Putting Square Pegs in Round Holes

Basic training brought out the best and the worst in people. Those of us who lacked confidence became the victims of those who didn’t. Those of us who were known to have had experience in school cadet forces were given immediate responsibility for marching their platoons all over the place when the NCOs couldn’t be bothered to do it themselves. I was one such person, and so found myself (without the benefit of any visible rank) yelling at my fellow squaddies, and showing off my own drill skills to those poor unfortunates who had not worn a uniform before. As a means of gaining respect and popularity this was about as effective as spitting in someone’s face.

During the first couple of weeks’ basic training each of us was interviewed by an officer to establish in what direction we should be encouraged to go. Would we be put forward for a Commission? (Even National Servicemen were sorted out, usually on a "class" basis, to provide potential 2nd Lieutenants.) Would we become lorry drivers? Would we become cooks? Would we become infantrymen, wireless operators, mechanics? Were we - if not potential officers - likely candidates for the Non-commissioned Officer ranks?

In my own interview, the officer appeared to make an early decision from my manner of speech and my educational background that I was not officer material. Having decided that I ought at least to try and enjoy myself, I said I would like to drive a lorry. In line with what passed for military logic this resulted in my being ear-marked as an Army Clerk! I was sent to the RASC 2 Training Battalion, Willems Barracks, to be suitably trained. The Royal Army Service Corps variously referred to as "Run Away Someone’s Coming" the "Royal Army Shit Corp" and the "Royal Army Skirt Chasers" provided the army with its transport; its other main function was the provision of clerical services, i.e., short-hand writers, typists, secretaries, filing clerks, and so on.

Reverting to Type

The Army had, in its wisdom, decided that I should join a "Clerical Battalion",

so that the ensuing four weeks were spent completing basic training in drill and weaponry, combined with training in basic typing skills and the mysteries of memos, files and dockets.

For the typing we were assembled in a class room equipped with rows of ancient typewriters. The sergeant in charge taught us the position of the "home keys". The left hand hovered over A S D and F, whilst the right hand hovered over : L K and J. From here all other keys could be reached merely by moving one’s fingers up or down, and/or slightly to right or left. The next thing was to remember was where all these keys were without looking at the keyboard, and this skill came fairly quickly to most of us, firstly because we did nothing else for two hours at a time, and secondly because when a man with three stripes on his arm told you to do something you did not argue.

Within a few days the Sergeant was playing marching music on a record player at the front of the class, and we were copy-typing pieces of text in strict time to the beat, without taking our eyes off the paper.

From Typist to Drill Pig

For all my quickly-developing skills as an army typist, I nurtured no desire to serve out the rest of my National Service sitting in Army offices, be they brick or canvas. Whilst many of my comrades were keen to be sent abroad, my unadventurous disposition was more inclined to keeping out of war zones, preferably staying within commuting distance of home. During my time in the Army Anthony Eden’s Suez Crisis developed. I was very keen to avoid any opportunity to go and kick the Egyptian President’s backside.

I soon learned there was a continual need for National Service NCOs to help train up further intakes of miserable young men, appearing as they did every four weeks on the National Service conveyor belt. Again, calling on my experience as a Sergeant in the school cadet force, I was able to gain rapid promotion to Lance Corporal on completion of my basic training, and it wasn’t too long before I was a full Corporal and feeling pretty damned pleased with myself.

This added a few shillings to my miserable weekly pay, so there was added cash to spend on packets of five "Park Drive" or "Woodbines", or double portions of baked beans in the NAAFI.

Armed with my new stripes and a long stick with a silver knob on the end I was assigned to help a National Service Sergeant in marching squads of men up and down the drill square, right-turning, left-turning and about turning, shouldering arms, ordering arms, standing to attention, standing at ease and standing easy. Other duties included ensuring that a barrack room full of men got up in the morning in time to wash, shave, dress, clean the room, lay out kit in regulation order, have breakfast and be on parade by 07.30 hours.

How I admired our National Service sergeant! Immaculately turned out with his toe caps reflecting the early morning sun, he had a voice that could be heard two miles away, and a fine selection of personal insults to heap on the first poor soul to swing his right arm forward at the same time as his right leg went in the same direction. (There was always one!) I resolved to model myself on this sergeant. In a rare burst of ambition, I thought that if he could make sergeant before reaching the age of twenty, then so could I.

The late, great Willie Rushton, interviewed shortly before his untimely death in 1997 about his own National Service experiences said,

I have to say with the benefit years of reflection and increasing maturity that Rushton's comment just about summed me up at the time. It is not a period of which I am particularly proud. I sometimes recall, though, to make myself feel better, that not one my squaddies ever tried to throw a brick at the back of my head on dark nights, and some intakes even clubbed together and bought me a gift at the end of their training. This was very gratifying, though not, I think, well deserved.

