He opened the ever Welcoming door to the Army recruiting . “Ello lad, “ said the ramrod straight recruiting sergeant, “Wanna join up?” “Think it might be a good idea,” replied Tony, thereby proving that he was as green as the proverbial grass. “Wot branch of the Armed Forces are you interested in?”, asked the sergeant. “Thought about the Military Police,” Tony told him. Christ, got a right one here, thought the recruiting sergeant to himself. But mindful that he had to keep his recruiting figures up, he promptly enlisted him for 9 years into the Royal Corps of Military Police (Also known as The Redcaps, or Talking Letterboxes). He was given a Medical, 7 days leave, and a railway pre-paid warrant to Woking, and told to present himself there at midday sharp, seven days hence. He duly arrived at this centre of excellence, the Military Police Depot, a converted Women’s prison dating from the 1860s. At the guardroom he was greeted suspiciously by a person with two stripes on his upper arm. “Hi mate,” Tony greeted him. The striped person regarded him with some distaste. “I’m not your mate son, who are you, Tarzan and me Jane,” he commented, laughing at his own uproarious Joke. “These,” he said, pointing to the stripes ‘Mean that I’m a Corporal, and don’ t you forget it.” “Sorry, Corporal, but I was told to report here, look, here are my joining papers,” Tony told him. The corporal took the papers and studied them closely. He then turned them the right way up and studied them again. He then picked up the phone and called the Duty Officer. After many “Yes sirs, No sirs,” a military decision was finally made. Tony was given an escort to the Quartermasters Stores, and issued with Bedding. This consisted of 2 pillows, 2 sheets, 4 nondescript grey army blankets, a horsehair mattress that had seen better days, and a 3 x 2’ threadbare mat. “You’re in block 8, room 4, bed 5,” the Corporal told him, “Its over there,” he said, pointing vaguely into the distance. He then lost interest, and left him to find his accommodation by himself. Having dropped the heavy bedding three times in the first hundred yards, Tony stopped to mop his brow, and get his bearings. The quickest way to block B was across a 300 yards by 100 yds open rectangular area, covered with gravel. He had got about half way across when he heard a loud voice, in the distance. “You, get orf of my square,” it bellowed. Someone getting it in the neck, he thought to himself, continuing with his burden. “You with the bedding stand still,” came the same voice, by now much closer. He stood still, and looked round. Bearing down on him was a giant of a man, his face halt covered by the peak of his resplendent hat. The giant stopped 12” away. “Wot do you think you’ re on lad,” he demanded of him. “Just going to block 8, Sergeant,” Tony replied. The giants face became contorted with fury, until Tony thought that he was going to have a fit, or burst, or both. “Sergeant? Sergeant?” he screamed, “I’ m the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) of this depot, you orrible little man, get your arse orf my parade square or you’ll be in the nick-You there, “, he screamed at a soldier marching himself round the edge of the square. “Get this object to and his bedding to block 8, and hide him away from me.” The soldier rapidly did as he was ordered, and helped Tony to carry his bedding to block 8. “You picked a right one to fall foul of, he never forgets faces,” said the soldier, marching himself of f into the distance. The training period at the depot was 16 weeks, and his was due to commence in 5 days. It was decided that he should be issued with kit. Kit. This consisted of uniforms, gas mask, eating tools, greatcoat, in fact innumerable items to enable you to function as a soldier. He looked worriedly at the boots that he was being issued at the Quartermasters. “Corporal,” he said to the bespectacled NCO behind the issuing counter, “You’ve given me the wrong boots.” “Wots wrong with them, they looks all right to me,” countered the corporal. “Well,” said Tony, “The boots that everyone else is wearing have got very smooth and shiny heels and toes, these have little bumps all over.” The corporal went into hysterical laughter. “You’ll find out,” he gurgled. And find out he did, as he spent many hours with a hot spoon, heated up with a candle, in an attempt to iron out the accursed bumps, with the aid of several tins of boot polish. Having, as he thought, mastered the art of putting on the unfamiliar uniform, and having managed to iron out most of the bumps on his boots, he decided to take himself round the depot to familiarize himself with it. Yes, you’ve guessed it. “You disgusting object,” came the by now familiar deafening voice. “Who told you to dress up as a penguin?”, it demanded. “Stand to attention, you sniveling object,” the Regimental Sergeant Major told him. As Tony desperately tried to stand at the unusual position of attention, his web belt, which was not too securely fastened, fell around his ankles. As he tried to retrieve it, his hat fell off, two buttons fell off his uniform coat, and one of his bootlaces came undone. “What a thing