Back to base
The axe fell just before Christmas 1949. Our adjutant, Capt. Auld, suffered a rush of blood to the head or something similar - it certainly wasn't Christmas spirit - and decreed that all the odds and sods like me, enjoying lurks and perks on the battalion's fringes, would have to return to the fold. Gathering up my trappings (including my long neglected webbing equipment, which I found mouldering in the bottom of my wardrobe) with heavy heart and leaden feet I made my disconsolate way back to Majeedi Barracks and re-joined the Army!
I managed to find a vacant bed space in a double room, my companion being the battalion armourer, Cpl 'Chalky' White. Chalky was a regular and had served in a fighting unit during the war, where he had suffered some degree of battle fatigue - 'shell shock' in WW1 parlance - leaving him with a nervous twitch and some bizarre habits, like waking up in the middle of the night and eating chocolate! Otherwise he was as normal as the rest of us!
He kept a cat named Ching, an abbreviation of 'Kuching', Malay for cat and also, curiously, the name of the capital of Sarawak. It was supposed to occupy the armoury and, presumably, prevent the rats eating the weapons but it spent most of its time in our room, sleeping on our beds. We fed it from whatever we could purloin from the cookhouse leftovers and I remember that it was particularly partial to curry - the hotter the better!
I still had the same job to do, handling 'B' Company's pay rolls, but now I did it in the battalion pay office, where the extent of my spare time soon became apparent, resulting in my being laden with some of 'A' Company's work as well. My a-la-carte menu was now a thing-of-the-past and I was obliged to take my meals with the rest of my comrades-in-arms, the bill of fare being determined by the duty cook-sergeant. I also had to resume guard duties, along with everyone else. However, this was not as onerous for me as for some of the others. There was another man named Stone in 'A' Company, whose 'last three'* were 339, whereas mine were 993. For some reason (perhaps he was number illiterate!) RSM Kipling, who made up the guard rosters, was unable to distinguish between us, with the result that my namesake performed about twice as many duties as I did. He never complained, so why should I?
My mother, taking advantage of the concessional postage rates for military personnel serving overseas, sent me a large fruit-cake as a Christmas present. It was well fortified with brandy, securely wrapped and packed in a tin and, in theory, should have kept for years in pristine condition. Unfortunately, because there was space available in the tin, she included some fresh apples. By the time the package reached me, about three months later, the apples had rotted and all I received was a tin-full of green mould. I was able to retrieve one glace cherry which I carefully wiped and ate. Thanks, Mum!
That Christmas - 1949 - was the only one that I spent in camp in the Army. UK based troops usually manage to get home leave over Christmas and military installations are normally manned by skeleton crews, mainly Scotsmen, who prefer to get home for Hogmanay, resulting in Christmas Day being relatively low key. Overseas, with the whole contingent being on hand, festivities are considerably more focussed.
On Christmas Eve, a party was given for the children of the few families living on the base, the highlight of which was Santa arriving on an elephant! Lots of cakes, jellies and ice cream accompanied this event and I am quite certain that some of the kids commenced the festivities with bloated bellies and perhaps worse! Even so, they were in commendably better condition than many of the adults!
Christmas Day in 1949 fell on Saturday and, because of this, the following Monday and Tuesday were awarded as 'non-working days' in lieu, the whole of the break thus stretching from Friday evening until the following Wednesday morning. Friday is also payday and the normal occasion for carousing, a significant factor in kicking off the monumental binge into which this particular Christmas deteriorated.
In Malaya, the Festivities fall in the middle of the monsoon season and there is usually a tropical downpour at least once a day during this period.
The area in front of our mess hall must have suffered from poor drainage because it was always an unsightly mud patch. At some stage during Christmas morning, someone, perhaps nostalgic for snowballs, had playfully scooped up a handful of mud and thrown it at someone else, thus starting a train of events that multiplied like an amoeba! Every newcomer to the scene became the target and within a very short time, everyone was coated with a layer of sticky brown muck. Our natty jungle greens were transformed - literally and figuratively - to khaki. Laurel and Hardy would have loved it!
The highlight of a British military Christmas is lunch and it is a tradition that on this occasion the lower ranks are waited upon by the officers and senior NCOs. Naturally, this is an opportunity for gibes and ribaldry that, in less convivial circumstances, might had earned the perpetrators a spell in the guard room, but the targets are forced to endure them, good-naturedly - at least within reason.
The cooks excel themselves for this meal, which is always traditional Christmas fare with all the trimmings. It is also one of the rare occasions when the Army shouts each of its soldiers a beer. The contents of the large bottle of Tiger Beer that stood beside each plate accompanied the turkey and pudding down our already well-lubricated throats.
