Article Anecdotes by John A Silkstone

[John A Silkstone]

Hi Zafo, the Trained Soldier was a one striper and was part of the depot staff. As stated, it was his job to look after all recruits through basic training. National Service (NS) was still going at the time, though our squad was all regulars and had volunteered to come into the forces. If he ever received a bollocking for something someone had not done. Their life was not worth living for the next few days. All in all, he would act like a mother to the lads. Many of them had not been away from home before and cried themselves to sleep at night. More so the NS soldiers who didn’t want to be there and hated being in the army.

The amazing thing is, these same NS men are the ones that sit in pubs today and say, “Bring back National Service, that will teach these young tearaways a lesson!”
sal; sal; sal;

 

[Zofo]

My Dad missed NS by a few months but I have met a large variety who did do the service, some liked it the vast majority didn't. I didn't know anything about this soldier - very interesting and I know I wouldn't like to be on the receiving end of his sort of justice!

Who in their right minds would want NS back again!!

 

[Bombardier]

The amazing thing is, these same NS men are the ones that sit in pubs today and say, “Bring back National Service, that will teach these young tearaways a lesson!”

Oh the irony!! :?

 

[John A Silkstone]

Zafo, Personally speaking I think that NS would be a good thing. A spell in any of the services would teach people to have respect for other, how to look after themselves and would instil a little of life’s social etiquette back into a society that in my opinion, has gone to far down the wrong road. Most NS I know, weren’t to keen on doing the service, however, when you talk to them, it’s the good old times that always come through. We tend to remember someone else being in trouble and not ourselves. But that is life.

 

[Zofo]

I know when I look back at my mil. experiences and how much fun there was I also try and remember stagging on at 0300 in Winter wearing a ill fitting flak jacket, carrying a weapon with no rounds and wondering what the hell would I do if something kicked off. I remember the long sunny days at the outside swimming pool and good German beer 24/7!

The good days were great, the bad days bad - I try not to look back through rose coloured windows even though it's very tempting. Much as many people think NS is a good idea (there is a thread we discussed this elsewhere) I cannot for the life of me see it working and the yobs, deadbeats and directionless becoming new and improved citizens; however a worthy cause that may be.

 

[John A Silkstone]

Here is the next little episode in my book

JUST A TRIM ROUND THE EDGES, PLEASE!

The following morning, the squad marched to the camp barber. Having a haircut before leaving home was no excuse for not having one now. The old saying about what’s under your beret is yours, didn’t apply. My hair was cut so short I thought I was auditioning for the lead roll in the King and I. The trip to the barber then became a Wednesday morning ritual.

PART ONE ORDERS.

Part One Orders is the word! God put his table of laws on stone. Our Battery Sergeant Major puts the Commanding Officers every ultimatum upon his daily paper tabloid. Destiny is not written in the stars, it is written on Part One Orders, and woe be the soldier that doesn’t comply with its wording.

DISCIPLINE.

Discipline is the screw, the nail, the cement, the glue, the nut, the bolt and the rivet, that holds everything together. Prussians have it. The Arabs don’t. In between is the Englishman. He accepts it, and adjusts it to his national character. The result is a disciplinarian of ferocity, patience, and infinite humour, who will go to hell and back, provided that the QM’s Department provide the tea and bacon butties. The principle is simple; Lay it on thick, fast and often, with firmness, fairness, and consistency. The end result is, THE BRITISH SOLDIER.

A SENSE OF HUMOUR.

A sense of humour enables us to think the unthinkable, accept the unacceptable, discover new relationships, adjust better and maintain our mental health. Without it we would probably be dull and dim witted, trapped in a world that’s too harsh and serious to bear.

ENOUGH WAR SURPLUS STOCK TO FIGHT WORLD WAR Ill.

