AMONG MY SOUVENIRS...

Digging around in a box of old photos I came across this one which was taken in February 1960 - 61 years ago.  It was the depths of winter in the bleakness of Catterick in North Yorkshire and it shows the `intake` of regular and National Servicemen who were lumped together in Bourlon Barracks smiling for the camera with gritted teeth.  Not to have done so would have amounted to the breach of Queen`s Regulations concerning `good order and military discipline.`

We had been thrown together a few weeks before the photo was taken and were getting to grips with the rigours of `basic training` which, as you can see, involved the application of a large quantity of Brasso.  We were a pretty random bunch - four of those shown in the photo had signed on as regular soldiers;  the rest, myself included, had been conscripted to do our 730 days of national service.

Looking back now it has brought back memories of those times, those companions and made me wonder what might have become of them.  

The two standing at the back are myself on the left and Alan Muntz.  He came from Hounslow in what used to be Middlesex.  He didn`t take too well to army life but he did have a Hillman Husky.  On the very few occasions we were granted leave long enough to make the journey back down south, Alan used to pick me up at Victoria Station around 10.00pm and we would drive through the night back up to Catterick, sharing the driving and arriving just in time for reveille the next morning.

The four in the middle - left to right John Newton from Normanton; Louis Yankey from Manchester; Dave Fry from Battersea and Brian Mincher from West Hartlepool.  John was one of army life`s unfortunates in that he found almost every aspect of army life difficult;  the rest of us helped him through it as best we could.  Louis was very `keen` - a good man to have around and I heard just the other day on a Facebook site devoted to `old comrades` that he is still around and doing OK - good to know.  Dave Fry was a bit of a rebel - most mornings he was reluctant to get out of bed, resulting in him and his bedding being thrown across the barrack room by the visiting drill corporal.  But it was Brian Mincher who introduced me to the world of heroic blasphemy;  every other word was less than  polite and some left me with no clue at all as to their meaning. It reached the point whereby the constant stream of expletives ceased to have any meaning at all.

The three at the front - Billy Kirkham, another from Manchester, had signed on and was destined to be a regular soldier - one who could do anything the army demanded and it was right that he won the `best recruit` accolade at the end of our basic training.   Dave Proctor in the middle was from Sheffield and we became good mates - we seemed to get on and enjoyed each other`s company.  Last but not least Jimmy McGoldrick, on the right, came from Paisley - another who had signed on for an army career and another who was cut out for the life. 

(There is one person missing - Mick Watkins from Tewkesbury, who took the photo  -he was the only one with a camera.)

After our basic training, we then went our separate ways into `trade training` and eventually to our individual regiments.  I was despatched to the 10th Royal Hussars stationed at Paderborn in what was then West Germany but the rest of our `intake` were scattered to the  military winds across the globe and so we lost touch with each other, have never seen or heard from each other ever since.  But the slings and arrows of those first outrageous weeks spent together live long in the memory, some for good reason, some not so good.  Whatever might have befallen those companions over all those years, I hope the world has been as kind to them as it has been to me.

 

A CONTRACTUAL OBLIGATION.....

Well, the day arrived - Thursday 4th February - and 61 years ago yesterday I woke up on the first morning of my conscripted National Service.  I didn`t actually wake up, rather I was woken up by the sound of a very rigid drill corporal banging the end of my bed with a stick. He proceeded likewise through the rest of our barrack room only pausing at the end of Dave Fry`s bed opposite mine.  Dave from London was clearly not used to getting up early and was unamused by his slumbers being disturbed in such a manner.  He was even more unamused when his desire to turn over and go back to sleep resulted in the corporal unceremoniously tipping his bed up, leaving Dave to come to and try to get up from the floor.  Not a good start.

The evening before, we had had a load of clothing and equipment thrown at us from the Quartermaster`s stores, had been subjected to severe haircuts, short `interviews` with an officer versed in the art of personnel selection and thrown together to be formed into a random, confused and tremulous `squad.`  

And all because those of us who were conscripts, as opposed to regular soldiers who had signed on for all this, had accepted the Queen`s shilling.  Mine had arrived in the post along with my call up papers and instructions about where and when to report for duty.  It was a clever and devious trick to send a postal order for one shilling in the post because, having opened the letter  and taken out the postal order, I was deemed to have accepted a contract with Her Majesty to do my time at her pleasure.  Sneaky.

Our squad`s first day flew by in a flurry of activity;  we were shouted at quite a lot on the assumption, I suspect, that it was more akin to `good order and military discipline` to shout orders than to explain what was required.   We seemed to have to run everywhere and we had our first real experience of military cuisine - cordon noir rather than bleu in Chez Catterick.

Come evening time and our introduction to the mysteries of `bulling` - a process by which things like webbing, brasses, boots etc. were required to become literally spotlessly clean.  A few of the `regulars` among us were clearly au fait with all of that, having spent some time in things like the Army Cadet Force, so the innocents among us, myself included, were inducted into the dark arts of bulling everything in sight.

