January 1950 marked the beginning of the end as far as my National Service days were concerned. The Brass Hats at the War Office, when not engaged in writing their memoirs, had decreed that my particular intake would end its stint with the Colours in April. This date was still more than three months away but as I was also a month away from the motherland, my service would end, effectively, in March, with only a leisurely cruise aboard one of His Majesty’s sumptuous troopships separating me from total freedom. Wheels began to turn and the machinery for transposing me and my time-expired comrades to the other side of the globe sprang – well, perhaps that’s a slight exaggeration – jerked into action.

Our Chief Clerk, a lanky warrant officer whose nose seemed permanently engaged in the detection of nasty smells, especially when lower forms of life like me were in its presence, assigned us a draft number, by which we would be known, collectively, until our arrival in Aldershot. Our names were now enshrined on a typewritten list that resided under the glass on his desktop.

By some quirk of logic, this same WO* reasoned that as most of us were about to leave the Army, we should undergo an upgrading course to turn us into even more efficient ex-soldiers, i.e. by being uplifted from Clerk III to Clerk II. Whether or not this was to boost our self-esteem by making us aware that our loss to the service would be even more profound than we had hitherto realised and, in a fit of guilt, be induced to ‘sign-on’, we never knew. And, as the two- week course was to be held at Alexandra, on the very doorstep of Singapore’s nightlife, we didn’t particularly care, either! Scrubbed, pressed and highly polished we boarded our gharri with some glee for the closest thing to recreational leave that we had so far encountered in Malaya.

The course itself was Chilwell revisited. By day we re-enacted the paper shuffling game whilst trying to absorb the intelligence that The System had undergone considerable change (but not necessarily improvement) since we had been spurred to flee its evil grasp. As most of us had never worked in the Stores environment since, we were particularly unmoved. By night, we took full advantage of the pleasures that were available at such close proximity. Fortunately, the interminable lectures, delivered in a dry monotone by a fatherly warrant officer* who was probably even more bored than we were, offered opportunities to doze and catch up with the sleep lost during our nocturnal carousing in the city. The only goad was that there would be an examination at the end of it which we were all expected to pass!

On the evening before the test, one of my classmates was hospitalised by what was diagnosed as malaria (although we suspected chronic fatigue or alcohol poisoning to be much more likely causes.) The examination was pretty much a doddle and we were all fairly confident of a positive result despite odds to the contrary. As we were due to depart for our respective units early on the following morning, we visited our incapacitated comrade before embarking on our final debauch, considerately leaving a copy of the question paper with him.

The results were forwarded to our CO, and Lo! like Abou Ben Adhem’s, my name led all the rest. My triumph (miraculous as it was) was ephemeral. A supplementary scoresheet placed our now-convalescing malingerer just ahead of me. This was not surprising considering that he had sat the very same test paper and, with foreknowledge of the questions, he could hardly have failed! The really bitter blow came when this worthy was promoted to corporal as a reward for his dedication. My military ambitions were once again dashed. That night, I carried out a very thorough search of my knapsack, even upending it onto the floor. Contrary to the great Duke’s pronouncement - (Wellington, not John Wayne) - there was definitely no field-marshal’s baton concealed within!

Amongst the other festivities. we managed to squeeze in an HG Platoon dinner at the Union Jack Club

All the faces are still familiar but I’m afraid most of the names escape me.

As March drew closer, the countdown quickened. It would still be winter when we arrived in England so we all had to be kitted out with clothing suitable for the northern clime and the Indian tailors had a field day. In fairness, I might mention that as tropical gear is never worn on home service, this would probably have happened even if we were due to arrive in midsummer and I might add that not all of us were due for demob. The regulars would be soldiering on and would need their new attire but for most of us it amounted to a free supply of work clothes, as we were allowed to carry our basic uniforms and boots with us into Civvy Street.

Before embarking for foreign shores, we had been jabbed and dosed against contracting the hideous diseases to be found east of Calais. Now, on our return, we faced a similar battery of inoculations. Were these designed to protect us from the debilitating ills to be found in our homeland – drunkenness, unemployment and poverty – or simply to neutralise the earlier lot? We never discovered!

Meanwhile, we had to prepare for the Hero’s Homecoming by equipping ourselves with an array of gifts, souvenirs and similar gewgaws sufficient to ensure us free drinks and compliant female companionship for at least a token period thereafter. Anything that had an exotic flavour was considered a highly desirable keepsake. Most of the local shops carried a line of hand towels emblazoned with legends like ‘Good Morning, Beautiful’, in English and Chinese, available for a modest sum. Ashtrays and beer glasses advertising the local brew in several scripts were even more cheaply obtained by stealth from our favourite watering holes! Pride of place in my collection, and much envied, was an enameled plate pried from a toilet door on the KL – Singapore Night Mail, urging passengers not to use the facility ‘while the train is standing in the station’ - in four languages!

As for buying gifts for the nearest and dearest, our modest remuneration did not stretch very far in this respect, even included the extra 1/6d a week that our recent upgrading had lavished upon us. Belts had to be tightened! As almost all of our weekly outlay went on food, drink and smokes it was only in the area of these indulgences that any economies could be made. The tooled leather writing case I had made in hospital would be an ideal gift for my father. For my mother, I managed to find an inexpensive brooch in the shape of a kriss -the Malay ceremonial dagger.

Not having any siblings to worry about was of definite financial advantage to me. Other relatives and friends would have to make do with cigarettes, obtainable at duty-free prices aboard ship.
All-in-all, I think I came out of it rather well.

Tradition decreed that those troops quitting Malaya must spurn the regulation kit bag in favour of an elaborate hide portmanteau bearing one’s initials in Gothic script on the side. These triumphs of the counterfeiter’s art were mostly compressed cardboard, stained and buffed to resemble expensive leather but they featured sufficient straps, buckles and intriguing pockets to lure a buyer’s mind away from this base deficiency. They were necessary acquisitions anyway: two sets of uniforms, tropical and temperate, plus our ‘civvies’ and all the bits and pieces we had acquired, would never have fitted into the canvas sausage that the Army provided.

It was thus, suitably prepared and kitted, that we took leave of our friends, exchanging hurriedly scribbled home addresses, bid farewell to the salubrious Majeedi Barracks and set out for the Singapore Docks to board our vessel for the long voyage home.

The traditional Malay dagger, the kriss,