I think that this is now a good time to pass some comment on the kit I had been issued with. I will start with the world famous World War II jungle green drawers Dracula (boxer shorts type underpants). A pair of one size fits all sizes. They had four rubber buttons on the front to fasten them up, and two cords at the back to adjust them. What more could a man ask for? They enabled the air to circulate around your midsection, while killing any ideas of passion that you may have secretly harboured. The khaki flannel shirt always smelt of mothballs. Its purpose was to serve as a shirt, nightgown and bathrobe. It was wool based and made your skin itch like mad, causing a rash that never seemed to go away and it’s length reached to your knees. The brown issued plimsolls didn’t stay brown for long. We were told to blacken them with boot polish. They were the nearest things to a pair of carpet slippers that the army issued. The trousers were that long, that they hurt me under the arms and the jacket was so large, that it hung from the neck like a bell tent. The theory was that you would grow muscles and eventually fit the Battle Dress. Gunner Fox confirmed, that every recruit had a housewife for his own personal use. I can’t begin to tell you the disappointment I felt, when I found out that it was the name given to our sewing kit. Finally the hobnailed boots that your feet were broken into, when it should have been the other way around.

BULL PARADE

Every evening from 18-00 to 19-00 hours was Bull Parade, Changing into denim working dress; we laid our ground sheet on the bed, and place our kit on top. I then start polishing my boots to a very high shine. The boots were covered in small pimples. To get rid of them and leave a flat surface to posh, we’d heat the handle of a fork or spoon over a candle and then burn away the rough surface of the leather, while still hot, cover with polish so it melted and soaked into the leather. The brasses had tiny air holds in them from the casting. These were removed by buffing the brass on a piece of cardboard. We answer questions on Regimental History, Victoria Cross winners, Battle Honours, customs and personalities. As a confidence building exercise, we had to stand up and tell the rest of the squad about ourselves, At 18-55 hours all kit had to be back in your locker, and the room cleared by 19-00, as it was time for the Archers on the radio.


THE MULTICOLOURED SOLDIER

Having been issued with military clothing, we now had our civvies boxed and secured in the Regimental Stores; it felt good to blend in with the rest of the troops on camp. What I didn’t comprehend was that our kit was made up of mixed colours. Getting dressed started with a First World War issued oatmeal vest, followed by jungle green drawers Dracula, grey socks, khaki flannel shirt, bleached off white tie, green pullover, brown battle dress, black boots, and topped off with a dark blue beret.


YUG = YOU USELESS GET

In the British Army, all recruits are equal, with the same kit, same equipment, same training and same rate of pay. Anyone deprived in Civvy Street, had a chance to make something of themselves, individual personalities began to show through and broke down into the following characters.

Parasites, who lived their lives at other people’s expense. Wasters, who were basically lazy and didn’t care about anybody or anything. Flyboys or Spivs, who thought that they were Wheeler Dealers and the Barrack room Lawyers, who always knew better than the sergeants or bombardiers. This type could get you into real trouble. Then there were the Bullies, who saw brute force as the answer to everything. Finally there was the YUG.

YUGs were totally naive about life in general; they were so sincere in their action that it was hard to be angry with them. The whole squad got punished for their stupidity. Ours was Ginger Morrison, he was known as a mummies boy. Everything had always been done for him and he’d never learned the basic survival skill of blending in and becoming invisible. Even in a football crowd he stuck out like a sore thumb!

YUGs should carry a Government health warning. They are a liability on the battlefield and occasionally get you punished for their actions. However they certainly make everyone around them look good.

It came to light in the NAAFI that Ginger was a great piano player and so he was transferred to the Military School of Music.
army; sal;

 

[Bigbird]

Discipline is the screw, the nail, the cement, the glue, the nut, the bolt and the rivet, that holds everything together. Prussians have it. The Arabs don’t. In between is the Englishman. He accepts it, and adjusts it to his national character. The result is a disciplinarian of ferocity, patience, and infinite humour, who will go to hell and back, provided that the QM’s Department provide the tea and bacon butties. The principle is simple; Lay it on thick, fast and often, with firmness, fairness, and consistency. The end result is, THE BRITISH SOLDIER.

Do we believe we still have this kind of discipline in our armed services?, a friend of mine is always bleating on about how the army is not what it used to be because the discipline has gone. :roll:

 

[tosh66]

Well I spent most of last year back in the army when I was called up and let me tell you it has changed. No swearing, no shouting, no beastings and all PC.

Days of Yore- "Soldier! Go and get that bucket"
"YESSIR"

Now- "Soldier! go and get that bucket"
"Why should I?"

