Of the many thousands of characters whom I encountered during my six-and-a-half years of army life most have drifted into obscurity but some are still with me; such a one was Brigadier Barbary of 55 Brigade. Without my knowing for sure rumour had it that he had a firm in Cornwall and I assumed that it was an engineering firm; I also assumed because of this that he was a Territorial Army officer. He was a shortish almost portly figure with a definite bearing. His articulation was not exactly that of the BBC but he had a pleasing Cornish accent and over the many times I saw him he never appeared to have the aloofness of rank. Occasionally he would visit our GOR and having discussed things at a higher level would exchange a few words with the other ranks. During a lull in operations I was seated at the plotting table reading a not very intellectual magazine when I became aware of his presence; I sprang to my feet. “No, no,” he said, “sit down.” I obeyed. “What’s that you’re reading?” he asked. I gave him the magazine which he scrutinised. “What’s your job in civvy street?” he enquired. I told him. “Then you don’t want to read trash like this, get some technical magazines to read, if you don’t keep up with things you’ll finish up with an addled brain.” Then wishing to speak with Exeter he said to a telephone operator, “Gimme my brigade.”In the days when our GOR was in Hamoaze House one of our signalmen, Bill Lambert, had to take a message into another room where a meeting of some top brass was in progress; assorted crowns and pips were there together with their ATS drivers. The meeting was about to break up and Brigadier Barbary picked up his baton and asked, “Where’s me ‘at?” Up jumped his ATS driver and said, “Here I am, Sir.” “No, no, not you dear,” said the brigadier, “I means the ‘at wot I wears on me ‘ead.” Many years later this story was confirmed, word for word, by an ex-colonel who had also been present.Other unusual characters often come to mind when I recall those days; one lad arrived alone one morning wearing khaki but sporting an RAF pilot’s wings on his chest. He had been transferred from the RAF and he told us bits of his story but never the reason for his transfer and we assumed because of his nervousness and his habit of constantly looking back over his shoulder that it was LMF. He told us that with others he had been ordered to machine-gun soldiers, presumably enemy, on the beach near Brighton and offered to bring in his log book but we didn’t press the matter.Derek was a different type; he also arrived alone. He was about 19 and this was the first time he had ever been away from home. He was a quiet retiring lad, one could almost say not quite of this world and what was unusual was that he couldn’t shave himself, up to that time his mother had always shaved him; adapting to the army life was a real challenge for him but I suppose the army was happy to have another warm body.Bob was near my age, maybe a year or so older and before the army got hold of him he was a school teacher. He found life just as boring as the rest of us but he surprised us all when he announced that he was going to apply for a commission. We enquired in what branch and he said that the only commissions available then were in the infantry. Our further enquiries elicited the following; he and his wife had a fairly large circle of friends and when they entertained their hallstand became full of uniforms, all with pips, crowns or rings. His wife pointed out that all Bob could rustle up was a standard army greatcoat without even a lance-corporal’s stripe, so Bob decided to remedy the situation. Well, good luck, Bob, I thought, if you don’t make it, as you probably won’t, your wife can always hang your posthumous medals on the hallstand together with all the bowler hats.In the early part of 1942 in bitterly cold weather I was on daytime guard duty at the gate (what else is new?); I was bundled up in my greatcoat and a leather jerkin, one of the more acceptable pieces of equipment supplied by the army, when the duty sergeant approached “You’re to go up to the GOR and take a teleprinter test this afternoon,” he said, “teleprinter operators are required for an overseas draft and so far four from different units have been found to be inefficient, it’s your turn to try.” Not having touched a teleprinter for a couple of years I said, “It’s no use, sarge, I’ll fail, it’s a waste of time.” He was a regular soldier and he found it difficult to understand that anyone would voluntarily drop in pay. “You mean you’re prepared to forfeit your trade pay without even giving it a try? You’ll revert togeneral duties.” An idea had begun to form in my mind, if I were to revert togeneral dutiesthen I would be free to apply for a transfer to another branch of the services to a trade more in line with my civilian job, possibly into the Royal Engineers or the Royal Army Ordnance Corps and I told the sergeant so. He thought about it for a moment and then agreed, he went into the Company Office, saw the CO and returned within half-an-hour with the necessary papers for a transfer application.A few days later I was at Devonport railway station awaiting a Southern Railway train bound for Salisbury. On arrival there I found my way to the private house where I was to be interviewed. I forget the officer’s rank, he was probably a major but it was an informal affair, one-on-one. I suppose that my answers to his semi-technical questions were satisfactory and eventually he asked, ”Have you ever thought of a commission?” Now in this world there are leaders and there are followers and in matters concerning the life or death of others I come in the second category. “No, Sir.” I replied. “You could be compelled to.” he said. I was non-committal and we left it at that. Back in Bowden Battery I was called in front of a visiting officer, Captain Barbary, son of the brigadier. Apparently certain selected individuals were to be sent on an intensive physical training course to develop their full potential and Barbary was there to sort out those most likely to benefit from the scheme. Reflex actions and the speed thereof were checked and I suppose that a general assessment of physique was made, anyway a couple of days later I was bound for Westward Ho on the north coast of Devon with all my kit. My destination was a pre-war holiday camp, taken over by the military but the holiday spirit was gone and the conditions were spartan. However before my course really got started I was ordered to get moving once more, this time to Tidworth to take a trade test.I had only ever heard of the place before as being the site of the Tidworth Tattoo and I wasn’t quite prepared for the fact that it appeared to be in the middle of nowhere and that the railway tracks finished there; my spirits sank. The one redeeming thing was that I would only be there for a couple of days. Military personnel of all corps and regiments seemed to be there and it had an atmosphere of bustle, squads marching and counter-marching, urged on by the drill-pigs, little dictators strutting their stuff. There were military vehicles also including a few tanks, probably the only ones Britain possessed at that time and pips and crowns abounded together with some red tabs. But there was one little haven of relative peace, the Drawing Office where I took my trade test and for two days I could shut off the military world. When it was all over I returned to Bowden Battery as it was too late to re-join the intensive physical training course.Some days later I was ordered to go to a holding battalion at Oxshott. Once again I gathered up all my kit and headed east, this time as a private in the RAOC, a draughtsman class III. I detrained at Oxshott station and plodded up the hill to the holding battalion that was in a large private house set in a very large garden on the road between Leatherhead and Esher. It was about five o’clock when I got there and the first thing to do after reporting in was to get something to eat. This done I next went to the QM stores to get my kit sorted out. I exchanged my leather bandolier and black leather gaiters for webbing bren gun pouches and gaiters all in pieces and in different shades of khaki. I also exchanged my gas mask for an identical one which seemed silly to me but I still didn’t have a complete issue of army equipment.OXSHOTTIt was Saturday. I was shown to my billet and started to get settled in, finding out the lay of the land, questioning my new companions. Were conditions very strict? No, not really, I was assured. What about Sunday, was there a church parade? Well, yes but you don’t have to attend, many don’t. My sister and her husband lived in Surbiton, close to a bus route passing through Esher and Esher was within walking distance from Oxshott, so on Sunday I set forth, catching a bus at Esher and spending a pleasant day with them. Arriving back just before midnight I assembled all my new webbing equipment and then slept well. In the morning my new companions informed me that there was to be a sergeant-major’s parade at eight o’clock, in shirt-sleeve order and I felt a little apprehensive because I now had no time to blanco my equipment; there was nothing for it but to go on parade multi-coloured. Since we were not wearing battledress blouses I had another little problem. The previous Christmas one of my sisters had given me a pair of braces (suspenders in North America), very patriotic, in red, white and blue stripes and these didn’t improve my appearance either. We assembled in the roadway not far from the big house and with the rest I fell in, waiting for the axe to fall.The sergeant-major came down the lines, inspecting his charges. When he reached me he paused for a second or two as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He looked me up and down and then launched into a long tirade concerning my appearance. He drew my attention to the lad next to me and informed me that he had come all the way from Cyprus just to fight for Britain and just look at him, how soldierly he was. Without turning my head I looked out of the corner of my eye and took in this exemplar; in all honesty I had to admit to myself that there was no comparison between us but of the two I thought I was the better looking. Mentally I told myself that I had come all the way from Bristol via Filton, Plymouth, Westward Ho and Tidworth with the same idea but I had been in the army long enough to know that it was impossible to win an argument with a higher rank so I put on my wooden soldier’s expression and stared straight ahead. Eventually he ran out of steam as I knew he would; he took my name and number and charged me with being improperly dressed. Fortunately for me the officer hearing the charge was not so impetuous and gave me the opportunity to explain that as a territorial I had never been fully kitted out; he dismissed the charge.But Sergeant-major McCullom had seen his little fish slip through his fingers and I was now introduced to one of the meaner, petty characters that the army had seen fit to elevate. I was ordered to blanco my equipment immediately in the approved khaki colour and had to treat my gas mask cover with the mandated blanco,Pickering’s khaki-green No.3.I often wondered who were the major shareholders in these blanco companies, most units required slightly different shades, but perhaps I'm being a bit cynical. Unfortunately the new gas mask cover had a flaw, it had a large grease spot that refused to take the blanco. The orderly sergeant said, “Do it again.” I did. The results were the same, as were the third, fourth and fifth try. These orderly sergeants, there were two of them, now had a victim; at no time did either of them offer any suggestions or watch me as I assiduously blancoed away at that confounded gas mask cover. Eventually the truth must have dawned on them and I had the cover exchanged but from then on my name was the first one to come into their little minds when an unpleasant task came up or one invented especially for me and for three weeks I had practically no free time for myself.One other incident stays with me from those days, a sad one really. A young lad of about 19, infantry I believe, was in quite a state. He told me that his mother was a widow and that he was the youngest of three sons. One brother had been killed in North Africa and he had heard that very morning that his other brother had been killed in a training accident; he himself was waiting for a posting to Lord knows where. I believe the army has been known in such cases to discharge a lone survivor but this lad was not to be consoled. I don’t know the outcome.Oxshott does not evoke very happy memories in my mind and for a long time afterwards I harboured thoughts of meeting those three after the war, on more equal terms or on terms more favourable to me but now I can’t even remember what they looked like. The future became a little brighter when on a later postings parade my name was called out and I was en route to Aldershot, to Parson’s Barracks.ALDERSHOTAccommodation in Parson’s Barracks was in the comparatively newspiderhuts, six corridors emanating from a common hub terminating in our sleeping quarters. Again the beds consisted of three bed boards on wooden trestles and three biscuits; Four blankets completed the ensemble. I think that we were there just filling in time before we were sent on an overseas draft and each morning we paraded in front of the Company Office for roll call before being marched off to the Ordnance Workshops, there to be split up into our various trades. Initially I was sent to a fitting bench where my main unofficial job was to convert an English penny into a spitfire brooch for my sister. Later I was transferred to the Drawing Office. I don’t recall exactly what I worked on, nothing earth-shattering but this was to be the pattern of things for the next couple of months.This was a peacetime undertaking employing mainly civilians both in the offices and workshops and supplemented during the war by army tradesmen. There were relics of a bygone age when time was not of the essence; on the walls were some drawings on thick cartridge paper of weaponry with the various metals indicated by colour washes, blue for steel and yellow for brass while some drawings were in ink on tracing linen. Current drawings however were in pencil on tracing paper.It was not all office work because we were also given some military training including physical exercises, running around a battle course though not under live firing as some poor souls were. Additionally we were instructed in unarmed combat but it was nowhere near as intensive as infantry training. Also on Sundays we had church parades, marching up the main street behind a band to have our souls saved. With others I objected to this religious nonsense and asked to be exempt. I was offered two alternatives, either march to the church and stand to attention for the duration of the service or opt for fatigue duties; twice I chose the former but then decided that peeling potatoes gave me the opportunity to vent my frustrations on the poor tubers, slicing them into cubes or sculpting faces on them. I thought that my best move would be to approach the padre and ask to change my religious designation. “To what?” he enquired. “To agnostic,” I answered, “it means I don’t know.” “I'm well aware of what it means,” he said “but the army doesn’t recognise agnostics and since you say that you don’t know then keep coming to church and we’ll teach you to believe.” I realised at that moment why so many of the soldiers’ bawdy songs are sung to hymn tunes, sung quietly to themselves it let them feel that although the army had control of them physically it could not tame their thinking.About this time, having been in the army for more than three years I sewed thedog’s