'Yer idle! Bone bloody idle!!'

Inkerman Barracks was a completely different set-up to the Royal Armoured Corps Depot at Catterick Camp where I had done my basic training. Whereas the latter was a cantonment of single-level wooden buildings, spread over a wide area, Inkerman was a large three-storey stone building with connecting wings. At the rear of the building was a complex of adjoining wooden huts which, because of their shape, were called 'spiders'. At the front, a four metre high wall of solid stone, with the main gate in the centre, enclosed the parade ground which ran the whole length of the building which, originally, had been a 19th Century women's prison.

Most of the members of No 152 squad had already 'marched in' by the time Mike, and I reported for duty. There were some 33 of us, the great majority being National Servicemen. We came from infantry, cavalry, artillery and armoured regiments, and from the engineer, ordnance, service and signals corps. And once again, our social backgrounds were as varied as they could possibly be. This time, though, we had something in common: we had all volunteered to be Military Policemen.

So far as Mike and I were concerned the Potential Officers' Course at Catterick would be time well spent, for it was clear from the very first day at the RMP Depot that we were in for a very vigorous and thorough course of training. Expected to set an example to other soldiers, the standards of discipline, dress, appearance, turn-out, bearing and behaviour of the Military Policeman were set very high indeed, and the Squad Instructors were all Military Police Sergeants who had attended the Brigade of Guards Drill Instructors' Course at Pirbright. Our instructor was Sergeant Daniels, a lean man from the West Country, able to make his point quietly and firmly, and without the bellowing and histrionics adopted by some.

For the next three months we refined our drill movements on the parade-ground, raised our physical fitness levels under the seemingly inexhaustible PTIs and on the obstacle course, and went on route marches weighed down under FSMO(Full Service Marching Order) with pack and haversack containing all items of personal kit, carrying a rifle and wearing a tin hat. We also assembled, dismantled, cleaned and fired the .38 pistol, Sten sub-machine-gun and Bren machine gun.

As trainee policemen, we learned King's Rules and Regulations, Judges Rules of the King's Bench Division, the Rule of Evidence, how to give evidence, Court Martial procedures, powers of arrest, offences, how to make arrests and to fill in charge forms. Because an important function of the Military Police is the organised road movement of military formations and convoys, we learned traffic control and point duty and the use and maintenance of the route signing equipment, paint and stencils that go to make up these essential stores of every Military Police unit. And, of course, we spent our evenings and nights bulling our brasses and boots to the absolute pinnacle of gleam, blancoing our webbing belts and gaiters (now white), ironing our battledress uniforms using brown paper to enhance the creases, and generally ensuring that our barrack room and everything in it would be as neat, tidy and shining as we were.

Very few of us left the barracks during those weeks of training. Anyone who had any thoughts of a night on the town - perhaps a visit to the NAAFI Club and then the cinema - had to pass through the main gate, having first done a self-examination in the enormous mirror outside the Guard Room, and then undergoing the close scrutiny and inspection of the Depot's Regimental Police inside the Guard Room. It was a lucky soldier, indeed, who would not be sent back to his barrack-room a number of times to bull his boots, clean his brasses or press his uniform, because he was considered by the Regimental Police to be 'bloody manky'(dirty).

Half the evening would be gone before the seemingly perverse, bloody-minded, inflexible and unreasonable Regimental Police were satisfied; by then even the stoutest heart would have lost all enthusiasm for a change of scene and the bright lights of Woking. There was a strong conviction amongst trainees that they were deliberately 'buggered around' by the Regimental Police so that, after graduation, they would exact a horrible revenge on the rest of the Army.

Then there was the all-consuming matter of the length of a soldier's hair. The Army policy for trainees was, we were told: 'What's under yer 'at's yer own; the rest belongs to 'Is Majesty', and at the Royal Military Police Depot this translated to a haircut every three days. So to save money - we were paid only 2 shillings and 8 pence a day - the squad members clubbed together and bought a pair of hand clippers which we used on each other to keep Sergeant Daniels, the Regimental Police and the RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major) happy.

The RSM is the senior soldier of the unit not holding a commission. Experienced and reliable; respected by subordinates and superiors alike, he sets high standards for himself and his unit. Sergeant Majors are legendary and the sayings attributed to them are legion. RSM Britten of the Guards and the Royal Military College, Sandhurst was arguably the best known Sergeant Major of the years immediately following World War II. In a film about the Guards, in which he played himself, RSM Britten, a large man in most senses of the word, reported a Guardsman for 'Being idle while cycling when he spotted the hapless soldier freewheeling down a hill. In another scene in which he was inspecting a squad, he stood behind a soldier and asked loudly: 'Am I hurting you?'. When the terrified almost shorn swaddy replied 'No, Sir, the RSM shouted, his voice rising in crescendo, 'Well, I ought to be, I'm standing on YOUR BLOODY HAIR! GET IT CUT!!

The RMP Depot RSM, also a big man, was no different. Anyone moving around the parade-ground ( crossing it was strictly forbidden) in anything other than 'a military manner: at a brisk pace with arms swinging, would risk hearing the RSM's stentorian bellow, perhaps from his office, or through a window in the Sergeants' Mess: ' You 'orrible man! Yer IDLE! Bone, bloody IDLE! 24

And on parade, he had eyes like a hawk, able to see any unauthorised movement or anything amiss from 100 paces away.

There was an occasion on the daily morning parade of the entire Depot, with some 300 soldiers formed up in squads, when from a distance he spotted an exposed fly button in our squad.

'SARN'T DANIELS!, he roared from his position at the front of the parade.

'SAH!!, our squad instructor yelled back.

'OO'S THAT MAN WITH 'IS DICKIE 'ANGIN' OUT?'