There was quite a bit of webbing to see to, including a pair of gaiters, an item of army equipment that I never understood or came to terms with but they involved scrubbing, cleaning and blanco-ing;  next came the brasses - things like badges - and they too involved cleaning with copious amounts of Brasso.  And finally the boots.  We were given two pairs each - one of which was going to be our `best boots` and to live up to that label, they had to gleam like boots had never gleamed before.   Trouble was that when they were issued they were covered all over with tiny pimples, which had to be removed by heating a spoon over a candle and vigorously rubbing the spoon on the pimples until, laboriously over a few nights, they disappeared so that they could be properly `bulled` with lashings of boot polish  applied with plenty of spit.

 And so the first day drifted into exhaustion to add to the bewilderment and confusion and as I laid my befuddled head on my slimline army pillow, it occurred to me that the term `military intelligence` truly was the ultimate contradiction in terms.  Still, one day done - only 730 left for me to fulfil my contractual obligation.

Today is the 4th of February.  It comes round each and every year, of course and each time it does it takes me back 60 years when things happened to change my life forever.  

I woke up that morning in the pub that my parents owned in the rustic serenity of the Hampshire border country but I would spend that night in quite another world.   Early that morning I was given a lift by a neighbour to Reading train station; caught the train to Paddington station in London, crossed the capital and boarded another train at Euston station.   The long journey was in some respects `interesting` as I had never been anywhere north of London before but after what seemed a day long journey the train eventually arrived at Darlington in north Yorkshire, where I got on another train for the short journey to Richmond.

It was at Richmond station that I along with a random collection of other wide-eyed innocents was introduced to the army`s version of passenger transport as we were bundled with our meager belongings into the back of a 3-ton Bedford truck which deposited us at Catterick Camp to begin my two years of National Service.

Now I promise I won`t go on about National Service per se as I`ve recounted some of my experiences elsewhere in these pages (click on National Service in the list of labels to the right and down a bit) but rather to reflect on just how significant that experience was in terms of my personal `development` - such as it has been.

I think what it did do was make up for the absence, due to prolonged childhood illness,  of the chance of a University education or even higher level schooling and to use the hackneyed phrase which refers to the University of Life, I`m pretty sure that my army days forged within me a kind of resilience, a self confidence and most assuredly a self-awareness.   It also meant that I forged the ability to deal with situations, emotions even, that today would probably lead to anxiety, depression and all the other accouterments of `mental health issues.`   But in the green hell of BFPO 16 in  an armoured fighting tank regiment none of those `issues` ever crossed our minds - we simply got on with what we were supposed to be doing, worked hard and played even harder.

Now the last thing I will do is claim that National Service should be reintroduced as it really isn`t to be recommended and I`m not sure that people would accept it these days anyway but as a learning curve to developing qualities that were needed for a fulfilling later life,  I`m pretty sure it helped.   I wonder where today`s learning curves for life are to be found?

A DESERVED HONOUR...

I have long been a bit cynical as far as the normally discredited honours system is concerned but today an MBE has been awarded to Southampton legend Francis Benali, not for his prowess as a destructive full back in days gone by but for his achievement in raising over £1 million for Cancer Research in performing a quite outstanding series of daunting physical and mental challenges by running to all 20 Premier League grounds in a matter of three weeks - the equivalent of running two marathons a day. 

So, congratulations to Frannie on a well deserved honour. 

As for me, I have a couple of routines that I like to follow.  The first is to buy the local newspaper each week and I turn to the obituary column;  if my name doesn`t appear, then I just carry on for another week.  The second is that each time the `honours` are announced I look to see if my name appears there as well;  so far it hasn`t, much to my relief as I would hate to have to dress up and go to the Palace to receive a gong - far too much pretension and trouble for me.  Although years ago, to be fair, Mrs. Snopper and I were invited to a Queen`s Garden Party at the Palace but we declined as gracefully as we could we simply because we really didn`t want to go - too much pretension and trouble for us.

So I look back on my life in a desperate search to see if I can claim any `honourable mentions` and the best I can come up with goes back to my National Service days, all of sixty years ago now.   Us enforced conscripts were not supposed to like or conform to the ways of the regular army and so we spent a lot of time complaining, much of the time soto voce amongst ourselves, adopting the art of `ticking` - as such complaining was known as.  

We became so practised at the art that we formed our own association - the  Tenth Hussars National Service Ticking Association (THNSTA,) which required a certain amount of ticking to be recorded in order to gain entry to that exclusive club and then be able to add NSTA to any military documents requiring our signature.  A similar `honour` went to those who were admitted to the PA Club, entry to which required the consumption of eight pints (or German equivalent) of the local Paderborner export bier in a fixed amount of time down at Fritz`s nearby hostelry. (I`m sure you don`t need me to explain what PA stands for.)

And so I was able to attach NSTA and PA (and bar) to my signature during the latter stages of my illustrious defence of Queen and Country.   I still consider that to be more of an honour than any gong I am never going to receive from officialdom although I readily accept that Frannie Benali has thoroughly deserved everything that comes his way.

IT`S THAT DAY AGAIN....

It seems that not much happened in the wider world on 4th February 1960 but for me the date sticks in the memory as the day when I made the perilous journey to Catterick in north Yorkshire to begin my 731 days of National Service.  It`s all of 59 years ago now and over the years I have been scribbling away on this blog I have made a habit on this day of all days to recall some of the more memorable but less agreeable moments from my military career.  On this occasion, however, I think it would redress some of the balance by recalling a more lighter aspect of my enforced conscription.