hind leg,an inverted chevron, on my blouse cuff. This lasted until one evening when on guard duty the guard commander didn’t turn up. “Who’s the senior soldier?” asked the orderly sergeant. He looked around and espied my chevron and “All right, you, you’re now the acting guard commander. March them off. I did. The next day I removed the chevron. It was then that I decided not to volunteer for anything, nor try to evade anything, I would let life unfold as it would. My rationale was that if ever I found myself in a tough spot I could always blame the system, never myself for being such a fool. I had volunteered twice, once when I joined up and again when I applied for a transfer out of the Royal Signals and I decided that was enough.In the mess hall there were soldiers from an assortment of units, some being new intake; at one mealtime the Orderly Officer accompanied by the Orderly Sergeant arrived. The Orderly Sergeant yelled out, “Any complaints?” “Yes.” came a voice. The pair approached the voice and the officer asked, “Yes, my man and what is your complaint?” “This tea.” “What’s the matter with it?” “It’s ‘orrible.” “Let me taste it,” said the officer as he bravely sipped from the far side of the mug, “there’s nothing wrong with tea, it’s as good as I get at home.” “Hmm, bloody fine ‘ome you comes from then!” There was a stunned silence; this was beginning to look interesting. “Take his name and number, sergeant,” said the officer, “and charge him.” I believe some leniency was shown because this lad was very new to the army and the army had not yet had time to drill the lively civilian spirit out of him.I was on three overseas drafts, for the first one I was ‘waiting man’; that meant that if any man were to be taken off the draft then I would replace him. I had seven days embarkation leave but the draft was complete without me. Again for the second draft I had seven days embarkation leave and I set off on the Southern Railway bound for Reading where I would change to the Great Western Railway. I was a bit like a Sherpa porter as in addition to all my normal gear I also had a kitbag with my tropical kit. On the first leg of the journey I was chatting to another soldier who was going on his normal leave to his South Wales home; he also would have to change trains at Reading but would be catching a different one. Seeing me struggling with all my gear he offered to carry some for me; I gave him my heavier kitbag. He got off the train before me and disappeared into the crowd and that was the last I saw of him. I searched the platforms and reported the episode to the RTO but there was no sign of my property. Disillusioned, I went on with my journey determined to enjoy my seven days at home. When I got back to Aldershot I had to report my loss which consisted not only of army property but also a lot of my personal stuff; I had to repay the army, however I was able to tell the authorities the man’s unit, rank, South Wales destination, train time and date, and they traced him for me. He didn’t dispute the facts but said that as he was in a hurry to catch his train he left my kitbag on a platform. He was lying of course but we couldn’t prove anything and I had learned a costly lesson. The draft was cancelled.By this time many of us had been transferred from the RAOC into the newly formed Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, REME, changing our ranks from privates to craftsmen, this sounded good but we were still at the bottom of the totem pole. Towards the end of 1942 I was on my third draft, identified as RDGFA which some wags said stood for ‘REME draft going far away’. We gathered at Ramillies Barracks in Aldershot filling in time with some regimental training under a Canadian corporal who, disregarding our medical groupings for we were a very mixed bunch, proceeded to run us around a battle course that included an eight-foot high jump. He was pretty tough himself; with one wrist in a plaster cast he led us in traversing across a gap by means of a horizontal rope.At this time I began to ponder the future, weighing my chances of surviving unscathed, surviving maimed or not surviving at all. I had no sound data to base my reasoning on but knew that Germany, seemingly invincible, had taken over three years to advance well into Russia and North Africa and that the Allies would take at least that time to reverse the situation; surviving unscathed appeared to be a remote possibility but one could always hope.Again we were issued with a second kitbag and tropical uniforms. Where were we going? None of us knew and with the army’s art of deception we could have been going to a cold place. After a further seven days embarkation leave we returned to Aldershot, regrouped and took a train to London. From there we boarded a troop train and headed north on the old LNER line stopping at last at a transit camp at Cottingham near Hull. Lugging our two kits around was a bit of a chore. We were due to leave again the following day so a couple of us went into Hull that evening to a cinema along with two NAAFI lasses. The incongruity of the situation struck me when we came out; it was too late to get anything to eat or to get a bus back to camp. Outside the cinema a man was selling hot chestnuts and these were our only nourishment but we went back to camp in grand style, we took a taxi.The next day we entrained again this time bound for Glasgow but we didn’t know it. At the docks we saw our floating home, His Majesty’s Transport Antenor. At first sight HMT Antenor seemed to be not unlike my early childish drawings of ships, high fo’castle, a low forward well-deck, high superstructure, a low aft well-deck and a high stern structure. Both well-decks had raised hatch covers that gave access to the lower decks and the centre superstructure carried the lone funnel. We were told that she was part of theBlue Funnel Linethat normally operated in the far-eastern waters carrying passengers and freight. In single file, wearing our webbing and with our kitbags slung over our shoulders we slowly mounted the gangplank. At the top of the gangplank we were directed to our quarters, draft RDGFA went aft to the lowest deck; although there were portholes on that level the actual deck was just below the water-line and the portholes were sealed shut. Mess tables covered the deck, they were all of a similar pattern with attached bench seats but varying in length to conform to the contours of the ship. Overhead was a multiplicity of hooks to accommodate the hammocks with which we would soon be issued. Kapok life-jackets were given out with strict instructions not to use them as pillows but we were not told how long they could remain in the water before they became waterlogged. Soon we settled in.GOING SOUTHOne of the initial joys of being aboard ship was to be supplied with soft white bread and ample amounts of butter, things that were unobtainable in wartime Britain. The ship still carried passengers and freight, the commissioned ranks were the passengers while the other ranks were freight; eggs were served daily to the former, sometimes returned uneaten but with a cigarette butt stabbed through their yolks but nary an egg was seen at our tables We had jam and marmalade in plenty, coming in seven-pound tins, some of it from South Africa,apfelkoos confitthat I believe was apricot jam, that’s what it tasted like anyway. We were really quite well fed but being young and healthy we could always manage more; occasionally after dark the cookhouse would be raided and the raw carrots and turnips that had been prepared for the following day would be added to our diets.It was not long before the army had us all organised into mess orderlies, guards, fatigue parties and anything else that would keep us out of mischief. Soon the engines rumbled and we were off or so we thought but the excitement was short lived, we moved down the Clyde and stopped off Gourock, in Loch Long. The wise ones among us said that we had to wait for a convoy to form but we waited there for two weeks while other ships and convoys came and went; it was a frustrating experience in a confined space.Of the many ships around one was pointed out to us, the Queen Elizabeth (the first one), she had never seen passenger service having been completed during the war, now in the distance we could see her, painted in battleship grey, serving as a troopship. One night or early morning when we were nicely tucked up in our hammocks we were awakened by the rumble of the engines again and we sensed motion; action at last, HMT Antenor was under way, going down the Clyde. With the coming of the dawn we could see other ships in the convoy, merchant ships and our naval escort. We passed Arran and entered the North Channel and that was as far as our schoolday geography took us. Speculation was rife as to our eventual destination but there was no shortage of opinion amongst our amateur navigators who tried to calculate speed, distance and direction as we moved into the open waters. As time went by the seas became more and more disturbed and the good ship Antenor pitched and rolled with them; it would later transpire that we were entering the tail end of one of the worst North Atlantic storms of the season. Life-lines were fitted to facilitate a safe passage on deck. Down below we listened and watched with mounting concern as she creaked and strained, as she pitched the screw would come out of the water and the engines would race; all this was a new experience to us land-lubbers. At the end of each roll she seemed to pause for a second or two -- would she recover? She always did and then she took about 15 seconds to reach the other extreme and pause again. Up on deck clutching at life-lines or anything else secure one could wonder at the strength of the ship as she rode on the crest of a wave and then plunged to the depths of a trough; crew members rated them as 40-foot waves and we didn’t disagree with them.Resulting from this roller-coaster action many of us had queasy stomachs and were not very happy though it was heartening to see that all ranks were treated equally by the elements. As the days passed the seas became less turbulent but other ships in the convoy, merchant and naval alike could still be lost to sight as they wallowed in the troughs. At intervals of time our course would change and on the third day out our escorts began changing their positions; “whoop, whoop, whoop” went their hooters; depth charges were dropped What surprised me was the speed of sound in water, no sooner did we see a plume of water rise than a resounding boom bounced off our ship’s hull. These antics went on for some time then later things returned to normal for a while; about four o’clock in the afternoon HMT Antenor started to make smoke and fall back in the formation; not to worry advised our intelligent ones, it’s all part of the plan. We went below and had a bite to eat then came back on deck 30 minutes later. Where was the convoy? We looked around but all that could be seen were faint smoke smudges on the horizon and what’s more we were now silent and stationary. Our intelligent ones were nonplussed and our amateur navigators determined that we were probably west of Brest off the west coast of France; that together with the knowledge of the U-boat action earlier in the day didn’t improve our contentment. At six o’clock a lone plane appeared from the west, going east; it passed over us fairly low but none of us identified it. Our resident gunners took up their positions at our only gun, a four-inch, designed I imagine for naval engagements and probably unable to elevate sufficiently to engage an aircraft. We assumed the plane to be hostile and that it would report our position and static condition and we waited. Darkness came and we wallowed helplessly. I decided that I didn’t feel like going to my deck below the water line waiting for a torpedo to come bursting through the side, I wanted to have a reasonable chance of getting off the ship if she were going down so I stacked out on the hatch cover of an intermediate deck and slept fitfully with my head upon my kapok pillow.Dawn came and we were still without engines; we were told that the storm’s buffeting had unseated one of the boilers and that a similar event had caused our departure from Loch Long to be delayed by two weeks. In the forenoon the engines started to rumble, a most welcome sound and we limped into motion. We must have been very fortunate because we took a long three days to reach the relative safety of Glasgow at dusk, having made the return journey without seeing anything more than a couple of small fishing boats.I forget the details but we disembarked and were whisked off to various destinations; our draft together with some others was sent to a disused distillery in Wishaw. We sorted ourselves out and bedded down for the rest of the night. Next morning, Sunday, we looked around the town and were amazed at the friendliness and hospitality shown us. Our stay lasted about three weeks or a month while HMT Antenor underwent surgery, transplants and general re-conditioning. At intervals during this period small groups of us were given a few days leave at home but all the time we were in Wishaw we were well looked after by the local population; one businessman took out parties of us for a meal (was it at Green’s?) then on to a cinema show; this happened on many occasions. Some of the lads were more or less adopted and lived out most of the time there only looking in at the distillery to find out when our next move was due. In the forces I always got on well with all the Scots I met but our reception at Wishaw was something else, it stays firmly in my mind and I have a very soft spot for the Scots and Scotland.All good things must come to an end of course and we had to return to Glasgow to re-start our travels. Waiting for us at the dock was our troopship HMT Antenor, well repaired we hoped. This time there was little delay, soon we were steaming down the Clyde to form up with a convoy; again we had a naval escort on our flanks and although the seas were not as rough as before the screw still came out of the water and the engines raced. Day followed day uneventfully and we seemed to be on the same course as before according to our amateur navigators; for many of us this was the first time we had been so far from our island home and we were quite excited.In order to keep up our spirits and inform us of the progress of the war the BBC news was frequently broadcast. These newscasts were usually preceded by a recording ofRule Britanniaand while joining in mentally with the remembered words I reached the phraseBritons never, never, never, shall be slaves;I recalled the definition of a slave as being one who received little or no remuneration for his services and who could never voluntarily escape his predicament. I made the comparison.I can still remember my first sight of a lone palm tree emerging from the early morning mist just before we made Freetown. Some ships of the convoy entered Freetown but we lay off and paused for a while a half mile from the coast; we believed that mosquitoes couldn’t make that distance but just to be on the safe side we tried out our mosquito-repellent ointment. The air was hot and very humid and soon we decided that we preferred mosquito bites to the discomfort of trapped perspiration. By this time we had changed into our tropical uniforms and this did nothing to improve our appearance; our cork topees were reminiscent of those worn during the Boer War and were probably surplus to that conflict. There was nothing remarkable about our shirts but the shorts were something else; worn in their extended form they reached down to mid-calf, the lower hems were fitted with three buttonholes while at mid-thigh there were three buttons. The idea was that in