 

[John A Silkstone]

Hi, Bigbird, I know what you’re saying but it’s 20 years since I left the Army so I don’t know. One thing I do know is that just before I retired two soldiers came straight from the depot. As orderly sergeant I told them to get bedding from the QM. A few minutes later they were back saying that there was no one to carry their bedding. “Sorry about that” said I “come with me.” I lead them to a full-length mirror and said “See those two there?” pointing to their reflections, ”Well those two lazy b*****ds will carry your bedding, now get your f**king bedding sorted out and report to me in fifteen minutes for fatigue duties.”

For some reason or other I was not placed on their Christmas Card list

 

[Zofo]

I was called Mole or sh*t For Brains, depending on who was doing the talking!

 

[John A Silkstone]

a few more anicdotes

BULLSHIT BAFFLES BRAINS.

The British Army clothing and equipment was certainly ‘off the peg,’ but ready to wear was another matter. But it would all fall under one of the following headings.

AUTHORISED LIST OF PRODUCTS ONLY TO BE USED; Brasso or Bluebell metal polish, Kiwi boot polish, Meltonian or block whitening, Khaki 103 block blanco and NAAFI yellow dusters.

CLOTHING, make it fit; Let out, take in, shape it, taper it, shrink it, stretch it, adjust it, and then assemble it correctly.

METAL; buffed down, burnished and polished. EXCEPTIONS; Beds, and lockers. Fire buckets were scraped down and painted every week.

WOOD; sanded down, scraped, linseed oiled, then polished, but never painted or varnished.

RUBBER; Washed, wiped, dusted, and then blackened with boot polish.

LEATHER; Broken in, burned down, stretched, studded, blackened, browned, whitened or blancoed.

CANVAS WEBBING; Stripped completely down, then lightly blancoed. All brasses highly polished using the button stick, to prevent staining the canvas with brasso.

CLOTHES; Washed, dried, bleached, loose threads removed, trimmed, cut, shaved, starched, aired, darned, patched, then dampened with a wet shaving brush, before being pressed with thick brown paper.

LAUNDRY; One sheet and one pillow slip per week. Eight items of personal clothing per bundle. No civilian items allowed in bundles. No more, and certainly no less to be handed in to the Company Stores every Wednesday morning by 07.30 hours and collected the following Tuesday at 07.30 hours.

CLOSE YOUR MOUTH AND BREATH THROUGH YOUR EARS!

As an aid to drill we did everything by numbers. Given the word of command from instructors. The squad would shout at the top of their voices, “One. Two, three… One!” One was the number for us to move like greased lightning. Two and Three was the pause, during which you stood perfectly still. The final One was to complete the movement. We would move around the drill square shouting out “One two three” between each movement as well as marching at 120 paces a minute. Thirty minutes of drill was very exhausting, even more so for the smokers.

WEAPON TRAINING

I enjoyed weapon training because eventually we would put our newfound skills into practice on the ranges. I could strip down clean and reassemble a Lee Enfield 303 blindfolded. At the end of basic training I was classified as a marksman on the 303 rifle and the Bren gun

PAY PARADE

Every Thursday at 11.00 hours, the Troop Commander sat at a scrubbed and finely sanded six-foot table. We queued, marched forward, halted, saluted smartly, received our pay, seventeen shillings and nine pence (89p) and signed our AB 64 part II, (pay book). The remaining pay, £1.50, was left in our credits for when we went on leave. A few of the flyboys would seek permission for money to be sent home to their mothers, who quickly returned it to them to spend.

THE STANDARD ISSUE METAL LOCKER

Six foot high, three foot wide and two foot deep and painted Olive Green. It contained everything you owned. It was secured with a NAAFI padlock. Inspections saw its doors wide open squared to the front, thereby bearing its contents to the whole world. Your complete set of World War II canvas webbing and steel helmet, sat packed out squarely with cardboard on the top. The Regimental locker layout was over 40 years old. Hanging clothing on the left, of course, facing right. The top shelf; Mug, knife, fork, spoon, respirator, socks and gloves. Shelf number two; clean towel with your full complement of washing and shaving kit laid on top. The next two shelves held your PT kit, shirts, and underwear. The bottom shelf displayed your highly bulled boots.

LOCKER INSPECTIONS

We had locker inspections every day except Sunday. It was an integral part of the room inspection. There was nowhere to hide anything, so you had to clean everything you possessed. Each individual had a locker diagram pasted to a board, your layout had to mirror the diagram. If you didn’t put 110% effort into it, then when you returned to your barrack you’d find the entire contents of your locker on the floor. This was known as having your locker ragged. Worst still, was to come back and find everyone’s kit in a big heap. This was where the correct numbering of property came into its own.

