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 (6)

A few days later, I and other unfortunates, none of whom I knew, waited for the inevitable Bedford lorry at the guard-room with mixed feelings, for almost any posting would be better than Blackdown. Never did gamblers watch the roulette wheel of fortune more closely than did National Servicemen watch orders when they were due for a posting.

From the local Brookwood station we went to the garrison in Colchester, a "transit camp" from which troops were sent overseas. The billets were comfortable, but the uncertainties legion. The depression of not knowing where one was going in the world, and when, was only only slightly relieved by the prospect of 14 days embarkation leave. The lads in the billet would come and go - on leave, or into some sort of oblivion into the far-flung outposts of what was still known at the time as the Empire. Friendships remained tentative and irritable - particularly because we had to change our blanco colour to a dirty orange immediately on arrival!

The big problem for the authorities was to find us something to do, but they were aided and abetted by the aptly-named Regimental Sergeant-Major Butcher who set about the task with zest. We cleaned, washed, scrubbed and polished the officers' and sergeants' messes, the NAAFI, cook-house and various offices so regularly that they must have been the best-bulled in the whole army.

In addition there were about three different guard duties and half-a-dozen fire pickets which could be called for nightly. So many, that in a mood of sheer rebellion, one company found itself in the incredible situation of intimating that everybody had been on duty the night before. But RSM Butcher, who happened to be present on that occasion, showed no emotion. He merely picked men at random. He just didn't give up. Then there were days spent under the NAAFI "cowboy" - a derogatory term for the corporal on duty to watch discipline and oversee cleaning, and one day while working in the sergeant's mess we were rocketed by RSM Butcher for some trivial offence. My temporary friend Greenwood swore that after he left Colchester he would send RSM Butcher some toy soldiers with the cryptic note to say "Now mess these about". But his words were more rude than that!

Anyway, after a morning spent whitewashing the stones lining the road outside the MT office, I went off for embarkation leave. Toy soldiers were forgotten in innumerable beery farewells accompanied by mocking cries of: "Get your knees brown", or "Give my love to Port Said" from family and friends who had already been through the mill. All came to the end with my last pint of bitter at the Malt Shovel before catching the lonely train back to Colchester.

We were then documented again. I had to draw jungle greens consisting of a bush shirt, long trousers, shorts and stocking tops. These last, somewhat odd items, were knee-length stockings without feet! The idea was that they converted normal socks for wearing with shorts, the joint being hidden by gaiters. It looked somewhat odd, but we we soon became used to it.

The issue of JGs seemed to settle one thing - I would be sent to the lusher areas of the Far East, rather that than a desert-type area, where khaki drill was worn. This seemed to confirm that my destination was Malaya. At that time, of course, a large number of British troops were engaged in operations in the peninsular against Communist guerrillas infiltrating from the north. So I wasn't surprised that this would be my fate. Under the circumstances I was pleased that the RASC was for non-combatant troops providing services, unless pressed into action in emergencies. I didn't really fancy nerve-wracking jungle patrols where unpleasant creeping, crawling and stinging things bit me which seemed to be as much a hazard as the guerillas.

I handed over my pay-book to the clerks for recording various items, and filled in a form for forwarding mail, writing my number S/etc.

"Ere", said the clerk delightedly. "Your pay-book says your number is 'T/'".

"Yes, well. You are not going to believe this, but..." and I launched into an explanation of how I had become a driver and later a clerk. It was beyond his comprehension that such a thing could happen, but realised he was powerless to do anything about it.

"Oh well..." he said resignedly. Then added with a grin:"P'raps some bod up the jungle'll sort it out, mate".

In London, we literally went to ground - down a dirty big hole at Googe Street for the night, rather like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. It was a Lewis Carol experience, although the only character awaiting us at the bottom was a rather rude warrant officer. The hole was a former deep air raid shelter, one of several built in London in the early war years. We wound our way down the spiral steps to the long, well-built corridors below which were lined with bunks and, all-in-all, quite comfortable and self-contained. Not pleasant though, for those who suffered from claustrophobia, or were susceptible to the eerie sensation brought about by the sound of underground trains over their heads.

Next morning, after breakfasting from our mess tins, draft DEPXX, in full kit, with kit-bags and small suitcases, and equipped with packets of sandwiches, staggered back up the spiral steps to the wonderful fresh air, and into the backs of a dozen or so AEC Matadors. These deposited us on the parcels platform at Euston Station where a troop train waited. And after interminable games of cards with an ex butcher from Walsall and an ex-garageman from Dewsbury,` and a welome mug of train-brewed Army tea with the sandwiches, the train drew into Liverpool docks .

Alongside was a grey wall which turned out to to be the troopship "Lancashire". The words of the song returned:

I'd love to get you
On a slow boat to China,
Melting your heart of stone...

To be continued...