the bright sunlight hours they would be buttoned up to let our knees feel the breeze and get tanned but in the evening they would be worn at full length to frustrate the mosquitoes. To economise in footwear the army supplied knitted hose-tops, tubes, near khaki in colour that covered the socks just above the ankle while the tops were turned down just below the knee. Webbing gaiters covered the junction of boots and hose-tops; whether the gaiters were aesthetic or functional I don’t know, either way they were two more items to be blancoed; perhaps they would deter an aggressive snake.Duties on board were no different than before but there were free periods when we could indulge in the only gambling game permitted by the army,Housey,orBingoas it is more usually called today. We spent a lot of hours gazing out to sea, I didn’t find that boring, there was always something fresh to see, even when looking at nothing in particular there was the ever-changing pattern of the waves, not unlike the changing patterns in a glowing coal fire. For the first time we sawPortuguese men-of-war,jellyfish, with their little sails unfurled, and flying fish played around the ship. At night time another phenomenon was revealed, looking over the side the phosphorescent creatures disturbed by the ship’s passage brightly illuminated the ship’s hull, so much so that we thought the portholes were unshielded; it made a mockery of our strict instructions not to show any light. In this context I put my foot in it once again; seeing a flashlight beam waving about the deck on a black night I yelled, “Put that light out.” “Who said that?” asked flashlight. “Who are you?” I countered. “I am the Orderly Officer,” said flashlight, “what’s your name and number?” somewhat chastened I obliged and realised once again that even when you’re right you can’t win an argument when you’re outranked.The ship carried only limited amounts of potable water and the only water available for keeping clean was salt water; true we had showers and could purchase salt-water soap but this was not very effective and rinsing off was difficult; the end result was not satisfactory particularly when trying to get one’s hair squeaky clean. This fact was brought home to me when one mealtime a soldier paused behind me as he spoke to a pal on the next table; we were in the tropics and it was very warm. He was holding a seven-pound tin of marmalade above my head; engrossed in conversation he allowed the tin to tilt -- need I say more?I had started a head cold just before we left Glasgow and after a day or so at sea I did what was very unusual for me, I reported sick. The army had three or four standard remedies to cover most situations and I was dosed with one of them,mist.expecseems to be the abbreviation that stays in my memory; several doses brought no relief so again I reported sick. I was now coughing badly and felt quite ill. Same medicine, same result; I really should have been admitted to the sick bay but was not. Reporting sick for the third time brought accusations of malingering; at no time had I seen either of the two doctors on board, the diagnosis had been made by an NCO of the RAMC, so I soldiered on.I don’t know how far west we passed into the Atlantic but the crew told us when we were nearer to Walvis Bay, eventually we pulled into Cape Town in South Africa, the ‘tablecloth’ of cloud had settled over Table Mountain for us. Some of our convoy separated from us and docked there. After a short stop in the bay we moved on to Durban and as we came into the dock area we saw a little group on the quayside waiting to greet us. The central figure was ‘The Lady in White’ as she came to be known. She was a trained singer and made it her duty to meet all the troopships; armed with a megaphone (this was 1943) she sang patriotic and nostalgic songs to cheer up the lads who were bound for unknown parts. It was a nice warm welcome to South Africa.For our last night on board I was picked for guard duty. Why? Perhaps they thought that someone would run off with the ship. Next morning we disembarked and marched up to our new billets on Clairwood Race Course, I was quite weak and unable to carry all my kit, some of my pals carried my rifle and pack for me. I was feeling very groggy but that didn’t stop me from being picked for guard duty again that night. I got the last shift and when I was awakened at 4am I rebelled and said the waiting man could do my turn. Later in the morning I reported sick once more, this time to Clairwood Hospital where I was examined by a South African army doctor. When he had finished he gave me a chit that said, ‘Admit hospital, resolving pneumonia’ and I spent the best part of the next three weeks there, two weeks in bed and a couple of days up and about. I believe I slept for the first 30 hours.It was an army hospital run on army lines but there were some civilian staff mixed in with the nursing sisters and MO’s. The food was very good and I was surprised to find chicken on the menu quite often; iced water or a lemon drink was kept at the bedside in a little jug covered with a lace cloth to keep the flies off but there were no mosquito nets. At first I didn’t realise what the high pitched buzz in my ears was until I had had a few bites. I recall two nurses, one was a Canadian, an army nursing sister whose name had a Ukrainian ring to it and the other was a South African civilian, Nurse Anderson. The latter who was probably a little bit older than I was prophetically gave us some words of wisdom. The ward cleaning staff was composed of black African men and the British not being particularly racist used to talk to them and give them cigarettes, something that they didn’t from the South African whites. Nurse Anderson said, “You British are spoiling them, when the war is over you’ll be going back to your own country and we’ll be left with the consequences of your actions.” Military discipline was upheld in the wards and when the MO and his following retinue of nurses came on the rounds those who could were told to stand to attention by their beds and those who could not stand were told to lie to attention. More stupidity.One hospital orderly amused me with his line of thinking; judging by his accent I asked him, “You are an Afrikaner?” “No, no, he replied, “I'm Dutch.” “Surely not,” I said, “the people of Holland are Dutch.” “No, no,” he said again, “they are Hollanders, I'm Dutch.”On discharge from hospital I was sent toKing’s Housein Durban for convalescence and was duly fitted out with hospital blues and a red tie. I remember being there for Good Friday and for another couple of days and enjoyed the time touring the city; it was a beautiful place, this was the end of March 1943, their autumn, the right time of the year and the vegetation was lush I was just settling down to a short spell of doing nothing; I wasn’t looking too smart, I used to have my hair cut every two weeks and it was now seven weeks long, additionally the pneumonia had left me with three boils on my face. My convalescence was short lived because I was ordered to report to a hospital, not Clairwood, to be examined to determine if I was fit enough to re-join draft RGDFA. An ambulance arrived and I occupied a stretcher on the upper of two berths, the man on the lower was going to the same hospital. Our ambulance bounced along over dirt roads, it was a very rough ride and after one huge bump my stretcher collapsed and I landed on the fellow below; he wasn’t very pleased with me and I finished the journey sitting down, listening to his constant griping. After a cursory examination by the doctor I was pronounced fit enough to re-join draft RDGFA. He must have known where we were going and he must have known that troops with lung problems were not supposed to be sent there, but there, that’s the military. I suppose that after the war these three doctors, this one and the two on the Antenor, were let loose on the civilian population of Britain, I'm glad I wasn’t one of their patients.Most of our group had a good time in Durban and were very well treated by the South Africans, when we expressed our thanks they said, “Oh, you should have been here before the Australians came, they nearly wrecked the place.”Back on the docks we saw our next floating hotel, HMT Aronda; she was much more modern, lighter in build and with finer lines than the old Antenor. Once on board we got into our new routine. The ship had a permanent army officer, OC Troops who, I presume stayed with her on all her voyages. We also had another luxury on board, a real live bugler; his job was to sound off at various periods of the day to announce some activity or other.As with the Antenor this ship was fitted out with mess tables and attached benches. Early on we had to report to stores and draw hammocks because the sleeping arrangements were similar as well. On the Antenor we had been issued with bottles of fortified lime juice (shades of Captain Cook) but now we were to be issued with bottles of carbonated drinks. We soon set forth, destination still unknown; we were all assigned boat stations and each morning we assembled on deck waiting to be inspected by our betters, looking a little ridiculous in our ‘Bombay bowlers’ and our Bombay bloomers’. The inspection was quite a formal affair as an entourage consisting of the ship’s captain, OC Troops and various others of decreasing rank, a lance-corporal as the caboose, traversed the ship. However leading this group and heralding its approach was the bugler; at each station he paused, stood smartly to attention, put the bugle to his lips and sounded four ‘G’s’ then off he went to the next station to repeat his performance; he was a pain.When the waters were calm and the nights were clear we sometimes lay on deck looking upwards to the heavens because in the southern hemisphere different star constellations were visible, the Southern Cross for one. As the ship pitched and rolled ever so gently the tip of a mast would trace slow little circles in the near black sky; it was half an hour of peace. We knew that we were moving in a north-easterly direction and we had a general knowledge of the local geography but we couldn’t determine whether we passed to the west or the east of Madagascar. The first bit of excitement came when I perched on a box and, surrounded by a group of interested onlookers, had my locks shorn. I felt much lighter but my face still had its three boils, they were to stay with me a while longer. The Aronda was alone, not in convoy and I remember one morning well, I had gone up on deck early, sunrise comes suddenly at about 6am in those latitudes; there was the gentle throbbing of the engines but complete silence otherwise, the Indian Ocean was grey and more tranquil than I had ever seen water before or since. All around the water was flat and mirror-like except at the stern where our wake, a thin white streak stretched out into the distance. I celebrated my 25th birthday in the middle of the Indian Ocean.On board we had a public address system, installed presumably to impart words of wisdom like, ‘Splice the mainbrace’ or ‘Abandon ship’ or something but in fact it was used to play records to keep up our morale. Where the control room was situated I never did find out but whoever was responsible for the choice of records must have been a fan of Deanna Durbin; hour after hour the strains ofOne Fine Daycame over the speakers, there were other records of course but even today when I hearOne Fine DayI am transported back in time to the Indian Ocean. There are a few other incidents that stay in my mind from that period. One man put on a charge for some minor offence thought the punishment awarded was too excessive so he kicked the escort and fled; of course he couldn’t get very far on a ship, a fact he should have thought of beforehand. We saw him running round the decks with three PT instructors in hot pursuit; he gave them a good run for their money but nevertheless he finished up in the ship’s brig. As usual the military required guards to be posted during the night and in the interests of convenience and fairness each draft took turns to supply the men. For a change my services were not required on that voyage but one night it fell upon the Royal Army Service Corps to stand guard. Since he had to be up early in the morning to sound ‘reveille’ the bugler slept in the guard room to be awakened in good time. He also slept with his bugle, with the fancy cord around his neck. As I said before he was a pain and the RASC decided to do us a favour; while he was asleep the cord was cut, the bugle removed and dumped overboard. We knew something was amiss in the morning when no bugle call aroused us and we waited to see what would transpire. We assembled at our boat stations. By-and-by the bugler came into view, stopped at our station, stood to attention and “Peep, peep, peep, peep.” he went. The military was not to be denied, they had given him a referee’s whistle. That was the same occasion when the ship’s liquor store was broached and some of the guards were the worse for wear. We never heard any more about this episode, perhaps some were punished, we were never told.Attempts were made to keep us occupied, unofficially cards were played and money changed hands, usually from mine into someone else’s.Houseywas often played and at times shows were put on consisting of stand-up comedy, solo singing and sing-songs where we all joined in. One lad stood on the make-shift stage and recited,“Do you remember an inn, Miranda,Do you remember an inn?