'SAH?, queried Sergeant Daniels.

'YER RIGHT 'AND MARKER. WHAT'S 'IS NAME?

'GOODENOUGH, SAH' shouted Sergeant Daniels.

'GOOD-ENOUGH? GOOD-ENOUGH? bellowed the RSM with great emphasis.

'WELL, 'E 'AIN'T BLOODY GOOD-ENOUGH FER ME! TAKE 'IS NAME. PUT 'IM IN THE BOOK!

At this order, Sergeant Daniels, although knowing full well Goodenough's name (Hadn't he just told the RSM who he was?) nevertheless had to move out smartly in front of the unfortunate fellow, and ceremoniously drawing his notebook and pencil from his breast pocket ask him his name and number.

We were never entirely convinced that the whole thing hadn't been hatched in the Sergeants' Mess, especially upon learning of an earlier, similar sally involving a soldier named Wellbeloved.

Shortly after this, Mike and I and a couple of others were detailed to give a 'Regimental Scrubbing' to a trainee from another squad whose personal hygiene left much to be desired. Whilst this form of summary punishment would not have been infrequent within the Army, I imagine it would not have occurred very often in the Military Police.

Under the direction of a Senior NCO(non commissioned officer) and witnessed by as many trainees who cared to watch the sport, the four of us rounded up the victim who, knowing what was in store for him, fought like a tiger. We man-handled the yelling, struggling, grimy fellow into the bathroom where we stripped him and immersed him in water. Then we scrubbed him, initially and traditionally with a yard broom, and then more practically with scrubbing brushes, soap and disinfectant, getting ourselves thoroughly soaked in the process. Whilst the treatment may appear drastic, it usually had the desired result, and I doubt that there was ever a reason for a second scrubbing. I remember my father telling me of a similar occurrence at sea, when a Midshipman from his Gunroom was scrubbed with sand, canvas and sea water on the open deck in winter!

Following an inspection by the visiting Inspecting Officer, each squad performed its drill movements perfectly. Not a mistake was made, all of us moving as one man. When it was over we felt an immense pride in ourselves, in each other and, indeed, Sergeant Daniels, who had brought us to this pitch. Sadly, though, pass-out parades are a once only affair - weeks and weeks of training and rehearsal for a single performance. So with that pride there was also sadness; sadness that shortly our group would disperse as we set off on posting to join our new units elsewhere in England,Continental Europe and the Middle East.

During the weeks I had been at Inkerman Barracks, I had quite often played for the Depot cricket team. This in turn had resulted in my selection for various other Army teams in the south of England. So when the time came for considering our postings, I was asked if I would like to stay in the UK and play cricket, or go to Egypt. Now, a few weeks earlier, Mike and I had both attended a War Office Selection Board (WOSB- pronounced WOSBEE) to determine whether we were suitable to be commissioned as officers. We spent three days doing the same sorts of things we had done on the Potential Officers' Course at Catterick. This time, though, Mike was successful, and shortly afterwards he left us for Eton Hall to undergo officer training for an infantry regiment. With Mike gone, I had palled up with some other fellows, most of whom were in the group posted to the Suez Canal Zone, the defence of which, under the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of 1936, was Britain's responsibility. So, as I did not relish staying in the UK, appealing though the opportunity to play cricket may have been, I opted for Egypt.

You are ordered abroad as a soldier of the King...'

(Earl Kitchener)

At the end of August 1950, after a few days of pre-embarkation leave at home with my parents who, finally, were getting over their disappointment at my failure to gain a commission, I returned to Inkerman Barracks to be kitted with tropical uniforms suitable for the Middle East climate and temperatures: khaki drill shorts and shirts, ankle puttees and white woollen socks. As we were to find out, however, hot though the summers were, the dry winter nights in the desert could be penetratingly cold, and at times we were glad of our Angora flannelette shirts, serge battledress, woollen pullovers and greatcoats.

A day or two later, our group entrained for the port of Southampton where we embarked on the troopship EMPIRE FOWEY. We were about 30 MPs from the three graduating squads, a Sergeant and a couple of Corporals. On board we were immediately organised by the ship's Movement Control unit into a shipboard MP detachment, tasked with maintaining discipline amongst the rest of the embarked soldiery - probably about two and a half thousand in total. Half of us were accommodated in the brig or guardroom in the bow of the ship, where there were also two or three cells for prisoners. The remainder of the group were distributed in twos and threes throughout the ship. Within 12 hours of our embarkation the ship sailed. There was no one to see us off: parents and sweethearts had been told to say their farewells at home.

Our passage to Port Said took us via Gibraltar, where we went ashore for a few hours while some of our number disembarked for duty on the island colony. The voyage was very pleasant and even the notoriously rough Bay of Biscay was kind to us. The EMPIRE FOWEY was a comfortable troopship, more like a passenger liner really, and nothing like the infamous wartime troopships we had been warned about by some of the 'old soldiers' in the NAAFI Canteen back at Inkerman Barracks. There was space to move around in, the food was good and there was entertainment to keep the troops from getting bored. After the rigours of the last three months, we relished the opportunity to relax; that is when we were not moving through the ship's decks on patrol, trying out our new-found powers, red cap covers and MP arm bands on a sometimes bewildered soldiery, many of whom were our own age and were clearly uncertain about the role of the Military Policeman.

The pleasant sea voyage was all too short, however, and on 8 September we were brought back to earth with a bump. Our particular bump, at what, in our unworldliness, seemed to be the sump of the world, was the Transit Camp at Port Fouad, the town opposite Port Said at the northern end of the Suez Canal. Military transit camps were notoriously dreadful places. As the name implies they are simply holding points for individuals, groups or even complete units, in transit from one posting or location to another. Waiting time in a transit camp could be anything from days to weeks, depending on the availability of road,rail, sea or air transport.