of beauty you are,” the RSM assured him, “Dress yourself properly and follow me.” He marched away at a vast speed, not very closely followed by the now dressed Tony. They arrived at the barbers. “Give him two regimental haircuts, barber,” said the RSM. He now found out why all soldiers in the depot had no hair. Short back and sides? More like no back and sides. He inspected his almost bald head with horror and put his hat back on. The hat, now much too big, promptly fell over his ears. Padding it out with paper, the chastened Tony semi-marched himself back to block 8, a sadder and wiser man. He was all alone in the barrack room, as the rest of his squad was not due to arrive for two days, and he spent his time attempting to get his army kit in some sort of order. Eventually, with much noise, his 13 companions to be arrived in dribs and drabs. He found to, his horror that he was almost a social outcast, as he was a direct enlistment, and most of his room mates were conscripts, as this was in the last days of National Service (NS). They had been drafted into the RMP from other parts of the army, and were loud in their dislike of being forced into a corps that (As Tony found out), was detested. He was well off with his 9 year regular weekly pay, but the unfortunate conscripts were paid the equivalent of the price of 100 cigarettes per week, at modern day prices. Not really enough to live on, although at the end of their 2 year service, they earnt almost 200 cigarettes worth. As he had the mickey taken out of him mercilessly (Due to being fool enough to have enlisted), he waited until break times. then, in the Naafi canteen, it gave him immense pleasure to eat several pasties, filled rolls and cream cakes, whilst the NS men looked on, starving enviously. The morning arrived for the first day of training. At 5 am they were all rudely awakened by their squad Sergeant tipping them out of their beds, to the accompaniment of much shouting. Hurriedly they all got dressed and assembled outside, to be inspected. Three hours later, Sergeant Black had destroyed any self confidence the 14 men had built up, by finding fault with everything and anything they had cleaned, pressed or polished. It was now time for breakfast. Half an hour was allowed for this repast. This meant queuing for 15 minutes, then attempting to force down the Army’ s idea of a cooked breakfast in 5 minutes. They were late back on parade, indigestion pangs already starting to bite at their innards. “Youse lot are orrible little men; wot are you?” bellowed the irate Sergeant, “When I tell you lot to do something, you’ll bloody well do it,” he carried on. One poor unfortunate was idiot enough to try to explain the lateness. “Silence when you speak to me,” the Sergeant bafflingly told him. They were marched into the Medical Centre and were told to strip off for Medical inspection. “Cor, you ain’t got a lot to be grateful for,” laughed the Medical Officer, as he gazed microscopically at Tony’ s private parts. “Orderly, issue this man with tweezers, in case he wants to take himself in hand,” was his sarcastic comment. He now regretted ever having signed on, knowing that. to floor this comedian meant a minimum of 6 months inside. They were now all given a cocktail of inoculations, guaranteed to make even the strongest man collapse, and marched at the double to the Gym, for the first of several tortuous sessions with the army’s own Gestapo, the Physical Training Corps. These PT Instructors, as they were known, were prone to shouting in a high pitched voice.“On the wall bars, hup,” was the call. They never, never walked anywhere, and could often be seen running round the camp oozing fitness from every pore. An hour of high speed exercise later it was time for Lunch, and they were exhaustedly marched to the Mess Hall. The mess they all ate in was vastly overcrowded and staffed with disinterested Army Catering Corps personnel. It also offered up three choices for lunch, two of which were totally inedible. The third choice was always Corned Beef Fritters. Dear readers, Have you ever tried living for 16 weeks on those? Tony did. They returned to block 8. Lying on the grass outside the barrack room was all their bedding and kit, in a large untidy heap. “Serves you right for living in a pig sty,” came the voice of their Sergeant as he observed them from the now empty barrack room. “Bring it back in and I’ll show you lot the military way to leave your room spick and span”. Wearily they dragged their belongings back into the room, to be treated to a further 3 hours instruction on Kit layouts, bedblocks, bullshit and polish. It was hard to believe that such high standards could ever be achieved. “I suppose you might make soldiers eventually, I’ll be back at 8 o’clock for Interior Economy,” was his parting shot. They collapsed onto their beds, worn out with the futility of the day. But it was not over yet. They now found out what Interior Economy was. It involved cleaning and polishing every nook and crevice in the floor, ceiling, walls, beds, lockers. In fact everything in the antiquated barrack room, a back breaking and soul destroying task. By 11 