him. He duly introduced himself as Dick Ludford and I reciprocated accordingly with my own nametag.

As the bus commenced its journey from the docks and through the town, our conversation continued with myself pointing out certain areas of what I thought could be of particular interest. One of which I can remember very distinctly as the ‘Hotel Pomme D'or’ It was obviously a relatively large, highly reputable hostelry, being situated as it was in the very centre of the town.

When I drew Dick's attention to this edifice I duly learned that his knowledge of French was probably as good or better than my own. This factor was to prove most advantageous to us both in the forthcoming months.

As our journey continued and we left St. Helier, proceeding along the narrow roads of the picturesque countryside, our ensuing conversation quite naturally drifted into our respective places of origin, families, schools and general backgrounds. It was pleasantly surprising to me, and as I later found out, also to Dick, to find just how very similar our backgrounds proved to be. In addition to which it emerged that Dick came from an area of the midlands almost adjacent to my own home, and we could therefore say that we virtually spoke the same language. But most important of all he came from a background of horses, His father being the Chief Instructor at the ‘Weedon Army Equestrian School’. In those days Weedon housed and trained the British Olympic Equestrian Team consisting only of Army personnel.

The countryside became more picturesque the further we continued onwards, with hosts of flowers, seemingly growing of their own accord from the hedgerows along the side of the roads, and in all the gardens of the rather quaint country type houses we passed. To see such a proliferation of natural flowers at this time of the year was quite refreshing to most of us. Especially in view of the conditions we had left behind only a few hours ago in England, where the weather was well into the autumn with its cold wet winds and the trees having shed their loads of leaves everywhere. I was ready to openly state how very lucky we were to be here in these beautiful surroundings and the warm sunshine.

Suddenly we turned off what appeared to be the main road into a side road which, according to the road sign, indicated we were heading towards a place called ’San. Pierre’. I will never forget, after only a few minutes travel along this side road, the sudden emergence of the forbidding sight of a set of massive black, double wrought iron gates set into high grey stone walls. This sudden confliction with the surrounding countryside we had, up to then, been enjoying was quite disarming, to say the least, and I'm sure most of us were struck with this sudden feeling of semi-depression as a result.

Up to this point in time most of us, were excited to see our future new home and it's obvious geological and climatic advantages. We had virtually forgotten how tired and dirty we felt after what was now more than thirty-six hours, at least, since the majority of us left home and set out on this expedition. For some others of the contingent it was much longer. But the anti climax brought about by this sudden sighting, of what, we then thought, was to be our final destination and permanent abode for the next four years, was going to require a great deal more moral fortitude on our part. That is, if we were to survive being ensconced in this semi fortress for that period of time. This was the final termination point of our journey. There could be little doubt about that, for over the top of the gates, inscribed in the same black wrought iron were the words ‘St. Peters Barracks’. We had finally reached the destination that had been the prime thought and concern in the minds of most of us over the past thirty-six hours or more, of that we could now be sure.

Chapter 9.

Whilst most of the details of that first day in His Majesty’s forces are forever etched on my memory, from this point onwards so many things happened so closely together that I am not sure of their exact sequence. For other Ex-Boys reading this narrative many of the following happenings may no doubt appear to be common standard procedures and practices, so I will try not to bore you with too many of these happenings. Due to the period in modern history at which our enlistment occurred, coupled with the circumstances whereby our R.A.O.C. contingent was posted out of mainland England in our first few hours of service, most of us were still in our school clothes. Subsequently, accommodated as guests of another Corps, resulted in a series of unique circumstances that are particularly pertinent to our ‘Intake NoJ38A’ alone. These circumstances did not necessarily cease upon our arrival at the gates of St. Peter‘s Barracks.

As we drew up to those rather ominous looking gates, already open to receive us, the bus stopped at the request of a very smart soldier in full ‘Service Dress’ complete with web belt and cane. He was wearing a large black armband upon which were the large red initials R.P. This man had suddenly emerged from the large green painted wooden ‘Sentry Box’ situated immediately inside the left-hand side of the gates. Little did we realise at that moment just how familiar we were to become with the inside of that box, the walls of which, before we finally left Jersey, were festooned with the engraved signatures of a large proportion of the Jersey contingent, including my own. Next upon the scene, again to our left, was an equally ominous, bleak looking single storey brick building standing a few yards further in from the gate. The building appeared as if, in some vain attempt to provide a more invitingly agreeable affect to anyone visiting this rather disengaging edifice. We were to come to know this imposing building as the ‘Guard Room’. It had been surrounded by a small garden about six feet wide containing the odd plant or two. This had then been edged all round with very carefully placed and accurately spaced building bricks, standing on their ends and at an angle of about 30 degrees. All of which had been carefully ‘white-washed’. The general maintenance of this latter condition, we were later to recognise as being a daily chore for any-one assigned to that unfortunate gang, generally known as the ‘Janker Walla's’.

