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 (5)

Dennis and I had just finished bulling up a 15cwt Chevrolet which had been assigned to us for our long-distance driving when a posting came through for both of us. We were to be be sent to the 5th Training Battalion at Blackdown, near Farnborough.

We looked at each other aghast. Back to the Aldershot area! Back to more training - to be flaming clerks!

Typical of the Army to train us all over again, having got itself a couple of very fair wagon drivers. We supposed, in our frustrated anger, that someone decreed that potential officer material (even failed) was too brainy to be mere lorry drivers. We applied so see every possible influential person we could. We pleaded and we cajoled. We only wanted to be left alone with our wagon for the rest of our army days. Please! Please! We whimpered, but to no avail. And we were duly packed into the inevitable Bedford.

Our fears were well founded. Winter was just around the corner and we would not have the protection of being potential leaders and subject to any special treatment. It was as if our eight weeks at Yeovil had never been. At Blackdown they treated us as if we had come straight from basic training. Well named was Blackdown. Our outlook was black and our spirits were very down.

They dropped even further when we saw the rows of two-storey brick barrack blocks - and hit rock bottom when we saw inside them. The billet floors were highly polished. Heating was by one one highly polished stove in the centre of the room which held about 16 inmates. Most of the new course had come directly from basic training, and as we swaggered in from Yeovil, we abused them: "Get some service in". But the course corporal, who was not even given the privacy of his own room, soon put a stop this.

Overall, slightly plump, his round face scowled at us ferociously. "You WILL swing your arms shoulder high when marching", he informed us when he knew from whence we had come. "There will be no privileges from me", he growled. "You do not come here to die, but to work my lads. Remember the corps motto Nil Sine Labore. That means nothing without work, you ignorant men". We were quite impressed. As a National Serviceman himself he was doing quite well.

During the first morning at Blackdown, we were marched off to a classroom to learn more about King's Regulations - the Army's bible - from the same Corporal Honey. That day the weather turned cold and the bull, we found , was to be the worst yet. We actually whitewashed the coal tub!

Next morning, as always, it was "Wakey, wakey". We crawled, so reluctantly, from our warm beds to face the new rigours of winter at Blackdown. The guards went on as usual, but with the gesture to the troops that inspections would now take place in the drill shed rather than in the biting wind on the open square.

Later, the "casualty" list for one evening's guard inspection was comparative light. The duty officer worked down the rank checking that the barrels of our .303 rifles were brilliantly lethal and that the mechanism was clean in the correct state of oilyness. "Did you clean this today?.

"Yes sir".

"You should be very glad you don't have to fire it in this this state. You might kill yourself with all that filth in there. Take his name Sergeant."

"Wake up Hall, you are on." Two a.m. and sleeting. Please God, is this hell? I always thought it was warm there. Dennis and I turned out into the bitter night in our greatcoats and rubber capes, fingering the wooden truncheons and shivering. Dripping and already cold, we began our regulation three circuits of the perimeter of the camp. Check the doors and windows of the battalion office. Lock the backs of wagons, check the NAFI doors (wish to heaven it was open) and plod on into the biting sleet. Halfway round an illicit cigarette in a certain boiler room. But the bliss of being out of the sleet and into in the warm for a few minutes, was tempered by the thought of returning to the elements. Better, perhaps, not to have stopped at all - bearing mind the awful penalties for being discovered skulking in the boiler room while on guard. But it helped...

At last four a.m. and back to the comparative comfort of the guard room and the luxury of a mug of stewed tea, another cigarette and a sleep.

First period was typing. Back into the long hut with it's rows of vintage typewriters. The warrant officer in charge took over. "Right now. Today you'll include in your typing the top line of the keys. Put you covers on, and I will charge anyone I see looking underneath." He turned the music on and off we clattered.

"Keep yer eyes orf the keys" he chanted as he perambulated up and down the rows. Pom, pom (click), pom, pom (click). The rhythm built up into a crescendo of noise as the speed of the music increased. Through it all we could discern: "We'll make touch typists of you yet, if you'll only keep yer eyes orf the keys".

The course passed out a week or two later - all well-moulded general duties clerks class three. So it was with mixed feelings that I said farewell to many of my colleagues, even Corporal Honey. Dennis opted to volunteer to stay at Blackdown to join the permanent staff.

Then it came. I had returned to camp after a weekend away. As I crawled beneath the blankets, my neighbour asked, somewhat gratuitously, I thought:

"Is that you John?"

"'Course it is."

"You've been posted." he whispered, hoarsely.

"Where to?" There was a long half-second's silence. The rotten so-and-so was savouring the moment.

"The Far East" he chuckled.

To be continued...