ON THIS DAY...

On this day, 4th February 1960, a few things happened. For example, after a brief interview, President De Gaulle fired the post of Deputy Prime Minister for Algeria, Jaques Soustelle. Soustelle, the highest ranking French government official in the overseas Department, was the first of the European Algerians to be dismissed as part of De Gaulle's rule by decree.

Also on that day, the Soviet Union`s support of Cuba as a Communist ally was forged as Soviet Deputy Premier Anastas Mikoyan was welcomed in Havana by Fidel Castro. Meanwhile, Jordan offered citizenship to any Palestinian (defined as a person who "used to have the Palestinian Nationality before May 1948, excluding Jews") living abroad.

But for me, the most significant event on 4th February, 1960, was that I made the long and tedious journey to Catterick Garrison in North Yorkshire, to begin my 731 days of conscription into National Service. And so it seems right for me to reflect on this the 50th anniversery of that momentous occasion.

The day long journey ended by being bundled into a three-ton truck at Richmond Station, arriving at the Bourlon Barracks (pictured above) and being thrust into a quite alien world of confusion, not to say bewilderment. I think there were about twelve of us thrown together as `B` Squad in the 60/03 intake and we were alloted a barrack room where we were left to unpack our belongings. The first things that struck me were, firstly, the diverse dialects, from Hartlepool to Esher, calling at Manchester, Derby, London, Glasgow and it seemed all points of the UK compass. The second was my exposure to more`industrial` language than I ever knew existed, to heroic blasphemy, to obscenely colouful descriptions, such that the constant use of technicolour swearing simply resulted in negating its intended effect. It became the norm.

I suppose I grew up fast, became resourceful, became immune to the constant pace, hustle, bustle and sheer pointlessness of military life. I learnt to go with the flow, to accept that I was there for 731 days and to just get on with it, to grow accustomed to being asked what was my "`orrible spewy name" and accustomed to all the other abuses and attacks on what was left of my innocent, provincial sensitivities by bawling, masochistic, one-stripe drill corporals. But after a few months of Catterick, I was whipped into enough shape to be posted to a regiment - the 10th Royal Hussars (Prince of Wales` Own); the Shiny Tenth, the XRH - in the green hell of BFPO 16 in Germany.

But the 10th turned out to be something of a `family,` with a sense of togetherness, of `comradeship` and even as a mere National Serviceman, I was seduced into believing that I had found a kind of acceptance. If I had not been on my guard, I could equally have been seduced into returning that acceptance, for when the day finally came to leave, 731 days on from being pitchforked into Catterick`s three-ton truck, I was asked by the Shiny 10th`s Commanding Officer whether I might like to stay on and become a `regular` soldier - with vague promises of promotion and a secure future (in an armoured fighting regiment? I don`t think so) - but I declined gracefully and headed for the exit door.

And so, on 4th February, 1962, the 731 days of my military circle were complete. I was free at last of the army, the conscription, my duty done, my life transformed, my growing up on the way to being complete. I left behind some strident memories, some good, some dreadful, some hilarious, some tinged with genuine pathos. But I also left behind some good friends, some of whom I am still in touch with these 50 years on. And I know that at least one of them will be reading this shambling ramble with similar memories to my own. Somehow, it only seems like yesterday.