The Port Fouad camp was a large rambling encampment which had clearly seen better days. It was built on sand alongside the Canal. There was not a blade of grass or a tree to be seen anywhere. Apart from a few permanent cement and wooden buildings, all of which were in need of maintenance and a coat of paint, it was mainly tented accommodation. In our case, though, perhaps as we were the 'accursed Red Caps', we were housed in a disused hangar-sized store, one end of which was completely open. The plumbing in the camp was practically non-existent, and the food from the cook-house was appalling. I imagine the camp's permanent staff viewed their posting to such a place as a punishment and reacted accordingly.

As Military Policemen we were not required to do any fatigue-type duties, but we were detailed to perform roving sentry picquets during the hours of darkness. It was on the morning following our first night of picquet duty, that we realised everything we had been told about the ability of the 'Gyppo' (Egyptian) 'klephti-wallah' (thief) was true. During the night, despite our patrols, two Army officers who had trooped out on the EMPIRE FOWEY with us, had had their entire kit, including their bedding and mosquito nets, stolen from their tent while they slept! Time and again in the months that followed, we were to see evidence of the klephti-wallah's initiative, ingenuity and skill at stealing anything that wasn't bolted down and, sometimes, even things that were.

In the time we were in this inhospitable place - only 48 hours, though it seemed like weeks - waiting to be allocated to our units, we managed to get sunburnt, sand into everything, downhearted and gyppy tummy. The conditions really were dreadful and our morale plummeted accordingly. Still, our discomfort finally came to an end, when we were ferried across the harbour and put on a troop train for Moascar, the garrison in the provincial city of Ismailia, on Lake Timsah, roughly halfway between Port Said in the north and Suez in the south. Lake Timsah and the Bitter Lakes to the south connect the northern and southern sections of the Suez Canal, completing the waterway that links the Mediterranean and the Red Sea.

Accompanying us on our journey to Ismailia were a number of hawkers selling all manner of things; food, dates, thick black sweetened Arabian coffee, Coca-Cola, dirty postcards, 'my sister' and sundry kinds of baubles and trinkets. These hawkers moved through the carriages - all Third Class with uncomfortable wooden seats - exhibiting their wares for travellers to examine. The Coca-Cola vendor carried his bottles in a galvanised bucket which, earlier might have contained ice. Now his drinks were hot, fizzy and unappetising.

We were rattling along through the desert behind a coal-burning locomotive, when suddenly there was a cry of anger from one of our number - Jock Robertson. He had been haggling with one of the hawkers who was attempting to get him to part with his watch. Jock was striking a hard bargain, however, when suddenly the youth had snatched the watch from Jock's wrist, at the same time thrusting a fistful of paper currency into the astonished Scot's hand. He then made a dash to the rear of the carriage and leapt from the train. Jock and the chaps around him quickly realised that something was amiss, and a quick examination of the money established that it was not the Egyptian currency of piastres: it was, we later discovered, worthless drachmas, used during the German occupation of Greece in World War II.

'Git yer knees braahhn'

The depot at Tel el Kebir covered an immense area of desert. It was surrounded by a double line of barbed wire fortifications about 50 metres apart. The area between was planted with mines. There were guard towers every 200 metres or so, and perimeter roads around the depot both inside and outside the wire fortifications. That area of the Canal Zone around Tel el Kebir had been a mass of military camps during World War II . These camps were all in ruins now, but there was evidence of them on both sides of the road all the way to Al Qassasin, a large town about 15 kilometres closer to Ismailia on the main road which ran alongside the Sweet Water Canal.

The 'Sweet Water Canal'? Yes: well no doubt it did contain sweet or fresh water when it was originally constructed in the mid to late 1800s. Then it was an irrigation and navigation channel, and water supply for the towns and installations being built in the Canal Zone. The water, drawn from the Nile at Cairo, found its way to Ismailia where the canal branched north to Port Said and south to Suez. Whilst it was still the life-blood of that area of Lower Egypt, the Sweet Water Canal was also an open sewer, in which the people bathed, washed their clothes and cooking utensils, defecated and disposed of their rubbish and dead animals. The warning to every soldier was that should he fall into the Sweet Water Canal, he would automatically receive 33 inoculations against every disease known to man!

The Base Ordnance Depot at Tel el Kebir was a vast Army repository of stores and equipment, supplying all units in the Canal Zone and many others throughout the Middle East. It was said that the depot could completely equip a division of 10,000 soldiers. There were acres of staff cars, jeeps, trucks, armoured vehicles and artillery pieces. Enormous warehouses, filled with every conceivable type of military stores and hardware covered the area. I am not sure how many soldiers were stationed at Tel el Kebir, but there would have been some thousands, mainly from the Corps - Ordnance, Service, Engineer, Signals and Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. In addition, there were a number of Pioneer Corps units from the British island colony of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean. The Mauritians, mainly National Servicemen, were the depot's perimeter and tower guards. In addition to all these soldiers, there was a large locally recruited work force of Egyptian labourers.

The Military Police Compound was on the western side of the depot, not far from the gate which gave access to the main road out of the Canal Zone to Cairo and the Delta. Through that gate and a number of others like it spread around the perimeter, thousands of Egyptian workers passed each day. Co-located with 615 SMPS in the compound were a Military Police Dog Section, a Special Investigation Branch (SIB) Section, a detachment of Mauritian Pioneer Corps Military Police and a section of 'Blue Caps'. The Blue Caps were a locally recruited civilian organisation of Arabic-speaking Greeks, Cypriots, Maltese and Italians whose job was to police the depot's main gates, examining the work permits of the day labourers as they came and went, and performing body and bag searches. They also acted as interpreters and provided the link between the Army and the Egyptian Police.