Now in 1960 National Service was coming to an end - I was called up in February and I think the last NS man of all was called up a little later that year, so I just got caught by the system and after what was billed as `basic training` I had been posted to a proper regiment, the 10th Royal Hussars, an armoured fighting regiment intent on defending western democracy from the threat of a Communist invasion.  And finding myself in the depths of BFPO 16 in what was then West Germany I quickly became aware of the differences that existed between conscripts like me and the majority of the regiment`s force of volunteer professionals.

Now those differences showed themselves in different ways - some subtle, some less so - but there was never any suggestion of any sort of dismissive attitude shown towards us few remaining NS men.  Nevertheless, the few of us were different - we had been conscripted rather than volunteered; there was a pay difference between the two `camps` and so we tended to keep largely to ourselves and develop our own `culture` that might be described as reluctant acceptance of our situation. 

The 10th Hussars were very keen on football and a series of competitions between the various Squadrons was a regular feature of the fixture list.  Three of us NS men were selected for the HQ Squadron team and we saw this as perhaps a chance to make our point by creating a National Service goal.   There was myself along with two corporals from the Pay Office - Alec Craig and Gordon Watson - and at some point in the proceedings I got hold of the ball in the centre circle and arrowed a raking pass out to Alec on the right wing (we had wingers in those days.)  Alec produced a glorious cross for Gordon to meet it and plant the ball beyond the despairing clutches of the opposing custodian for our memorable National Service goal.

We kept our on field celebrations to the minimum - the odd handshake and pat on the back - falling far short of the hugging and kissing you see today (military retribution would surely have followed,) but we had made our subtle point and although it may have gone unnoticed in the annals of military sporting history it was a special moment for us. 

A BLAST FROM THE PAST....

I know my limits.   There`s only so far I can go to keep up with modern day technology but at least I have a go.  Most of the time.  But there are times when I have to concede defeat and just give up.

Probably against my better judgement I have a Facebook account.  I find it handy to keep in touch with friends and things that interest me and last night one of my `friends` from way back when started a thread on his Facebook page by posting a photo of himself in his army days and inviting others, like me, to upload a photo from our own military days and share it on our respective timelines.   It was then that I just gave up.

So the best thing I could think of doing was to post a photo on my blog here and let the world and his wife know about it.   Now I couldn`t find a photo of just me but I found the one above which shows the No. 1 Guard of the 10th Royal Hussars with yours truly tucked away in the third row, sixth in from the left.  (Please click on the photo for a better image.)

As you can see, we all looked resplendent in our blues with white webbing and our swords mercifully at ease at our sides. We had been hand picked for our smartness, our ability to obey orders and to march in time with the music, turn right and left and stop when shouted at.  We were the regiment`s creme de la creme, the tour de force, the enviable face of the British Army of the Rhine and in this photo we were either just going onto the parade ground or having just come off it, having played a pivotal role in the formal presentation of the Guidon (new colours) to the regiment by the Duke of Gloucester.

It had been a very hot day in the middle of the long hot German summer of 1961 but we performed our choreographed sword drilling intricacies without too much of a hitch.  After all, we had been fine tuned and trained with whips and stools for about six weeks prior to the big day so no wonder we were up for it.

Looking back these 57 years to that day left me wondering what today`s snowflake generation would make of being conscripted in two years of National Service.  Maybe it`s just as well for them that they`re unlikely to find out.

AN ACQUIRED TASTE....

In a few days time it will be 58 years since I kissed goodbye to civilian life and made the long train journey to north Yorkshire to begin my two years of National Service.   And each year when the anniversary comes around, I find myself looking back on those times.  It was, of course, a different time and those, like me, who found themselves conscripted into military service had already lived through the second world war and the austerity that followed. 

It was also a time of a kind of inbred respect - perhaps even fear - for any form of authority and so it was perhaps not surprising that the call-up for national service was more or less accepted as part of how things were.  It was just one of the many things you had to do, so I blindly accepted that it had to be done and just got on with it.

The first few days and weeks at Catterick Camp were filled with running everywhere, being `whipped into shape,` being shouted at, inspected at every turn and deprived of any meaningful privacy.  They were miserable weeks and because of the distances involved in getting home, when at last a 48-hour pass came our way, along with a fellow conscript I hitch-hiked to the Lake District, where I had never been before.  We stayed the night in a homely B & B and went to the cinema in Ambleside, where the only film being shown on that Saturday night was, of course, `Carry on Sergeant.`  It kind of summed up the futility and hopelessness of our situation.

But then, after yet more weeks of being turned into a lethal killing machine who was quite capable of turning left and right on command, I found myself inexplicably posted to a Regiment - this time a real one, stationed in BFPO 16 in West Germany as it was then.  The regiment was the 10th Royal Hussars (Prince of Wales` Own) and, perhaps to my surprise, I began to immerse myself into the routines and rhythms of life in that alien and faraway outpost.   I made friends with some close comrades - most regular volunteer soldiers, a dwindling few national servicemen - and began to settle in as my demob chart dutifully ticked off the days I had to do before the ultimate release.

I can`t claim that the `working life` was particularly taxing - even the manoeuvres on Luneburg Heath were something of an adventure and I spent the night of my 21st birthday there guarding the tank park from possible invasion, armed with only a pick-axe handle and a whistle. Back at the regimental barracks, I played quite a lot of football and got an evening job as projectionist in the garrison cinema - the AKC Globe.  The extra money supplementing my army pittance helped me save up enough to buy a house full of furniture when I returned, a married man, to civilian life.  (The married man`s allowance helped as well.)

