Square Bashing
Monday, 12th
September to Thursday, 20th October
[Source: “Revolt in The Desert” – The Arab Revolt during
World War I by T.E. Lawrence aka Lawrence of Arabia] Reveille:The
sound of reveille brought us rudely out of our slumber, and ere the last note
had faded Sergeant Roberts and others of his ilk were about their business.
The barrack room door burst open and in he strode, his hob-nailed boots
clattering noisily across the bare wooden floorboards. With a shout that
would have awakened the dead he bellowed: “Wakey, wakey! Rise ‘n shine!” and:
“Get your feet on the floor!” simultaneously making a whirlwind visit
to each bed, stripping the blankets and sheet off the weary occupant to
expose his body to the early morning chill. We would eventually become
accustomed to this daily routine, with the exception of ‘free Sundays’, and
for those foolish souls who gathered their bedclothes around them and went
back to bed, a second visit followed rapidly on the first. They were in for a
rude awakening, suddenly finding themselves lying on the floor with the bed
upturned on top of them. Having experienced this once, very few took a second
chance. Oddly enough it appeared quite acceptable to be caught in the prone
position provided one’s feet were on the floor! In time most of us were able
to master the art of being able to remain in bed and half asleep in this unlikely
position. It became an automatic response for one’s legs to ‘get up’ in
advance of the rest of one’s body as the first bugle note rent the stillness
of the dawn.
Sergeant Roberts: A small, slender, wiry man, his beret hid a shock of red
hair, close-shorn in regulation style. When in ‘shirt-sleeve order’ (i.e.
with shirt sleeves folded neatly to just above the elbow) during the summer
months, it became very evident why his right arm appeared stiffened to a
degree that prevented him from bending the elbow, and having to salute with
his left arm instead. The inside of his right arm bore a terrible scar, a
wound inflicted upon him by a hand grenade during battle in World War II.
Proud of his disfigurement we wore it like a hard-won badge of honour. A
Drill Instructors: A unique breed with a language peculiarly all their own. It was difficult enough learning all the drill movements without the additional burden of a language barrier exacerbating our problems with the need to translate the strange sounds, which in no way bore any resemblance to the English language, into orders of command that could be acted upon. Time, practice, and familiarity gradually eradicated this problem, and it became a matter of anticipating an expected command and putting it into effect on hearing the sound of the order rather than the order itself. Being trained to attain a standard was achieved solely on the belief that “practice makes perfect”, and for certain things I have to agree that this method has much merit. It was the Drill Instructor’s task to impress upon his charges that we were soldiers first, and tradesmen last; to respond to a given order immediately and without question; to rely for our safety and well-being on those in command, be they officers or NCOs.
Down to Business: At
08.00 hours the order: “Get fell-in on the road!” prompted an
immediate response and the barrack room floor thundered with the sound of
many pairs of boots reacting as one. Assembled in Squad formation there
followed a roll call, and with the voices of the Drill Sergeants
simultaneously shouting out names in rapid succession it was difficult to
hear one’s name called. Chaos reigned during the first few minutes, and the
assembled company received a barrage of abuse, invective, and threats of dire
punishments if we didn’t get it right the next time. Now in the full
knowledge what to expect, by some minor miracle all present managed to
respond to their own name. The
squad, of which I was a member, would be forming a very close association
with Sergeant Roberts during the next six months, as would the other squads
with their respective Drill Instructors. He would become our mother, father,
friend, enemy, father confessor, constant companion, instructor, advisor, and
tormentor. He would be our fountain of knowledge, and he had the daunting
responsibility of passing it on to his charges in a short period of time. In
the process we would hate him, love him, despise him, and respect him. We were
shouted at, abused, punished, belittled, kicked about, thumped, picked out
for ‘special treatment’, worked almost to the point of total exhaustion, and
then, after about four weeks of sheer hell we started to reap the rewardss
and appreciate the benefits of the changes he had wrought upon us, both as
individuals and as a group. From a rabble-crowd of individual boys bent on
pursuing their selfish ends he had brought us to the verge of indivisible
union; we were becoming a single entity; a unit of young men with a common
purpose. Not
all of this time was spent exclusively on the square; some of the time was
set aside for learning how to maintain our kit and us in proper order. There
was a uniform way of stowing everything; every item of one’s kit had to occupy
its proper place in the small metal locker attached to the wall over head of
the bed. With plenty of practice it soon became second nature to make the bed
‘up’ in the morning and ‘down’ in the evening. The bed was of rather curious
design, the iron frame being in two parts, the lower half telescoped into
upper half effectively saving a lot of floor space. Two pieces of metal,
attached to the lower part of the frame, prevented inadvertent separation of
the two halves, but this basic flaw in the design was often open to abuse. A
frequent joke that was always perpetrated after ‘lights out’, and which
brought howls of laughter from all but the unfortunate target, involved the
re-arrangement of the bed frame so that it was on a ‘hair trigger’ – although
it would still bear the full weight of the occupant, a slight tug or kick on
the foot of the bed resulted in complete separation, leaving the poor lad to
reassemble and make his bed in the dark – it was forbidden to switch the
lights on after ‘lights out’. Memorable
Pearls from Forgettable Swine: ·
Being
inspected on parade, a gruff voice from behind, very close to the ear,
enquires: “Am I ‘urtin’ you lad?” Reply: “No, Sergeant”. “Well, I aughta be, I’m standin’ on your
‘air. Get ya bloody ‘air cut!”