Generally, the job of 615 SMPS was the maintenance of discipline amongst the troops based within the depot, and the performance of traffic control duties. As its title suggests (Special Mobile Provost Section) the section's role required it to be completely independent and self-sufficient, able to move at short notice in support of military movements. The normal section complement was a dozen Lance Corporals, a couple of Corporals, a Sergeant and an officer of Lieutenant rank. In addition, the section had its own cook, and an artificer or 'Tiffy' to look after the section's, jeeps, trucks and motorcycles.

The Dog Section's role was the patrolling of warehouse and equipment areas with combat or attack dogs - usually Boxers or German Shepherds - or the positioning of 'barker' dogs, former combat dogs no longer in their prime, inside warehouses where their barking would deter intruders or attract the attention of patrols and picquets. The dogs were a very successful part of the Army's security system in the Canal Zone. To Egyptians generally, they are an unclean animal, and thieves were absolutely terrified of them, usually avoiding the areas where they patrolled.

The Special Investigation Branch, as its name implies, was responsible for the investigation of major crime within the Army, and was staffed by MPs with the rank of Sergeant and above. And finally, the Mauritian MP Section was responsible for maintaining discipline amongst their countrymen in the Pioneer Corps.

As it was only a small unit, everyone in 615 SMPS was expected to be able to do everything. We performed foot and vehicular patrols, and we were all required to drive a vehicle or ride a motor cycle. Initially, to gain experience, the new arrivals were paired with a colleague who had been with the unit for some time, or with one of the Mauritian MPs. Soon though, we were just as likely to be teamed with each other. It was fairly obvious to the rest of the garrison, nonetheless, that we were newcomers to Egypt. Whilst our, as yet, brand new red cap covers and KD uniforms were a clear giveaway, the whiteness - which rapidly became pinkness, then redness, pain and peeling - of the exposed parts of our bodies, completed the picture. And the irreverent, taunting shouts of sun-tanned soldiers from the backs of passing lorries spared none of us, as we patrolled under an unaccustomed hot desert sun. In addition to the universal denunciation reserved for MPs that 'ALL COPPERS ARE BASTARDS!', they delighted in yelling as they sped away out of reach, 'GIT SOME (service) IN' or 'GIT YER KNEES BRAAHHN!'. Still it wasn't long before we developed an acceptable sun-tan, and our uniforms faded under the hot sun and the harsh treatment meted out by the dhobi wallahs (Egyptian laundrymen). Soon we looked as though we had been out there for years.

Our accommodation though not uncomfortable was fairly basic: eight of us shared a bare barrack hut of wooden walls, shuttered windows, concrete floor and a ceilingless corrugated iron roof. The ablution and shower block was separate, as were the latrines which were of the removable bucket variety. Doors and windows were left open all the time and we slept under mosquito nets. The Dog Section fellows and the Mauritians had their own separate accommodation elsewhere in the compound.

In another slightly larger hut, the Junior NCOs' Club, where we relaxed when off duty, sported a few easy chairs and a bar which was managed by one of the older Blue Caps. And then there was the mess hut which was alongside the cookhouse or kitchen. From that cookhouse came the best Army meals that I had during my service. 615 SMPS had amongst the members of its locally recruited labour force, a 'cook's assistant' who, during World War II, had held the equivalent rank of Warrant Officer as a civilian instructor at the Army Catering Corps School in Egypt. And though we had our own Army cook, a National Serviceman like the majority of us, he did not object to playing second fiddle to his Egyptian assistant who was a great teacher. Many of the Army messes throughout the Canal Zone had tried to entice Ahmed Zakhr away from the 615 SMPS cookhouse, but whilst he was prepared to assist in helping out at some of the other unit's functions, he was quite happy to stay where he was. His family lived in a nearby village and as our small unit placed few demands upon his time, he was able to get home each night.

For most of us, this posting to Egypt was just a grand adventure. Many had never travelled beyond their city's limits, let alone their country's borders. But the Army had changed all that, and the boys with dreams had become men with responsibilities. Soon we had settled into the unit's routine, and life and the months that were to follow would be very interesting.

Theft from the depot by the Egyptians was rife and occurred around the clock. It was said, partly in jest but certainly with more than just an element of truth, that the village of El Tel el Kebir, about two kilometres from the depot, held more British Army stores than the depot itself! It was claimed that a rifle a day, dismantled into its individual parts, was spirited out of the gates. Certainly there were times when we were carrying out spot checks and body searches on the hordes of labourers leaving the depot at the end of the working day, we would find items such as a bolt, trigger mechanism or a barrel of a rifle hidden in the fellahin's lunch box or concealed in his clothing. On one occasion I noticed a rather fat man in the line, waiting his turn to shuffle forward and present his work pass. He was wearing a jallabiya, a full-length cotton garment and was sweating profusely. And no wonder: when I searched him I found that he had 12 Army blankets wrapped around his body, from armpits to ankles!

Nothing short of astounding, though, was the theft of a Saracen armoured car, a fairly large vehicle mounted with a gun. Again, the thieves managed to get it out past the guards at one of the gates. The bedouin tracker employed by the SIB Section, tracked the vehicle, even along a tarmac road, and led us to a mud-brick house on the outskirts of El Tel el Kebir village. 'It's in there' he said, pointing to the house. And indeed it was: the engine still warm! Having previously built three walls of the house and put the roof on, the thieves simply drove the armoured car in, and in a matter of minutes put up the fourth wall.