Once a month we had a kit check. We all got up extra early to lay out all of our clothing, kit and equipment on top of our beds. All as per the Regimental diagram. This allowed the kit to be checked at a glance. Should there be anything missing it would be spotted at once. Everything had to be fully serviceable, correctly numbered and spotlessly clean. The item to be checked was called out, and you showed it. On the morning of the kit check, breakfast was taken in shifts to prevent any petty pilfering by other marauding squads.

THE PRACTICE; Hold the item out in front of you, showing your regimental number, it was inspected by the Barrack Room Trained Soldier or NCO carrying out the Inspection.

THE THEORY; Put it back on your bed, without unfolding or undoing it, so it could be put straight back into your locker layout.

THE REALITY; A kit check normally deteriorates into a changing parade, giving you twice as much work to get the items ready for the next inspection, but you got into high-speed kit preparation.

 

[Bombardier]

Nice one John. I remember buffing the floors with those big ole iron Bumpers, jesus that was hard work :shock: :roll: :mrgreen:

 

[rotorwash]

One school I went to we had a foot locker and a wall locker. One night we were subjected to footlocker inspections, to continue until everyone got it right. If everybody wasn't perfect, everyone dumped their footlocker on the floor and started over. Just to make sure no one was taking shortcuts, between each inspection we had to sit in our footlockers and sing "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . ." Finally at 4AM the inspecting officer got tired and let us go to bed.

 

[John A Silkstone]

CHANGING PARADE

These always started in full Battle Dress (B.D.). The name and order of dress was announced, followed by ‘CHANGE!’ The rush was then on to change out of your present dress and into something else like, PT kit with shower-kit. Out of the PT kit and into fatigue kit and working boots. This left your bed and locker in a shambles. It undid days of hard work, and disheartened you.

BEDDING BLOCKS

Each billet was issued with a short length of wood with markings on it. The length of the piece represented the length of your bedding block. From the end of the piece of timber to a mark about two-thirds up its length, equalled the width of the bedding block, precisely!

The bedding block was made up of three blankets sandwiched with your two sheets and then wrapped in your fourth blanket. Your two pillows, with pillowslips, were placed on top. The main thing to remember was never to hide anything in the block, for it wouldn’t be there when you got back.


ROOM INSPECTIONS

There was a Troop Commanders inspection every day, except Sunday. Every Thursday was a Battery Commander’s room inspection. Wednesday afternoon was sports, which finished early, so the rest of the afternoon and evening was spent preparing for the inspection. With scrubbing brushes, long bar of green Fairy Soap, buckets of hot water and rags. The floor would be scrubbed spotless. Once dry a small amount of polish would be buffed into the lino and left to dry, it would then be bumped to a high gleaming state with a bumper that I’m sure weighed half a ton Once it had the necessary gleaming shine the bumper was put away. We then started on the windows; they were washed and dried to a diamond shine with old newspaper. The fire hand-pump was unrolled, tested, washed, blackened and put back in place. Fire buckets painted. Once dry they were refilled. Two with water and one with clean sand.

The six-foot table and two benches were taken outside and scrubbed. Sinks, baths and toilets were cleaned with small amounts of sand. The canister of Vim scouring powder was a sacred item and was not to be used. Paintwork was dusted and washed up to a height of ten feet. The outside area was tidied and the gardens turned over. The room ‘Roll Board’ was updated and rewritten. Finally, mops were washed out, loose fluff removed from brooms and bumpers; all handles were scraped down with razor blades until bleach white. Then the lot was laid out for inspection.

The British Army was a sanitary and spotless machine.

SUNDAY MORNING CHURCH PARADE

09.30 hours every Sunday, in best dress and bulled boots, we stood in three ranks with a clean white hanky and small bible in your left hand, and a three penny piece in your right. We were marched to the church in squads, but got to walk back individually. One Sunday, someone placed a brass button in the collection plate. I thought the world had come to an end. We were marched back to our room and changed into PT kit. The next hour was taken up with a forced march and run. It never happened again.

PT = PHYSICAL TRAINING, OR PHYSICAL TORTURE?

