Training > Training at St. Omer

Re: My National Service Duty.

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rubberguts:
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."

rubberguts:
Full days of marching left a hole in the old tum that never seemed to be quite satisfied. At tea time, bread was ferreted away from the dining hall inside our bd jackets and taken back to the billet,  toasted over the pot belly stove, buttered and spread with raspberry jam, then shared around. A mate and myself had purchased butter and jam during lunch break from the NAAFI store by the clock tower.
 Trying to get a feed in the NAAFI canteen at night proved to be a no no. Over an hour of queuing and just when the goal was in sight, the hatch doors were slammed shut.
Our attention turned to ordering supper which we had previously overlooked because it had to be booked at morning parade when we were full up. The word spread and most of the intake ended up having supper. To my mind,  supper was the best feed of the day. The mustard pickle was the finest I have ever tasted. Needless to say the NAAFI did a starve.
The cold water shower episode was overcome by racing over to the bath house which was empty, first thing after knocking off for the day. Showering in hot water then straight across to the dining room for tea. We kept that to ourselves
 Aldershot Centenary in April '54 coincided with our training which required an eleven mile route march each morning in preparation for the event on top of every thing else.
One joker who was not phased by the solemnity of the occasion sat behind one of the pillars and lit up a 'Roly'  during the church service and puffed away merrily some three pews behind the top brass who must have smelled the smoke. He then nodded off to sleep for the remainder of the service, much to our amusement.
 Who could forget the unfortunates who commenced marching by using the arm and leg on the same side only to be swiftly pounced on by the DI's who called them robots and had a little lighthearted fun making an example of them
Or the jokers who did not quite make it over the jump at the assault course and ended up in the muddy pool at the bottom. The blokes who failed to hold their plates below the top of the bain marie only to have it promptly chopped in half by a descending spoon full of mashed spuds.
 The eaters with jutting elbows who took up most of the pews. "It's easy to see who didn't have School dinners the rest of the table chorused"
Slowly but surely we were molded into the direction of thinking and acting as soldiers but somehow the goal of being an 'Old Soldier' still eluded us.
 

rubberguts:
 Basic and weapons training over, it was on to the legendary, St. Omer Barracks. We arrived, nervously excited about what it would really be like and our first opportunity to don cooks clothing.
 Cooking was interesting. Instruction was given by Catering Corps Personell with years of cooking experience under their belt. Many had WW 2 service, which alone gained our respect and admiration.
In what seemed no time at all it was into the bulk kitchen for the remaining fortnight of training.

No.1 Bulk Kitchen St.Omer Barracks.
 Wow! That kitchen could only accurately be described as every Civvystreet cook's idea of cooking Heaven. Spacious, light, and airy. Up to date Benheim hobs, steamers, boilers and equipment. Two jokers continuously on the end of a mop.
 It was during our time here we caught our first glimpse of the Apprentice Boy Soldiers. Puzzling to us was the obvious fact these lads never seemed to talk amongst each other or seldom smiled, It was like a scene from 'The Village Of The Damned.' We all admired and felt sorry for them.

Classed as B3 grade cooks, it was back down the road to Posting Company. "Anyone here play snooker?" the Sergeant asked. A few put their hands up.
"Good!" "There's a snooker table in the Sergeant's Mess that needs moving across the road,"
It took six blokes to sruggle across the road wtih a full size slate bed table. They were told to return the next day to replace it again. There was a 'Do' on in the Sergeants Mess that night.
Rumours abounded at where we were headed and after a fortnight of shovelling snow and doing all sorts of ludicus menial jobs like moving piles of frozen leaves, then move them back the next day as well as the passtime of "Skiving Off" which consisted of ducking into one hut, watching out for the NCO's to appear.  The usual dispersal tactics were employed such as hopping up into the ceiling through washroom trapdoor or sitting on the dunny, all of whom got caught. It really didn't matter, the punishment was more shovelling. The canny ones escaped out the other end  before one of the NCO's could block off the escape route and darted into the next hut.
 One night the news was whispered we had received our posting. Just where would have to wait until the morning parade, the guess was the Middle East.
Displaying permenant posting flashes, was regarded by us as the ultimate identification of being an 'Old Soldier.'

rubberguts:
 The Old Sweats tales I had heard about the Middle East  proved to be true. Sun, Sand, Cheap duty free goods, Dancing Girls, but .... no Donkeys.
The Brits had adapted well to the climate. Duty in the heat of summer was from five thirty am to one thirty pm. Except for cooks. Nine a.m. 'till nine the next morning. Yes it was hot in the kitchens but once the initial sweating period had made clothing wet, moving constantly about created a personal breeze which had the effect of making the clothing feel quite cold and in so doing, kept one cool.
The M.E.L.F. GHQ Officer's Messes were about three miles from the GHQ Other Ranks camp. Once posted and ever after, we hardly wore uniform. It was either cooks clothes or civvies, We were the envy of the OR's cooks and revelled in the nickname they labelled us with, "The Strangers from Paradise," taken from a hit song by Don Cornell that was doing the rounds at the time.
Egypt was ever a source of wonder, with native life in the raw all around, after fifteen months  the withdrawal commenced. I was earmarked to cook for the guards at the Commander in Chief's Compound alongside the Little Bitter Lake. It was a great posting, swimming early in a mill pond lake first thing, I was the sole cook and shared the same tent as the CinC's Driver. I usually accompanied him into Fayed in the C in C's open top Field Humber with wing flags covered when on dispatches. The car was not subject to the speed rules. I felt like Rommel sitting up front alongside the driver. We made the most of it as we sped past the duty guards posted at the front of the various camps, who without exception snapped to attention and presented arms. Not wishing to ignore them, I raised a polite small wave in acknowledgment.
 Some six weeks later that posting too ended when the CinC upped roots and moved to Cyprus. I returned to my posting for a further eight weeks before being posted on to Cyprus, two weeks before the final Canal Zone withdrawal.
 Episcopi GHQ was still incomplete, The Officer's Mess kitchens were equipped with a new type of American oil burner. Lighting them first thing was a nightmare. The procedure was the same as for lighting the Pommie version but these units had a habit of pressure build up forcing unvaporized diesel out over the naked flame before the diesel in the heating cylinder had fully vaporised, causing explosions on a regular basis, with stove rings and oven doors lifting off. The only safe way was to hide down behind the side of the stove and wait for the inevitable. Even so, there were hospitalized casualties.
Back waiting for Demob, The officer inspecting uniforms marvelled at the new condition of my best battle dress. When I handed it in, the stores the NCO looked at the rare Rear GHQ camel flashes and immediately collard one for the display of flashes on the wall which stood out because it looked so clean and unused.

I had entered National Service envious of wanting to look like and be an old soldier.
Almost two years later with sand on my boots and time under my belt I returned to where it had began. Riding the TCV carrying us to Aldershot Railway Station for the last time,  After two years of dreaming of this moment, a empty feeling of no longer belonging crept over me.
 A group of SAS trainees were marching down the road to the balloon.
We let out a cheer.
"Get some in," they shouted.   
 We all laughed.



 

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