All for a shilling a day
Breakfast with nothing to pay.
Just learning the words that a sergeant must say.
All for a shilling a day.'
(Old Music Hall song.)
Pay rates had improved somewhat since that song was written.
By 1948, the daily rate had increased to four shillings - twenty eight bob a week! Early in our induction, we had been addressed by a pay officer, who inveigled us all into making an allotment of ten shillings a week towards a savings scheme, the accumulated largess to be available to facilitate our re-entry into 'civvy street' when we were finally discharged. This financial wizard neglected to notify us that the Army also deducted its pound of flesh -three shillings a week- towards such nebulous benefits as kit replacement, 'welfare' (whatever that was) and recreation. Thus, the most we could expect in our sweaty palms on payday was fifteen shillings. From this paltry sum, we must provide for such necessities as beer, cigarettes, boot polish, toothpaste, soap, Blanco.... and more beer.
The army provided no sustenance between breakfast and lunch, so we also had to buy our own mid-morning repast. Thrift was obviously the order of the day. For this reason, the Church Army canteen was more heavily patronised than the NAAFI every morning, as it charged a penny less for the traditional 'char and a wad'.
The heaviest drain on our financial resources was the train fare home at weekends yet, paradoxically, it also offered the greatest opportunity for economy. When funds were low, we simply didn't bother to buy tickets!
Boarding a train was no problem. At midday every Saturday, Aldershot railway station was invaded by a khaki hoard in a scene reminiscent of the assault on the Normandy beaches. It would have been a foolhardy ticket collector to stand his ground in the face of this onslaught. At Waterloo (the station, that is!), the same tide stormed the entrance to the Underground, leaving only the barrier at your destination to be negotiated. By mingling with the dismounting crowd, waving an outdated ticket stub, one hoped to evade the harassed collector. On Sunday evening, the whole procedure was repeated in reverse on the trip back to barracks. Success was dependent on a big helping of boldness and a large slice of luck, of course. There were the travelling inspectors to be dodged aboard the trains but this could usually be accomplished by ducking into the toilet. After all, didn't the army teach us to use our initiative?
One weekend in November, my luck ran out. I was the only passenger alighting at my home station so there was no chance of sneaking past the ticket collector. I went through all my pockets - and there are many in an army uniform - in a pantomime search for a non-existent ticket but I failed to convince this gallant guardian of the barrier that I had ever had one. My name and particulars were taken and I later received a summons on a charge of travelling without a ticket. Eventually, notification came from the Uxbridge Magistrate's Court that, in my absence, I had been fined the princely sum of five pounds but I was long gone from the sceptred isle when that arrived and, come to think of it, I don't ever remember paying it! Perhaps I'm still a fugitive from justice! I DO remember that the incident occurred on the weekend Prince Charles was born. Thus we embarked together, he on his life of privilege and me on my life of crime!
I have already alluded to the NAAFI, that clumsy mnemonic which stands for Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes. (Please note that the services are listed in order of seniority.) This was a quasi-military organisation that ran a canteen at every unit large enough to support one. Here, one could buy all the necessities of service life plus a few luxuries like beer (but not wines and spirits) and light meals at prices below those charged in the outside world. They were staffed by local civilians, mostly female, the latter widely believed to have been selected on the basis of their once having been ejected from beauty contests!
The décor was remarkably similar at every branch - functional but Spartan. It usually featured a piano, especially designed to withstand the heavy treatment often meted out by exuberant soldiery, a billiards table, similarly fortified, and a dartboard. The objective, obviously, was to create a pub-like atmosphere, a task in which they failed most dismally. Fun palaces they were definitely not! Totally lacking in warmth and bonhomie, they offered no competition to the local hostelries. Although they were reasonably well patronised during the week, when pockets were nearly empty, they were almost totally deserted at weekends, when barracks were vacated in favour of the bright lights and fleshpots downtown.
Occasionally, the NAAFI played host to dances and similar functions organised by the unit, when local people, especially girls, were permitted to attend, by invitation. At these events, officers and senior NCOs, with their wives, who normally patronised their own messes, were known to slum it with the hoi-poloi.
A few other canteens operated in competition with the NAAFI. I have mentioned the Church Army, which was a charitable institution manned by volunteers. The atmosphere here was a little more homely and its prices slightly cheaper. The other main contender was the Salvation Army, known throughout the services as 'the Sally Anne'. This organisation was held in the highest regard by everyone and had a reputation not only for friendly and reliable service but also for operating their 'cafes de wheels' within rifle shot of the front lines in wartime, where the NAAFI and the generals never ventured.
Another recreational organisation providing for our entertainment was the Army Kinema Corporation (AKC), which ran cinemas for the troops in larger garrisons and libraries that supplied films to smaller establishments. Every unit had a 16mm projector and the dining hall would be pressed into service as a makeshift picture theatre on one or two evenings a week. There was a smattering of recent releases shown at their main base cinemas but generally, the selection the AKC made available to the outstations was a bit dated. Nevertheless, we were grateful for these distractions and they managed to bring a little joy to our otherwise humdrum existences.
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