The natural sequel to such a gastronomic orgy would have been a long, undisturbed siesta. However, this was forestalled by the next item on the program, the annual soccer match between officers and men. This clash owed less to the Football Association's rules than the Marquis of Queensbury's. The prescribed twenty-two players were augmented by several hundred or so spectators, whenever the run of play dictated it. A great deal of military strategy and guile was also employed, - with some surprises. For much of the time, the field was enveloped in coloured emissions from the smoke grenades each side hurled to gain advantage by obscuring the referee's vision. The final triumphant goal was scored when a jeep, together the ball and the entire officers' team packed onto it, was driven between the opponents' goalposts. Everyone agreed it was, if unconventional, an appropriate and worthy result!
Those who still had the stomach for it headed for the NAAFI while the rest of us retired to our billets to recuperate in preparation for the evening's excesses or to make our way into town in search of female companionship. These excursions would not be without unexpected danger.
Colonel Fisher, our C.O., ever mindful of his troops' well-being, had arranged for our guard duties to be taken over by a platoon of Gurkhas, specially imported for the task. As almost everyone is aware, these little Nepalese fighters are renowned for an almost uncanny ability to operate silently and invisibly and, in matters military, to have almost no sense of humour! Some of the inebriated returnees, answering the time honoured challenge, 'Halt! Who goes there?' with 'The Three Wise Men', or similar witticisms , found a bayonet at the throat, accompanied by the click of a rifle bolt, to be an instantly sobering experience. A delegation convinced the good colonel that, much as we appreciated his thoughtfulness, the distinct likelihood of a mishap might mar the festivities and he happily agreed to our taking over our own guard duties once more.
Boxing Day and the rest of the holiday became a blur for most of us and for a few, a complete blackout. George Harrell, one of my colleagues in the Pay Office, spent the whole of Tuesday splayed out across the main passageway of our barrack block, causing everyone going that way to step unsteadily over him. Those returning to work on Wednesday were strangely quiet and withdrawn, obviously suffering, yet all agreed that it had been a really great Christmas!
New Year's Eve was to be my undoing. A gathering, euphemistically called a 'dance' (although female dancing partners were outnumbered twenty-to-one) and attended by the local military brass, was held in the NAAFI. The battalion welfare fund had been raided and a dangerous amount of free booze was on hand. As I had charge of the unit's projector, I was pressed into service to provide the music, using its amplifier to play records. Early on the new morn, when all the beer had been drunk and the last of the celebrants had staggered off into the darkness, I was left to pack up my equipment while the NAAFI staff locked up. My billet was too far away for me to carry the stuff even if I had been sober enough to try. My befuddled reasoning convinced me that the steps of the QM stores, close by, would be the safest place to leave it for what was left of the night. And so it would have been, had the duty officer, in no better state than I was, not fallen over it!
On Monday morning I was on defaulters' parade, charged with neglect of Army property or something of that nature. I was quick-marched before the orderly officer, who turned out to be my old boss, Capt Hamer. This was rather fortunate for me as we had always been on good terms and, to his credit, he stretched his discretion to the limit. Nevertheless, as my guilt was never in doubt, he was forced to impose at least the minimum punishment for such a heinous crime, which was: '5 days Confined to Barracks. March 'im out, Sarn't Major!'
'Jankers', as it is (un)popularly known, is not simply a matter of being kept in! The victim must report to the Guard Room, washed, shaven and properly dressed, at some pre-dawn hour of the morning, then carries out his normal duties during the day. After work, he is unable to drown his sorrows in drink as the canteen and all other on-camp diversions are out of bounds for the duration. He is also at the disposal of anyone in authority, especially the duty officer, to carry out unpleasant tasks, like washing up the greasiest pots and pans in the cookhouse. As a final indignity he must parade at the guardhouse before light outs in whatever dress the Provost Sergeant decrees, be it Sports Gear or FSMO, before being allowed to turn in.
However, for those in Headquarters Platoon, an unofficial support system operates. The miscreant immediately gets himself placed on guard duty. This may sound like extra punishment but it is something one has to do anyway, occasionally, so it's no sweat. More importantly, the guard cannot attend the evening and morning parades because he is on duty elsewhere, nor is he available to carry out the duty officer's whims. A quick visit to the clerk who keeps the medical records will invariably reveal that one is overdue for some inoculation or other, which demands instant rectification, followed by a compulsory forty hours rest! Fifty percent of my sentence has been remitted already! A visit to the M.O. citing nebulous symptoms like dizzy spells or double vision - something which a doctor cannot prove but will always, for his own protection, give to the complainant the benefit of the doubt - invariable elicits a chit proscribing either bed rest or light duties, either of which is sufficient to earn a respite from punishment.
Five days jankers can thus be whittled down to one with very little effort!
The Army prides itself on teaching its members to use their initiative, doesn't it? This is one of the rare occasions when this principle is put to good use.
There was, however, to be a lasting blot on my escutcheon resulting from the episode. Under the heading 'Conduct' on my Discharge Certificate, 'Very Good' was substituted for the more desirable 'Impeccable', a slur on an otherwise blameless military career.
| Previous Page | Index | Next Page |
|
|