A taste of regimentation came in the high summer of 1961 when the Duke of Gloucester arrived to present the regiment with new colours and I found myself on the No. 1 Guard for the regimental choreographed parade, resplendent with my sword drill, white webbing  and growing pride at being part of such an event.

That may have turned the corner in my relationship with army life and with the regiment.  The pride I felt that day perhaps finally brought a sense of belonging to something that was more than `just` a regiment - in some ways it became something of a family; real friendships had been formed which still persist to this day, mutual trust and support became evident and we were prepared for whatever the world might have thrown at us in those tense cold war days.

But, when my time was coming to a close, I resisted the overtures of our impressive commanding officer to sign on the dotted line and headed for the exit door able to make choices for my own life rather than have the army choose for me.   Looking back these 58 years to my 731 days of enforced conscription, I am left with distinctly mixed feelings - some resentment at the conscription but coupled with a real affection for the 10th Hussars and all they stood for.   It may sound odd for a national serviceman to admit to such sentiments but life in the regiment became a lasting and acquired taste - even though I am perfectly certain that the regiment may not have acquired quite the same taste for me.

KISS ME GOODNIGHT, SERGEANT MAJOR

Today would have been my father`s birthday.  Well, I guess in a sense it still is, even though, had he lived, he would now have been well over 100 years old.  Now, what I don`t want to do is drift into over-sentimentality but each year, when 16th January comes around, my mind goes back to him.

He was born `of an age` when things were tough and when it was decided for him that the family business could not sustain another, he was packed off to the army apprenticeship school in Chepstow and thus began a long military career.  He did well enough, gained distinctive trade qualifications and achieved a number of promotions.  I guess it was hard enough being in the army in those pre-war days but it became infinitely harder once he was captured at Dunkirk and consigned to five years as a prisoner of war in Stalag V!!!B at Lamsdorf.   Towards the end of the war, he was on `the long march` and somehow survived until liberation finally brought him home.

And when he resumed civilian life, the experiences he had been through meant that he lived the rest of his days on his nerve ends, jumping whenever the phone or the doorbell rang. Not long after he finally retired from a working life, he dropped down dead in the bathroom at just 62.

My own life has had its moments.  Whilst my father was enduring his unrelenting Stalag, I was sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs every night in a relative`s house where my mother and I had been given refuge and I still recall the sound of bombs exploding along the shore of Southampton Water and hoping one would not drop on us.   And later on, I too endured my own taste of good order and military discipline, having been conscripted to do my National Service.

But nothing in my life has come close to the traumas suffered by my father and I wonder what he would have made of life today with all of its rampant liberalism and gimpy snowflakes being seduced into the army with the promise of being kissed goodnight and encouraged to reveal their gender preferences and their innermost emotions.   I think I know the answer.

There have been a number of occasions over the past 77 years when I have felt something approaching genuine despair.   I remember, for example, the sinking feeling I had around the time I was doing my National Service when the Cold War was at its height and there was a real danger of being caught up in a collision between the old east/west protagonists.  

And there I was on the night of my 21st birthday supposedly `guarding` the regiment`s tanks in the wilds of Luneburg Heath armed only with a whistle and a pick axe handle.  No wonder I felt a tad vulnerable.

And just now I`m beginning to get that feeling all over again, what with the Syria disaster, the Russian involvement, the Trump thing, the madness of North Korea  and all that.  And so, perhaps like 56 years ago, I turn once more to the gallows humour of The Kingston Trio and their rendition of The Merry Minuet, which seems just as relevant today as it did all those years ago.   Here it is:-

56 YEARS AND COUNTING...

4th February is always a date I remember vividly....and especially so as this year the 4th falls on Thursday.   For it was 56 years ago this very day that, as a callow innocent, I made the long journey to Catterick in North Yorkshire to begin my 731 days of National Service for Queen and Country.  It was all enforced, of course; no excuses, no arguments, you just got on with it - I wonder how such conscription would be greeted by the young men of today, especially as callow innocence seems to be in short supply these days.

These pictures (for a change not my own) remind me what it was like - the endless training, the bullying, the compliance with good order and military discipline, the Queens Regulations and the exposure to that great contradiction in terms known as military intelligence.   I can still remember my Army Number - like a phone number it`s ingrained in my memory;  and I still wince as I recall being shouted at as to what my "orrible spewy name"` might be.   You see, even after all these 56 years, the memories are still raw, tinged only with a lifelong aversion to any form of compulsion, yet comforted by the lasting friendship of others who endured the same experience.

I hope you might forgive this little self-indulgence  on today of all days. Normal service will be resumed shortly........

HARD AS NAILS.....

To begin on a sad note.   It`s about a year ago when a good friend of mine from our National Service days passed away rather suddenly.  But, instead of dwelling on his untimely loss too deeply, I find myself remembering the good times we had together and our long lasting friendship which was forged in the two years of our compulsory military service, largely in the comparative backwater of Germany`s BFPO 16.