Reply: “Yes, Sergeant.” “Stand closer to the bloody razor next time!”
Several arms eagerly raised to indicate the
affirmative. “You lad, (pointing to the object of his
selection) double over to the Q.M. Store and ask for a long weight!”
(Long wait?) Lesson: never volunteer for anything.
Bullshit night: Friday night was ‘bullshit night’, a colourful military colloquialism for ‘spit ‘n polish’; descriptive of the weekly spring-clean to prepare the barrack rooms and associated facilities, inside and out, and our personal kit, for the intense scrutiny of the Company Commander during his inspection following Saturday morning muster parade. Everything was required to be in a state of perfection; absolutely spotless; in its correct place; no dust or fluff anywhere; the wooden floors polished to a deep shine, without footmarks or scuffs; window panes so clean as to appear invisible except for the reflections; kit layout faultless; boots polished to a mirror finish, including the insteps, steel studs, heel and toe plates; brass badges, buttons and buckles gleaming; webbing equipment blancoed to a pristine finish without blemish, and brass fittings highly polished back and front; uniforms pressed with knife-edge creases; socks darned; no alien items in one’s wall locker, especially the remains of food parcels from home; eating irons and pint pot spotless – etc, etc! The toilets, ablutions, and blanco room also received very close attention.
Saturday Morning Routine: Muster parade over, we returned to the barrack rooms to do the final preparations for the Company Commander’s inspection, commencing 10.00 hours. We knew his visit was imminent when the barrack room NCO, who positioned himself at the door, shouted: “Stand by your beds!” This prompted everyone to take up a position at the foot of the bed, on the right-hand side, standing at ease, to await the arrival of the entourage accompanying the inspecting officer. The order to come to attention was given when they were about to enter the barrack room, the room NCO saluted, and reported: “Barrack room ready for inspection, Sir!” The procession entered, and slowly made its way to each bed space where its several pairs of prying eyes and handfuls of itchy fingers searched for even the minutest fault. To pass muster one had to satisfy the Company Commander, CSM, CQMS, Drill Instructors, and Apprentice CSM. To pass this probing inspection without adverse comment was rare indeed. No matter how perfect one believed oneself to be, it seemed a matter of principle for some imperfection, real or imagined, to be brought to your attention, just to keep you on your toes. Smugness and complacency was the enemy to be kept at bay at all costs.
When the inspecting officer finally arrived at one’s bed-space, come to attention, salute, and announce in a clear voice: “Millie, Sir!” Stare unblinking to the front, innards in turmoil, legs turned to jelly, awaiting in trepidation the dreaded pronouncement: “Take his name, Sar’nt Major!” If the Company Commander was particularly displeased with one’s efforts he was in the habit of using his cane to deftly scatter items of your kit around the room and pass on without comment, prompting the CSM to pronounce: “Take ‘is name, Sar’nt!” a euphemism for “Place this man on a charge.”
Church Parade: Reaching the required minimum standard of parade drill we were required to participate in the Sunday morning ceremonial that all regimental permanent staff from the Commandant down, officers and senior NCOs, and all apprentices down to most insignificant ‘jeep’, were duty bound to attend. Dressed in best SD, our formal uniform of World War I vintage pattern, and best boots, at the appointed hour we were ordered to form up, Company by Company, on the edge of the square adjacent to our respective barrack blocks. The roll was called; we were inspected; ‘right markers’ were nominated and marched on to the square to take up their positions; the Military and Pipe Bands marched on to take up their parade positions.
