These articles are about the Army when I did my National Service. They were written with the aid of a five-year diary and later between working hours during early morning shifts.
A SOLDIER'S TALE (2)
Loaded with clothes, our suitcases and kitbags, about a dozen of were herded into a barrack room to "put yer clothes on and let's see if we can make can make soldiers of you." We were given a bed each and left to survey our surroundings, and each other, in bewildered horror.
The walls of the oblong, single-storey brick building were painted a dark gloss institutional green, to shoulder height, where a black line, drawn with military precision, divided it from the dull cream above. Knots stood out from the plain wooden floorboards in silent witness to the generations of boots which had worn away the softer wood. Four blankets and three lumpy canvas objects lay slumped despairingly on each stark iron bedstead, and on the wall above was an ugly looking locker, also painted green, and below this a line of pegs.
In the centre of the room was a plain scrubbed plank table with iron legs, and two wooden benches. Over all hung an unfamiliar smell of boot polish, dust and humanity. One could almost smell the bitterness, fears and sorrows of those who had been here before us.
I looked at the occupants of the adjoining bed spaces. "What a flaming dump" said one as he sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. The other said nothing but started to change into his uniform.
"Stand up! Put that fag out! Geroff your arse that man and listen to me." The shout came from a sergeant who appeared from the gloom at the end of the hut. He wore a tam-o'-shanter and the badge of the Black Watch. Cleanly built, with a small, neat moustache; his uniform fitted perfectly. His boots shone; he was obviously keen and very fit. Sergeant Mac turned out to be a far cry from your bawling, brainless non-commissioned of fiction and the stories of ex-servicemen. He was severe and tough. But he was fair.
After introducing himself, he told us that we were 9A Squad in C company. "Remember that, because one of ye is bound to get lost around here. And remember your army number so that you can repeat it in your sleep... so that you can repeat it as you lie dying for your country", he added grimly. We would be at Oudenarde for a fortnight. It would be the toughest fortnight of our army career - and probably the toughest in our lives. The making of soldiers was not easy. "It's like giving birth, me lads, and if ye haven't done that then ye haven't lived", he explained. But he would make it his personal challenge to see that we became soldiers. We could make it easier by co-operating, but "by heaven" we would be fairish soldiers at the end of the 14 days. "So ye can starrt by wearing your uniform properly. Corporal Ferguson will show ye." And he indicated our squad corporal, a fresh-faced younger man - also of the Black Watch. We noted the steely glint in his eyes.
"Reet them", said Corporal Ferguson, "Three minutes to change - move". We moved, and as we struggled with our unfamiliar clothes, he strode up and down the room chanting: "All uniform buttons will be done up at all times, including the battledress blouse collar... the blouse is worn outside the trousers... boots will be worn at all times in camp; one pair is for best - and ah mean best - berets will be worn with the rim horizontal and one inch above the above the eyes, with the badge over the left eye... and when wearing a beret salute all officers - they're the ones with badges on their shoulders - but its generally best to salute everything that moves and, forbye, we'll show ye how to polish it if it doesn't... and we'll have to see about some haircuts tomorrow by the look of ye... now gerroutside and form three ranks".
Still doing up our trousers and tripping over our bootlaces, we rushed out and shuffled into - four ranks. "I said three ranks" growled the corporal.
"Now we'll get your webbing", he announced. "We'll march to the store, and all I ask ye to do today is to try to keep in step. Now, watch it. Right turn. Now when I say 'quick march' start with your left foot ... Quick march..." We kept in step after a fashion, but our appearance brought grins of derision to one or two squads of seven- day-old soldiers who passed on the way. Yet those grins were a catalyst for a tentative esprit de corps - a sort of grudging acknowledgement for our lack of military expertise - or anything in which we could take a pride, having been stripped of our civilian status a couple of hours ago - even to the extent of being told to send our civvy clothes home.
There was little for it but to become automatons - and try to become efficient automatons because the alternative was unthinkable.
We were a motley assortment of grey, repressed wartime children who expected little and got it. So grey were most of us that the extrovert stood out particularly clearly from the herd. These and other individuals, recorded by the camp photographer at the time can be sketched into personalities, but most names and faces have slipped beyond recall. Two however, did. The three of us became great friends for the 14 days. One was a dark, curly-haired Northerner. Tom's quiet cheerfulness was a pleasant memory of a friend at a time when friends were friends indeed.
The other blunders into memory. He was big, noisy and cheerful. He claimed that he had served a spell in the Merchant Navy and had been sacked for throwing the bos'un overboard. Charlie, a Londoner, seemed quite at home among the rigours and discipline of the Army. He overcame the worst excesses of Oudenarde with a few chanted lines of a lewd ditty which presumably had its origins in dockland. He even appointed himself my protector when punch-ups threatened, which they seldom did when he was around.
Later, with the its predilection for appointing poachers to gamekeeper's jobs, the Army decided he would make a good military policeman, and later sent him him off to train accordingly.
To be continued...