The PT staff was equally as unbending and demanding on our bodies. They wore ‘Dennis the Menace’ Red and black hoop tops, dark blue serge trousers, and white plimsolls. No badge of rank, they clearly didn’t need it to rule their roost. They milked every last ounce of effort out of you, then when you thought that you couldn’t go on, they made you do it all over again. I continually surprised myself with my own physical achievements. I began to do things that I thought only Tarzan could manage.

The Drill Staff would castigate us for not reaching the tremendously high standards set by them. The Physical Training Instructors also had their standards. First, it was press-ups followed by legs raised and chins to the beams, next was squats, then we would move to bunny hops, vaulting over the wood horse, climbing ropes sometimes with full kit. It all finishing off with a one mile run still in Full Field Marching Order (FFMO). My running strategy was to get keep with the front bunch and stay there, keep up a good pace but not that fast that the ones at the rear couldn’t keep up. They knew exactly how far to push us. Of course, on rare occasions there was always praise for a job well done. Not that I can think of one.

THE DEPOT ASSAULT COURSE

At the rear of the camp was the assault course. The squad was shown over it obstacle by obstacle in PT kit by one of the PT instructor. No one got wet, hurt or shouted at. All in all, it was a very pleasant afternoon. The following morning dressed in FFMO, we were taken for a five-mile march finishing at the assault course. The obstacles had now grown completely out of proportion. We were tired, disorientated and fragmented into little groups. The pleasant afternoon of yesterday now became the nightmare of today and we were glad when the morning was over.

Free Broadband. Never pay to use the net again. Starting 1st October 04. Click on the site below. You could earn cash as well.

Juice Broadband link has been removed due to suspected scam and to protect our members and visitors
:lol: :lol:

 

[John A Silkstone]

A WHOLE MONTH GONE!

On the Monday morning of the fourth week, we were informed that on Thursday we were to parade for our first inspection and drill test in front of the Adjutant. The night before we stayed up late to bull boots, clean brasses and ironing our Battle Dress uniform. Thursday morning dawned nice and sunny and a nervous excitement ran amongst us. At five minutes to nine we formed up in three ranks, ready to march onto ‘The Sacred Square’. The order was given to ‘Right Turn’; to us it appeared that it was also the order for the sky to open up, for a torrential rainstorm started. We were marched onto the square and into the vehicle hangars for shelter. We stood there like drowned rats with water dripping off our berets and Battle Dress, to lie in pools at our feet. The creases had vanished from our uniform and Blanco was dripping from our belts and down our trousers. A few minutes later, the Adjutant, sat in a land rover, was driven across the wet square to inspect us. After a quick inspection we performed our drill test in the hangar. The hanger was so small that the drill parade when something like this. Right turn, march ten paces and salute to the right, a further ten paces about turn. March ten paces salute to the left, a further ten paces to the brick wall of the hangar and salute to the front, followed by ten paces of slow march. The inspection over, the Adjutant congratulated us on passing our first drill test. He then said, “As you have all done so well, I am granting you a Saturday night leave pass to visit the local town till 23.59 hours. This was to be our first time outside the camp!

At 13:00 hours on Saturday, we climbed aboard the three-ton vehicle outside the guardroom and travelled to Oswestry. Though only seventeen, being in uniform gave the local landlords the impression that we were of an age to drink. With a pound in your pocket, you were a rich man. A group of us went into one of the pubs and ordered five pints. Five pints of Courage ale were placed upon the bar and the landlord asked for six shilling and three pence (22.5 new pence). Raising our pints we toasted “The best of health to one and all.” Quaffing a mouthful of beer, I soon found out why it was called Courage. You needed lots of Courage to drink the stuff. After travelling around the world and drinking lots of different beers I still think that Courage is the worst beer I’ve ever drank. The rest of the afternoon went fine; it was nice to have a day when no one shouted at you. At 2300 hours we assembled outside the NAAFI Club to catch the three-ton vehicle back to camp.

“WITH A MAGAZINE OF TEN ROUNDS. LOAD!”

