ENLISTMENT

Having said my farewells at home, I took off to Whitehall, to the main recruiting office with the intention of joining one of the guards' brigades. Chamberlain was in Munich and there was an air of certainty that war was inevitable with reports of many putting away their tools and enlisting, but it was still a surprise to find the recruiting centre crowded. I had to wait nearly all day before my turn came, only to be told by a weary recruiting sergeant that the guards were already full. But, if I came back in the morning, I would be able to enlist in a regiment that was part of a guards brigade. That to me seemed much the same thing.

I had not left home without some emotional argument that with my earlier health record I would not be accepted. Anyway, why I should give up learning a useful trade with decent money? It may not come to war anyway, and so on and so forth. So the idea of returning home for the night and going through it all again was out of the question, but what was I to do. I had a Post office savings book with fourteen pounds in it and a few shillings in my pocket. It was too late to find a post office so a night at even the cheapest hotel was out of the question. There did not seem to be one in the area anyway. I wandered the streets until finally taking the bit between my teeth, walked into a workhouse. You know, one of those places for the destitute. That was an experience. For one shilling, I was given a thick slice of bread liberally spread with dripping, and a bed in a large dormitory where each bed space was separated by a suspended blanket. The noises of snoring and grunting all around kept sleep at bay for a long time, but morning eventually came with another slice and mug of tea to see me on my way back to Whitehall again.

Although early, there was a crowd, but this time the wait was not so long. A few questions and then on into a room where a newspaper was handed to me with the instructions to read from it aloud. Half a dozen lines of that was enough to convince that I was reasonably literate, then an eye test followed by a very perfunctory medical. Next came the swearing in and, clutching the King's shilling, I was on my way to the training depot of the Hampshire Regiment at Winchester. There was one thing missing, my Macintosh. Having laid it down whilst going through the formalities, someone had nicked it.

It was not necessary to wait a few days for enough to arrive to form a platoon for training. There were enough of us to get on with it, being issued with uniforms and equipment and allocated together in one barrack room and named the Blenheim Platoon. Coming out of the stores, burdened with all the items, we had to trail past a platoon drilling on the square. I am sure every one of us wondered, as we regarded our disreputable appearances, casual movements, pale faces and straggling formation, whether we could ever look so smart, orderly and healthy as those we saw.

It happened. Six months later, whether we liked it or not, we were not just survivors but passed out as the platoon with the highest number of points recorded there. Not only that, I with another chap, Jolly, had acquired Recruit Lance Corporal status which was rewarded with the last week of training free of duties other than the Cathedral Duty, which was a special honour. This consisted of parading at the guardroom in immaculate turnout, white belt, side arms and walking stick, for minute inspection. Then I marched to Winchester Cathedral alone where I halted in front of a glass case containing a large book recording all those that had fallen in service with the Regiment. I step up, saluted, unlocked and opened the case, turned over one page, closed and re-locked, stepped back, another salute and then returned to barracks finished for the day.

Anyone that knows Winchester knows that the road slopes steeply from the barracks down past the shops. It was there on one of these outings that an officer emerged from a shop just as I swung round the corner. I threw up a salute, which he returned as I sat on the ground: my studded boots had disappeared from beneath me.

Having completed our training we were transferred to Aldershot to join the Second Battalion. There was a lot of activity there, not square bashing or physical training, but filling sandbags and stacking them around vulnerable points. There was life after sandbagging though. I was told that I had volunteered to box as middleweight in a forthcoming inter-brigade contest against the 2nd Grenadiers, 3rd Scots Guards and the Cheshire's, a machine gun battalion. I won two bouts but lost the third. You don't know what it is like to try and hit a 6'3" guardsman who is only 11 stone 10 pounds. He is so thin it’s a job to see him let alone hit him, yet his arms are so long it was like being prodded around with a broomstick.

One day I was called out with 20 others and told we were to be a new style platoon: The Pioneer Platoon attached to H.Q. We had been selected because we had all been working at various trades prior to enlistment, and it was noted that I had been a V.A.D. member of the British Red Cross. How they got that information I never found out. Maybe from the time I demonstrated gas mask at a school in Carpenters Road in 1938. Anyway, the concept of the platoon was to do minor engineering work and anti-gas decontamination - that sort of thing. We were put to erecting large timber braces against the buildings under the supervision of a Royal Engineer sergeant major. I took an interest in the work but was surprised that I had been recommended to be an unpaid lance corporal. That was fine, but trouble, real trouble was just around the corner.

