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 (4)

Our first week went quickly when we were told more about how the army worked, learned to handle our rifles, drilled again and again, and filled up with beer at the NAAFI last thing in the evening to ease the mental and physical pain and soften our beds. Arrangements were made for us to move to our training battalions. I was sent to a junior leaders' course at the 6th battalion at Houndstone Camp, Yeovil, Somerset.

Finally, we took part in a passing-out parade on the square. The band played the regimental march "Follow the Wagon", based on a South African trek song, and marched at the regulation RASC pace, which is slower than most - I think something like 90 paces a minute.

So, full of beery bonhomie, and eagerly anticipating the lush cidery pastures of Somerset, I packed my kitbag, donned "field service marching order" (FSMO) which meant wearing all my webbing and packs, and boarded the inevitable Bedford wagon for the station. Then, luxury of luxuries, four of us shared a corridor compartment in a troop train, and promptly went off to sleep on the soft cushions.

Yeovil proved to be paradise compared to Farnborough, but only because the squad JLC 11 (Junior Leaders Course) was semi-elite - the "bleeding toffs" - as one lad in the next-door billet was overheard observing loudly one day. Mainly, the battalion trained drivers, so because all RASC officers had to drive lorries, the pre-officer training lot were slotted into the routine. Life was easier at Yeovil including our squad corporal, an older man, who was not quite so insistent on the more ludicrous indignities of service life. In fact, on the first morning he dumped a bucket of tea in the middle of the billet floor and said: "I'll treat you right if you'll treat me right, lads," Naturally, we treated him right.

Another reason for the heady days here was that it was high summer, and because the camp was laid out on a south facing slope one could get a glimpse of green and delightful views between the gaps in the wooden "spider" huts grouped in two lines of three with intercommunicating corridors and central ablutions and drying rooms. So-all-in-all, we tasted something we did not expect, and threw ourselves into the intricacies of the Bedford and Austin three-tonners, and improving our drill and weapon-handling into something nearly approaching zest.

The idea was that toward the end of the course we would take our driving tests and be sent off to a War Office Selection Board (WASB) to test our potential as officers. But first we drove and drove. My heart still bleeds for the unfortunate inhabitants of villages and small towns who, day after excruciating day, were submitted to the clash of gears and the whine of beaten-up engines in the hands of novice drivers. And as if to add insult to injury, an occasional wagon could wind up in their nicely-kept ditches, or indeed in someone's front room. I hope the compensation was good.

Round and round we went. "I said double de-clutch up up and down". "Get yer arm right out for that signal - remember there is a flaming great tilt (canvas covering) behind". "Forcryingoutloudson, can't you ****** read. It said 'Halt, major road ahead'" Meanwhile, my mate Dennis was asleep in the back of the wagon. In spite of the bumping about, it wasn't difficult to doze off, wedged into in a corner. We were not supposed to smoke, but most of us managed a crafty drag under the tilt. Indeed, this was where I learned to inhale, and the techniques of extinguishing a cigarette quickly and efficiently.

Not only did we learn to drive, but we thoroughly investigated the vehicle's insides through lectures with the help of cutaway engines, crank cases and all their bits and pieces. Then we had to get out on to the vehicle park where there must have been some 100 vehicles from Matadors, Bedfords and Austins, the little 15cwt wagons, and tankers. There we were paired to drive and maintain one wagon for the eighth weeks of training. I still have a great sense of awe that the Army could be so sensible as to allot a daily task on a fortnightly cycle which ensured that everything on a vehicle was checked - even all bodywork nuts and bolts.

And not only did we drive and maintain the wagons, we he had to bull them and guard them every night, all night. Our job was to challenge loiterers, visitors, and check for absentees and malingerers , and indeed, ill-wishers and even saboteurs in the cabs and backs of wagons. We soon learned that generally the interloper was the duty officer playing his nightly visit. He seldom came again later so we could relax, doze in a cab from from time to time, and have a fag.

But, how important were the small things in life: a choice of meals in the cookhouse, washing in warm water, and bathing at any time, were sufficient to ease the pain of hard training. For, make no mistake, we worked hard by any standards. We didn't exactly go delirious when they began to allow us out of camp regularly. But the delight of walking ordinary streets and see ordinary people going about their business helped one to hold on to a sense of priorities.

Gradually, the time came for us to attend our WOSB weekend and we found ourselves taken to a small purpose-built camp at Haslemere in Surrey. We wore our best battledress and were taken aback when we were waited on in the dining room and were addressed as "gentlemen" and there were sheets on our beds. The next day was devoted to intelligence, initiative and leadership tests, interviews and discussions.

Monday morning found us hanging about outside the camp office waiting for our results. At least the chop comes quickly, I observed to Dennis, and asked him how he had done. "Grim," he replied. Neither Dennis, Ralph or myself passed and we resigned ourselves to the ubiquitous Bedford for the rest of our, now, chequered Army careers.

But to the Bedfords it definitely was not!

To be continued...