We had already received our postings, movement orders and travel warrants so, with the parade over, there was nothing further to detain us at Aldershot, except to pack our belongings and depart. The following morning we handed in our rifles and bedding, made our farewells to Adolph (that didn’t take long!) and, festooned in full equipment and lugging a kitbag, were driven to the railway station. The destination of my particular group of fifteen or so was RAOC Chilwell, a logistics facility in the Midlands, which was one of the Army’s main depots for vehicle spare parts.

We detrained at the small village of Attenborough, the nearest station, in a wintry dusk, to be met by a lone corporal who was our welcoming committee. Nobody had bothered to lay on transport so we were forced to march the couple of miles to the camp, our kit bags following on a handcart generously provided by the stationmaster. After a greatly appreciated hot meal, we moved into the now-familiar ‘spiders’, which were at least bright and warm, with each of us vying for one of the beds near the glowing pot-bellied stove.

It was not until the following morning that we were able to inspect our surroundings and even then, only when the fog had dispersed. Our vista in each direction was not a very exciting one, constrained as it was by the huge hanger-like sheds housing the myriad of items that constituted the depot’s stock-in-trade and dwarfing the administrative buildings and our living quarters. Later, we were introduced to our work environment and shown the rudiments of the job that we were assigned to.

Shortly before our arrival, the Army had adopted a revolutionary stock control system which, although the term had not existed then, might have been described as ‘state of the art’. It was founded on a multi-paged, multi-coloured booklet, each leaf of which bore the same, unique, number. It was fortunate that the ball point pen had been developed during the war, admittedly not for this purpose, as no other writing instrument could possibly have penetrated the twelve sheets and left a legible mark on the bottom copy! The disbursement of these flimsies was the key to the whole system - indenting, issuing, shipping, accounting and re-ordering, with a different colour being assigned to each responsibility.

Paper shuffling is incidental to every bureaucracy: in the Army it approaches an art form. We were aghast to discover that it was not merely incidental in this case. It constituted almost the entire job! If there were substitutions for the items ordered, this had to be noted on the returned copies. If a part of the order was unavailable at the time, the missing items had to be designated as ‘….to follows’ and the necessary advices and amendments made. Otherwise, that was it! We were never to handle the goods themselves or even to see them. They were merely catalogue numbers with cryptic descriptions-
   ‘ GU 45/238B 0072351, clip, spring, re-circulating 17 mm’.
Was this meant to be our daylong occupation for the next eighteen months? Apparently it was!

At the weekend, we were able to explore further a-field. In one direction, either a long walk or a short bus ride away, lay Long Eaton, a leading contender for the title of ‘ England’s Most Boring Town’. I think that its only claim to distinction was that it boasted the country’s second longest railway platform, or something of that nature. If that was true, it can’t have been built to cater for arrivals, more likely for those desperate to depart!

In the opposite direction, a longer bus ride away, was Nottingham, a pleasant enough provincial city, roughly at the geographical centre of England. This was once Robin Hood country, although what remained of Sherwood Forest would barely have concealed Maid Marion, let alone the outlaw and his Merry Men! The Sheriff’s bastion, Nottingham Castle, looked more like a country house than an historic fortress and is now better known as the logo on the back of every packet of Player’s Cigarettes. The only other claim to fame, as far as I could gather, was the presence of the well-known test cricket venue, Trent Bridge. Coal mines are scattered throughout the surrounding area and where there are miners there is usually dog racing.

After a stroll around on our first Saturday, taking in the sights, noting down the fleshpots and checking out the hostelries, some of us retired for a meal at a local cafe. The place was full of miners, fresh from an afternoon of racing and an evening in the pubs, indulging in the local dish of cow-heel and tripe. I have never actually eaten this delicacy, I must admit, but if it tastes anything like it looks and smells, I hope I never shall! We settled for fish and chips. Close to us sat a miner, well oiled, holding forth in the local patois, which we could barely understand.

Tucked into the front of his jacket was a small whippet pup. Every time he leaned forward to emphasise a point of his discourse, the pup emerged, unbeknown to him, and helped itself to a mouthful from his plate, much to our amusement.

On Sunday morning we were not bothered by anyone, unlike at the training camp, and we were free to lie-in and indulge in the sloth and idleness which are the British soldier’s preferred milieu. We scorned the cookhouse breakfast, having quickly learned the art of making toast on the heating stove, frying eggs on an electric iron and boiling tea in a mess tin. In the discussion that accompanied our leisurely repast, we were in unanimous agreement that eighteen months of work at the depot, relieved only by sporadic outings to Long Eaton and Nottingham, didn’t bear thinking about. It would likely bring about the mental state known in the French Foreign Legion as ‘cafard’, if not actual brain damage. Our only salvation was to volunteer for overseas service and hope that our prayers would be answered quickly.

The following morning, we trooped en masse to the Orderly Room. Eschewing the old soldier’s watchword of ‘never volunteer’, and the advice of our superiors, we submitted our requests to be allowed to serve His Majesty in whatever corner of the globe he should decree.