A SOLDIER OF THE SIXTIES

A SOLDIER OF THE SIXTIES!

(Seventies and Eighties)

ALL TEXT AND PICTURES COPYRIGHT J.E. PARKER

A Sapper in Hampshire, Germany, Singapore and Thailand.

An Infantryman in Shropshire, Malaysia, Germany, Ulster and Canada.

A Stacker in Germany and the Falkland Islands.

Between

September 1963 and October 1986

Jim Parker

Preface

The following stories are mostly from the time I spent serving Her Majesty the Queen (God Bless Her) in the British Army the United Kingdom, West Germany, Singapore, Thailand, Malaysia, Canada and Northern Ireland between September 1963 and October 1986, and one or two whilst with Territorial Army in the next five years.

The stories are not always given in chronological order, but how I remember them. One story that occurred in 1964 might remind me of another in 1987.

I would ask the reader to remember that in some cases I have been trying to recreate the actions, views and ethos of a callow youth of eighteen years, 239813021 Sapper James Edward Parker, some forty years ago. . Not the kindly cuddly middle aged Granddad of today.

The photographs used are those are in the main, taken by me, or with my camera. However, once a film was developed friends took copies of the photographs, and I might well have intended to have more copies made. Thus from a film of say 36 snaps, I only retain half a dozen – of myself!

“Swearing like Trooper” comes no doubt to the fact soldiers use bad language - constantly. Oddly enough, in my time we would consider it bad manners to swear in front of a woman or whilst talking to an officer. Hence the frequently heard comment, out of the corner of the mouth, “Watch your fucking language there’s a woman (or officer) about!” It is pointless to constantly put those words in writing, in conversations recorded here, but I assure you, they would have been used in every sentence spoken between two or more squaddies. Where I have used them, it is deliberately to give local colour.

The events I have described are as I remember them. Perhaps those with me saw things differently.

I am not proud of some of the things I did then, and inordinately pleased with having taken part in other events. I have tried to be truthful as I saw things at the time.

I have also included stories of my childhood and youth that I wrote to a friend who lived in America. I shall probably add stories that occurred since leaving the Army.

If it amuses you, read on. If it bores find something else to do.

Jim

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2^nd Division Shoulder Badge

9^th Independent Parachute Squadron RE – Crookham, Hampshire – 1964

When I was a teenager I read lots of books and comic about the British Parachute Regiment and thought to my self - that is what I want to be. A Para! I was not worried about jumping out of an aeroplane, I just fancied wearing a maroon beret and a Denison camouflaged smock!

As soon as I had completed basic training and qualified as a Combat Engineer Class 3, at Number 1 Training Regiment Royal Engineers, Farnborough, in Hampshire I volunteered for parachute training. First I had to complete trade training as a "Clerk, Royal Engineers, Class 3” at Borden in Hampshire, this I did on 16 June 1964.

Another chap, also a clerk, and I were sent the 9^th Parachute Squadron, Royal Engineers, at Crookham in Hampshire on 19 June 1964. We travelled by the wrong bus, and, alighted at a stop, which proved to be at the furthest place on the camp perimeter from the Squadron office.

We wore Number 2 Dress Uniforms, a sort of parade uniform, with "postman hats". We had to carry with us every piece of our equipment. This included a greatcoat. The easiest way to carry a great coat is to wear it despite it being high summer. We both carried a bulging kit bag and a suitcase.

Being sensible young men, with about a mile to walk we thought we'd do it in stages. We would carry the suitcase for twenty paces, then return for the kit bags. This went well, until spotted, by a Para Sergeant, wearing a red beret. He told us in no uncertain language to pick the lot up and get carrying at the double!

We arrived at the Squadron Office sweating like pigs in our greatcoats and two hefty loads. (The other entrance to the camp was but fifty yards away!)

The Parachute Squadron Sergeant Major owned a dog. This bloody little terrier took great delight in snapping at the ankles of "Pre-Para's" folks like us who had not won their red beret. We soon learned the trick, which was, when the CSM (or other Para's) were not looking, give the creature a heft kick in the ribs, and he's leave you alone for a while.

We soon discovered there were in all, five clerks, in the camp, wishing to take Pre-Para training. We next discovered there was to be no course for the next four weeks! Thus, being clerks, we were tasked to the Squadron Office. What was a Chief Clerk to do with five extra clerks? Simple, give us the job no one else wanted. We were sent into the Squadron library and told to amend all the books and training pamphlets therein. We were all keen to impress and I suspect we had amended every booklet and pamphlet in the camp within a week. This gave us a great deal of spare time.

I had recently returned albeit as a civilian from Singapore and talked about the Far East. Another lad hailed form Nottingham, famous for having more women than men (why on earth did he enlist?) Another came from the north of Scotland and I suppose, had nothing to talk about, because he spoke very little.

Mick Lobb was the only "old" soldier, who had returned from 16th Field Squadron, Roberts Barrack, Osnabruck, West Germany, and the unit, to which I was posted eventually.