o’clock, the room and fittings were pristine and immaculate. The eagle eye of Sergeant Black, now back from the Sergeants Mess, where he had partaken of vast quantities of alcohol, roved over this classic example of cleanliness and hygiene. “Still a load of shit ere, you can do it again tomorrow night,” he drunkenly told the horrified squad. He then staggered off in a military fashion, well pleased with the misery he had inflicted on them during the day. Sleep came easily to them all. The following morning full inspection was made of the whole squad, on the parade square. One of the many pieces of kit that was to be inspected was a web belt. This was coloured with a green powder and water mixture called Blanco, which was allowed to dry, supposedly keeping the belt in good condition. The brass belt buckles and clips were removable, and had to be polished with Brasso until they gleamed. They were then gently slid back onto the belt (To avoid damaging the freshly applied Blanco). Many other pieces of kit had to be treated regularly in this fashion. As Morning parades were held in the early morning, invariably there was an early morning mist hanging around the parade square. What does moisture laden air do to polished metal? It turns it dull. Any person with one iota of common sense knows that. Not so the RSM who was inspecting them. “There’s shit on your brasses, why haven’ t you cleaned them,?” he demanded. “Don’ t know, sir,” came the standard stock reply from Tony (It was easy way out). “You will be on show parade tonight, make sure you clean them properly,” the RSM happily informed most of the squad. Show Parade was one of the more miserable of the army’ s inventions. At 6 p.m. (And dinner started at 5.45 p.m.) you would attend at the Guard room, with your kit cleaned and polished. Fault would then be found in every item inspected, and you would have to return at 7 p.m. And again at 8 p.m., and so on. This ensured that no time was spare for you to have dinner. This was repeated endless times during the 16 weeks of basic training, the army’s method of breaking your spirit. During those weeks, the squad found out that the army was the last surviving relic of the feudal system. That being where the serfs have no rights and do all the work. It soon became the turn of the squad to carry out ‘Guard Duty’. This allegedly, was part of your training, getting you used to looking out for the enemy at unsocial hours. In reality, it was to ensure nobody was breaking, entering or stealing army property. Armed with a pickaxe handle, 2 hours guarding and 4 hours off for a 12 hour period. During the 4 hours off, you were expected to sleep, fully clothed, on a bed with no mattress. Twice during the 12 hours, the guard would be called out, and parade outside the guardroom to be inspected by the Duty Officer.Ever tried sleeping fully clothed and not getting your clothes creased? Yes, you’ re right, show parade again. After 8 weeks training, bliss upon bliss, the squad moved out of the ex women’s prison into slightly more luxurious quarters, known a Spiders’. They were so called because the ‘Legs’ were sleeping quarters, and the main body was wash and bath rooms, and toilets. This was the squads home until their training was complete. It also heralded the first allocation of permits to pass out of the barracks gate, known as 36 hour passes, for the whole squad. As time went past weekends such as these passed all too quickly, and the last two weeks of the dreaded basic training arrived. This heralded exams on military law, hours of parade ground drill, and masses of spit and polish. This was also the time of “Milling.” Milling was an excellent torture, and consisted of One minute in a boxing ring, wearing boxing gloves, and swinging as many punches as possible at your opponent in sixty seconds of mayhem. A big occasion this, all the Officers and their bloodthirsty ladies came to watch the unfortunate's rain blows upon each other. Tony mercifully lasted only 20 seconds before an uppercut brought welcome oblivion. Two days before the passout parade was due they were all issued with Lance corporals' chevrons, which were duly sewn on. To make them stand out, the centre of the chevron was blancoed white, or touched in with white ink. He looked in horror as the uniform that he must wear at the passout parade absorbed all the white ink that he had just knocked over it. Permission to leave camp was given, and he ran to the nearest dry cleaners in the nearby town. How fortunate. This was Wednesday afternoon, early closing day, dammit. Further permission to leave camp was given Thursday morning. “Try my best son, but can’ t be done before 10 am Friday,” said the dry cleaner. Passout was at noon of Friday. Tony was ready (Ready?) at 1030. The dry cleaner had done a good job, but had neglected to properly press the uniform, and the normally immaculate creases were almost non existent. However, the parade passed off well enough, despite strange looks from the inspecting officer.. They were dismissed, given pay and rail warrants, told their postings and sent on two weeks leave.

Niel Frier (805 Squad)

12th September 2013