Now I have the utmost respect - admiration even - for those who make the armed forces their career of choice and so nothing I say here will in any way be critical of them.  But the fact remains that, in those days of the call-up, conscripts like me and my departed friend were very different in out attitudes to life and to the concept of good order and military discipline.  

But we learned early on that to survive in that environment, one had to become `hard.` Not just as a result of the training we endured, but also in the persona we tried to convey to our fellow inmates and especially towards those regular soldiers who we assumed were `hard` anyway.   Somehow we had to compete.   And there were ways of going about that. 

One ploy I particularly recall was the ritual of the NAAFI break - a mid morning sojourn to the NAAFI canteen for a mid-morning snack.   We thought this gave an opportunity for us to demonstrate our `hardness` and so, eschewing the more favoured cup of tea and sticky bun, we both plumped for a pint of Paderborner Export and a pork pie.   This brought admiring glances in our direction along with the assumption that, therefore, we ourselves must be `hard.`

But there were other means of achieving that status, one of which, curiously, was through music.   I suspect it`s still the case that the `harder` the music you go for, the `harder` you are perceived.   It`s all nonsense, of course, but what other reason can there be for inflicting the likes of AC/DC, or The Running Sores on an unsuspecting world than to demonstrate `hardness` in the ear of the beholder? Anyway, back in the day, we trawled the airwaves for `hard` music and we went for songs that told `hard` stories like the `hard` western saga `El Paso` by Marty Robbins, which we played loud and long for all to hear and admire our `hardness.`.   Here it is:-

It doesn`t sound very `hard` any more, but it did in those days, and like the friend I lost a year ago, it`s still fixed in my memory.   

DISTURBING THE PEACE..

It`s years since I went to the cinema, probably as long ago as when we used to take our three boys to see James Bond when he was Sean Connery and the Chitty Chitty Bang Bangs of that long ago era.  Those days were not many years after I finished my National Service, during which time I moonlighted as a projectionist in the local AKC Globe Cinema in Paderborn, Germany, to supplement the Army pittance.   

It was a proper cinema with all the trimmings of CinemaScope, excellent sound system, decent seating and curtains and lighting that produced a relaxed air of expectancy for the waiting audience.  Up in the projection room, we did our stuff on carbon arc Bauer Projectors with films that ran up to six reels, which had to be changed (in the right order) without the audience being aware that the changes had happened.   The programme changed about three times each week and included a main feature, a B movie, newsreels, adverts and trailers, so it was challenging but interesting work.

But we were of an age - late teens/early twenties - and given that most of our lives were spent conforming to good order and military discipline, we were always on the lookout for little escapes, little opportunities to shake off the burden of conformity and express our youthful selves.   And we found them in the music of the times.

And we suspected that our captive audiences may have become bored with soothing music from the likes of Mantovani, Joe Loss, Victor Sylvester and his Ballroom Syncopators and we thought we should try some of our own.   My very good friend Alec Craig (RAPC Att. XRH), now sadly passed on, was a devotee of the  Modern Jazz Quartet - the MJQ with Milt Jackson on vibes and he persuaded us to play The Golden Striker as a nightly prelude to the film show starting.  

It seemed to go down well, so we tried some more.   Now this was pre-Beatles and so the music of rebellious youth came from those such as Stan Kenton, Woody Herman and my own personal favourite Ray Conniff.   So I treated the audience to S`Wonderful and especially Smoke Gets in your Eyes whilst at the same time changing the lighting in time with the music.  The cinema management were not as keen as we were on this break from tradition which disturbed the peace of the waiting punters and we were subjected to dire threats descending on us from the AKC hierarchy in their Minden HQ. 

But we weren`t to be put off - we were in rebellious mood - the latter day Jeremy Clarksons and Russell Brands of our time......and this was edgy stuff with the voices being used as instruments.  And despite now being terribly dated, well past its sell by date and seriously out of time, I still enjoy Ray Conniff to this day.   So, for old times sake, here it is:-

They say that a week is a long time in politics.  They should have tried two weeks as a National Serviceman.   I kept a diary during my first few months doing Her Majesty`s pleasure in the chilled wilderness of Catterick in North Yorkshire and I still have that diary to this day.   As this is the season for me to reminisce about those times all those years ago, I had a look at the diary today, especially on this Thursday when I was exactly two weeks into my enforced conscription.   

And it was an auspicious day because the Troop of 04/60 were no longer the newest recruits in those austere and forbidding barracks, home of the training regiment, the 4/7th Royal Dragoon Guards, who Mrs. Snopper, with unfailing insight, always referred to as Dragon Guards.   Anyway, we looked out of our barrack room window and saw the latest consignment of conscripts clambering out of the 3-ton Bedford truck, bearing their suitcases in one hand and their fears and bewilderment in the other.  "Get some in," we cried in the kind of unison that was hewn from two weeks of collective togetherness.

I had learned a lot in those two weeks.  Useful skills such as turning left and right, stopping and starting, marching slowly and quickly and responding to a name which was constantly prefixed as `spewy` and ``orrible.`  My surname also acquired an appendix in the form of a number which was not only quoted in response to questions but which also had to be stamped on each and every item of clothing and equipment which had been thrown at me two weeks` previously in the Quartermasters Stores.  Good idea, but one of the numbers was missing from the collection of stamps, so every item was a number short, thus immediately calling into doubt the  veracity of one`s military identity.

