Dear Ian,
RMP in the 1950s
I have really enjoyed this. It is a fascinating read and it’s brought back so many memories. It must have taken – and continue to take – hours of work. Thank you very much.
For myself, I have no bad experiences to recount. Discipline was absolute – but not personal. I was not bullied nor was I [the trendy term] “beasted”. And I never saw anyone else bullied etc. This is not to say I found Inkerman (and to a lesser extent, Warburg) a bed of roses. The process of turning civilians into royal military policemen fit to lead by example isn’t done by committee.
It is half a century since I wearily stepped off the train at Woking. I had travelled overnight to Waterloo, made my way on the tube (first time ever: really excited), eventually landing in Woking. I (think) I had to make my own way to Knaphill.
Tuesday May 25th 2004.
In that June/July 1953 I was a 17 year old boy, 5’ 9”, 28” waist, 37” chest, weight around ten-and-a-half stone – all finished off with (what I thought was) a short haircut. I had enlisted for three years on the grounds I would have to do two in any event. Serving three meant I would be paid extra, my girlfriend and I could get married, on discharge I could join either Hants or Surrey police. However, as no doubt happened to you, life turned out to be something totally different.
I had left school at 15. I was reasonably fit - peddling a bike in all weathers round the streets for a living is good exercise. I was especially lucky in having a PE teacher on a day release scheme the GPO ran – an ex-commando who focused on, quote, “getting my boys ready for their national service”. He terrific in the way he helped everybody learn basic skills: e.g. the fireman’s lift, the horse, climbing (up, down and along) ropes, sit-ups, chining bars, running (up down and along) scaffolding etc. In today’s world he would have been stopped before he really got going. The probability of personal injury litigation would be too much for local authorities to stomach. Then it was different. I still feel a sense of gratitude to him.
I joined the RMP because my Dad had been in it (CMP). He had been in the army (RHA) in the interwar years. He was called back in January 1939 (RA) and served in the Middle East with the 8 th Army (Torbruk etc).
My Dad was by no stretch of the imagination a guns-and-glory guy. He had three brothers. Two died in May/June 1940: the first at St Valery (TA soldier: Cameron Highlanders), the second (another TA soldier: Lothian and Borders tanks) when the Germans bombed the hospital ship he was on. The third brother and he met up in Alexandria 1943/44. By this time my Dad had been transferred to the CMP. According to my uncle – never to be disclosed to my mother – they had a very pleasant and varied three days.
My Dad’s advice was to go in the military police. The training would be tough but I wouldn’t be at the bottom of the pile and I would be in a good position to get into the civilian police when I finished.
Beyond my Dad saying it would be tough, I had no idea of what would happen at Inkerman. What I did have, and I remember this so vividly, was a determination to stay the course, not to fail. Whatever it took, I would do it.
(There have been only two other instances in my life where I have felt so strongly. One was getting an Oxford diploma and degree (started when I was 27: finished when I was 31]. The other was at the age of 39 stopping drinking and saying stopped with the help of my friends in Alcoholics Anonymous).
The only squad names I remember are Ron Redrup (Londoner, amateur boxer, built like a brick ----, kept in depot to fight for the corps. I clearly recall thinking he got a raw deal. I was going out to a provost company to be an MP. He was stuck in Inkerman) and (?) Kaye (another Londoner).
I think our Sergeant was Greaves. Corporal Fisher I have never forgotten. He was the one who the nuts and bolts in turning civilians into military policemen. At the start we had guys who couldn’t iron a shirt or press a pair of trousers. They soon picked it up. It was Fisher who initiated us into the joys of bull: doing the best boots was ok (except when we were ordered to wear them over the assault course when we were near passing out! God knows why), but changing the webbing from green to white (and making sure the brass bits didn’t mark the white) was a real pain. The classroom I never found difficult. As you can see, Place, Date, Time, I Was, I Saw, I Did, is indelibly imprinted! I even taught my kids [they would be about 6 and 4] how to direct traffic!
I get older and cynical about a lot of things I’ve been told in my life, but I hope the following is true
Corporal Fisher had been badly injured while serving in a Glasgow provost company. Sent to arrest an AWOL with a colleague, they had found themselves fighting the AWOL, his dad, mum, brothers the whole damned lot. Fisher’s colleague had ‘gone for help’ leaving him. After beating him up, the family threw him over a bridge on to a roadway below. Even at my ‘callow youth’ and definitely immature stage in life it was obvious to me [and to others] Corporal Fisher was less than 100% fit. He would urge us “Stick together lads”. It was Corporal Fisher I remembered when I read of the death of six comrades in Iraq.
A few other memories. The real kick out of hearing three squads halt as one, their boots slamming into the parade ground. Watching the odd bod still being caught by “Come Out Here And Have A Look At Yourself!!” Being told our whites were a “Dirty, Dingy, Grey!!” Being told “Don’t Step Back Laddie, You’ll Tread On Your … Hair, Get It Cut” [and this after having at least one haircut that week). Missing my tea so that I could get my hair cut before RSM’s parade the following morning (I was scared of Nash). Watching two guys, who had decided to have their tea, steadily panic as the evening went on and decide to shave each other’s head at the point where the cheese-cutter met the hairlines, only to have their hats poked over their faces, with the accompanying “Put this man on a charge”. Surprise on seeing the body visibly move back after firing a .303 on the range. Being able to ride a BSA 500cc side-valve sitting backwards on the handlebars, standing, zooming up tank traps (if you can call it ‘zooming’) Getting issued with our whistles and chain in Week 14 (I think) and thinking how naff it was. Feeling a good sense of achievement at pass-out. I had no one there. I really didn’t need them. Being in Holding Wing (see below) when a batch came back from the Far East for demob. They were ‘old soldiers’ in the sense they had all sorts of kit on, long hair etc. Within two or three days [and no longer] RSM Nash had them as disciplined as if they were recruits ready to pass out. It was very impressive.
I think I spent a couple of weeks in Holding Wing. Got my boots changed to rubber soles, had all my bd + greatcoat tailored to emphasis slim waist (!!). Trousers turned inside out and the nap shaved to give even sharper creases, a (privately bought) cap fitted with bit of tooth brush, peak slashed, tapes picked out etc. Rumour was we were off to Trieste, then off to Malaya, then off to a frozen North Germany. In fact I landed in 158 Provost Aldershot (there were horses there but they were quite separate from us).
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As I said earlier, it’s just over fifty years since I walked through the archway. I’ve been married a couple of times, had my own children, am now a granddad. I went to Oxford University for four years in my late twenties. Worked abroad and in various colleges and universities here in the UK [lecturing mainly]. I opted for early retirement and then spent a decade representing people at employment and social security benefits. But no other experience impacted on me the way Inkerman did. I’ve often though I’d like to meet Corporal Fisher’s family (assuming he had one) just to say “your dad was a really decent guy to me and all my squad”.
Look after yourself. Yours, Ian.
Tuesday May 25th 2004.