We, the Pre-Para blokes attended morning parades, and Physical Training periods twice a day. The most annoying part of being Pre-Para was that two Para NCOs regularly came into our accommodation (20 men rooms) and made us stand by our beds, and then the beds over. This was "traditional" and part of Pre-Para ritual. I will come back to this later, but as a rule, if a soldier was not in the room his bed was left alone. The trick was to slip out of the fire door when the two drunken Para's were heard coming down the corridor.

A month later there were something like 35 Pre-Para volunteers, ready to start Pre-Para selection. We were informed that all we had to do was say "I'm jacking it in!" and we were off the course.

I did a lot of things that day! I carried a medicine ball around Tweezledown Race course. I went over the infamous 40 high shuffle bars. I swung under Pyestock Bridge by my fingertips until told to drop into the river. I "bunny hopped" for long distances. (“Bunny hops” were later illegal; it consisted of squatting down, and moving forward by jumping in that position. It is very painful).

By 4 pm there were about six of us left! I was utterly exhausted! We went to the Gym for "Milling" – aggressive boxing for one minute. I entered the ring and in one minute I was knocked out of the ring three times! (The time being stopped whilst I was out of the ring). I climbed out of the ring and before I knew what had happened I said, "I'm jacking it in!"

v:shapes="_x0000_s1045">That left four of the original 35 men including my pal Paddy Galvin who had been in basic training with me! Paddy “jacked in” five or six days later because he couldn’t keep up with the others. He was asked by the Paras to stay on, but he had made up his mind. He and I went for a drink that night and I have the photograph of us in a pub in Aldershot.

The day after I “jacked in” the Pre-Para personnel including failures and the mighty four, were sent somewhere to erect tents. If I had kept my mouth shut at 4.30 for two minutes, I would have at least completed two

Paddy Galvin and me drinking in Aldershot days of the Pre-Para course! Another man joined the course had arrive late from Germany and when Paddy dropped out, the remaining four completed the two weeks and went on to the Parachute school and won their wings.

Whilst we sat in the Squadron library Sapper Maurice Lobb who preferred to be called “Mick” because I suspect he thought “Maurice” was not manly enough, talked of Germany! He was tall and Nordic looking; blond and blue eyed. He walked in a particularly jaunty way, and unless on parade, with bent arms. He had returned from Germany for his Pre-Para course, from 16^th Field Squadron. He chatted about this unit and Roberts Barrack. He spoke of the pubs in Osnabruck and the bars within the barracks. He talked of the Squadron Commander called Major Sfakianos and an officer named Capt Klimowski. He told us of the fierce guardroom staff and where 16 Sqn was in relationship to that building at the entrance to the camp. When I was posted to 16 Sqn I felt I had been there before.

I had just turned 18 years old and to me Mick was a “hard man” and I looked at him in awe. One night Mick and another “hard man” invited me to go into Aldershot with them. I was terrified! I knew (or thought?) both got into fights. However, the evening passed fairly normally, with a few drinks and we wended our way to the bus station. As we approached the bus Mick and his pal decided they wanted some chips. “Hold the bus for us!” Mick shouted over his shoulder. As the bus pulled out Mick and his pal had not shown up. I thought I was going to be “filled in” for not keeping the bus waiting (not that that was at all possible). I scrambled into my “pit” in the barracks and was resigned to a few thumps on their return. Instead Mick, offering me some cold chips, woke me some hours later.

The nurses of the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps (QARANC or “Quaranks”) trained in Aldershot, but the time they were allowed out of their barracks was very limited. One night at the NAAFI Club in Aldershot several of us picked up some Quaranks, and very pleased with ourselves we were too. All too quickly they had to return to their barracks and we walked them back.

My young lady was Margaret and she was a Scottish girl. The relationship was strictly platonic (not for the lack of trying on my behalf, I might add) and consisted of a few drinks, the flicks or when possible a snog in the park!

I had arranged to meet Margaret on the Sunday evening to go to the pictures, when I received notice of my posting to Germany. I would leave on the Wednesday or Thursday. I was broke. I had just enough money to get to Aldershot and back, and the cost of a pint.

A group of as arrived at the NAAFI Club together and as I met Margaret I told her I was broke. She immediately offered me a ten quid note. Ten pounds was the equivalent to two weeks wages! I refused to take the money and suggested she paid for the tickets to get into the cinema, she agreed tucking the money back into her purse. I thought nothing of the incident.

On retune to barracks that night I was the centre of much criticism. This went something like “You stupid (blank) fancy turning down a (blanking) tenner!” Whereas in a barracks in those days, someone would always give you a cigarette or buy you a cuppa in the NAAFI when you were skint, no one would help me out!

Eventually I arranged to sell my watch to Mick Lobb for five shillings. He intended to get a two shillings and six pence loan on the watch in a local pub. When he retrieved the watch on payday (for five bob) he would either have a watch nothing, or he could sell in for a profit! The next time I met Mick in Germany he told me that from the time he retrieved the watch it had never worked. It took some time to convince him I had not pulled a fast one on him!