********************“And the shouts and the jeersOf the young muleteers,********************Do you remember an inn?”He struggled manfully to the end, ignoring all the ribald remarks coming from some quarters and when he had finished he acknowledged the sparse applause; definitely not the sort of poetry expected by the licentious soldiery.Days came and went, I don’t recall how many but the time came when the sea birds arrived on the scene and we knew that landfall was not too far distant. The brighter ones among us told us that we were nearing Bombay and for once they were right.INDIAAs HMT Aronda approached Bombay we eagerly scanned the coastline and almost at once discerned that imposing archThe Gateway to Indiabut there was not too much time to spend sightseeing as we had to prepare to disembark. The ship docked and a little later we were making our way down the gangplank. Partway down I could see a commotion on the quayside; three military policemen were holding down a prone figure; though his face was flat where it was being pressed against the quay I recognised him as being the prisoner from the ship’s brig. He had attempted to escape custody once more but again he had failed; I think he didn’t like the army very much. We fell into position by drafts and waited and waited; it was mid-day and getting very hot. We stood in formation for about an hour, eventually our guide arrived to lead us to our billets; he was Indian Army, somewhere around five feet tall and he set off at a blistering pace. We quick marched behind him and when I say quick I mean it, with his short legs he had a short stride and we longer-legged ones kept up with difficulty. After a mile or so we entered Colaba Camp, this was to be our home for a while.Now started our introduction to things Indian. The teeming masses and the number of people sleeping in the streets surprised me as did the apparent disregard for personal safety amongst the traffic. New words came into our vocabularies the origins of which sometimes go back to the many countries that British forces have garrisoned over the last three centuries. Some military personnel must obviously have become proficient in the local languages but for the most part the British soldier was and still is linguistically lazy, content to adopt and sometimes anglicise foreign words and phrases to suit the occasion. Strangely enough using some English mixed with some foreign phrases and body language the soldiers usually made themselves understood by the locals who probably thought that all the words were English. At times it led to some interesting exchanges.However at this stage we were introduced to mainly Indian words,charpoysfor rope beds,chattiesfor unglazed urns,panifor water,jaldifor quick and many, many more. We met some of the regular army characters who had spent years in India and gleaned snippets of information from them. Were there any poisonous creatures around? Well, yes, scorpions for one thing. What about snakes? There are several different sorts here. Very poisonous? Yes, especially the hoop snake. Hoop snakes? never heard of them. Oh, they are very fast but if they can’t catch up with you by wriggling they put their tails in their mouths and bowl themselves along like hoops. Our legs were often pulled like this until we became in turn the seasoned leg-pullers of the new arrivals.The camp CO used to ride around on a white horse and occasionally he would give us a pep talk; to those of us who were getting a bit too boisterous he said, “Most of you before the war were law abiding citizens but once you’ve put on a uniform and moved away from home you think you’ve become licensed buccaneers. Behave yourselves.” There was a fair amount of spare time before we expected to move again and we spent a lot of it looking over this main port of The British Raj.The Gateway to Indiathat we had earlier glimpsed as we steamed into dock was the first thing to see and we were duly impressed. Then there was the centre of Bombay, we wandered along Hornby Street to the Kodak shop where I bought a film for my vest-pocket Kodak. Unfortunately the camera had developed a pinhole in the bellows and most of my pictures were spoiled. A couple of evenings were spent at the cinemas, watching Hollywood films that were about two years old. We also visited a zoo (Victoria?) where strangely, amongst other creatures, we saw in captivity English sparrows Other unexpected sights included cows wandering unhindered through the streets and carts drawn by camels. In one of the main streets my attention was caught by the sight of a turbaned Indian who was sitting cross-legged putting on a show, pitting a cobra against a mongoose. I didn’t feel like staying for the finale, I guess he had to separate the combatants or else go looking for a new snake.Our stay in India was not very long, a matter of a couple of weeks or so but long enough to give us a feel for the country. Under the British Raj there didn’t seem to be much evidence of the inter-religious hostility that would result in such a blood bath at Independence and partition in 1948. Political struggle there was and some anti-British sentiment but it didn’t seem pervasive to us. Little booklets were issued to us that outlined the history and customs of India, (the term India was all-inclusive in those days, both Hindu and Moslem) and listed population densities together with a glossary of useful words and phrases. Other words and phrases not in the booklet we picked up from contact with the older and more experienced soldiers. At that time we also learned that the Indian Army was entirely separate from the British, with its own Viceroy commissioned officers whom we did not have to salute, and the ranks of Subahdar, Jemadar and Havildar were added to our vocabularies. During our short stay draft RDGFA suffered its first casualty, Cfn Love was whisked off to hospital and later succumbed to a brain tumour.Mosquito netsOur accommodation was in long huts that in memory appeared to be permanent; we found the charpoys quite comfortable and the bell-shaped mosquito nets that dangled from the ceiling gave us uninterrupted nights. Food was sufficient, plenty of rice in various guises and frequent curries that despite the warm weather seemed to cool one down. There was also the usual NAAFI store and fresh fruit could be purchased daily.Too soon the time came to move on and we rejoined HMT Aronda; we got aboard and were assigned our places, immediately I was given some task to perform, I forget what but while I was so engaged the stores were opened and everyone drew hammocks; by the time I had finished the stores had closed. Ah, well, I was now used to roughing it so I elected to sleep on the bench seat of a mess table, a plank about one foot wide; again my life-jacket became my pillow and I slept like a babe. I never did draw my hammock.The seas were calm as we steamed away from Bombay on a north-westerly course, we lost sight of land but now we had an idea of where we were going. The skies were cloudless and the sun blazed down on us for 12 hours every day; thick canvas awnings were erected over the passageways on each side of the ship. “Keep wearing your topees,” we were told, “harmful rays can penetrate the awnings.” I believe we took four days or more to reach our destination passing from the Arabian Sea into the Persian Gulf; the journey was quite uneventful, we spent the days doing very little, looking at the water, playing cards, eating, dozing and listening to even more of Deanna Durbin over the inter-com. With faint memories of maps in our minds we tried to identify Bandar Shapur and Bandar Abbas on the starboard side with uncertain success. In the afternoon of the last day we entered the Shatt-el-Arab and headed for Basra; now there was a little more to see. The waterway was relatively narrow and we passed through the dense groves of the palm trees that lined both banks, however at intervals we came to small inlets intended no doubt to give access inland and here the effect of water upon plant life became apparent. The tall palms at the river’s edge gave way to more stunted ones further inland and a couple of hundred yards from the river the desert began.It was past midnight when we docked at Marquil, we disembarked and got ourselves sorted out. Then we loaded our bits and pieces and ourselves on to waiting lorries and set forth towards our new temporary home, No.15 Reinforcement Transit Camp, a tented camp. We were now members of PAIFORCE, the Persia and Iraq force.IRAQOur arrival at the transit camp was in the early hours of the morning and we didn’t try to get organised but being young and tired we slept well, nevertheless we woke with the dawn at about 6am and then surveyed the scene. There were a dozen or so bell tents including ours set in the middle of nothingness, flat vacant desert all around us; true there was some sign of activity a quarter of a mile away that turned out to be the local brickworks but otherwise nothing. We asked the name of this God-forsaken spot and were toldShaiba.It was still May and the days were getting hotter. We had to be initiated into the ways of desert life; topees to be worn at all times in the sun, shirt sleeves rolled down and slacks to be worn after 6pm when it was the mosquitoes turn to be around and about, copious amounts of water to be drunk and two salt tablets taken daily.To get us into condition after the inactive period at sea we were exercised gently. Small groups were marched along to the brickworks, a somewhat over stated term, where some Arabs were mixing up a dough-like slurry that was then put into wooden moulds, something that had been done by their forbears for the last three or four millenia. The moulds consisted of four sides and a bottom; the open face of a filled mould was smoothed off by hand and the brick turned out to dry and bake in the sun. I never measured them but they seemed to be near enough the same size as standard English ones. Bricks made this way were calledplano-convexbecause five faces were flat and the sixth convex; each bore the imprint of a thumb on the convex face, formed as the brick was ejected from the mould. Similar bricks were used in the building of the Sumerian city of Ur several thousands of years ago.From a pile of bricks we each had to pick up two and march back to the camp, dump them then return for two more; 10 or 12 such trips gave us the exercise we needed and acclimatised us to the dry heat. What was unexpected was the blowing sand that seemed to get everywhere, in one’s eyes and ears and sticking like a film to any exposed sweaty flesh; some relief came by eating one’s food in the relative shelter of the tent but even so sand could find any chink to gain entrance. Ignorantly after dinner one day, mindful of instructions, I swallowed the two obligatory salt tablets; later I felt a little strange and then discovered the emetic properties of salt. Ever afterwards I took my salt in small quantities with plenty of water.As its name implied the camp was only intended to hold troops until they could be dispersed to their various units; there were no recreational amenities available though we could purchase a local brand of cigarettes calledRed Birdin packets of five for five fils (about one farthing each, old currency). We slept 10 to a tent, feet at the central pole and bodies radiating outwards; early on without being taught we learned how to dig a recess for our hips and over this area we spread our groundsheets. Though a bit firm our small packs served as pillows. After dark the only source of light came from a hurricane lamp, this was not always effective in which case it was swapped for a useable one from another tent when nobody was looking, standard army practice.I forget how long we stayed there, maybe a week but then the draft was split up and dispersed and I was posted toAl Musayyib,some 40 miles south of Baghdad. However before I started the army wanted to get some useful work out of me and so with three others I acted as escort to an ammunition train going up as far as Mosul near the biblical city ofNineveh.We were supplied with canned and dry rations sufficient for the journey and joined the train in the evening with rifles, some ammunition for them, side arms and all our kit. An empty wagon served as our mobile quarters, empty that is except for straw or similar material to soften the hard wagon floor and we slept uncomfortably in shifts. On the first morning we awoke itching, sand flies had feasted on us as we slept fitfully; I think they really enjoyed fresh caucasian blood and we spent a while scratching and slapping.With the start of the day deficiencies were discovered in our equipment, while we had tea, sugar and dried milk we hadn’t any water or the means of containing or boiling it. One difficulty was overcome when we bartered cigarettes for a petrol can from some railside Arabs. Funny really because it was once part of British stores; it was a tall square-sectioned metal can from which the top had been removed; at the top a wooden bar stretched from side to side to form a carrying handle; it appeared to be clean and we assumed that it was. The problem of boiling water was solved when we asked the locomotive driver to blow some out from his steed. I learned years later that this was definitely not recommended healthwise but that’s what we did many times and we survived.The train stopped at various towns and villages on the way, As Samawa, Ad Diwaniyah, Baghdad, Samarra and lastly outside Mosul. At no stop did we venture far from the train we were guarding. The journey was interesting; except for the towns the land was light brown and mostly barren; in the open country flocks of sheep roamed with their attendant shepherds and this presented an almost biblical scene. To our western eyes there was one noticeable difference however, in the west the shepherd would be behind his flock, driving them but here he was in front, leading. Perhaps in this land of sparse vegetation the sheep relied on him to find the best grazing. We reached Mosul in the evening and our train drew up alongside an army camp, the lads there were enjoying a movie; the translucent screen lay between us and the audience and from our wagon we saw one hour ofMrs Miniver,back to front and soundless.Discharged from our escort duty we boarded a passenger train heading for Baghdad and enjoyed the luxury of slatted wooden seats. I was quite excited with the anticipation of what lay ahead and could hardly wait to see more of the mystic land of the Caliphs. The train drew into Baghdad and as it slowed we could see more of the city, fine buildings mixed with mud brick homes, theIshtar Gateand the minarets of mosques, the strange clothes, music discordant to my ears, porters bent double with unbelievable loads on their backs and the smells. At that time I had to be content with a passing impression because I was bound for Al Musayyib, to No.5 Advanced Base Workshops. That designation in the middle of Iraq puzzled me and it was not until many years after the war that I discovered the reason for it and the reason for my being there.The workshops were some 40 miles south of Baghdad and a mile or so from the Arab town; the town was out of bounds to us but a metalled road from there passed between our camp and the workshops; we only ever saw military traffic on it. Both camp and workshop compound were separately surrounded with barbed wire,three coil dannert and apronwas the official name for it. Individual shops were scattered within the compound, seemingly haphazardly and they contained equipment for which any contemporary British engineering firm would kill for.Accommodation within the camp consisted of huts similar in design to Nissen huts but were built of local materials with low brick walls and pre-cast arches supporting curved roofs of straw reinforced baked mud. The floors were of course bare earth. Outside the end doors of each hut stood a large urn of unglazed earthenware, achatty,kept full of water laced with salt to make sure we took our daily dose to ward off heat exhaustion. The water was cooled by the evaporation of the small quantity of water that seeped through to the outside of the chatty and it was very pleasant to drink. Non-potable water for ablutions and laundry was brought in through underground pipes from a source unknown to me, the river Euphrates perhaps, anyway the pipes could not have been buried very far beneath the surface because in the summer the water was quite hot. Again, using local materials, the screens around the unroofed showers and latrines were made of woven palm leavesWe started work early in the morning, reveille was sounded by an Arab bugler (we didn’t have one) at 6am, we marched off to start work by 7am, finishing at 2-30pm to take advantage of the cooler part of the day. Most of us were classed as tradesmen though we were constantly reminded that we weresoldiers first and tradesmen second.Except for mounting guard at the officer’s quarters we were exempt from guard duties, these were carried out by Indian troops within the workshops compound and by the Royal Sussex Regiment around the workshops and camp environs. At night they patrolled the streets in lorries equipped with twin Bren guns. One report had it that they once fired on one of their own corporals, hitting him in the legs. Often we would see them in the morning marching back from their duties whistling or singingSussexby the Sea.Venturing into the workshop compound at night in pitch darkness as we were sometimes required to do was a different matter, quite an eerie experience in fact; the Indian guards were silent and one never knew exactly where they were though their presence could be detected by the faint clinking sound of the chain that attached their rifles to them To ensure that we were not mistaken for intruders we tended to announce ourselves by whistling. One would think that with all these guards the place would be impregnable. Not so. Frequently at night when we were at the mobile cinema sounds of gunfire would be heard coming from the workshops and sometimes there were bodies.