In many cases, however, the success of the Egyptian thieves could only have been possible with the connivance of those responsible for the security of the Depot. The Mauritian Pioneer Corps perimeter guards were very poorly paid soldiers, and many of them were not above taking bribes to allow raiding parties to come in through the perimeter wire. Some of the Blue Caps, too, were in the pay of the thieves, and, I regret to say, so were some of my colleagues in 615 SMPS. A few months after I arrived, four MPs, three of them from 152 Squad and good friends of mine, were arrested, court-martialled and imprisoned for stealing. It seems they would take a Military Police truck onto a storage area at night, load it up with stores such as tentage, copper wire and tyres, and then drive, unchallenged, through one of the gates to meet their Egyptian contacts on the desert road, where stores and money would change hands. I had often wondered where my friends went to on those nights, and took offence at not having been invited along. When they were arrested, however, they explained that they knew I would never have gone along with their scheme and would have reported them.

For a while at 615 SMPS, I was the Deputy Assistant Provost Marshal's(DAPM) driver. Not long after I arrived, the DAPM had discovered a magnificent Humber tourer in one of the Depot's transport car parks. It was wide-bodied, had a collapsible canvas hood, broad tyres for negotiating sand and big bulbous mudguards. I believe that when he was Commander of the Eight Army during World War II, General Montgomery had a similar car. Anyway, Major Robbins, the DAPM, arranged for the Humber to be refurbished, repainted in desert yellow and put in running order. I managed to find a klaxon horn which we fitted to the front bumper. Major Robbins was the envy of all the commanders in the Canal Zone, many of whom tried to persuade him to part with the Humber, for there was now only one other like it in Egypt: a black one belonging to the General Officer Commanding, Lieutenant General Sir George Erskine.

While I was the DAPM's driver, I did few routine police duties. I spent a lot of time waiting outside various unit headquarters and officers' messes, though. But Major Robbins was a thoughtful man: if he was enjoying himself at one of the messes, he would always send out a junior officer's young wife with a drink for me. So the job did have its compensations. Like the time Major Robbins was invited to attend the birthday celebrations for His Majesty King Farouk which were being held in the provincial town of Abu Hammad. Because we were travelling outside the Canal Zone, we had to wear civilian clothes and remove all military insignia from the car. The celebrations included a parade and review of the Egyptian Mounted Police and the Camel Corps; the former manned totally by Egyptians, who were good horsemen, whilst men from Sudan, more at home on the camel, formed the Camel Corps, a frontier force.

I was not happy as a staff car driver, however, and asked to be returned to police duties. My request was granted and a replacement was found, but only after the whole of 615 SMPS unit had moved to the Sinai desert to take part in a large military exercise or 'scheme'. With all our transport, stores and firearms we drove in convoy to a Mauritian Pioneer Corps camp at Fanara on the shores of the Great Bitter Lake, where we stayed overnight in tented accommodation. We were allocated a stone lock-up building in which to secure our stores and equipment. Imagine our embarrassment then, when we awoke next morning to find that, despite the posting of a roving picquet throughout the night, the locks to the store had been broken and seven of our eight Sten sub-machine guns stolen! It transpired that a Mauritian soldier going home on discharge, had decided to make some money by stealing and selling the guns to the Egyptians. The weapons were eventually recovered and the thief arrested as he disembarked from his troopship in Mauritius, but that was long after the red - faced Red Caps of 615 SMPS went into battle without their firepower!

The move over the Suez Canal to the Sinai for the whole exercise force was effected by landing craft from Kabrit across the Little Bitter Lake. An enormous number of armoured and soft-skinned vehicles were delivered in this way, and it was our job to guide the vehicles from the landing craft and off the beaches. When this had been done, we moved ahead of the entire force, signing the route to the area of operations in the oil fields near Ras el Sudr, south of Suez where, for the next three weeks we exercised back and forth across the desert.

The roads in the area of the oil fields were constructed alongside the above-ground pipelines that led from the oil wells all the way north to the port of Tewfik, opposite Suez. The roads themselves were of oil-packed sand, and were made and maintained through the simple expedient of opening stop-cocks at intervals along the pipeline and flooding the sand with oil. One morning, I drove Major Robbins along the road leading to Suez, to meet and escort the GOC, Lieutenant General Sir George Erskine, who was coming to join his forces in the desert. We were driving back to Ras el Sudr in convoy, the General leading in his black Humber, when we came to a part of the road which had just been flooded with oil. The General's car detoured off the road to bypass the pool of oil which had yet to be absorbed into the sand. We followed close behind. At that moment, one of our motorcycle patrolmen, going like a bat out of hell, arrived at the other end of the oil pool. With the General's car already on the detour track, the poor fellow had nowhere to go but straight on. As soon as he got into the oil, which was about 50 cms deep, his motorcycle slipped from under him, shooting an enormous wall of black oil into the air. The whole lot descended upon him, covering him from head to foot. Fortunately, he was not injured and, getting to his feet, smartly saluted the General who had stopped to make sure he was all right. 'Bit slippery, what?' commented the General. 'Sah!' replied our oil-soaked colleague. It was weeks before he and his motor-cycle were clean again, whilst his complete uniform and webbing equipment had to be thrown away and a new lot issued.

Of course, the cleaning of the hapless MP was not made any easier by the strict rationing of water for personal use during the three weeks we were in the desert. One cup a day was all we were allowed for washing and shaving. Twice a week or so, we drove down to the beach and bathed in the waters of the Gulf of Suez, using salt water soap. As the salt content of the water was very high, we were not very successful, but it was better than nothing. When we returned to barracks in Tel el Kebir, our colleagues in the Dog Section let us know in no uncertain terms that they would be keeping their distance until we had discarded our smelly uniforms and thoroughly scrubbed ourselves clean.

