Malaya 1957
It was early 1957, my battalion 1/SWB had been up country in Malaya for two years, we moved from our company locations around North Jahore and took the long road down to Selarang barracks in Singapore. We were a happy bunch, we sang as we travelled this happy route, we were going down to civilisation for a rest and a change of scene, wonderful!
We moved slowly down the Malay peninsular in convoy, Our vehicles bristled with rifles and light machine guns pointing outwards from the sides of the vehicles in case of attack ...Just let them try it'.
We arrived at Selarang barracks Singapore and de-bussed on the square at early evening. Then the screaming started, the RSM was there to meet us, who was this fellow?. We had heard of him. Jesus Christ! all the stories were true! We also met people at Selarang from our own battalion who we had never seen before. We suffered a 'shock of capture' that we certainly had not expected. We thought the jungle had been hard graft but what was before us was to prove far worse.
The Regimental Sergeant Major. 'Kramer' was his nickname. He descended on us with his posse of regimental police like the hounds out of hell. We were undrilled and had 'jungle stoops, bent backs like old hags after carrying big and heavy weights on our backs for two years, we slouched and we leaned against walls and such unsoldierly actions.
The RSM terrified us all, the whole one thousand of us. Having not had the privilege of hounding us over the past two years, he was now making up for lost time. The Company Sergeant Majors feared him, Sergeants were terrified and young officers hid from him. Who were we, the private soldiers in such an environment. We just hid as best we could, we never ventured where he could 'ambush us' we kept out of his sight.
The barrack blocks surrounded the square, the RSM's office was on an upper floor where he viewed all from his vantage point on his varanda! We watched that office and we passed to others info where he was at a particular time. Was it safe to venture to the char wallar? We took the longer but safe route to the cookhouse, we developed our own safe 'track discipline'
The RSM's voice was often heard in screams from his veranda, such as: 'Take his name'! and 'Get him here now'! 'Lock him up!' Get that man to me now! We listened to this all day and into the early evening,
Some poor soul was often seen being doubled towards his office by the regimental police. We hadn't been frightened of the Jungle enemy, but there was real fear in men's eyes now.
The RSM's early morning drill parades, entailed five companies of us, all dressed in best starched OG and best boots and rifle, brasses polished, the hair of the head non existent. Our kit had been prepared from well into the night. On these parade days we got up about four in the morning. There was eighty of us in our billet, the early raising was essentail to get a place at the wash basin. Old soldiers used to wash in the fire buckets; locking them in their lockers at night to stop us younger soldiers having this old soldier's priveledge, they then got an extra twenty minutes in bed, no wait at the wash basins for them!
On these parades we each stood rigid so as not to blink lest we drew attention in ones direction. Just before sunrise, you could just make out the RSM in the warm morning mist, we knew that more fear would come with the full sunshine when he could scrutinize us.
Then with the sun raising he would appear out of the mist like some terrible 'apparition' all immaculate in starched shirt and shorts, with gleaming boots, a beautiful Sam Brown belt and pace stick, he would look slowly from left to right, and right to left, while the regimental band played something like the 'Dead March'.
The RSM wasn't particularly fond of the band and always had a go at them. "There's movement amongst the fairies of the band today" He once shouted across to the Bandmaster. "They are reading their music RSM" Replied the bandmaster. " Are you telling me that your bloody snake chalmers can read?"
On one of these mornings he gave his word of Command...'Battalion! Then suddenly he stopped in his mid 'word of command' and looked and stared to his right. There standing at attention on the side of the square was a solitary figure, a soldier that had dared to appear different; alone and a centre for attention.
He was wearing just shorts and flip flops, his feet were painted in 'blue unction' up to his knees, (it was a skin infection remedy). He wore no shirt and his upper body was also covered in red and blue unction. "Who is the bloody Martian" shouted the RSM to the nearest CSM to the soldier. "He's sick Sir" replied the CSM. Then the RSM addressed the soldier. "Don't just stand there get your rifle and practice some arms drill" " I'm excused Sir" replied the soldier. "Well practice your bloody foot drill then" I'm excused boots Sir" "Then do some saluting" said the RSM. The soldier replied. I 'm excused all Sir, I'm not allowed to sweat"!
The RSM was lost for words and stuttered for a moment! "Right" shouted the RSM.. "Place your hands on your hips and practice deep breathing" Turning to the Provost sergeant he said. " Stay in front of him for the rest of this parade and make sure that the lazy sod breathes longer and louder and deeper than he has in his whole useless disease ridden life" " I won't have idle 'non sweating' spectators in this battalion"
Battalion guard mounting took place each evening at 6pm; a complicated affair. It involved an in-depth inspection, some intricate drill, flag lowering, and playing of the 'last post'. Finally a march off parade, which passed the RSM's office.