Of the many thousands of characters whom I encountered during my six-and-a-half years of army life most have drifted into obscurity but some are still with me; such a one was Brigadier Barbary of 55 Brigade. Without my knowing for sure rumour had it that he had a firm in Cornwall and I assumed that it was an engineering firm; I also assumed because of this that he was a Territorial Army officer. He was a shortish almost portly figure with a definite bearing. His articulation was not exactly that of the BBC but he had a pleasing Cornish accent and over the many times I saw him he never appeared to have the aloofness of rank. Occasionally he would visit our GOR and having discussed things at a higher level would exchange a few words with the other ranks. During a lull in operations I was seated at the plotting table reading a not very intellectual magazine when I became aware of his presence; I sprang to my feet. “No, no,” he said, “sit down.” I obeyed. “What’s that you’re reading?” he asked. I gave him the magazine which he scrutinised. “What’s your job in civvy street?” he enquired. I told him. “Then you don’t want to read trash like this, get some technical magazines to read, if you don’t keep up with things you’ll finish up with an addled brain.” Then wishing to speak with Exeter he said to a telephone operator, “Gimme my brigade.”
In the days when our GOR was in Hamoaze House one of our signalmen, Bill Lambert, had to take a message into another room where a meeting of some top brass was in progress; assorted crowns and pips were there together with their ATS drivers. The meeting was about to break up and Brigadier Barbary picked up his baton and asked, “Where’s me ‘at?” Up jumped his ATS driver and said, “Here I am, Sir.” “No, no, not you dear,” said the brigadier, “I means the ‘at wot I wears on me ‘ead.” Many years later this story was confirmed, word for word, by an ex-colonel who had also been present.
Other unusual characters often come to mind when I recall those days; one lad arrived alone one morning wearing khaki but sporting an RAF pilot’s wings on his chest. He had been transferred from the RAF and he told us bits of his story but never the reason for his transfer and we assumed because of his nervousness and his habit of constantly looking back over his shoulder that it was LMF. He told us that with others he had been ordered to machine-gun soldiers, presumably enemy, on the beach near Brighton and offered to bring in his log book but we didn’t press the matter.
Derek was a different type; he also arrived alone. He was about 19 and this was the first time he had ever been away from home. He was a quiet retiring lad, one could almost say not quite of this world and what was unusual was that he couldn’t shave himself, up to that time his mother had always shaved him; adapting to the army life was a real challenge for him but I suppose the army was happy to have another warm body.
Bob was near my age, maybe a year or so older and before the army got hold of him he was a school teacher. He found life just as boring as the rest of us but he surprised us all when he announced that he was going to apply for a commission. We enquired in what branch and he said that the only commissions available then were in the infantry. Our further enquiries elicited the following; he and his wife had a fairly large circle of friends and when they entertained their hallstand became full of uniforms, all with pips, crowns or rings. His wife pointed out that all Bob could rustle up was a standard army greatcoat without even a lance-corporal’s stripe, so Bob decided to remedy the situation. Well, good luck, Bob, I thought, if you don’t make it, as you probably won’t, your wife can always hang your posthumous medals on the hallstand together with all the bowler hats.
In the early part of 1942 in bitterly cold weather I was on daytime guard duty at the gate (what else is new?); I was bundled up in my greatcoat and a leather jerkin, one of the more acceptable pieces of equipment supplied by the army, when the duty sergeant approached “You’re to go up to the GOR and take a teleprinter test this afternoon,” he said, “teleprinter operators are required for an overseas draft and so far four from different units have been found to be inefficient, it’s your turn to try.” Not having touched a teleprinter for a couple of years I said, “It’s no use, sarge, I’ll fail, it’s a waste of time.” He was a regular soldier and he found it difficult to understand that anyone would voluntarily drop in pay. “You mean you’re prepared to forfeit your trade pay without even giving it a try? You’ll revert togeneral duties.” An idea had begun to form in my mind, if I were to revert togeneral dutiesthen I would be free to apply for a transfer to another branch of the services to a trade more in line with my civilian job, possibly into the Royal Engineers or the Royal Army Ordnance Corps and I told the sergeant so. He thought about it for a moment and then agreed, he went into the Company Office, saw the CO and returned within half-an-hour with the necessary papers for a transfer application.
A few days later I was at Devonport railway station awaiting a Southern Railway train bound for Salisbury. On arrival there I found my way to the private house where I was to be interviewed. I forget the officer’s rank, he was probably a major but it was an informal affair, one-on-one. I suppose that my answers to his semi-technical questions were satisfactory and eventually he asked, ”Have you ever thought of a commission?” Now in this world there are leaders and there are followers and in matters concerning the life or death of others I come in the second category. “No, Sir.” I replied. “You could be compelled to.” he said. I was non-committal and we left it at that. Back in Bowden Battery I was called in front of a visiting officer, Captain Barbary, son of the brigadier. Apparently certain selected individuals were to be sent on an intensive physical training course to develop their full potential and Barbary was there to sort out those most likely to benefit from the scheme. Reflex actions and the speed thereof were checked and I suppose that a general assessment of physique was made, anyway a couple of days later I was bound for Westward Ho on the north coast of Devon with all my kit. My destination was a pre-war holiday camp, taken over by the military but the holiday spirit was gone and the conditions were spartan. However before my course really got started I was ordered to get moving once more, this time to Tidworth to take a trade test.
I had only ever heard of the place before as being the site of the Tidworth Tattoo and I wasn’t quite prepared for the fact that it appeared to be in the middle of nowhere and that the railway tracks finished there; my spirits sank. The one redeeming thing was that I would only be there for a couple of days. Military personnel of all corps and regiments seemed to be there and it had an atmosphere of bustle, squads marching and counter-marching, urged on by the drill-pigs, little dictators strutting their stuff. There were military vehicles also including a few tanks, probably the only ones Britain possessed at that time and pips and crowns abounded together with some red tabs. But there was one little haven of relative peace, the Drawing Office where I took my trade test and for two days I could shut off the military world. When it was all over I returned to Bowden Battery as it was too late to re-join the intensive physical training course.
Some days later I was ordered to go to a holding battalion at Oxshott. Once again I gathered up all my kit and headed east, this time as a private in the RAOC, a draughtsman class III. I detrained at Oxshott station and plodded up the hill to the holding battalion that was in a large private house set in a very large garden on the road between Leatherhead and Esher. It was about five o’clock when I got there and the first thing to do after reporting in was to get something to eat. This done I next went to the QM stores to get my kit sorted out. I exchanged my leather bandolier and black leather gaiters for webbing bren gun pouches and gaiters all in pieces and in different shades of khaki. I also exchanged my gas mask for an identical one which seemed silly to me but I still didn’t have a complete issue of army equipment.
OXSHOTT
It was Saturday. I was shown to my billet and started to get settled in, finding out the lay of the land, questioning my new companions. Were conditions very strict? No, not really, I was assured. What about Sunday, was there a church parade? Well, yes but you don’t have to attend, many don’t. My sister and her husband lived in Surbiton, close to a bus route passing through Esher and Esher was within walking distance from Oxshott, so on Sunday I set forth, catching a bus at Esher and spending a pleasant day with them. Arriving back just before midnight I assembled all my new webbing equipment and then slept well. In the morning my new companions informed me that there was to be a sergeant-major’s parade at eight o’clock, in shirt-sleeve order and I felt a little apprehensive because I now had no time to blanco my equipment; there was nothing for it but to go on parade multi-coloured. Since we were not wearing battledress blouses I had another little problem. The previous Christmas one of my sisters had given me a pair of braces (suspenders in North America), very patriotic, in red, white and blue stripes and these didn’t improve my appearance either. We assembled in the roadway not far from the big house and with the rest I fell in, waiting for the axe to fall.
The sergeant-major came down the lines, inspecting his charges. When he reached me he paused for a second or two as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He looked me up and down and then launched into a long tirade concerning my appearance. He drew my attention to the lad next to me and informed me that he had come all the way from Cyprus just to fight for Britain and just look at him, how soldierly he was. Without turning my head I looked out of the corner of my eye and took in this exemplar; in all honesty I had to admit to myself that there was no comparison between us but of the two I thought I was the better looking. Mentally I told myself that I had come all the way from Bristol via Filton, Plymouth, Westward Ho and Tidworth with the same idea but I had been in the army long enough to know that it was impossible to win an argument with a higher rank so I put on my wooden soldier’s expression and stared straight ahead. Eventually he ran out of steam as I knew he would; he took my name and number and charged me with being improperly dressed. Fortunately for me the officer hearing the charge was not so impetuous and gave me the opportunity to explain that as a territorial I had never been fully kitted out; he dismissed the charge.
But Sergeant-major McCullom had seen his little fish slip through his fingers and I was now introduced to one of the meaner, petty characters that the army had seen fit to elevate. I was ordered to blanco my equipment immediately in the approved khaki colour and had to treat my gas mask cover with the mandated blanco,Pickering’s khaki-green No.3.I often wondered who were the major shareholders in these blanco companies, most units required slightly different shades, but perhaps I'm being a bit cynical. Unfortunately the new gas mask cover had a flaw, it had a large grease spot that refused to take the blanco. The orderly sergeant said, “Do it again.” I did. The results were the same, as were the third, fourth and fifth try. These orderly sergeants, there were two of them, now had a victim; at no time did either of them offer any suggestions or watch me as I assiduously blancoed away at that confounded gas mask cover. Eventually the truth must have dawned on them and I had the cover exchanged but from then on my name was the first one to come into their little minds when an unpleasant task came up or one invented especially for me and for three weeks I had practically no free time for myself.
One other incident stays with me from those days, a sad one really. A young lad of about 19, infantry I believe, was in quite a state. He told me that his mother was a widow and that he was the youngest of three sons. One brother had been killed in North Africa and he had heard that very morning that his other brother had been killed in a training accident; he himself was waiting for a posting to Lord knows where. I believe the army has been known in such cases to discharge a lone survivor but this lad was not to be consoled. I don’t know the outcome.
Oxshott does not evoke very happy memories in my mind and for a long time afterwards I harboured thoughts of meeting those three after the war, on more equal terms or on terms more favourable to me but now I can’t even remember what they looked like. The future became a little brighter when on a later postings parade my name was called out and I was en route to Aldershot, to Parson’s Barracks.
ALDERSHOT
Accommodation in Parson’s Barracks was in the comparatively newspiderhuts, six corridors emanating from a common hub terminating in our sleeping quarters. Again the beds consisted of three bed boards on wooden trestles and three biscuits; Four blankets completed the ensemble. I think that we were there just filling in time before we were sent on an overseas draft and each morning we paraded in front of the Company Office for roll call before being marched off to the Ordnance Workshops, there to be split up into our various trades. Initially I was sent to a fitting bench where my main unofficial job was to convert an English penny into a spitfire brooch for my sister. Later I was transferred to the Drawing Office. I don’t recall exactly what I worked on, nothing earth-shattering but this was to be the pattern of things for the next couple of months.
This was a peacetime undertaking employing mainly civilians both in the offices and workshops and supplemented during the war by army tradesmen. There were relics of a bygone age when time was not of the essence; on the walls were some drawings on thick cartridge paper of weaponry with the various metals indicated by colour washes, blue for steel and yellow for brass while some drawings were in ink on tracing linen. Current drawings however were in pencil on tracing paper.
It was not all office work because we were also given some military training including physical exercises, running around a battle course though not under live firing as some poor souls were. Additionally we were instructed in unarmed combat but it was nowhere near as intensive as infantry training. Also on Sundays we had church parades, marching up the main street behind a band to have our souls saved. With others I objected to this religious nonsense and asked to be exempt. I was offered two alternatives, either march to the church and stand to attention for the duration of the service or opt for fatigue duties; twice I chose the former but then decided that peeling potatoes gave me the opportunity to vent my frustrations on the poor tubers, slicing them into cubes or sculpting faces on them. I thought that my best move would be to approach the padre and ask to change my religious designation. “To what?” he enquired. “To agnostic,” I answered, “it means I don’t know.” “I'm well aware of what it means,” he said “but the army doesn’t recognise agnostics and since you say that you don’t know then keep coming to church and we’ll teach you to believe.” I realised at that moment why so many of the soldiers’ bawdy songs are sung to hymn tunes, sung quietly to themselves it let them feel that although the army had control of them physically it could not tame their thinking.