Back at the Depot, and just before I handed over my staff car driving duties, I had to take Major Robbins to a Royal Army Service Corps (RASC) unit where there was a problem involving a soldier who was being held in cells in the Guardroom, pending the hearing of a charge against him for being absent without leave(AWL). It turned out that the swaddy was a gypsy who had, in error, been called up for National Service - gypsies, usually, were exempt from conscription - and by the time the Army had got around to dealing with his case, he was already in Egypt and posted to the RASC Company responsible for operating the Army bus service in the Canal Zone. To add to the fellow's woes, the driver of the bus on which he was the conductor, had, on a scheduled run to Port Said, decided that he had had enough of the Army and wasn't going back. He had abandoned the bus and his conductor in a side street and simply walked away.

From the outset the troops were bent on mayhem. They headed for the NAAFI Club in the centre of town and in a very short time had drunk themselves full of the local Stella beer. A few fights broke out, mainly with local Servicemen, or with troops who were returning to the UK from the Far East aboard another troopship which was also in port. Then the Irishmen began to smash up the club, and within moments there was broken glass everywhere. At this stage the battalion's Senior NCOs, who had been in another part of the club, took charge and ordered their men back to the ship. Slowly, in dribs and drabs, they drifted out into the street and began to saunter back towards the dock area, clearly in a very ugly and explosive mood. By this time, we MPs, who had been patrolling the town, had regrouped outside the club and, like dogs herding sheep, followed along behind the bellicose mob as it made its way back to the troopship.

The Provost officer in charge of the Port Said detachment, a newly commissioned and inexperienced Second Lieutenant, was greatly incensed at the truculence of the Ulstermen, and determined that they should not be allowed to get away with such behaviour. He ordered his Sergeant to go ahead with a couple of MPs to the dock entrance, and there take the Paybook Part 2 ( the soldier's identification document) from each of the Irishmen as he passed through the gate. As we were now in full view of the ship where the rest of the battalion was on deck watching the proceedings and egging their mates on with shouts of encouragement, the Sergeant's response was immediate and to the point: 'Sir' he said. 'If you want their Part 2s, you collect 'em yourself. Because the moment that lot on deck see what we're up to, we'll have 'em all down here, and then we'll be in an effing lot of trouble'. Fortunately commonsense prevailed: the Second Lieutenant saw the wisdom of the Sergeant's objection and the Irishmen were allowed to make their way back to the ship in their own time and without interference. We were most relieved when the ship sailed an hour or so later. It had been a sticky situation. Six hundred angry Irishmen, fortified with alcohol, with the potential to go on the rampage; and with only 13 of us to oppose them! History records, incidentally, that the Royal Ulster Rifles did well in Korea.

One evening late in 1950 or early in 1951, seven of us were detailed, at extremely short notice, to leave for Fayid, on the shores of the Great Bitter Lake. We were told to dress in our denims ( fatigues working dress) but to wear no rank or unit identifying badges whatsoever. We were each issued with a Sten sub-machine gun and a number of fully loaded magazines. Apart from where, when and to whom we were to report, we were told nothing else.

It was just getting light when we reported to a Provost officer on an area of open ground outside one of the main gates to GHQ MELF. Behind him, silhouetted against the lightening sky, three 3 tonne Army trucks were parked in line abreast, each loaded, we were to learn, with boxes of 'C' (Combat) rations, and each fitted with its canvas cover. Without a word of explanation, six of us were ordered, in pairs, to climb into the back of the trucks and remain out of sight until they reached their destination. We were not told where we were going or what the trucks were really carrying. Once we were in the trucks each pair was individually briefed. We were told to load our weapons and, in the event of the trucks being stopped and an attempt made to board them, we were to open fire. There was to be no challenge, we were simply to shoot! So off we went in convoy and mystery; our only escort our own 3/4 tonne truck from which all identifying unit and formation signs had been removed. After a while curiosity got the better of me and my colleague and we investigated. Moving aside some of the 'C' ration boxes, we uncovered a layer of unmarked, black, rectangular, metal boxes. And, as we were to learn later, it was the same in the other two trucks. Happily, the journey , though slow and tense, was uneventful and upon arrival at our destination - Port Said - we drove straight to the Royal Navy docks, where there was a destroyer or frigate moored stern on to the wharf, and where the Provost officer from Fayid was awaiting us. Immediately, and quickly, while we stood guard, our weapons at the ready, a team of sailors unloaded the trucks, taking the black metal boxes aboard the ship. No sooner had the last box been loaded, than the mooring lines were cast off and the ship was under way, heading out of the harbour.

It was almost dusk when the Provost officer called us together, thanked us for the job we had done and dismissed us to return to out unit. On no account, he said, were we to reveal to anyone, not even to our Section Commander, where we had been or what we had been doing. Now this secrecy would have been extremely difficult to maintain at the best of times: after all, a commander is expected to know, and be responsible for, what his men are doing. Our silence, however, became even more difficult to guarantee when, on the way back to Tel el Kebir along the Canal road, at the Canal station of El Qantara where there was railway swing bridge across the Canal, our driver mistakenly followed the railway line where it crossed the Sweet Water Canal. We were saved from those foul and foetid waters( and those 33 injections!) only by the truck's rear axle becoming jammed between two railway sleepers in the centre of the crossing. Fortunately, there was a military camp close by and we were able to make our way there on foot. Once we had overcome the problem of establishing our identity, first to the Guard Commander and then to the Duty Officer, we were allowed to telephone our unit. It was a very understanding Section Commander, indeed, who was prepared to accept that he could be told nothing, except that seven of his troops had narrowly avoided the horrible consequences of a dunking in the Sweet Water Canal, and that one of his vehicles was blocking the main railway line to eastern Egypt. Later that night another of our colleagues arrived to collect us. The following day our truck was removed from its precarious nose-down position over the Sweet Water Canal.