But back to my diary which, when I looked at it this afternoon, was singularly absent of any entries for those first few days apart from recurring one-liners, `Bulling.` This was probably because there was simply no time - an 0630 reveille began a day of constant movement between barrack square, gymnasium, `dining hall` and lecture room. 

So much so that, when evening came, we spent the whole of our `free time` constantly polishing and bulling assorted items of equipment ready to be inspected by corporals, sergeants and the odd officer.   Boots, webbing, brasses - all the usual stuff that go to make a soldier look the part - and, intriguingly, gaiters.   I never understood gaiters - I still don`t and they, along with some other strange items of military equipment, remain a mystery to this day.  

And so, as we gazed triumphantly at the newly arrived conscripts, I comforted myself with the knowledge that as they began their own journey into the unknown, at least I only had another 717 days to do.

THE RELUCTANT GUARDSMAN..

Each year on this day of all days, I dredge up a memory from the 731 days of my National Service, which began and ended on 4th February.   It`s 55 years ago that I arrived at Catterick Camp in the depths of a North Yorkshire winter and 53 years ago today that I took my leave of the 10th Royal Hussars (Prince of Wales Own) - the Shiny Tenth - and turned my back on Barker Barracks, Paderborn, BFPO 16 for the last time.  I did so with a tinge of regret at leaving good friends behind, some of whom I am still in touch with even now.

And recently one of those `old` friends got in touch to remind me of his reluctance at being placed on guard duty.  Well, you can hardly blame him, for unless you were selected by the Orderly Officer (and, yes, there were some disorderly ones too) as Stick Man and thus relieved of guard duty thanks to the smartness of your kit, you spent the rest of the night patrolling the tank park in two-hour shifts, armed with a whistle and a pick axe handle (no axe - just the handle) to ensure the security of western democracy in the face of the Soviet threat.  A  daunting task indeed.

And his recollection brought to mind an incident when I was detailed to be on guard duty myself one night.   Now it seems to me that life is indeed about Kipling`s twin imposters of triumph and disaster; life is a series of little victories and setbacks.  Some you win, some you lose and the Shiny Tenth`s very Regimental Sergeant Major`s insistence that I went on guard duty, gave rise to a serious conflict of interest.

My basic pay as a National Serviceman was something like 15/9d a week when I started in Catterick and this `rose` to about 26/- a week when I arrived in BFPO 16.  I felt the need to increase my income, which I did by conning my way into the job as projectionist in the Army base`s AKC Globe Cinema.   I convinced the cinema manager that of course I was well versed in the mysteries of cinemascope, stereophonic sound, lighting calls, sound cards, reel changes and the rest of the smoke and mirrors that ensure an enjoyable evening at the pictures.  And after a few false starts, audience refunds and trial and error, my fellow compatriot, Dave Millman and I became quite good at it.   I still have my certificate of competence to prove it.

At the time of the threat of me doing guard duty, Dave was away on leave and I was manfully running the cinema shows by myself, so when I learned that I had been put on guard duty, I contacted the cinema manager to let him know that I would not be available to run the films that evening.   There then followed some high level discussions between the manager and the extremely Regimental Sergeant Major and I found myself hauled before the Adjutant to be told that I had to do the guard duty and what did I think about that?

Time to pull at the heartstrings, I thought, so I explained that of course I had to accept the order to do the guard duty but felt sorry for the 200 or so of the military audience and their families who would be deprived of their evening`s entertainment and I wondered how this might affect morale.  Further discussions ensued and I was then informed that I should work that evening in the cinema but that I would have to do guard duty at some point in the future.   (I took this as one of life`s little victories.)

Some weeks later, I was sent on exercises to Soltau on Luneburg Heath, leaving Dave to run the cinema, although by that time we had recruited an assistant - Gordon Watson from the Pay Office -  so Dave wasn`t entirely on his own.  Shortly after setting up our `camp` on Luneburg Heath, the awfully Regimental Sergeant Major placed me on guard duty.   I had no chance of being selected as Stick Man and so, armed with my trusty pick axe handle and whistle, I spent most of the night patrolling the serried ranks of tanks and military equipment, hoping that the Russians would not choose this moment to launch an offensive.   Especially as it was my 21st birthday.

Now I could have taken this as one of life`s little setbacks but I suspect it was the frightfully Regimental Sergeant Major`s way of wreaking his revenge on this conscripted upstart by making me spend my 21st birthday so memorably. In the final analysis, I settled for Snopper 1 - RSM 1, after extra time.   And I still don`t know how the 53 years have gone by so quickly.

WELL I NEVER...

I was intrigued by the reports that the A1 near Catterick in North Yorkshire had been closed in both directions following reports of an `explosion` in the area.  Police conducted searches across the area where the noise was reported but found no obvious signs of an explosion.  No-one was injured and any links to terrorism have been ruled out.

Police said that the road was closed for so long leading to mass frustration and traffic congestion for motorists but the measure had been taken `for public safety.`  A police spokesman confirmed that they were `not prepared to take any chances with people`s safety and had to carry out a very thorough and extensive investigation.  A number of possibilities have been looked into but we may never find what the source of the explosion was.`   Now, on the Ministry of Defence website, Catterick Garrison is described as `the army`s largest training establishment,` with 20,000 acres of training land.  So maybe it`s not surprising that the odd explosion is to be heard drifting across the A1 from the training activities on the nearby moors. 