In my defence, I worked with National Service colleagues who were even more fanatical than even I could aspire to be. One Corporal (who used to keep his brilliantly shiny "best" boots in a cardboard box wrapped in tissue paper, and was thus known to all as "Boots") was such a perfectionist that on one occasion when we were working together on the parade ground he insisted on putting his squad through their miserable paces right through the sacred "NAAFI Break" because they were not measuring up to his exacting standards. This tall, thin gangly youth of nineteen, with his razor-sharp creases and his glittering boots, yelled and bawled obscenities at his victims, and their consequent efficiency could be measured in inverse proportion to the volume of the shouting. They were not going to get any better because they were tired, and all they could think about was the fact that they were being denied the opportunity of getting their mug of tea and lighting up a Woodbine. Whatever else I might have been I was someone who believed in fair play, and things were getting so objectionable that I gave a direct order to this manic corporal to dismiss his men. It was several weeks before he could bring himself to speak to me again.

During those days of National Service, if you were in a Training Battalion, the majority of the personnel were conscripted National Servicemen, and these included NCOs and junior commissioned officers, but naturally there was a core of regular soldiers at the heart of the system: the lieutenants, captains, majors, and colonels on the commissioned side, and on the non-commissioned side, the sergeants, staff sergeants, company sergeant majors and regimental sergeant majors. National Service NCOs rarely had time in two years to make it beyond sergeant, nor National Service officers beyond 2nd lieutenant.

We had a nasty habit of referring to the professionals as "Thick Regulars". We could not imagine that anyone with an ounce of intelligence would actually have chosen this way of life as a career! The antipathy operated in both directions. In the Sergeants’ Mess, the National Service sergeants were looked down upon by the regulars as presumptuous upstarts. No doubt similar feelings existed in the Officers’ Mess, but possibly restrained under a more gentlemanly veneer; perhaps not.

The truth of the matter was, if we were honest, that although it was easy to identify some regular soldiers as being a couple of rounds short of a full magazine, many were intelligent and honourable men. I was glad to regard some of them of as my friends. Our B Company Sergeant Major … and here he is …… was a really first-class character with a sense of humour and a genuine regard for the men under his command. I had forgotten his name but I am grateful to George Goult (ex-NS sergeant who was discharged a month before me) who wrote to me in 2008 and put me out my misery. This was Company Sergeant Major SYMES - a gentleman. On the other hand, the Company Commander was one of the vilest characters I’ve had the misfortune to meet: sarcastic, supercilious, vindictive and arrogant, with a distinctly cruel streak, and the owner of a large Mercedes-Benz which sparkled and gleamed down to the number plate screw heads, thanks to the detailed attention required of any soldier who was given the unfortunate task of cleaning it to his satisfaction. I also forgot this man's name, but I am grateful (I think!) to one Peter Claridge (who entered Willems Barracks for trade training in November 1957) for e-mailing me with the missing name ... Major McCarten-Mooney.

Racism in the Army, Navy and Air Force has been a topical subject during recent years. There have been some widely reported cases of anti-black feeling in certain regiments, involving constant bullying and harassment, leading to the victims’ resignation from the Service.

All the more strange to recount, therefore, that during my two years in Aldershot back in the deeply prejudiced mid-1950s, I did not encounter active racism in my particular part of the R.A.S.C. In fact I recall very clearly one black recruit of Afro-Caribbean origin who I came to know quite well; he was keen on pursuing a similar path through National Service as my own, that is to stay in Aldershot as a Drill Instructor. I was already a sergeant by this time, and was therefore in a position to recommend him for promotion to Lance Corporal. He attained this without any opposition, and within a year, he became a Corporal, eventually making sergeant. At no time were any eyebrows raised, snide remarks made, or obstacles put in this man’s way.

Military Gastronomy

"An army marches on its stomach" it has been said. Well, the Willems cookhouse was a miserable place. The breakfast fried eggs, laid out in orderly ranks on the hot-plate in their hundreds, were a constant gastronomical challenge. We could have played tennis with them. Other meals were either tasteless or excessively greasy. At most eating sessions an officer (usually a National Service 2nd Lieutenant) would do the rounds asking if there were any complaints. "No Sir, thank you, Sir" was the usual reply, even if the food was appalling, which invariably it was.

Again Willie Rushton’s experience is worth recounting:

To give the Royal Army Catering Corps their due credit, if ever a special occasion came, such as a children’s party or some other celebration, they could turn out an excellent food spread. Some of the most impressive decorative iced cakes could be seen in army kitchens.

After each meal we would troop out to a steaming metal bath of hot water in which we had to cleanse our utensils (without the benefit of washing up liquid).

On occasions when we were out on major field exercises we would be introduced to the products of army field kitchens. These included such culinary delights as tinned egg and bacon.