What could it have been that was removed from the country in such secrecy, and with such potential dire consequences to anyone who might have dared to interfere? Obviously, the seven of us subsequently held conspiratorial discussions on what we might have been involved in. The theories seemed boundless; from the fundamental that the boxes contained important, classified, archival papers from the British Embassy in Cairo; to the fanciful that they held priceless treasures filched from a Pharaoh's tomb. We never did learn the secret, however. More intriguingly, when, some 40 years later, I tried to find out from the British Ministry of Defence, I was told that the Ministry had no record of the events I have described. So I am left to conjecture. Perhaps all we had helped to spirit out of Egypt were an apprehensive King Farouk's stamp albums, and his notorious collection of pornographic picture postcards!

Not long after those events, the figurative bombshell hit 615 SMPS: SIB investigators arrived one morning to take statements from everyone. As I mentioned earlier, four of our members were arrested and charged with stealing War Department property. They were court-martialled, convicted and sentenced to varying terms of imprisonment in a Military Prison. As for the rest of us, with the Army authorities clearly uncertain as to how much we may have known, and concealed, about our colleagues' corrupt behaviour, we were dispersed amongst the other Military Police units in the Canal Zone. And so I left Tel el Kebir, initially on posting to 203 Provost Company in Moascar. After a fortnight, however, an officer on the Provost Marshal's staff at GHQ MELF asked me if I would like a posting to Fayid so that I could play cricket. He had made the offer some months earlier, but I had declined because I wanted to stay with my pals from 152 Course. However, as they were now all in prison, I jumped at the chance of a posting to 512 SMPS.

More of 'the 'arf made recruity ...in khaki kit'.

(Kipling)

Once a fortnight, an Egyptian 'concert party' would arrive from Cairo to entertain the troops in the beer garden in the centre of Fayid. In addition to musicians, and a juggler, acrobat or contortionist in the concert troupe, there were always a couple of aging, bored and, to the unenlightened, seemingly overweight belly dancers. From the moment they set foot on the stage these unfortunate women were subjected to a barrage of unkind, ribald and lewd remarks as audience inebriation began to take hold. By the end of the night, after a skinful of the local Stella beer, outlooks and opinions had changed considerably though, and in the eyes and comments of the libidinous and liquored up soldiery, the paunchy, faded ladies had metamorphosed into sensual and desirable Salomes. The end of the concert and the closure of the beer garden around midnight, however, was an anti-climax which usually signalled the outbreak of fights between various groups of fired-up swaddies, oblivious of their Senior NCOs' orders directing them to return to barracks. In these situations our patrols were invariably outnumbered and usually called for assistance.

'Call Out!!' the Orderly Sergeant would yell from the corner of the office block, before sounding the alarm gong - a suspended piece of metal which he struck with a hammer. Everyone who was off duty and in barracks was required to respond to the Call Out. Most of us would probably be in bed by that time, but it was an automatic reaction to leap out of bed, grab a pair of shorts, something for the feet, one's MP arm band and uniform cap complete with red cap cover, and head for the garages. It was a hilarious sight to see: the 512 SMPS back-up team, in various states of undress, at one o'clock in the morning, hanging out of the back of a tonne truck like the Keystone Cops, haring off down the road to the aid of their comrades.

The food at 512 SMPS was almost as good as that I had had at 615 SMPS. Certainly we didn't have Ahmed Zakhr but we had an arrangement which was probably unique in the British Army. Our cook who was a National Serviceman, had been an enthusiastic motor mechanic before he was conscripted. For some reason known only to those who make such decisions, however, he had been enlisted into the Catering Corps. On the other hand, our 'Tiffy', or artificer of the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers(REME), who serviced and maintained our jeeps, trucks and motor cycles, had been a cook in the Merchant Navy before he became a regular soldier, and really was much happier tinkering with eggs than engines. So it was agreed all round that these two should unofficially swap jobs. The upshot was that everyone was happy: we ate well, our vehicles were well looked after and, for the time being at any rate, two square pegs had been taken out of their round holes.

I was able to play a lot of sport whilst I was at Fayid. Apart from playing rugby for the GHQ team (on hard sandy ground which scoured the skin from knees and elbows) and water polo for the Section team, I played cricket for the GHQ team and represented the Army against the Air Force. I also travelled to Cairo twice and Alexandria once with the GHQ team. On those occasions I was the only member of the team who was not an officer, but that was not a problem with my fellow players. Senior and junior officers alike treated me as an equal. In Cairo we played at the Gezira Sporting Club, a magnificent sports complex which provided almost every known form of sport including horse racing. The cricket ground was beautifully grassed and maintained, and the cricket club had its own professional, an Egyptian who was a fairly good spin bowler.

While I was with 512 SMPS an unusual case occurred in a local Egyptian court involving a number of men accused of breaking into a military equipment store. The thieves were disturbed by a passing patrol, and in their haste to get out they left some items of clothing behind. The Egyptian civilian police were called in and they used a police dog to identify some of the suspects they had rounded up. During the hearing of the case, the dog was brought into court as a witness to identify the accused. The procedure was that the dog having been given a garment to sniff, then searched out the owner amongst the accused and pointed him out with a raised paw. One of the accused became quite overawed as, one by one, his comrades were unerringly picked out by the dog. When it came to his turn and the animal sat before him with an accusing paw, the fellow could contain himself no longer. 'No! No! Mr Dog', he pleaded, addressing the animal. 'You are mistaken, Sir. It was not I , Mr Dog. In truth! It must have been someone else!' It was reported that the dog was unmoved by the accused's protestation, as was the Kadhi (judge).