After many lessons on weapon training, we were taken to the ranges. With a magazine of ten rounds, we loaded our Lee Enfield 303 rifle. Lying on the ground we fired at a target 250 yards away. After each round we waited while the man in the butts, pointed a red arrowhead stick at the hole in the target. After ten rounds, the rifle was zeroed in correctly for each man. At ten hundred hours, all firing on the range ceased. There was no NAAFI on the ranges, however, at this time of day a Red Shield Wagon (Salvation Army) would pull up. The two-woman crew would start to serve tea, coffee, cold drinks bacon butties and sticky buns. Over the years this routine had been perfected to a fine art and the 120 men on the ranges would all be served within the thirty-minute tea-brake.

“SAM, SAM, PICK UP THEY MUSKET!”

This is my rifle. There are many like it. But this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle without me is useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy, who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me.
‘USA MARINE CORPS CREED.’


PARTING OF THE WAYS

After sixteen weeks of hard training. We finally have a Passing Out Parade, to which our family are invited to attend. The parade started at 11.00 hours on a Friday morning finishing just before lunch. After the parade we were all going on seven days leave and had to report to another unit at the end of it. I was off to Kimmle Camp near Rhyl in North Wales.

KEEP THE ROADS SAFE

Kimmle Camp was a driving school for Lorry drivers (Heavy Goods vehicles today). Here they allowed me to drive around the country lanes of North Wales. “Lets keep death and destruction off the road in England.” said my instructor. He also had a novel way to teach me not to let the three-ton vehicle roll backwards on a hill start. He would place a packet of ‘Woodbines cigarettes’ under the rear wheel of the vehicle before you started off. It wasn’t just any old packet of woodbines; it was my packet of Woodbines. As I didn’t like smoking flat cigarettes, it didn’t take me long to learn how to do a hill start.

While at Kimmle Camp I received a rollicking from a Second Lieutenant for some minor misdemeanour that I can’t remember. One night I was on guard duty by the lorry park. The officer in charge was the same officer and he gave me another rollicking for my turnout. About midnight I spied him creeping onto the parking area. I assumed he was trying to catch me out. I hid under one of the wagons and shouted “Halt who goes there?” The standard call for recognition. He didn’t answer and dodged behind one of the vehicles. I could now see his lower legs and feet. I watched him as he slowly crept around the vehicles until he was at the side of the wagon I was under. In the loudest voice I could muster, I once more shouted, “Halt who goes there?” Being startled he jumped backwards and so I shouted “Halt I say, halt!” and clouted his ankle with the pickaxe handle we had to carry. His scream of agony was heard around the camp and the guard Commander and escort arrived at the scene. The officer was carried off to his quarters and I was placed under arrest for striking an officer.

The following morning I was on a charge and in front of the Colonel. The officer hobbled into the room with a walking stick and gave his evidence. I informed the Colonel that I had shouted twice and been ignored. The Colonel asked the officer if this was true. After a few hums and haaas he confirmed that I had. The Colonel then gave me a lecture on military discipline and making sure of events before taking action. I was then dismissed. The officer was asked to stay behind. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall in the Colonel’s office.

I failed my first driving test which was taken on a Thursday and had to re-sit it on the following Monday. The lads that past were given a long weekend pass and told to report to their new regiments on the Monday

I passed the test on Monday and after four weeks driver training I was posted to 20 Field Regiment R. A. to drive a quad, limber and 25 pound field gun, around the city of London.

 

[Bombardier]

Excellent stuff John thank you :mrgreen:

 

[Eagledriver]

Yes, John. Excellent post, in fact.

 

[John A Silkstone]

Thanks Bombardier,
I suppose it the same type of training in all the arms for the first few weeks. The weapons may differ but the drill and bullshit is still the same.
Find the man's weak points and strengthen them by breaking the mould, remodelling the clay and baking to perfection.
sal; army;

 

[Bombardier]

Find the man's weak points and strengthen them by breaking the mould, remodelling the clay and baking to perfection

Thats about it buddy, brain washing I heard it refered as

 

[John A Silkstone]

NOT A BAD PLACE THIS, IS IT?

I arrived at Woolwich where the Regiment was stationed at 15.00 hours on a Wednesday. I report to the Battery Headquarters and was instructed to return the next day at 09:00 hours. The following day I was given an arrival form to complete and told that if I had it done my 12.00 hours I could go home on a long-weekend pass. By 11:30 I was on the ferry crossing over to North London to catch my train.

AS A DRIVER, YOU’RE DOING A GRAND JOB, NOW!

