On 16 September 1948, having received a second buff envelope, I set out for Aldershot with my shaving gear, toothbrush, and a change of socks, as directed, and became 22063993 Recruit Stone, W. L. of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps.
The train from Waterloo was full of similarly apprehensive young men, all strangely quiet and pre-occupied. In the station yard at our destination, frenetic lance-corporals clutching clipboards and believing that we were deaf-mute imbeciles, directed us, with much shouting and gesticulating, to one of the many army trucks waiting there. When filled, the whole convoy roared off to our encampment - Parsons Barracks - for the bewildering experience of induction.
Our first lesson in military decorum was that we were no longer permitted to stand about in clusters, chatting and smoking, but must ‘get fell in’. This ungrammatical maneuver was at first accomplished with much shuffling and jostling and a degree of jocularity. A few scathing comments from our near-apoplectic overseers quickly convinced us that the exercise had nothing in common with the Hokey Cokey and so, under threat of dire consequences, we achieved a modicum of competence in a very short time.
We were divested of all but our socks and underpants and were again subjected to a thorough medical examination. After being questioned, prodded, injected and inoculated, various items of clothing and bedding were thrust at us and we blindly signed a sheaf of papers, committing ourselves to a lifetime of God-knows-what, and then, to our amazement, we were paid!
This was not an act of magnanimity on the part of the Ministry of Defence. It was to forestall any claims of impecuniosity and thus force us to purchase an array of requirements that the army did not supply and which were deemed vital for our survival as recruits. The list encompassed boot polish, gym shoe whitener, Brasso, Blanco, soap, a spare toothbrush for ‘boning’ our boots and a strange device called a button stick which allowed brass buttons to be polished without staining the clothing to which they were attached. We also learned that this honorarium would be deducted from our first stipend, if we should survive long enough to earn it. Several of the NCOs expressed their doubts as to this eventuality!
Finally, clutching a bewildering array of bits and pieces, we staggered off to our assigned barrack rooms with the information that we would receive ‘the rest’ tomorrow. The only ‘rest’ that most of us were interested in at that point in time was the horizontal kind! Few but the hardiest of souls (or the most despondent) bothered to seek out the canteen to sample the beer.
The army does not supply pyjamas and those who insisted on wearing them were considered somewhat effete! The time-honoured military tradition was to sleep with one’s shirt tucked into one’s underpants! In the not too distant past, soldiers were not given sheets or pillowcases, either, and slept between the hairy army issue blankets. The fact that conditions had improved, marginally, on those enjoyed by Caesar’s legions failed to impress us.
Most of us were already deep in the Land of Nod when ‘Lights out’ was called at 10 pm.
Reveille seemed to follow only a few minutes later. The new day began with instruction on how to fold our sheets and blankets and display our new found treasures in a way that should bring joy to the heart of our inspecting officer, an objective rarely achieved in practice.
After our ablutions, we fell in outside and marched to the mess hall for breakfast, carrying our plates, mug and ‘eating irons’. The army had thoughtfully provided a pocket in the front of our trousers that neatly accommodated the latter. It had been designed for a field-dressing but was rarely, if ever, used for this purpose and, universally, it sprouted a knife, fork and spoon.
Army food, while not exactly cordon bleu, was plentiful and, presumably, nourishing but did little to tickle our jaded palates while memories of home cooking were still fresh in our minds. The bare boards on which we were expected to eat the repast were also a little off-putting and a substantial proportion of those first meals ended up in the swill bins.
Afterwards, we plunged our crockery and cutlery into boiling cauldrons, at the risk of scalded fingers, and returned to our quarters to begin the rigours of the new day.
This was largely taken up with drilling and the issue of the rest of our kit, interspersed with lectures on the perils of VD, body lice and other pestilences. One highlight was a haircut.
“How would you like it, Sir?” was the time worn joke.
Whatever the answer, the result was the same. Short all round and flat on the top! ext came a demonstration of how to assemble and ‘Blanco’ the maze of webbing which constituted our FSMO (Field Service Marching Order).
Our final task of the day was to wrap and tie our now discarded ‘civvies’ for posting home, thus severing the last link with our earlier lives. ‘Burning our bridges’ was a phrase that came readily to mind!
The next couple of weeks passed in of blur of marching, wheeling, halting, jogging and otherwise responding to a lexicon of drill commands, couched in syllables bearing little resemblance to the English tongue, and even less to the written word. The aim was to transform us into sufficiently reasonable facsimiles of soldiers to be allowed out of the camp without bringing shame on the military corps. As this outcome was also our sole objective, co-operation was nothing less than total.
While this was going on our ‘best BD’, as our walking-out uniforms were known, were receiving the attentions of the camp tailors, who had earlier crisscrossed them with a lacework of blue chalk in a challenging attempt to make them fit. In my case, I feel it would have been easier to start from scratch!
Our nakedness, meanwhile, was covered by the Army’s traditional working dress – denims. These ensembles came in three parts – a blouse, a pair of trousers and a handful of detachable buttons with split-pins. They were handed out regardless of size and a flurry of swapping then ensued until everyone was in possession of reasonably fitting garments – except me!
The trousers were no great problem as we wore boots and gaiters on parade and any surplus length I could easily conceal. The problem was in the sleeves of the blouse, which usually hung down and obscured my hands. Several turns of the cuff was the sole, if untidy, solution. At the end of the week, the whole suit (less buttons and pins, which we retained,) was thrown into a laundry basket, and the pantomime was repeated with a clean set.
Our proper uniforms were returned, eventually, and any last minute nips and tucks were performed ready for our first foray into the outside world.
Wartime uniforms had collars that buttoned-up to the throat but we, the new, post-war army, shared with officers the privilege of displaying our collars and ties. The latest batch of uniforms had properly tailored, revered lapels, which looked quite neat, but some of us were unlucky enough to be issued with the old design, which was simply left open at the collar and could never be pressed flat.
We had been permitted to retain our civilian shoes, either black or brown, as long as they were not suede, which was anathema to the military mind. The two-toned variety, commonly known as ‘co-respondents’ were never even mentioned!
After a fortnight of confinement, the great day dawned at last and at noon, armed with 36 hour passes, we strode purposefully past the guardroom, with its full length mirror, under the critical eye of the Regimental Policemen on duty, and made for the railway station, savouring our first taste of freedom in two weeks.
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2002 James Paul & Martin Spirit. All rights reserved.
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