About this time, having been in the army for more than three years I sewed thedog’s hind leg,an inverted chevron, on my blouse cuff. This lasted until one evening when on guard duty the guard commander didn’t turn up. “Who’s the senior soldier?” asked the orderly sergeant. He looked around and espied my chevron and “All right, you, you’re now the acting guard commander. March them off. I did. The next day I removed the chevron. It was then that I decided not to volunteer for anything, nor try to evade anything, I would let life unfold as it would. My rationale was that if ever I found myself in a tough spot I could always blame the system, never myself for being such a fool. I had volunteered twice, once when I joined up and again when I applied for a transfer out of the Royal Signals and I decided that was enough.
In the mess hall there were soldiers from an assortment of units, some being new intake; at one mealtime the Orderly Officer accompanied by the Orderly Sergeant arrived. The Orderly Sergeant yelled out, “Any complaints?” “Yes.” came a voice. The pair approached the voice and the officer asked, “Yes, my man and what is your complaint?” “This tea.” “What’s the matter with it?” “It’s ‘orrible.” “Let me taste it,” said the officer as he bravely sipped from the far side of the mug, “there’s nothing wrong with tea, it’s as good as I get at home.” “Hmm, bloody fine ‘ome you comes from then!” There was a stunned silence; this was beginning to look interesting. “Take his name and number, sergeant,” said the officer, “and charge him.” I believe some leniency was shown because this lad was very new to the army and the army had not yet had time to drill the lively civilian spirit out of him.
I was on three overseas drafts, for the first one I was ‘waiting man’; that meant that if any man were to be taken off the draft then I would replace him. I had seven days embarkation leave but the draft was complete without me. Again for the second draft I had seven days embarkation leave and I set off on the Southern Railway bound for Reading where I would change to the Great Western Railway. I was a bit like a Sherpa porter as in addition to all my normal gear I also had a kitbag with my tropical kit. On the first leg of the journey I was chatting to another soldier who was going on his normal leave to his South Wales home; he also would have to change trains at Reading but would be catching a different one. Seeing me struggling with all my gear he offered to carry some for me; I gave him my heavier kitbag. He got off the train before me and disappeared into the crowd and that was the last I saw of him. I searched the platforms and reported the episode to the RTO but there was no sign of my property. Disillusioned, I went on with my journey determined to enjoy my seven days at home. When I got back to Aldershot I had to report my loss which consisted not only of army property but also a lot of my personal stuff; I had to repay the army, however I was able to tell the authorities the man’s unit, rank, South Wales destination, train time and date, and they traced him for me. He didn’t dispute the facts but said that as he was in a hurry to catch his train he left my kitbag on a platform. He was lying of course but we couldn’t prove anything and I had learned a costly lesson. The draft was cancelled.
By this time many of us had been transferred from the RAOC into the newly formed Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, REME, changing our ranks from privates to craftsmen, this sounded good but we were still at the bottom of the totem pole. Towards the end of 1942 I was on my third draft, identified as RDGFA which some wags said stood for ‘REME draft going far away’. We gathered at Ramillies Barracks in Aldershot filling in time with some regimental training under a Canadian corporal who, disregarding our medical groupings for we were a very mixed bunch, proceeded to run us around a battle course that included an eight-foot high jump. He was pretty tough himself; with one wrist in a plaster cast he led us in traversing across a gap by means of a horizontal rope.
At this time I began to ponder the future, weighing my chances of surviving unscathed, surviving maimed or not surviving at all. I had no sound data to base my reasoning on but knew that Germany, seemingly invincible, had taken over three years to advance well into Russia and North Africa and that the Allies would take at least that time to reverse the situation; surviving unscathed appeared to be a remote possibility but one could always hope.
Again we were issued with a second kitbag and tropical uniforms. Where were we going? None of us knew and with the army’s art of deception we could have been going to a cold place. After a further seven days embarkation leave we returned to Aldershot, regrouped and took a train to London. From there we boarded a troop train and headed north on the old LNER line stopping at last at a transit camp at Cottingham near Hull. Lugging our two kits around was a bit of a chore. We were due to leave again the following day so a couple of us went into Hull that evening to a cinema along with two NAAFI lasses. The incongruity of the situation struck me when we came out; it was too late to get anything to eat or to get a bus back to camp. Outside the cinema a man was selling hot chestnuts and these were our only nourishment but we went back to camp in grand style, we took a taxi.
The next day we entrained again this time bound for Glasgow but we didn’t know it. At the docks we saw our floating home, His Majesty’s Transport Antenor. At first sight HMT Antenor seemed to be not unlike my early childish drawings of ships, high fo’castle, a low forward well-deck, high superstructure, a low aft well-deck and a high stern structure. Both well-decks had raised hatch covers that gave access to the lower decks and the centre superstructure carried the lone funnel. We were told that she was part of theBlue Funnel Linethat normally operated in the far-eastern waters carrying passengers and freight. In single file, wearing our webbing and with our kitbags slung over our shoulders we slowly mounted the gangplank. At the top of the gangplank we were directed to our quarters, draft RDGFA went aft to the lowest deck; although there were portholes on that level the actual deck was just below the water-line and the portholes were sealed shut. Mess tables covered the deck, they were all of a similar pattern with attached bench seats but varying in length to conform to the contours of the ship. Overhead was a multiplicity of hooks to accommodate the hammocks with which we would soon be issued. Kapok life-jackets were given out with strict instructions not to use them as pillows but we were not told how long they could remain in the water before they became waterlogged. Soon we settled in.
GOING SOUTH
One of the initial joys of being aboard ship was to be supplied with soft white bread and ample amounts of butter, things that were unobtainable in wartime Britain. The ship still carried passengers and freight, the commissioned ranks were the passengers while the other ranks were freight; eggs were served daily to the former, sometimes returned uneaten but with a cigarette butt stabbed through their yolks but nary an egg was seen at our tables We had jam and marmalade in plenty, coming in seven-pound tins, some of it from South Africa,apfelkoos confitthat I believe was apricot jam, that’s what it tasted like anyway. We were really quite well fed but being young and healthy we could always manage more; occasionally after dark the cookhouse would be raided and the raw carrots and turnips that had been prepared for the following day would be added to our diets.
It was not long before the army had us all organised into mess orderlies, guards, fatigue parties and anything else that would keep us out of mischief. Soon the engines rumbled and we were off or so we thought but the excitement was short lived, we moved down the Clyde and stopped off Gourock, in Loch Long. The wise ones among us said that we had to wait for a convoy to form but we waited there for two weeks while other ships and convoys came and went; it was a frustrating experience in a confined space.
Of the many ships around one was pointed out to us, the Queen Elizabeth (the first one), she had never seen passenger service having been completed during the war, now in the distance we could see her, painted in battleship grey, serving as a troopship. One night or early morning when we were nicely tucked up in our hammocks we were awakened by the rumble of the engines again and we sensed motion; action at last, HMT Antenor was under way, going down the Clyde. With the coming of the dawn we could see other ships in the convoy, merchant ships and our naval escort. We passed Arran and entered the North Channel and that was as far as our schoolday geography took us. Speculation was rife as to our eventual destination but there was no shortage of opinion amongst our amateur navigators who tried to calculate speed, distance and direction as we moved into the open waters. As time went by the seas became more and more disturbed and the good ship Antenor pitched and rolled with them; it would later transpire that we were entering the tail end of one of the worst North Atlantic storms of the season. Life-lines were fitted to facilitate a safe passage on deck. Down below we listened and watched with mounting concern as she creaked and strained, as she pitched the screw would come out of the water and the engines would race; all this was a new experience to us land-lubbers. At the end of each roll she seemed to pause for a second or two -- would she recover? She always did and then she took about 15 seconds to reach the other extreme and pause again. Up on deck clutching at life-lines or anything else secure one could wonder at the strength of the ship as she rode on the crest of a wave and then plunged to the depths of a trough; crew members rated them as 40-foot waves and we didn’t disagree with them.
Resulting from this roller-coaster action many of us had queasy stomachs and were not very happy though it was heartening to see that all ranks were treated equally by the elements. As the days passed the seas became less turbulent but other ships in the convoy, merchant and naval alike could still be lost to sight as they wallowed in the troughs. At intervals of time our course would change and on the third day out our escorts began changing their positions; “whoop, whoop, whoop” went their hooters; depth charges were dropped What surprised me was the speed of sound in water, no sooner did we see a plume of water rise than a resounding boom bounced off our ship’s hull. These antics went on for some time then later things returned to normal for a while; about four o’clock in the afternoon HMT Antenor started to make smoke and fall back in the formation; not to worry advised our intelligent ones, it’s all part of the plan. We went below and had a bite to eat then came back on deck 30 minutes later. Where was the convoy? We looked around but all that could be seen were faint smoke smudges on the horizon and what’s more we were now silent and stationary. Our intelligent ones were nonplussed and our amateur navigators determined that we were probably west of Brest off the west coast of France; that together with the knowledge of the U-boat action earlier in the day didn’t improve our contentment. At six o’clock a lone plane appeared from the west, going east; it passed over us fairly low but none of us identified it. Our resident gunners took up their positions at our only gun, a four-inch, designed I imagine for naval engagements and probably unable to elevate sufficiently to engage an aircraft. We assumed the plane to be hostile and that it would report our position and static condition and we waited. Darkness came and we wallowed helplessly. I decided that I didn’t feel like going to my deck below the water line waiting for a torpedo to come bursting through the side, I wanted to have a reasonable chance of getting off the ship if she were going down so I stacked out on the hatch cover of an intermediate deck and slept fitfully with my head upon my kapok pillow.
Dawn came and we were still without engines; we were told that the storm’s buffeting had unseated one of the boilers and that a similar event had caused our departure from Loch Long to be delayed by two weeks. In the forenoon the engines started to rumble, a most welcome sound and we limped into motion. We must have been very fortunate because we took a long three days to reach the relative safety of Glasgow at dusk, having made the return journey without seeing anything more than a couple of small fishing boats.
I forget the details but we disembarked and were whisked off to various destinations; our draft together with some others was sent to a disused distillery in Wishaw. We sorted ourselves out and bedded down for the rest of the night. Next morning, Sunday, we looked around the town and were amazed at the friendliness and hospitality shown us. Our stay lasted about three weeks or a month while HMT Antenor underwent surgery, transplants and general re-conditioning. At intervals during this period small groups of us were given a few days leave at home but all the time we were in Wishaw we were well looked after by the local population; one businessman took out parties of us for a meal (was it at Green’s?) then on to a cinema show; this happened on many occasions. Some of the lads were more or less adopted and lived out most of the time there only looking in at the distillery to find out when our next move was due. In the forces I always got on well with all the Scots I met but our reception at Wishaw was something else, it stays firmly in my mind and I have a very soft spot for the Scots and Scotland.
All good things must come to an end of course and we had to return to Glasgow to re-start our travels. Waiting for us at the dock was our troopship HMT Antenor, well repaired we hoped. This time there was little delay, soon we were steaming down the Clyde to form up with a convoy; again we had a naval escort on our flanks and although the seas were not as rough as before the screw still came out of the water and the engines raced. Day followed day uneventfully and we seemed to be on the same course as before according to our amateur navigators; for many of us this was the first time we had been so far from our island home and we were quite excited.
In order to keep up our spirits and inform us of the progress of the war the BBC news was frequently broadcast. These newscasts were usually preceded by a recording ofRule Britanniaand while joining in mentally with the remembered words I reached the phraseBritons never, never, never, shall be slaves;I recalled the definition of a slave as being one who received little or no remuneration for his services and who could never voluntarily escape his predicament. I made the comparison.
I can still remember my first sight of a lone palm tree emerging from the early morning mist just before we made Freetown. Some ships of the convoy entered Freetown but we lay off and paused for a while a half mile from the coast; we believed that mosquitoes couldn’t make that distance but just to be on the safe side we tried out our mosquito-repellent ointment. The air was hot and very humid and soon we decided that we preferred mosquito bites to the discomfort of trapped perspiration. By this time we had changed into our tropical uniforms and this did nothing to improve our appearance; our cork topees were reminiscent of those worn during the Boer War and were probably surplus to that conflict. There was nothing remarkable about our shirts but the shorts were something else; worn in their extended form they reached down to mid-calf, the lower hems were fitted with three buttonholes while at mid-thigh there were three buttons. The idea was that in the bright sunlight hours they would be buttoned up to let our knees feel the breeze and get tanned but in the evening they would be worn at full length to frustrate the mosquitoes. To economise in footwear the army supplied knitted hose-tops, tubes, near khaki in colour that covered the socks just above the ankle while the tops were turned down just below the knee. Webbing gaiters covered the junction of boots and hose-tops; whether the gaiters were aesthetic or functional I don’t know, either way they were two more items to be blancoed; perhaps they would deter an aggressive snake.