The grease that was not consumed with the food in the barracks cookhouse eventually found its way into the kitchen drainage system. At the rear of every cookhouse was an enormous grease trap designed presumably to protect the town sewerage system from the ravages of military gastronomy, but which in reality doubled up as a ready source of punishment for soldiers who fell foul of some disciplinary code or other. The worst punishment that could befall you was to be required to don your "fatigues", open up the enormous lids to the stinking black hole behind the cookhouse, climb into it, then with a large scoop ladle out into buckets the accumulated foetid layers of scum. This task always sorted out the men from the boys. It was advisable always to follow up this activity with a long, hot bath! There were at least ninety pubs in the town of Aldershot, and so we had ample opportunity during free time to carry out experiments on how much alcohol could be pumped into a young vertical human body before it became a young horizontal human body. It was on one such expedition that I made first contact with something called "rough" cider. The joke was that if you held your glass up to the light you could still see pips and bits of apple core floating around, but the truth was that the term "rough" related first to a high level of alcohol, and second to how you would be feeling in a few hours time.

Alcohol in Aldershot

On that memorable summer evening, I and my thirsty comrades were having a cider drinking session in one of the local pubs. I was having a wonderful time, exchanging the best jokes in the world (probably the worst jokes when sober), and had consumed about three pints of this fearsome brew in quick succession. I was laughing and joking with the best of them, but then I began to feel somewhat detached from the world and decided to go outside into the street for some air.

It seemed an age before I deduced that both the pavement and I were horizontal. I staggered to my feet and decided that I should try to walk back to the barracks. Although I accomplished this in due time, it was an eternity of nausea, and I am ashamed to say that Aldershot Corporation’s street cleansing services would have been kept fairly busy the next day along my trail from the pub to the barracks. When I got back to the barracks I had one last attempt to turn myself inside out in the nearest ablutions block, then crawled up the stairs to my landing, where I vaguely remember being met by some room mates, undressed by them, and put to bed. This was a little humiliating because I was at that time the Room Corporal. Nobody mentioned it the next day and life went on as normal.

If you go on a typical management course you are taught how to motivate people, how to maintain their respect and co-operation and how to achieve objectives by team work and good communication.

I learned during National Service that none of these aspirations was relevant to military operations. I experienced an example of the peculiar military management style a few weeks after I had been promoted to Sergeant. I was now a "Drill Pig" with three stripes on my arm, and, so far as I was aware, was successfully putting new intakes through their drill training, passing drill competitions, and making a satisfactory spectacle for proud parents who attended the Passing Out Parade at the end of basic training.

I returned to the Sergeants’ Mess at about one o’clock in the morning, having used a week-end pass back home in Kingston trying to chat up girls. As usual, I was depressed. Here I was, back amongst the gloomy buildings of Willems Barracks, with another week of square bashing to look forward to. Just before I got to my room, I was intercepted by a Sergeants’ Mess steward who had clearly been waiting for my return. I was tired, miserable, and ready for some sleep. "You’d better come to the bar; you are in charge of it, as of now!"

So, while I had been away during the week-end, the Company Commander had decided, in the interests of flexibility and general self-development that I should, without prior notice, be relieved of my drill training duties and given responsibility for supervising the Sergeant’s Mess catering staff, managing stock control in the Mess Bar, as well as actually serving behind the bar - which most nights went on for indefinite periods, that is until the last self-opinionated sergeant-major couldn’t get any more beer down his throat and felt like turning in for at least two hours sleep before the next Company Parade.

A more miserable time I have never had. I had to manage sullen National Servicemen who were deemed to be good for nothing except to clean kitchens and serve meals. Unlike my green squaddies on the parade ground, most of these blokes couldn’t give a damn about my three stripes, and were as like as not to beat me up if I tried too much discipline. Their level of co-operation was in direct proportion to the amount of time they had left to serve, which for most of them was very little.

At breakfast time I was responsible for seeing that everyone had had their eggs and bacon, and endless supplies of toast, in good time for them to get out for their various duties. There was a big problem here, since many of the people I was serving were senior in rank - staff sergeants, sergeant majors and so on, many of whom were prone to rolling into the dining room rather late. I had received a direct order from the Regimental Sergeant Major to stop serving breakfast at a particular time because of this problem. When I tried to implement the Order, one of the staff sergeants who had come in late, sat at a table which had been cleared because the deadline had passed, and demanded (indeed ordered) that I should provide him with breakfast. No amount of reasoning would change his attitude, and when I later complained to the RSM about it, he made it clear that it was my problem.

It was a blessed relief after some weeks to be told that I was to resume normal training duties, these being returned to me in the same perfunctory way as I had originally been relieved of them.

As a prisoner marks off the days on his cell wall, so we marked off the days of National Service remaining to us. As my count approached the two-year mark, I was button-holed by the company sergeant major with an invitation to sign on as a "Regular". He promised that promotion to Staff Sergeant would be a certainty immediately on signing up for another three years. As usual, my vanity nearly got the better of me, but I was relieved to hear myself say "No thank you, Sir."

A Free Man of "Above-average Intelligence"

I left the Army with a surprisingly good reference from the Commanding Officer written in the back of my Certificate of National Service: Military Conduct: Very Good. A non commissioned officer of above average intelligence, ability and commitment; of excellent character, he is absolutely loyal and trustworthy. He has been an asset to his Battalion, as he must be to any employer. 1st June 1958.

So I suppose I had two things to be grateful for … the ability to touch-type, and a document indicating that any employer would be mad not to put me on his payroll!