At precisely 09.00 hours RSM McNally, Scots Guards, from his position in front of the saluting base, came smartly to attention and roared: “Get on parade!” The CSMs ordered: “Company! Atten------shun!”; “Right turn!”; “By the left, quick march!”; and we marched on to the square to the position where the right-markers were standing at attention. “Halt!”; “Left turn!”; “Right dress!”; “Eyes front!”; “Stand at ease!”; “Stand easy!”; the parade now came under the command of the RSM who gave the order to come to attention, followed by: “C of Es stand fast! ODs fall out to the rear!” (ODs are ‘other denominations’, i.e. RCs and sundry others). Whilst the C of Es marched off the square to attend the church service conducted in the Gymnasium, the ODs marched to their respective places of worship. Being a nominated, though non-practicing RC, I was part of the small group attending Mass in the RC chapel, part of building 35 at the corner of Nuffield and Stephenson Roads. At the conclusion of the various denominational services the parade re-assembled on the square, by Companies, in review order, facing the saluting base. Spectators were seated; Officers and Senior NCOs of the permanent staff marched on, taking up positions either side of the saluting base. The arrival of the Commandant prompted the RSM to bring the parade to attention; the Commandant took his position on the saluting base; the RSM ordered: “General salute!”; the Military Band played the appropriate music. Then came the orders: “Open order, march!”; “Right dress!”; “Eyes front!”. Marching up to the saluting base the RSM saluted the Commandant and proclaimed: “Parade ready for your inspection, Sir!”, and accompanied him on his inspection, commencing at the extreme left of the parade, walking slowly down the entire front rank, then the center rank, finally the rear rank, looking very closely at each apprentice’s turnout. The Military Band played during the inspection, and at its conclusion the Commandant returned the RSM’s salute and said: “Carry on, Sergeant Major!” returning to the saluting base. The Companies marched past the saluting base in review open-order at the slow march, returning to their parade positions. The RSM requested: “Permission to march off, Sir!” and the parade marched off in quick time to the accompaniment of the Pipe Band, past the saluting base, each Company to its barrack blocks to be dismissed. The Bands were the last to march off the square to their respective band rooms. The
Final Week: With
almost every waking hour of every day occupied there was just no time left to
spend in idle boredom. Consequently the time passed very quickly and the
final week of square bashing was utilized in practicing for our forthcoming
passing-out parade, planned to take place on the coming Friday morning. It
was satisfying to have survived relatively unscathed, the difficult times
forgotten, the wounds to one’s pride and dignity healed. Passing
Out Parade: Not to
be confused with the ceremony marking the transition from Army Apprentice to
Regular Soldier, this parade, held on Friday 21st October, merely
confirmed that we had completed the Basic Military Training stage. Today we
looked upon Sergeant Roberts in a different light as the squad, dressed
impeccably in all our best finery, joined the other squads and fell-in in
three ranks as a Company on the road that ran between the Cookhouse and
Barrack Block “F’. His smiling face shone with pride at the high standard of
our turnout, and he kept up his encouragement for us to perform well on
parade. His task was all but complete; he would be seeing relatively little
of us during the rest of our time in HQ Company; returning from leave our
technical training would commence. HQ Company formed up between the Cookhouse and ‘F’ Block,
waiting to march on to the square
I am in the
front rank, fourth from the left; standing to my right is Brian Barber, and
to my left is Metcalf. Sergeant
Roberts is standing facing the Cookhouse, with his head turned towards the
camera. The
parade proved a great success, and the inspecting officer complemented all
concerned on our fine achievement, the high standard of our presentation, and
the precision of our foot drill. At the conclusion of the parade we were
marched off to attend pay parade, receiving two weeks’ pay, a week’s ration
allowance, and the balance of the money that had been accumulating in
credits. To us this amounted to a small fortune, and in a state of euphoria,
with a leave pass valid from after duties Friday 21st October to
22.00 hours Sunday 30th October, a return rail ticket, a pocket
full of money, and a brown paper bag containing the inevitable bully beef
sandwiches, we were more than ready to be transported by bus to Reading
railway station. Leave: I was met at We
alighted from the bus at Dursley and walked home to I suppose
the insecurity and isolation of my boyhood in
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