Duties on board were no different than before but there were free periods when we could indulge in the only gambling game permitted by the army,Housey,orBingoas it is more usually called today. We spent a lot of hours gazing out to sea, I didn’t find that boring, there was always something fresh to see, even when looking at nothing in particular there was the ever-changing pattern of the waves, not unlike the changing patterns in a glowing coal fire. For the first time we sawPortuguese men-of-war,jellyfish, with their little sails unfurled, and flying fish played around the ship. At night time another phenomenon was revealed, looking over the side the phosphorescent creatures disturbed by the ship’s passage brightly illuminated the ship’s hull, so much so that we thought the portholes were unshielded; it made a mockery of our strict instructions not to show any light. In this context I put my foot in it once again; seeing a flashlight beam waving about the deck on a black night I yelled, “Put that light out.” “Who said that?” asked flashlight. “Who are you?” I countered. “I am the Orderly Officer,” said flashlight, “what’s your name and number?” somewhat chastened I obliged and realised once again that even when you’re right you can’t win an argument when you’re outranked.
The ship carried only limited amounts of potable water and the only water available for keeping clean was salt water; true we had showers and could purchase salt-water soap but this was not very effective and rinsing off was difficult; the end result was not satisfactory particularly when trying to get one’s hair squeaky clean. This fact was brought home to me when one mealtime a soldier paused behind me as he spoke to a pal on the next table; we were in the tropics and it was very warm. He was holding a seven-pound tin of marmalade above my head; engrossed in conversation he allowed the tin to tilt -- need I say more?
I had started a head cold just before we left Glasgow and after a day or so at sea I did what was very unusual for me, I reported sick. The army had three or four standard remedies to cover most situations and I was dosed with one of them,mist.expecseems to be the abbreviation that stays in my memory; several doses brought no relief so again I reported sick. I was now coughing badly and felt quite ill. Same medicine, same result; I really should have been admitted to the sick bay but was not. Reporting sick for the third time brought accusations of malingering; at no time had I seen either of the two doctors on board, the diagnosis had been made by an NCO of the RAMC, so I soldiered on.
I don’t know how far west we passed into the Atlantic but the crew told us when we were nearer to Walvis Bay, eventually we pulled into Cape Town in South Africa, the ‘tablecloth’ of cloud had settled over Table Mountain for us. Some of our convoy separated from us and docked there. After a short stop in the bay we moved on to Durban and as we came into the dock area we saw a little group on the quayside waiting to greet us. The central figure was ‘The Lady in White’ as she came to be known. She was a trained singer and made it her duty to meet all the troopships; armed with a megaphone (this was 1943) she sang patriotic and nostalgic songs to cheer up the lads who were bound for unknown parts. It was a nice warm welcome to South Africa.
For our last night on board I was picked for guard duty. Why? Perhaps they thought that someone would run off with the ship. Next morning we disembarked and marched up to our new billets on Clairwood Race Course, I was quite weak and unable to carry all my kit, some of my pals carried my rifle and pack for me. I was feeling very groggy but that didn’t stop me from being picked for guard duty again that night. I got the last shift and when I was awakened at 4am I rebelled and said the waiting man could do my turn. Later in the morning I reported sick once more, this time to Clairwood Hospital where I was examined by a South African army doctor. When he had finished he gave me a chit that said, ‘Admit hospital, resolving pneumonia’ and I spent the best part of the next three weeks there, two weeks in bed and a couple of days up and about. I believe I slept for the first 30 hours.
It was an army hospital run on army lines but there were some civilian staff mixed in with the nursing sisters and MO’s. The food was very good and I was surprised to find chicken on the menu quite often; iced water or a lemon drink was kept at the bedside in a little jug covered with a lace cloth to keep the flies off but there were no mosquito nets. At first I didn’t realise what the high pitched buzz in my ears was until I had had a few bites. I recall two nurses, one was a Canadian, an army nursing sister whose name had a Ukrainian ring to it and the other was a South African civilian, Nurse Anderson. The latter who was probably a little bit older than I was prophetically gave us some words of wisdom. The ward cleaning staff was composed of black African men and the British not being particularly racist used to talk to them and give them cigarettes, something that they didn’t from the South African whites. Nurse Anderson said, “You British are spoiling them, when the war is over you’ll be going back to your own country and we’ll be left with the consequences of your actions.” Military discipline was upheld in the wards and when the MO and his following retinue of nurses came on the rounds those who could were told to stand to attention by their beds and those who could not stand were told to lie to attention. More stupidity.
One hospital orderly amused me with his line of thinking; judging by his accent I asked him, “You are an Afrikaner?” “No, no, he replied, “I'm Dutch.” “Surely not,” I said, “the people of Holland are Dutch.” “No, no,” he said again, “they are Hollanders, I'm Dutch.”
On discharge from hospital I was sent toKing’s Housein Durban for convalescence and was duly fitted out with hospital blues and a red tie. I remember being there for Good Friday and for another couple of days and enjoyed the time touring the city; it was a beautiful place, this was the end of March 1943, their autumn, the right time of the year and the vegetation was lush I was just settling down to a short spell of doing nothing; I wasn’t looking too smart, I used to have my hair cut every two weeks and it was now seven weeks long, additionally the pneumonia had left me with three boils on my face. My convalescence was short lived because I was ordered to report to a hospital, not Clairwood, to be examined to determine if I was fit enough to re-join draft RGDFA. An ambulance arrived and I occupied a stretcher on the upper of two berths, the man on the lower was going to the same hospital. Our ambulance bounced along over dirt roads, it was a very rough ride and after one huge bump my stretcher collapsed and I landed on the fellow below; he wasn’t very pleased with me and I finished the journey sitting down, listening to his constant griping. After a cursory examination by the doctor I was pronounced fit enough to re-join draft RDGFA. He must have known where we were going and he must have known that troops with lung problems were not supposed to be sent there, but there, that’s the military. I suppose that after the war these three doctors, this one and the two on the Antenor, were let loose on the civilian population of Britain, I'm glad I wasn’t one of their patients.
Most of our group had a good time in Durban and were very well treated by the South Africans, when we expressed our thanks they said, “Oh, you should have been here before the Australians came, they nearly wrecked the place.”
Back on the docks we saw our next floating hotel, HMT Aronda; she was much more modern, lighter in build and with finer lines than the old Antenor. Once on board we got into our new routine. The ship had a permanent army officer, OC Troops who, I presume stayed with her on all her voyages. We also had another luxury on board, a real live bugler; his job was to sound off at various periods of the day to announce some activity or other.
As with the Antenor this ship was fitted out with mess tables and attached benches. Early on we had to report to stores and draw hammocks because the sleeping arrangements were similar as well. On the Antenor we had been issued with bottles of fortified lime juice (shades of Captain Cook) but now we were to be issued with bottles of carbonated drinks. We soon set forth, destination still unknown; we were all assigned boat stations and each morning we assembled on deck waiting to be inspected by our betters, looking a little ridiculous in our ‘Bombay bowlers’ and our Bombay bloomers’. The inspection was quite a formal affair as an entourage consisting of the ship’s captain, OC Troops and various others of decreasing rank, a lance-corporal as the caboose, traversed the ship. However leading this group and heralding its approach was the bugler; at each station he paused, stood smartly to attention, put the bugle to his lips and sounded four ‘G’s’ then off he went to the next station to repeat his performance; he was a pain.
When the waters were calm and the nights were clear we sometimes lay on deck looking upwards to the heavens because in the southern hemisphere different star constellations were visible, the Southern Cross for one. As the ship pitched and rolled ever so gently the tip of a mast would trace slow little circles in the near black sky; it was half an hour of peace. We knew that we were moving in a north-easterly direction and we had a general knowledge of the local geography but we couldn’t determine whether we passed to the west or the east of Madagascar. The first bit of excitement came when I perched on a box and, surrounded by a group of interested onlookers, had my locks shorn. I felt much lighter but my face still had its three boils, they were to stay with me a while longer. The Aronda was alone, not in convoy and I remember one morning well, I had gone up on deck early, sunrise comes suddenly at about 6am in those latitudes; there was the gentle throbbing of the engines but complete silence otherwise, the Indian Ocean was grey and more tranquil than I had ever seen water before or since. All around the water was flat and mirror-like except at the stern where our wake, a thin white streak stretched out into the distance. I celebrated my 25th birthday in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
On board we had a public address system, installed presumably to impart words of wisdom like, ‘Splice the mainbrace’ or ‘Abandon ship’ or something but in fact it was used to play records to keep up our morale. Where the control room was situated I never did find out but whoever was responsible for the choice of records must have been a fan of Deanna Durbin; hour after hour the strains ofOne Fine Daycame over the speakers, there were other records of course but even today when I hearOne Fine DayI am transported back in time to the Indian Ocean. There are a few other incidents that stay in my mind from that period. One man put on a charge for some minor offence thought the punishment awarded was too excessive so he kicked the escort and fled; of course he couldn’t get very far on a ship, a fact he should have thought of beforehand. We saw him running round the decks with three PT instructors in hot pursuit; he gave them a good run for their money but nevertheless he finished up in the ship’s brig. As usual the military required guards to be posted during the night and in the interests of convenience and fairness each draft took turns to supply the men. For a change my services were not required on that voyage but one night it fell upon the Royal Army Service Corps to stand guard. Since he had to be up early in the morning to sound ‘reveille’ the bugler slept in the guard room to be awakened in good time. He also slept with his bugle, with the fancy cord around his neck. As I said before he was a pain and the RASC decided to do us a favour; while he was asleep the cord was cut, the bugle removed and dumped overboard. We knew something was amiss in the morning when no bugle call aroused us and we waited to see what would transpire. We assembled at our boat stations. By-and-by the bugler came into view, stopped at our station, stood to attention and “Peep, peep, peep, peep.” he went. The military was not to be denied, they had given him a referee’s whistle. That was the same occasion when the ship’s liquor store was broached and some of the guards were the worse for wear. We never heard any more about this episode, perhaps some were punished, we were never told.
Attempts were made to keep us occupied, unofficially cards were played and money changed hands, usually from mine into someone else’s.Houseywas often played and at times shows were put on consisting of stand-up comedy, solo singing and sing-songs where we all joined in. One lad stood on the make-shift stage and recited,
“Do you remember an inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an inn?
**********
**********
“And the shouts and the jeers
Of the young muleteers,
**********
**********
Do you remember an inn?”
He struggled manfully to the end, ignoring all the ribald remarks coming from some quarters and when he had finished he acknowledged the sparse applause; definitely not the sort of poetry expected by the licentious soldiery.
Days came and went, I don’t recall how many but the time came when the sea birds arrived on the scene and we knew that landfall was not too far distant. The brighter ones among us told us that we were nearing Bombay and for once they were right.
INDIA
As HMT Aronda approached Bombay we eagerly scanned the coastline and almost at once discerned that imposing archThe Gateway to Indiabut there was not too much time to spend sightseeing as we had to prepare to disembark. The ship docked and a little later we were making our way down the gangplank. Partway down I could see a commotion on the quayside; three military policemen were holding down a prone figure; though his face was flat where it was being pressed against the quay I recognised him as being the prisoner from the ship’s brig. He had attempted to escape custody once more but again he had failed; I think he didn’t like the army very much. We fell into position by drafts and waited and waited; it was mid-day and getting very hot. We stood in formation for about an hour, eventually our guide arrived to lead us to our billets; he was Indian Army, somewhere around five feet tall and he set off at a blistering pace. We quick marched behind him and when I say quick I mean it, with his short legs he had a short stride and we longer-legged ones kept up with difficulty. After a mile or so we entered Colaba Camp, this was to be our home for a while.
Now started our introduction to things Indian. The teeming masses and the number of people sleeping in the streets surprised me as did the apparent disregard for personal safety amongst the traffic. New words came into our vocabularies the origins of which sometimes go back to the many countries that British forces have garrisoned over the last three centuries. Some military personnel must obviously have become proficient in the local languages but for the most part the British soldier was and still is linguistically lazy, content to adopt and sometimes anglicise foreign words and phrases to suit the occasion. Strangely enough using some English mixed with some foreign phrases and body language the soldiers usually made themselves understood by the locals who probably thought that all the words were English. At times it led to some interesting exchanges.
