Some National Servicemen who had left the Army were recalled in the 1940-50s for more-training.
It appears that the Army and I were not to be separated so easily. It heaved a regimental sigh and sent me - and a number of others – another set of call-up papers. It had not been entirely unexpected. The international situation was such that "Z" Reservists, of which I was one, were recalled for a fortnight's refresher training. This time I was sent to a transport company at Botley, near Southampton, where they remembered I was a lance-corporal, and put me in charge of a billet. They also arbitrarily decided that my army number was to be prefixed "T" (for transport). Did this mean I was to be relieved of clerking as last time, I wondered.
It wasn't until I arrived in the billet that I realised that 80 per cent of my colleagues were older men who had served during the war. They looked at me sewing the lance- corporal's stripe on my sleeve and laughed loud and long. "Get some service in, corporal baby", they joked good-naturedly. But the good nature flew our of the window when they were ordered to wear their medal ribbons. They were so vehement, that the objections could not attributed to mere misplaced modesty. It almost amounted to mutiny. I never knew why. So on the first parade on the first day the platoon officer stopped before a grizzled ex-warrior in the front rank:
"Where are your medal ribbons?"
"Not entitled to any, sir."
"You were in the war, weren't you?"
"Yes sir."
"Then at least wear the Victory medal. I shall expect you to wear it tomorrow. Make a note please, sergeant", he added over his shoulder.Mainly - and oddly, in view of the serious interruption to people's lives - the camp was full of good humour. One reservist, a private, turned up in a Rolls Royce.
Another, my temporary mate, Corporal "Chalky" White, a Londoner, arrived in a very ancient Morris Minor which he deliberately parked next to the Rolls. And if there was a post or pole handy, he tied it with a piece of string of attached to a side-light of his battered front mudguard.
Even the NAAFI girls were more human than last time. In fact one of them, a lass from the north of the Border, even consented to go out with me on a Sunday. But, as it appeared that she was prepared to go further more quickly than I was, the relationship cooled. The times were so different!
On our first morning a sergeant appeared at the door of the billet. "Anyone here ridden a motorbike?" Silence. Volunteer at your peril! Yet, I thought, why not? I had an old Royal Enfield with hand gears. And if the worst came to the worst, I was only lumbering myself for a fortnight. I said: "I have sarge", and I could hear the almost loud sighs of relief on all sides.
"Right. Name?. Rank? Number?. Report to the MT sergeant at 1030 hours tomorrow, corporal. You will be a DR (dispatch rider) next week". "Next week" we learned, was to be occupied with convoy exercises through Hampshire and Dorset. But the first week was to be weapon training, drill, and a degree of "bull".
For for the first time I was taught to become really proficient in handling both Bren gun and a Vickers machine gun, and actually fired the former on the range - education which had been sadly lacking in my former training. In between playing at soldiering we swapped fags and stories over beer in the NAAFI, and listened to the older generation grunt indignantly about lengthy route marches "after we marched all the flipping way from Alamain to that awful place Naples".
Then there were the lectures to remind us how to set up "petrol points"; the rules for convoy driving, maintenance, and the duties of dispatch riders when shepherding convoys. This, of course, I missed. But only because I was in the MT stores to wangle a new rear-light out of an adamant storekeeper, and besieging the workshop in what appeared to be a vain attempt to get a new clutch fitted to my elderly 350 BSA.
"Fix it in no time", said the staff sergeant in charge of the workshops. "...if you have got your forms AF 6051 and 6068, and ABs 8060,5066 and 9006.
"Yes Staff. One, two, three, four....oh dear..."
"No 9006 ?" he asked, aghast.It was never was found, but the cable was duly mended when I obtained a "chitty" from the MT officer. We rode around the camp practising our balance and brushing up our riding. Charlie let his clutch out too quickly, just missed a cook who had popped out for a smoke, turned a double somersault and landed on his back, as the bike roared into the pigbins outside the cookhouse. Silence, punctuated by Charlie's grunts.
"Oi", yelled the MT sergeant", stating the obvious, "You can't ride a bike, can you!"
"Told you I couldn't sarge," groaned Charlie.
"Well, clear off then ", came the terse reply
To be continued...