I joined the Army Cadet Corps while still at school. This gave me a grounding on what the real Mc. Coy would be like as far as basic training was concerned. That experience along with the tales I heard from friends who had completed their National Service in the Catering Corps served to stand me in good stead for what I could expect.
The OHMS envelope contained a letter which was worded something like, Will you please present yourself at Blackheath Recruitment Centre for a medical examination to assess your suitability for National Service.
"Drink plenty before you go because you won't be able to pee for ages if you don't" a mate advised.
Tank full, I arrived,
"Give a sample in that and do the rest in the bucket" said the orderly Corporal handing over a small jar and pointing to one of two already sad looking nearly full buckets behind a screen.
I obliged and filled both buckets to the brim as the Corporal shouted a dismayed order for me to stop but in vain.
My first choice of the Fusiliers was denied on the grounds I was half a stone underweight (too much cycling) and was down graded medically,
"I think we will put you in the Catering Corps" said the Officer as he looked at my record. "We always require cooks." A situation promptly reversed on reaching Ramilies.
Departing the centre, I caught a glimpse of a hapless Corporal gingerly struggling to hold two full buckets of piddle at arms length in order to stop spillage onto his trousers as he took them outside to empty.
Ramilies Barracks Aldershot.
I had heard tales of men fainting when having jabs, Time for some fun here I thought. Everyone else had backed away from being first in line. Being left handed I turned turned to face the two lines of reluctant recruits. Five fainted as I fained a wince.
It was on to kitting out, When we collected our berets, Sergeant Baldwyn called out "Right, Pin heads size six and a half, stand here. Big heads, size seven to seven and a quarter here. Those with a normal head size six and seven eighth's here." Then a swift march to the billets, a demo on how to blanco webbing and bull our boots, and setting out kit, little requirements like stamping our numbers on the kit, haircut, and finally a well earned feed.
The next day we were into it. We must have looked a sorry sight.
From day one, for all us National Service jokers, the overriding desire, was to become an "Old Soldier". We performed all the little tricks, such as removing the lining from our best berets and shrinking them in hot water, Pulling two strands from our ties to form a diamond pattern and washing them to make them paler in colour.
Printed Corps flashes were permitted to be changed for embossed ones purchased from the tailor. Very desirable but the ultimate was to have them hand sewn on. Hat badges were painstakingly scraped smooth in and around the Grecian Urn, fondly known as the Flaming Pisspot, also scraped around the lettering,
Ammunition pouches, Large and small packs were squared off with fitted plywood inserts, made while on weekend leave. Belt brasses were flattened in the front, Best battle dress (sand paper suits) were shaved clean of the undesirable prickly hairy fluff.
Trousers had to be worn folded as per regulation. To prevent the bottoms from flaring out at the sides (the sure sign of a Nig Nog), we performed a neat twist by placing elastic bands around the legs just above the gaiters. Trousers had to be first put on, then lowered to around the ankles to perform this action, then trouser bottoms were folded and tucked up from below the elastic garter so that it would not be noticed even when sitting. The result was a tidy squared off perfectionist look to the bottom of the trousers
Sitting down was a 'no no' once the trousers were on to prevent any creasing around the knees.
Uniform creases were formed by placing sticking tape inside the creases to make them razor sharp, then kept pressed under the mattress,
No effort was spared in our quest to become the ultimate all cherished icon, "The Old Soldier."