However at this stage we were introduced to mainly Indian words,charpoysfor rope beds,chattiesfor unglazed urns,panifor water,jaldifor quick and many, many more. We met some of the regular army characters who had spent years in India and gleaned snippets of information from them. Were there any poisonous creatures around? Well, yes, scorpions for one thing. What about snakes? There are several different sorts here. Very poisonous? Yes, especially the hoop snake. Hoop snakes? never heard of them. Oh, they are very fast but if they can’t catch up with you by wriggling they put their tails in their mouths and bowl themselves along like hoops. Our legs were often pulled like this until we became in turn the seasoned leg-pullers of the new arrivals.
The camp CO used to ride around on a white horse and occasionally he would give us a pep talk; to those of us who were getting a bit too boisterous he said, “Most of you before the war were law abiding citizens but once you’ve put on a uniform and moved away from home you think you’ve become licensed buccaneers. Behave yourselves.” There was a fair amount of spare time before we expected to move again and we spent a lot of it looking over this main port of The British Raj.The Gateway to Indiathat we had earlier glimpsed as we steamed into dock was the first thing to see and we were duly impressed. Then there was the centre of Bombay, we wandered along Hornby Street to the Kodak shop where I bought a film for my vest-pocket Kodak. Unfortunately the camera had developed a pinhole in the bellows and most of my pictures were spoiled. A couple of evenings were spent at the cinemas, watching Hollywood films that were about two years old. We also visited a zoo (Victoria?) where strangely, amongst other creatures, we saw in captivity English sparrows Other unexpected sights included cows wandering unhindered through the streets and carts drawn by camels. In one of the main streets my attention was caught by the sight of a turbaned Indian who was sitting cross-legged putting on a show, pitting a cobra against a mongoose. I didn’t feel like staying for the finale, I guess he had to separate the combatants or else go looking for a new snake.
Our stay in India was not very long, a matter of a couple of weeks or so but long enough to give us a feel for the country. Under the British Raj there didn’t seem to be much evidence of the inter-religious hostility that would result in such a blood bath at Independence and partition in 1948. Political struggle there was and some anti-British sentiment but it didn’t seem pervasive to us. Little booklets were issued to us that outlined the history and customs of India, (the term India was all-inclusive in those days, both Hindu and Moslem) and listed population densities together with a glossary of useful words and phrases. Other words and phrases not in the booklet we picked up from contact with the older and more experienced soldiers. At that time we also learned that the Indian Army was entirely separate from the British, with its own Viceroy commissioned officers whom we did not have to salute, and the ranks of Subahdar, Jemadar and Havildar were added to our vocabularies. During our short stay draft RDGFA suffered its first casualty, Cfn Love was whisked off to hospital and later succumbed to a brain tumour.
Mosquito netsOur accommodation was in long huts that in memory appeared to be permanent; we found the charpoys quite comfortable and the bell-shaped mosquito nets that dangled from the ceiling gave us uninterrupted nights. Food was sufficient, plenty of rice in various guises and frequent curries that despite the warm weather seemed to cool one down. There was also the usual NAAFI store and fresh fruit could be purchased daily.
Too soon the time came to move on and we rejoined HMT Aronda; we got aboard and were assigned our places, immediately I was given some task to perform, I forget what but while I was so engaged the stores were opened and everyone drew hammocks; by the time I had finished the stores had closed. Ah, well, I was now used to roughing it so I elected to sleep on the bench seat of a mess table, a plank about one foot wide; again my life-jacket became my pillow and I slept like a babe. I never did draw my hammock.
The seas were calm as we steamed away from Bombay on a north-westerly course, we lost sight of land but now we had an idea of where we were going. The skies were cloudless and the sun blazed down on us for 12 hours every day; thick canvas awnings were erected over the passageways on each side of the ship. “Keep wearing your topees,” we were told, “harmful rays can penetrate the awnings.” I believe we took four days or more to reach our destination passing from the Arabian Sea into the Persian Gulf; the journey was quite uneventful, we spent the days doing very little, looking at the water, playing cards, eating, dozing and listening to even more of Deanna Durbin over the inter-com. With faint memories of maps in our minds we tried to identify Bandar Shapur and Bandar Abbas on the starboard side with uncertain success. In the afternoon of the last day we entered the Shatt-el-Arab and headed for Basra; now there was a little more to see. The waterway was relatively narrow and we passed through the dense groves of the palm trees that lined both banks, however at intervals we came to small inlets intended no doubt to give access inland and here the effect of water upon plant life became apparent. The tall palms at the river’s edge gave way to more stunted ones further inland and a couple of hundred yards from the river the desert began.
It was past midnight when we docked at Marquil, we disembarked and got ourselves sorted out. Then we loaded our bits and pieces and ourselves on to waiting lorries and set forth towards our new temporary home, No.15 Reinforcement Transit Camp, a tented camp. We were now members of PAIFORCE, the Persia and Iraq force.
IRAQ
Our arrival at the transit camp was in the early hours of the morning and we didn’t try to get organised but being young and tired we slept well, nevertheless we woke with the dawn at about 6am and then surveyed the scene. There were a dozen or so bell tents including ours set in the middle of nothingness, flat vacant desert all around us; true there was some sign of activity a quarter of a mile away that turned out to be the local brickworks but otherwise nothing. We asked the name of this God-forsaken spot and were toldShaiba.
It was still May and the days were getting hotter. We had to be initiated into the ways of desert life; topees to be worn at all times in the sun, shirt sleeves rolled down and slacks to be worn after 6pm when it was the mosquitoes turn to be around and about, copious amounts of water to be drunk and two salt tablets taken daily.
To get us into condition after the inactive period at sea we were exercised gently. Small groups were marched along to the brickworks, a somewhat over stated term, where some Arabs were mixing up a dough-like slurry that was then put into wooden moulds, something that had been done by their forbears for the last three or four millenia. The moulds consisted of four sides and a bottom; the open face of a filled mould was smoothed off by hand and the brick turned out to dry and bake in the sun. I never measured them but they seemed to be near enough the same size as standard English ones. Bricks made this way were calledplano-convexbecause five faces were flat and the sixth convex; each bore the imprint of a thumb on the convex face, formed as the brick was ejected from the mould. Similar bricks were used in the building of the Sumerian city of Ur several thousands of years ago.
From a pile of bricks we each had to pick up two and march back to the camp, dump them then return for two more; 10 or 12 such trips gave us the exercise we needed and acclimatised us to the dry heat. What was unexpected was the blowing sand that seemed to get everywhere, in one’s eyes and ears and sticking like a film to any exposed sweaty flesh; some relief came by eating one’s food in the relative shelter of the tent but even so sand could find any chink to gain entrance. Ignorantly after dinner one day, mindful of instructions, I swallowed the two obligatory salt tablets; later I felt a little strange and then discovered the emetic properties of salt. Ever afterwards I took my salt in small quantities with plenty of water.
As its name implied the camp was only intended to hold troops until they could be dispersed to their various units; there were no recreational amenities available though we could purchase a local brand of cigarettes calledRed Birdin packets of five for five fils (about one farthing each, old currency). We slept 10 to a tent, feet at the central pole and bodies radiating outwards; early on without being taught we learned how to dig a recess for our hips and over this area we spread our groundsheets. Though a bit firm our small packs served as pillows. After dark the only source of light came from a hurricane lamp, this was not always effective in which case it was swapped for a useable one from another tent when nobody was looking, standard army practice.
I forget how long we stayed there, maybe a week but then the draft was split up and dispersed and I was posted toAl Musayyib,some 40 miles south of Baghdad. However before I started the army wanted to get some useful work out of me and so with three others I acted as escort to an ammunition train going up as far as Mosul near the biblical city ofNineveh.We were supplied with canned and dry rations sufficient for the journey and joined the train in the evening with rifles, some ammunition for them, side arms and all our kit. An empty wagon served as our mobile quarters, empty that is except for straw or similar material to soften the hard wagon floor and we slept uncomfortably in shifts. On the first morning we awoke itching, sand flies had feasted on us as we slept fitfully; I think they really enjoyed fresh caucasian blood and we spent a while scratching and slapping.
With the start of the day deficiencies were discovered in our equipment, while we had tea, sugar and dried milk we hadn’t any water or the means of containing or boiling it. One difficulty was overcome when we bartered cigarettes for a petrol can from some railside Arabs. Funny really because it was once part of British stores; it was a tall square-sectioned metal can from which the top had been removed; at the top a wooden bar stretched from side to side to form a carrying handle; it appeared to be clean and we assumed that it was. The problem of boiling water was solved when we asked the locomotive driver to blow some out from his steed. I learned years later that this was definitely not recommended healthwise but that’s what we did many times and we survived.
The train stopped at various towns and villages on the way, As Samawa, Ad Diwaniyah, Baghdad, Samarra and lastly outside Mosul. At no stop did we venture far from the train we were guarding. The journey was interesting; except for the towns the land was light brown and mostly barren; in the open country flocks of sheep roamed with their attendant shepherds and this presented an almost biblical scene. To our western eyes there was one noticeable difference however, in the west the shepherd would be behind his flock, driving them but here he was in front, leading. Perhaps in this land of sparse vegetation the sheep relied on him to find the best grazing. We reached Mosul in the evening and our train drew up alongside an army camp, the lads there were enjoying a movie; the translucent screen lay between us and the audience and from our wagon we saw one hour ofMrs Miniver,back to front and soundless.
Discharged from our escort duty we boarded a passenger train heading for Baghdad and enjoyed the luxury of slatted wooden seats. I was quite excited with the anticipation of what lay ahead and could hardly wait to see more of the mystic land of the Caliphs. The train drew into Baghdad and as it slowed we could see more of the city, fine buildings mixed with mud brick homes, theIshtar Gateand the minarets of mosques, the strange clothes, music discordant to my ears, porters bent double with unbelievable loads on their backs and the smells. At that time I had to be content with a passing impression because I was bound for Al Musayyib, to No.5 Advanced Base Workshops. That designation in the middle of Iraq puzzled me and it was not until many years after the war that I discovered the reason for it and the reason for my being there.
The workshops were some 40 miles south of Baghdad and a mile or so from the Arab town; the town was out of bounds to us but a metalled road from there passed between our camp and the workshops; we only ever saw military traffic on it. Both camp and workshop compound were separately surrounded with barbed wire,three coil dannert and apronwas the official name for it. Individual shops were scattered within the compound, seemingly haphazardly and they contained equipment for which any contemporary British engineering firm would kill for.
Accommodation within the camp consisted of huts similar in design to Nissen huts but were built of local materials with low brick walls and pre-cast arches supporting curved roofs of straw reinforced baked mud. The floors were of course bare earth. Outside the end doors of each hut stood a large urn of unglazed earthenware, achatty,kept full of water laced with salt to make sure we took our daily dose to ward off heat exhaustion. The water was cooled by the evaporation of the small quantity of water that seeped through to the outside of the chatty and it was very pleasant to drink. Non-potable water for ablutions and laundry was brought in through underground pipes from a source unknown to me, the river Euphrates perhaps, anyway the pipes could not have been buried very far beneath the surface because in the summer the water was quite hot. Again, using local materials, the screens around the unroofed showers and latrines were made of woven palm leaves
We started work early in the morning, reveille was sounded by an Arab bugler (we didn’t have one) at 6am, we marched off to start work by 7am, finishing at 2-30pm to take advantage of the cooler part of the day. Most of us were classed as tradesmen though we were constantly reminded that we weresoldiers first and tradesmen second.Except for mounting guard at the officer’s quarters we were exempt from guard duties, these were carried out by Indian troops within the workshops compound and by the Royal Sussex Regiment around the workshops and camp environs. At night they patrolled the streets in lorries equipped with twin Bren guns. One report had it that they once fired on one of their own corporals, hitting him in the legs. Often we would see them in the morning marching back from their duties whistling or singingSussexby the Sea.Venturing into the workshop compound at night in pitch darkness as we were sometimes required to do was a different matter, quite an eerie experience in fact; the Indian guards were silent and one never knew exactly where they were though their presence could be detected by the faint clinking sound of the chain that attached their rifles to them To ensure that we were not mistaken for intruders we tended to announce ourselves by whistling. One would think that with all these guards the place would be impregnable. Not so. Frequently at night when we were at the mobile cinema sounds of gunfire would be heard coming from the workshops and sometimes there were bodies.