In almost immediate response to the shrill call of “SARNT!“ from the man on gate duty, an even smarter and very much taller man with three very white stripes on both arms, emerged from the door of the ‘Guard Room’. He was dressed in full ‘Service Dress’, but with a large ‘Pace Stick’ under one arm and a large Red Sash over his left shoulder. He appeared very similar to the ‘Guards Brigade’ personnel that had met us, and looked after us, in London. Both of these men were also wearing, what we very shortly afterwards were to know as, the ‘Royal Army Service Corps’ regalia of ‘cap badge’, ‘collar dogs’ and ‘RASC’ numerals on their epaulets. Following a few instructions from the Sergeant to the bus driver, we were once again on our way. But now travelling very slowly along the barrack roadway, with the other buses still following in convoy, passing more equally mundane looking buildings, the majority of which were of a similar construction to, and had the same garden surround, we had seen at the ‘Guard Room’. Whilst there were a few military personnel walking around, some in ‘Service Dress’ and others in the inevitable brown fatigue overalls, but wearing ‘Forage’ caps in place of what we had, up to that time, become familiar with seeing and knowing as the ‘Service Dress’ peaked cap. There were also a number of men who were obviously civilians. Many of who appeared to be engaged in tending the small gardens surrounding the buildings and others in various general maintenance activities. One thing that I noticed particularly at that time was the fact that many of them worked with a cigarette stuck continuously in their mouth. But these were not ordinary cigarettes, as we knew them, being extremely long and thin. So much so that, with the cigarette in their mouths the end drooped downwards, tending to almost burn their chin. As I learnt from practice much later, that the only way to light them one had to bring the lighter or match flame directly upwards to meet the drooping end of the cigarette. . We were later to know these cigarettes as the famous French ‘Galois’ being the cheapest and most popular smoke in France at that time, and basically equivalent to our ‘Woodbines’. But very much stronger, containing a very harsh type of ‘Turkish’ tobacco that could be smelt from a mile away. In those days, of course, there were no filter tips. This was also the case with the majority of U.K. cigarettes at that time. The only brands of that period I can remember as having a filter tip were “’Ardath “ and ‘Black Cat’ both of which died a natural death during the war. It was many of these civilian employees that, some short time later, at the risk of their jobs, became our friends and suppliers of the majority of our illegal local luxuries. ‘Galois’ cigarettes being our principal requirement.

Finally our bus, still heading the convoy, as it had all the way from the docks, reached, what at first appeared to be, the end of the road. But then suddenly without warning, made a left hand, followed almost immediately by a right hand turn and drove onto the near end of a large open, rectangular ‘tarmacked’ area. The far end of this large area, seeming to us as we stepped off the bus, to be so far away as to disappear over the horizon. The width of this expanse, whilst also appearing to be very extensive, was much easier to judge as each side was lined with buildings, not dissimilar to those we had passed on our way inwards from the main gates. But in this instance they were all double storeyed, and had many more, high but relatively narrow, windows. situated uniformly along the length of the buildings on each floor. Myself, together with the majority of the boys in that ‘Intake’ were to curse the day they first saw these windows when their turn to clean them, prior to CO’s inspection, came around. But more about that later. From the first moment I saw these particular barrack blocks they appeared to be most familiar, and it was then that suddenly I realised where I had previously seen this identical type of building. It was earlier in the year, I had been taken to ‘Glen-Parva Barracks’ in Leicester to sit for my ‘Army Apprentices Entrance Exam’, which was held in a building identical to these. They were of course the standard ‘British Army Barrack Block’ of those days. As we found out much later, the design had remained virtually unchanged since early in the Victorian era. They were first built for the ‘Crimean War’. ‘St Peter’s Barracks’ was used as a ‘Transit’ and ‘Holding Centre’ for the Continent in both the ‘Crimea’ and the ‘First World Wars’.