On returning from the long weekend pass, I reported to 107 battery and was informed that the Regiment was on stand by for the Suez Crisis and that I was the spare driver. I was to report to the Gun battery, I with many other, were put to work scraping the green paint off the 25 pound guns and paint them sand brown. This task took us over a week. We were then informed that the crisis was now over and we had to remove the sand brown paint and repaint the guns field green.

“FOLLOW US LAD, WE WON’T LEAD YOU ASTRAY!”

Four of the lads stayed together all the time. Though they weren’t related they were all named Jones. On my first Friday night they took me down town for a drink. I returned to barracks at 01.00 hours only to be arrested and confined to barracks for the weekend. On Monday I was charged and marched into the Battery Commanders Office. I was asked why I was one hour absent and drunk. I explained I wasn’t drunk, and that I was back in camp before 06.00. I was then informed that as I was under the age of 18 I was not allowed out of camp after 23.59 hours and that by the law of the land I was not allowed to consume alcohol. Ignorance was no excuse and I was confined to camp for the next seven days.

On Thursday afternoon, the BSM (Battery Sergeant Major) called me into his office.
“Silkstone” said he “I believe it’s your eighteenth birthday tomorrow?”
“Yes sir” I replied.
“I have spoken to the Battery Commander and he informs me that if you can sweep the whole of the parade ground tonight between the hours of 1900 and 2100, he will cancel the rest of your RP to allow you to go out and celebrate your Eighteenth Birthday.”

I left the office thinking of the mammoth task that lay ahead of me. At 1900 hours I was at one corner of the square with a bass broom in my hand. I hadn’t swept more than a few feet, when by my side stood Jones, Jones, Jones and Jones, each one with a bass broom in his hands. The following day I was once more in the BSMs office. He told me that he knew that I had help in completing the task he had set me. He then said “Last night, you learned a very valuable lesson that will help you for the rest of your life. Friendship and companionship with your fellow man is a bond that nothing can undo. Help them, and they will help you. Here is a pass to have Saturday morning off work; I don’t want you drunk on duty. You’re dismissed.”
His words have stayed with me to this day.

In your life you will meet thousands of acquaintances but very few true friends, when you do meet them, don’t loose them.

THE INVISABLE MAN

In 1957 I was on a NATO exercise. Because I was recovering from a leg injury I was assigned to drive the umpire that was attached to the battery. One day the battery moved location. On setting up the 25 ponders in a coppice the umpire declared them as prisoners. They had been in this new location for about five hours, in that time they had dug themselves and the guns in, set up OP points. On inquiring why they were POWs the Umpire blew a whistle and about fifty Gurkhas pop up from out of the ground or from down trees. That was the first time I has seen or heard of these people. Throughout my military career I heard more and more about the antics these small warriors from the roof of the world got up to. They did, and still do, some unbelievable stuff

LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL

In this period of time, Skiffle was the in musical thing. The 4 Jones’s and I formed a skiffle group Fred and Bill played guitar, Sam played his clarinet, Tommy played an old washing board with thimbles on his fingers and I played an old tea chest with a broom handle and piece of string, which sounded like a big base. We got a few gigs in the pubs around Woolwich, which kept us in free beer. We only had the group for about six months when Bill and myself were posted. Bill to Germany, myself to The Military College of Science at Shrivenham.

WELL HUSH MY MOUTH

The College of Science covered acres of ground and even had its own golf course, so I signed out a bicycle from the QMs department. One day I was cycling down the road when I heard a shout behind me. “You there soldier, stop!” I stopped and was approached by a Second Lieutenant who gave me a lecture about not saluting him. I told him that I had saluted. To which he told me that I was lying and he was placing me on a charge. 0900 hours the following morning I was outside the COs office. The RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major) asked the officer why I was on a charge, he said that I had not saluted him and attempted to lie by saying I had. The RSM looked at me and said “Was you on your bike?” “Yes sir.” I replied. The RSM then explained to this young officer, that when riding a bike a soldier does not salute with his hand, but sits up straight on the bicycle with his hands on the handlebars to keep control. He also informed him that he could go ahead with the charge, but would look a right idiot when explaining his case to the CO. The officer withdrew the complaint.

In November 1961, I applied to join the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC). This was accepted and on the 8th of January 1962 I reported to the RAMC depot. Aldershot. So started more anecdotes.

:lol: sal;