It reminds me of a pilgrimage made a long time ago when I and two other former national service mates made the journey to Catterick Garrison to recapture the scenes of our conscripted basic training over 50 years ago.

Armed with our army discharge papers - just in case, you see - we parked the car and stood outside the heavily guarded fence of Bourlon Barracks, where we had endured our first few weeks of military discipline.   It was an attempt to exorcise those memories, I suppose, but there was something deeply satisfying about being able to observe it from the outside looking in.   Sure enough, as we stood there, trainees were being marched up and down the barrack square, armoured fighting vehicles were parked and, not unnaturally, the whole scene was one of complete military presence.

Whereupon, a very rigid army figure arrived, pointed to the scene behind the fence and in all seriousness asked us, "Do you realise this is a military encampment?"   Well, I never! 

A FORGOTTEN TIME..

Well, I`ve finished wading my way through Richard Vinen`s 600-page account of National Service.  It`s a serious, entertaining and thought-provoking account of a time which was unique in the social and military history of this country.  It was the first and only time when over two million men born between 1928 and August,1939 (I was born in July 1939) were conscripted to serve during peacetime.   Well, I use the word peacetime advisedly as, during the period, there were serious conflicts in Korea, Malaya, Kenya, Cyprus and the fiasco of Suez, in each of which national servicemen served, died or were wounded and should perhaps be remembered more than they are.  

Now the contribution of national servicemen to these episodes is acknowledged at some length and rightly so, for the whole raison d`etre of conscription was not to turn the youth of the day into men but rather to ensure that the armed forces had enough manpower to cope not only with conflicts such as those I have mentioned but also the burgeoning threat from the Soviet Union.

Vinen`s book is full of detail about the background, the process and the ending of national service and draws upon a large collection of documents, records and interviews, all of which add to the authenticity of his study.   But it is a study not only of conscription but also of Britain during those times and he concludes that that time is now almost unrecognisable from the perspective of now.   The book is littered with references to all kinds of divisions that existed during the national service years - public school, grammar school;  officer class, non-commissioned officers, `other ranks;` divisions within the army itself - Guards, Cavalry, infantry regiments, Pioneer Corps; between regular soldiers and national service conscripts - but the most telling influence in those times was the preponderance and application of `class` itself.  (I wonder if it has changed all that much.)

Most of Vinen`s `personal` sources are from commissioned national service officers and there is perhaps not enough effort devoted to exploring what national service really meant to the `ordinary` conscript,  plucked from his own domestic environment and pitchforked into a quite alien world where, if he was to survive at all, he had quickly to adopt qualities such as self-reliance, a healthy cynicism and an acceptance of his situation whilst counting the days until his own form of normality could be resumed.

I`ve said before that, for me, the experiences I had left me with mixed feelings;  I would rather not have been called up and yet, having been, I learnt things about life and about myself that I suspect have proved useful, not least the comradeship I discovered from being `all in this together.`  And yes, my cynicism remains untouched, for how else could it be, having proved so hopeless at shooting that my rifle range score was laughably inept so I was posted to a cavalry regiment that had tanks with massive guns;  and when I was demobbed I found myself posted to a reserve regiment that went by the name of Sharpshooters.   Which, of course, aptly demonstrates the eternal contradiction in terms that is military intelligence.

A LITTLE SELF-INDULGENCE..

Went to Bluewater Shopping Thingy yesterday and, as usual, whilst Mrs. Snopper was busying herself buying essential household supplies I spent a while in Waterstones bookshop.   Now a while ago I did the same and on that occasion I saw three books that caught my fancy but I thought it would go against my natural feelings of guilt if I allowed myself the self indulgence of buying them.

But time had moved on from then and yesterday I went in search of the same books again on the assumption that it is very unlikely that anyone would buy them for me for Christmas and, in any case, I have now reached the `Why Not?` stage of life. So I decided to try to overcome my guilt complex and buy them anyway.  Well, why not?

The three books in question were

- Henning Mankell`s new Wallander `An Event in Autumn;`

- `Touched by Greatness`, a biography of Tom Graveney;

- and a newly published study of National Service by Richard Vinen. 

The first was simply because I enjoy the Wallander novels and their images of life and death in a small town in Sweden.   The second was a genuine desire to find out more about another of my boyhood cricketing heroes and the third was to recapture and investigate those events half a century ago which changed my life forever.

The sad thing was that I couldn`t find the book about Tom Graveney which had been published back in February.  I enquired only to be told that Waterstones only ever had one copy and that had been sold so I guess I`ll have to look elsewhere. (Christmas is coming?) But I did manage to buy the other two, neither of which I have begun to read of course.   But I am looking forward to getting my teeth into the 600-page National Service study as it will not only be an extended trip down memory lane but also, I hope, finally put my experience into a wider context and hopefully justify the 731 days of conscription that I experienced.  

The signs look promising.  The flysheet suggests that "more than two million conscripts - most (like me) paid just over one pound a week - underwent national service.  Britain has a curious blind spot about this aspect of its recent past, generally regarding it as a comic interlude, notable for inspiring the first ever Carry On film.  Yet its impact was huge.  It cut across the lives of an entire generation in a time which now seems impossibly remote" when we pale, nervous young men turned up every two weeks at military camps to embark on life changing experiences which still resonate, even today.