No sooner had the bus come to a stop, we were instructed by the staff corporals aboard to “De-bus in orderly fashion”. Another, but this time even smarter looking, much more polished, and quite sophisticated, Corporal, in full ‘Service Dress’ complete with RASC regalia and the inevitable ‘Cane’, but wearing black horn rimmed glasses, marched smartly towards our Group, and quickly introduced himself as our ‘Squad“ Instructor’. Myself and I think most of our group was immediately most taken with this man. Initially I think, because of his very smart, finished presentation. Something that we never saw him lapse from all the time we were in St Peters. But it was also his very positive, quick, efficient and assertive manner in everything he did that also had a specific affect on most of us. I don’t remember him ever becoming the subject of any of the usual barrack-room conversation critique that was normally aimed at the rest of the Regimental Staff. But I do remember that he never allowed himself to get too close or personal with any one of us. When duties were over for the day he would disappear completely until next morning’s parade. Unless of course there was to be a barrack room inspection the next morning. He would, then, appear to make sure we were up to standard, before getting any sleep. Whilst today I regret not being able to remember his name, I’m sure that by now the poor fellow will have long passed away. I still however, vividly remember how he appeared, and especially his continuously red face and neck which protruded slightly over the very snug fitting stiff collar of his ‘Service Dress’ jacket. Thinking of this today makes me realise that the poor fellow obviously suffered from high blood pressure. His back was always as straight as a ramrod, and I never once saw him relax that stance. Looking back on it all now there is no doubt that myself and many of our group, greatly admired this man and very quietly, virtually made him a ‘Role Model’ in respect of our military training throughout our time in Jersey. Further more, many of us are indebted to him for providing us with an excellent initial regimental education together with a specific sense of pride in our personal presentation, which has stayed with myself, and I’m sure many others of our group, throughout our lives..

Chapter 10.

No sooner was his introduction to us completed, and as tired as he could readily see we were from our extensive journey, coupled with the fact that we were still dressed in our civilian clothes, which by now had become both highly odorous and some-what distressed, to say the least, our new Squad Corporal commenced to place us into some acceptable formal formation. This was in-fact to be our first taste of, and general initiation into, ‘Drill’ proper, and the ‘Barrack Square’ as we were to know it from then onwards for the rest of our lives. It was also some-what unique in that it introduced us to a system of ‘4's formation Drill’ which, whilst we were not aware of it at the time, we were to learn, and to a degree perfect with some difficulty, over the following two months, prior to it then being superseded by the standard ‘3's formation’ as it is known and performed today.

It is therefore doubtful that any ‘Ex-Boys’ reading this, unless they joined at or before my time, would have experienced this particular drill formation, subsequently considered by the ‘powers-that-be’ of that time, to be unnecessarily complicated and time consuming. This being in-spite of the fact that the system had been in practice with the British Army, and no doubt all other British Services, for at least the last one hundred years. Possibly the pending influx of civilians about to be called-up for War Service, and the necessity to get them through their initial training as quickly as possible, was one of the principle reasons for introducing this change at this particular time. The only time I have seen this type of formation since has been purely for display purposes such as the ‘Tattoos’ of ‘Edinburgh’ and ‘Aldershot’ and by the Guards Brigade during their various ceremonial activities.

Our Corporal's initial action was to call the roll, taking careful note of each of us by name. We did have a ‘Squad’ and ‘Company’ designation which was given to us at that time, and which we were required to remember at the expense of some dire punishment called ‘Defaulters’. A word that today means virtually the opposite if you are computer educated. Unfortunately these designations now defeat my memory. But to the best of my recollections of that particular time I believe a Squad consisted of approximately 36 boys, or the compliment of two barrack rooms. Having taken us to one side, leaving the remainder to their respective Squad Instructors, our Corporal duly selected the tallest of our squad, and if my memory still serves me correctly this was a boy named Howes.

A little later, and forever after to be known as ‘Lofty’, which he most precisely was, standing at least 5ft 11ins. in his stocking feet at 14 years of age, and later becoming known as the ‘Gentle Giant’ to all his closest friends. Lofty was subsequently instructed to take up a position further out onto that great expanse of tarmac we had just learnt was called, ‘THE SQUARE’, and stand to ‘Attention’. A position the Corporal, who was slightly smaller than Lofty, quickly physically manoeuvred him into, indicating to the rest of us exactly what was required of us when instructed accordingly. This was really ‘Drill Lesson’ number one, which left our poor Lofty standing out alone on the Tarmac looking like some long lost stone statue, with eyes riveted to the front, head up and definitely so frightened to move that we expected him to wet his pants any moment.