In the second half of 1951, the uneasy relations between Britain and Egypt deteriorated rapidly, with Nahas Pasha, the Egyptian Prime Minister, attempting to have parliament abrogate the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of 1936. With Britain's rejection of this unilateral action, British troops in the Canal Zone became more and more involved with local insurgents, and guerrilla activities became widespread. Egyptian settlements that were close to British military bases and establishments were simply abandoned as whole communities packed up and withdrew from the Canal Zone. Abandoned, too, were their pi dogs - half wild rabies-ridden scavengers. With the people gone, however, there was soon nothing left to scavenge, and the starving animals took to hunting in packs, with attacks on humans being not uncommon. It became our responsibility to deal with this menace. Before daybreak each day, a group of us would set out with shot guns and a Sten sub-machine gun, and drive to a pre-designated area. There, those with shot guns would walk in an extended line through the deserted village streets and alleys. As dawn broke, the inquisitive pi dogs would appear, stretching and yawning, to investigate the arrivals. Using SG gauge shot(about seven pea-sized pellets to a cartridge) the shooters would open fire. The job of the man with the Sten sub-machine gun was to follow with the vehicle, administering the coup de grace to any animal still alive. In about two hours each morning the four of us would account for about 80 dogs: and we did this every morning for some weeks!

Security at night on the perimeter fence surrounding the GHQ area was the responsibility of the Garrison Police who, hitherto, employed a force of locally recruited watchmen. These men were posted every 150 metres or so around the fence, keeping each other awake and on watch throughout the night using the simple Army parade-ground procedure of 'telling off by numbers'. Each post had a number and every 15 minutes each man in turn had to 'tell off' or call out his post number. If, during a round of 'telling off', a number was not heard, the overseer of that section of posts would immediately investigate the reasons for the silence.

With the increase in anti-British feelings and activities, however, it was decided to reinforce the perimeter security with armed guards from one of the infantry battalions. The officer in charge of the Garrison Police, incensed by this perceived slur against his body of night-watchmen, claimed that the soldiers would do no better than his own men in detecting intruders, and declared he would prove it. Unfortunately, on a moonless night a short while later, in attempting to make a clandestine penetration of the perimeter fence, the officer was shot dead by an alert infantryman.

As the security situation in the Canal Zone deteriorated, military vehicles began to take sniper fire as they passed through towns along the main roads between Port Said, Port Suez and Ismailia.

It was in Fayid that I first saw a demonstration of what must have been the original spray iron. The dhobi contractor's tent was directly opposite our compound. Tilley lamps burned throughout the night as the contractor and his launderers laboured ironing the unit's khaki cotton shorts and shirts which they had washed and starched earlier in the day. On the first occasion I went across to the tent to collect a freshly laundered uniform to wear the next day, I marvelled at the contractor filling his mouth with water from a jug, and blowing a fine spray onto the item he was ironing. Not very hygienic, perhaps, but highly practical nonetheless. From years of practice, I guess, he could hold a great volume of water in his mouth, and when he expelled it his cheeks swelled like balloons.

Just before I left Egypt to return to Britain, I was allotted for security duty aboard an ammunition ship being loaded from lighters from the Royal Army Ordnance Corps ammunition deport at Kabrit on the Little Bitter Lake. Besides the possibility of a guerrilla strike - what a coup it would have been to blow up a munitions ship - there was also the ever present danger of an accidental explosion occurring from a stray spark. Though we were required to be fully armed, we were not permitted to smoke whilst on board, nor were we allowed to wear our issue boots, the soles of which were studded with metal. It was a pretty tense 24 hours, particularly for a time-expired man about to return home.

On 22 January 1952 I said goodbye to my friends at 512 SMPS and entrained for Port Said, there to join the troopship SS CHARLTON STAR for the journey to Southampton. The ship and the voyage back to the UK could not have been in greater contrast to the EMPIRE FOWEY and the journey out to Egypt: the CHARLTON STAR was uncomfortable and dirty. Allegedly it was designed to carry 500 white troops or 3,000 native soldiers! The food, as I recall, was ordinary, but the Chief Steward was an absolute oaf who spent the whole time yelling at everyone, regardless of their rank. The ship was older and slower than the EMPIRE FOWEY, so the homeward-bound journey took longer and was not enjoyable. The only redeeming feature of the three week-trip was the six-hour shore visit to Algiers, where I had an opportunity to see the infamous Kasbah I had read about as a boy. I was the only Military Policeman on the ship, but some other NCOs had been pressed into service as ship's police under the control of a Provost Sergeant, a Senior NCO from the Education Corps. This makeshift group of ship's police did very well in maintaining discipline, and the passage to Southampton, though unpleasant, was uneventful.

On arrival at Southampton, I retraced my steps of a year and a half earlier, and entrained for Inkerman Barracks at Woking. It was winter, of course, and the barrack room was perishingly cold to one who had just arrived from the Middle East. The food, too, was just as awful as it had been when I had left to go overseas. Thankfully, I spent only a week to ten days in Inkerman Barracks before I was sent to the Royal Military Police Supplementary Reserve unit in Aldershot where I was demobilised from full-time service with the Colours and enlisted for part-time service in the Supplementary Reserve. This meant that whilst I had completed my National Service as a conscript, I was now required to serve on the Reserve, putting in two weeks full-time service once a year for a number of years. As things turned out, though, I was never to see any full-time service with the Reserve, although I remained on the books and liable for duty with the Reserve until February 1964.

Ian Lindsay.