It was not long before the 'Z' reservists were called up with the result that, with the exception of Crisp and myself, the whole platoon was restructured with bemedalled old sweats who had served most of their time on the Indian frontier. Plus one named Bird who was inevitably known as 'Dicky', not far off completing 21 years and a permanent P.S.M., also a long server, taking charge with the terrifying reputation of having served as a sergeant for seven years at Lucknow detention barracks. We did have a sergeant named Wells who ran a joinery workshop complete with a circular saw who, soldiering on from World War One as a craftsman, was not interested in being a sergeant of the platoon, being quite happy making notice boards. The result was that, effectively, nothing of consequence stood between me, an unpaid lance corporal of 19, and P.S.M. Head otherwise known as 'Crusty', which described him perfectly.

As for the rest, they had all been top sportsmen: Clarke, heavyweight boxing champion of all India, Fortune, light heavyweight champ, Moore, middleweight and a couple of other champs whilst the others had all excelled at hockey or some other sport. To add to the inequality, they had nearly all been full corporals or sergeants by virtue of their efforts. Me? I was nothing. But with Sgt. Wells forever lost in his workshop, I had to tell them whatever Crusty directed. I could have handled it better with hindsight, but after gaining some confidence, teaching them how to strip down and re-assemble a Bren gun that was new to them, I asked if anyone knew anything about motorbikes. Several smartly stepped forwards at the prospect of riding one. I chose Pony Moore and told him the P.S.M. wanted his bike cleaned and so sowed the seed of personal resentment.

During that period the conscripts began to arrive, you know, the 21-year-olds. They poured into Aldershot as though they were going to a football match. Watching them arrive, I had to move aside as a Rolls Royce glided to a halt. A uniformed chauffeur got out and opened a rear door for a fat young man to emerge most elegantly dressed in top hat and tails. He was Gordon Rolls the race horse millionaire, come to do his bit straight from a race meeting. I saw him again in 1943 in very different circumstances to be recorded later.

Maneuvers began with excursions into the countryside where our platoon had little to do but set up a decontamination centre with a tent and blankets to form screened departments. Little was seen of Crusty. Sgt. Wells remained in barracks hiding in his workshop. Crusty contrived to give me a dog's life by having me report to him each morning, always demanding to know where I was at so and so hundred hours, threatening to bust (demote) me and then dismissing me without a chance to explain. I found an answer the next time he came the old acid: I replied 'Looking for you - Sir!' That was it, I had the skiving old what's-it taped.

One day there was a set piece battle organised across an open valley. Our battalion and the Cheshire's were in slit trenches on one slope and the Guards came at us out of the woods the other side with bren carriers dashing about and everyone either firing off lots of blanks or winding rattles to represent machine gun fire. Heaven knows what was achieved but I am certain that there were invited German officers and other nationals standing on top and behind watching. We did have a more interesting exercise later when each platoon, including ourselves for a change, were taken in turn to a small wooded valley and issued 50 rounds of live ammunition apiece. We had to spread across one end and advance the length using all possible cover. Targets would pop up which had to be shot down before advancing further. This was more like it and suited my old sweats down to the ground. Except that whilst Macey lay and fired propped up on his elbows, Clack sat behind him and fired like mad over his head, so close that every time he fired, Macey's hair (having lost his helmet) jumped as though operated by a puppet string. We did rather well at that, all targets down, all ammo used up.

The next outing was to Odiham where an aeroplane stood on an ordinary grass field. First we all had to be weighed with the result that there was some duck shoving of equipment. Crusty decided to resolve the problem by not going himself - he would, wouldn't he. When ready, we had to race across to the aircraft one at a time with a count in between. In the plane, only big enough to hold 20, the seats had been taken out and replaced with a long bench seat each side where we sat with our rifles between our knees. An R.A.F. chap closed the door and with a shudder, the aircraft rolled forward. The plane was in no way purpose built and very old, it shook and rattled alarmingly. Up we went for about 20 minutes and began to descend again. It bounced several times on the grass and then took off again. Who were we to wonder why as the aircraft made another trip and came to touchdown and then to a standstill. The R.A.F. type opened the door and we could see his face was green as grass with the result everyone else felt worse than ever. We had to dash out with the same timing, spread out and lay down in firing positions. What a shambles. The pilot had to go up a second time because he nearly hit the hedge! Maybe we were the first British airborne troops whilst the Germans were getting first class experience in Spain.

The last outing was by lorry on to Salisbury Plain. From there we began marching but after some two hours a Dispatch Rider raced up to the front. We were halted and turned back. It was September the 3rd, war had been declared and mobilisation began. Our long bayonets were exchanged for short ones, we were given F.S. caps and a complicated list of supplementaries were issued, together with 50 rounds of ammunition apiece. The platoon now had its own 1500 weight truck, a well furnished toolbox for each of the three sections and a load of oilskin capes, leggings, overboots and tins of decontamination ointment. But beyond our own common sense we had no special training or printed instructions. Next followed injections and a 12-hour leave. Most were too far from home so it seemed the whole division descended on Aldershot town centre determined to drink themselves stupid. It was stupid all right, the injections saw to that, with the result that they were taken back to barracks in groaning heaps in the back of trucks.