Just how we managed to refrain from bursting into peals of laughter at this sight we will never know, but we made up for that later in the evening. We were then advised that Lofty, or who ever else was instructed to take up this position, was nominated as the ‘Right Marker’ Leaving Lofty in his highly exposed position, the Corporal continued to explain that, once the ‘Right Marker’ had taken up his position, on the order ‘Fall In Right Marker’, the remainder of the squad would immediately receive the order “To the left in 2 Ranks fall in". This required us to form two ranks, one behind the other, facing to the front and with the front rank extending to the left from the ‘Right Marker’ The rear rank performing an identical manoeuvre commencing from the man who would take up position directly behind the ‘Right Marker’. So-far-so-good, but this was all becoming a little too complicated and tending to extend our learning abilities and physical endurance to the extreme under the current circumstances. A situation I feel sure the Corporal now sensed was becoming virtually untenable.

By this time it was well into the afternoon, and apart from the ride on the bus we had not had any respite or a meal since breakfast on the deck of the ship. And he obviously realised that we were well overdue to be settled down for a while. Having now manoeuvred us into two ranks with our small bags or cases of personal belongings at our feet, he told us to pick them up, turn to the right, stay in line, and just follow him. This was the last time any of us ever shuffled out of step across that ‘hallowed ground’, as we duly followed him across the Square, towards one of the barrack blocks that was to be our home for the foreseeable future.

At my age at the time of writing this narrative, long-term memory is presumed to dominate, whilst short-term remembrance tends to decrease in both its efficiency and quality. There is no doubt that, from a purely personal point of view, the latter contention is correct, but I am currently having considerable doubts about the former presumption too, especially in regard to the first few days after our arrival at St. Peter's. So I would request my readers to be some-what forbearing in the event that any of my explanations from here onwards appear rather hazy in their definitions. I can however, still generally remember our initial approach to the barrack block that first day, and how tired and dishevelled we were feeling as we made our first entrance to the portals of our new home.

I can also recall that most of us couldn't have cared less just what we were about to inherit as a home, as long as there was somewhere to lay our now extremely tired bodies. Also if we were really lucky, get some sleep into the bargain. . As it happened we were not really lucky, but we were shown where we would subsequently have the privilege of indulging ourselves in some blessed belated slumber. Following the Corporal's instructions, we duly trudged behind him, through the large double doors of the barrack block into a relatively large vestibule or entrance hall. To our left was a further set of double wooden doors with inset glass panels on each side just high enough to be able to see through at eye level. One half of the door happened to be lodged ajar at that time, displaying the commencement of what could only be part of a row of washbasins.

Continuing to follow our Corporal we were lead immediately to our right, where we were again confronted with another set of double swing type doors identical to those we had just seen. It was through these doors that we were finally to come to the end of, what had proved to be for most of us, the longest day of our lives. It was now nearly 40 hours since I had commenced my journey out into the wide world of the British Army, and probably much longer for some of the other boys. It was therefore something of an anti-climax as we entered that set of doors into the " Barrack Room " and were allocated that hallowed "bed space" that was to be the one and only place we could safely call our own for the rest of our time on the Island.

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Footnote

That was to be the last chapter of ‘Boy Service Nostalgia’ that Peter completed for ‘The Horses Mouth’, the on line magazine of the Western Australia branch of the RAEME. His plan was to rewrite his opening chapters and then include his experiences of life when he was posted to the Arborfield Army Technical School in 1939. When published as a book he was happy to see it included in the pages of our ‘Arborfield & The September 49ers web site’. Peter passed away before he could complete his task.

However, all is not lost as the e-mail from John Curtis shows:

My name is John Curtis and I was the original editor of the RAEME Association of WA's "Horse's Mouth". As regard the use of Peter's articles that were printed in the Horse's Mouth, please use them as you wish. These articles are a tribute to Peter and his remarkable memory. Publishing them will benefit the historical side of the Corps of REME, especially since Peter was there at the very beginning of the Corps. Peter's Son, Peter Jnr, has given me copies of Peter's writings. It is my intention, along with Fred Ordynski, another Arborfield boy, to finish Peter's book for him and give it to Peter Jnr typeset and ready for publishing. I am sure that Peter Jnr would allow me to send copies to the UK for him.

John Curtis

RAEME Association

Western Australia Branch.

Ian Rea started as an Army Apprentice in 1938 at Bramley before being transferred to Arborfield in 1939 where he met Peter. They were both in ‘D’ Coy, Peter in ‘H’ block and Ian in ‘J’ block. They were in touch right up to Peter’s sad passing. Ian has added his memories of the early days of Arborfield to the site and of course they would reflect how Peter spent his time there.

For convenience, tales of the very early days of Arborfield Life are gathered together and can be read from the link below.

Published: 15th December 2009