On these occassions and having nothing better to do the battalion watched from the varandas of the blocks surrounding the square. They hoped to see some poor sod being 'doubled off', declared scruffy or idle at drill and being unworthy of the honour of performing Battalion Guard. His punishment would often be to do four more of them.
The biggest dread of all was 'Ceremonial guard mounting' this took place on some Saturday evenings or when there was a Regimental Battle Honour to be commemorated. It entailed the same procedure as night guards but with the Regimental band on parade and the officers and guests all seated a hundred yards to the front of the guard, often there was a guest of honour. These parades were a complete terror, the inspecting officer was often the Adjutant accompanied by the RSM. We wore starched ceremonial 'whites', on these guards, they were 'composite guards' which ment two men detailed from each rifle company.
Studying company detail one evening I saw my name down for composite ceremonial guard, dress was to be 'whites'. The guest of honour was to be General Festing GOC Far East Land Forces. Jesus Christ! panic. The others around the detail board with me went into raptures and screamed with sheer delight and pleasure. The written detail went on; 'This is an important occasion when the very highest standards of dress and bearing of the battalion is demanded from all taking part'
I went to see the company sergeant major, I recall almost begging him and just about falling to my knees as I pleaded. I had only just done a guard, and wanted off this one, which was not my turn.We in the company called the CSM 'Dad' not to his face of course. He was kind to us and an amicable fellow, but of late even he had taken on the haunted look of an 'hunted animal'.
"Now then Davies old boy. I want you to do this thing for me, you are one of thre smartest lads in this company, I would like you to do it" pause then. " The Guard is on Friday, I will give you Thursday off. The company will pay for your 'special dhobi'. Come and see me on Friday morning dressed as for parade, for me to see just how well you have done"
The die was cast. I was for it. For the four remaining nights I woke up on about hourly occasions. Walker who slept next bed to me moved down the billet because he said I was 'talking in my sleep' I replied "impossible, I'm not sleeping" but in my half dreams, I kept dropping my rifle from my shaking sweaty hands.
Like all things the guard mounting came and went. I did it fine but with sweat running down my spine and seeping through my white starched jacket, knees a little shaky. I had worked at my kit and worked hard on the several dress rehearsals.
I got through it and as Gen Festing left the Barracks later I was the sentry on the gate. I gave him my most immaculate, 'Present arms' some minutes later I heard movment behind me and looked over my shoulder. It was the RSM, he was having a sneaky smoke in the bushes, he too needed to relax. more silence, I heard his footstep, then he moved to my front. I shot to attention. He looked me in the face for a moment and then said "Well done young lad" and just walked off.
And so it went on for a further four months until in the middle of March 1958, when we boarded HM Troopship Dilware and sailed for home. On the ship we had another RSM ' A Ship's RSM' who remained on board for a two-year tours, he was a jovial and aged fellow. He had a list of our names whereby he called us at unearthly hours for all sorts of tasks, sometimes, fire drill, or just to do PT but more often to do tasks in the Galley.
Sleeping somewhere below decks and not far from the stored anchor chain, I thought I was to have a cushy holiday sail to my homeland, but not to be. My name came across the Tannoy several times a day, always the same. "The following from 1/SWB report to the Ship's RSM now!" and then a list of names followed, if you missed these frequent summons, then you got some extra calls from him right into the dead of night.
On arrival at home my mother greeted me, it was about midnight. I had to raise the houshold from their beds. She said with tears in her eyes, "you look so thin" she gave me a big hug and said "I'll make you one of my nice rice puddings" I didn't have the heart to tell her no. I had eaten mostly rice for two and a half years. I had ambushed in it, patrolled in it and slept in it, I had eaten it boiled, fried, cold and hot rice, with fish and with bananas. I was completely sick of rice. But I eat my mother's rice pudding I duty is duty.
(In the cookhouses of our company camp in the rubber plantation at Segamat Malaya, whenever rice was on the menue which was most days, it was discribed as HEBREWS 13:59, if you look that up in the Bible it means; 'Jesus Christ, the same yesterday and today and forever'. That summed up the rice diet!)
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Fourteen years later I became a Regimental Sergeant Major. I can only state what completely wonderful fellows we are, and emphasize what a colossal debt that is owed to us knowledgeable philosophers by the whole of British Soldiery, that have passed before our all seeing eyes.
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