A RITE OF PASSAGE ?

Hopefully, although I haven`t heard yet, one of my granddaughters is now safely home from Glastonbury.  She`s a young woman now - grown up, sensible, quiet, courteous, with a good degree and a responsible job.   Her qualities represent almost the exact opposite of those of her grandfather, which may account for the fact that I have never been to the Glastonbury Festival and, in truth, never really thought about going.

To me, the whole thing is everything I can do without - crowds, noise, desperate conditions, third world facilities and a hefty price tag.   And yet, the younger people of today seem to feel almost a compulsion to attend this annual shindig in the normally tranquil backwaters of rural Somerset.   I wonder why.

I have a sneaking feeling that they feel it is something they have to do - almost a rite of passage, one which, as the definition goes, `is a ritual event that marks a person`s transition from one status to another.` If so, then fair enough, although I suspect there might be more agreeable ways to mark that transition than spending three days and nights engulfed in a sea of humanity, wondering what you`re doing there and wishing you were back home.

Hang on though - maybe my own rite of passage was the 731 days and nights I was compelled to spend doing my National Service, engulfed in a sea of bewilderment, wondering what I was doing there and wishing I was back home.   And maybe that`s why I never needed Glastonbury after all?   Answers on a postcard please. 

IT`S THAT DAY AGAIN...

In 1960, the fourth of February was a Thursday and it`s one of those dates, like Christmas or family birthdays, that seems to be hard wired onto my memory stick.   For that was the day I was conscripted into my 731 days of National Service;  the day I had left `home` and made the perilous journey all the way oop north to Richmond in Yorkshire and thence by 3-ton truck to Bourlon Barracks, Catterick Camp.  It`s odd, but after all these 54 years on, I still have vivid memories of those first few daunting hours spent at Her Majesty`s pleasure.

Having been pitchforked out of the 3-ton truck, the first thing I knew was that I didn`t really have a name any more.  "You, lad," seemed to be the address barked at me most and it reached the stage whereby whenever I was asked "You, lad, what`s your `orrible spewy name?" I could barely remember it.   Not helped by the fact that we were all given numbers - mine was 23762053 (you see, I still remember it even now) - and this number had to be attached to each and every item of kit thrown at us in the Quartermasters Stores - boots, battledress, denims, beret, mugs (enamel,) irons (eating for the use of,) brasses, gaiters and all the other paraphernalia of military life. 

There were a number of problems here;  for example, coming to terms with things being described backwards;  and then no-one knew what gaiters were for, what useful purpose they served apart from boosting sales of blanco. And our army numbers had to be stamped on any metal, leather or wooden items such as tins (mess)  or brushes (boot) - and each barrack room was issued with a set of stamps and a hammer so these items could be clearly marked.  Trouble was, the set of stamps in our room had one of the numbers missing, so my brushes (boot) for example had only seven of the required eight numbers. I still have those brushes now, but such was their infringement of Queen`s Regulations that they were instantly declared `idle.`   Truly, even on day one, the contradiction in terms that is military intelligence had already made its mark.

And so the first, long, arduous, bewildering day drew to a close and I was to discover things in the weeks to come in that northern outpost of Catterick that are still vividly recalled - verbal abuse, physical exertion, weary acceptance of one`s fate and an introduction to heroic profanity which, because of its constant use, soon became obsolete as a form of expression. 

Oh well, there were only another 730 days to do.......

UNIVERSITIES AND UNIVERSITIES..

I was intrigued by Jeremy Paxman`s assertion that he "could have been even tougher if he had served in the Armed Forces."   He said he felt guilty that he had had such a privileged life whilst his parents` generation had to fight in the Second World War.  He went on to say that conscription and National Service taught the importance of duty, whereas modern generations are expected to `do nothing but gratify themselves.` 

"I`d have done better for having time in uniform," he said, "I`m not arguing in favour of National Service but I feel in awe of the generation who had to do that and I feel a bit guilty having had such a privileged life.  We`ve had it pretty easy and never been tested. Obviously I`m not wishing war on anyone but it might have been better for all of us if we`d been obliged to do something rather than choosing for ourselves."

And it got me thinking once again about my late father`s experiences and, to a lesser extent, my own;  the difference between he and I was that he `volunteered` for an army career whereas I was conscripted into National Service without any choice.   And although there`s no doubt that his experiences were far more traumatic than any I encountered in my 731 days of relative peacetime, we both had the learning curves, the `lessons` of army life and the enforced compliance with Regulations, good order and military discipline.

And so I take Mr. Paxman`s point which is, basically, that those like him who were not subjected to those experiences might well feel themselves in something of a privileged position.   But he shouldn`t worry too much, for some of us who were made to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous conscription might also feel a tinge of envy that we were never given the opportunity of a University education and that we might feel a little in awe  of those who were not so deprived.   

It cuts both ways, of course, and it`s all about circumstances and opportunities.   But I do wonder whether Mr. Paxman would really have swapped Malvern and Cambridge for the University of Life, and I do suspect that I would have preferred those seats of learning to anything my father lived through or even the 731 days I was forced to spend in the green hell of BFPO 16.  But the curious thing is that, even after all these years, I`m still not sure whether my service to the nation was as valuable as the nation`s service to me.......