All the clerks had failed or been injured on the Pre-Para course (Mick Lobb had missed it for some reason that I cannot now remember) we were returned to our library to await our postings. Mick got wind of the fact 9 Sqn needed a clerk. Bold as brass he walked into the Sqn Office and complained to the Chief Clerk that he was fed up with sitting around doing nothing with a bunch of Pre-Para failures! He got the job for the next 12 months. Another clerk and I were sent as “punishment” to work in the cookhouse. For three weeks solid I worked cleaning pots and pans. I had two weeks “embarkation leave” plus a few days.

Throughout the three months I spent in 9 Sqn it was a nightly event for our beds to be turned over by the two junior NCOs who ran the Pre-Para course. In fact we got quite used to it. Bang. The door flew open and the Paras shouted “Stand By Your Beds!” They came down the barrack room and grabbing the side of the bed, flipped it over, the bed ends often flew off and we had not only to remake the bed, but put it together first. If there was no individual standing by the bed, it was left alone. Some times we were able to slip out of the fire door before the NCOs arrived.

One Saturday night about ten o’clock, three days before I left for Germany, there was a lot of noise from the other barrack rooms in the barrack block (wooden huts joined together, known as a Spider). The door flew open and someone screamed “Stand By Your Beds”, and then two Paras came into the room tipping over ever bed, bedside locker (metal wardrobes) smashing lights and windows. One threw a spade down the room that stuck in the wall just above a soldier’s bed space. Within seconds the room was in chaos. The two parachutists disappeared drunkenly giggling and laughing.

I remember one Pre-Para soldier standing in the middle of the room with his hand on his hips and said, “I’m not paying for all this damage! Those two bastards did they should pay!” A Pre-Para NCO came into the barrack room. He was the Guard Commander that night. He demanded to know what had happened. Some men went off with him to the Guardroom. The Para orderly officer and orderly Sergeant came around to see the damage. One of the two Paras who had caused the damage was named and he was arrested and placed in the Guardroom.

This Para went on orders Monday morning and was punished by being given three days detention. As he was placed under arrest on Saturday (at about 11 pm) and spent all day Sunday in jail (with his mate who was Guard Commander) he was due for relief Monday morning!

The Pre-Para soldier, who had named that Para, was picked up on a minor infringement, charge and given seven days detention! My view of Paras changed forever! I had sworn to return and try again, when I matured. But after that evening I did not wish to belong to a unit that treated criminals as heroes and honest men as criminals. The Para Squadron had one more kick at me before I left. The Squadron Quartermaster Sergeant made me pay for a urinated mattress, which had been swapped whilst I was out of the room.

I was glad to see the back of the place by then. I flew to Germany on 24 September 1966.

16^th Field Squadron Royal Engineers

One of the Army’s recruiting posters of that time read “Join the Army and See the World!” On 23 September 1964, having spent the one year and two weeks, my total Army service, in the county of Hampshire, I flew to West Germany, arriving at Guttersloh airport. We were not permitted to carry more than 66 pounds including hand baggage. So, we wore our greatcoats and stuffed our pocket with whatever would not fit into our suitcase, kitbag or hand baggage. Like all soldiers making his way overseas I was allotted a box in which to send “heavy” items and personnel; items. Military Forwarding Organization of simply “MFO”. MFO had been arranged for me, and it arrived some weeks later. What I packed I don’t remember, but I do known that on the flight to Germany I was heavily laden. A coach service awaited us outside the terminal and I found myself transport to Osnabruck. The coach dropped me, and others, outside the guardroom of Roberts Barracks the home of 25^th Engineer Regiment to the left and the Royal Engineers 2^nd Division (a regimental sized unit) to the right.

Roberts Barracks. Around the four sides of square were the buildings in which were located the sub-units of the Royal Engineers 2^nd Division. Looking at the square from the road that divided the two regiments, to the right in three, three-storey barrack blocks were the Headquarters that included the Sergeants’ and the Corporals’ Messes, 16^th Field Squadron RE and the accommodation for HQ staff and Medical Centre.

At the far side of the square stood the glass fronted single storey Gymnasium, behind which was a sports stadium, a squash court, an open-air swimming pool and the Officers’ Mess.

To the left in three-storey barrack blocks, nearest the Gym was 7^th Field Squadron RE block, then the NAAFI (Navy, Army, Air Force Institutes, but according to soldiers’ No Ambition And Fuck-all Interest) building including a “dry” canteen, the “Pit” beer bar and a shop, and, 43^rd Field Park Squadron RE block. Behinds these buildings were various garages for motor transport, plant vehicles parking area, storages sites and offices.

Nearest the road on the fourth side of the square stood the Cookhouse. This barracks, built for Hitler’s troops before World War Two, was to be my world for the next couple of years.

I nipped off the bus, grabbed my baggage and remembering things Mick Lobb had told me, quickly left the Main Gate and the dreaded Guard Room and lugged my baggage around to 16^th Field Squadron block.

The Royal Engineers number their units - the 7^th Field Squadron Royal Engineers is called “Seven Squadron” and the 16^th Field Squadron Royal Engineers became “Sixteen Squadron”. Larger numbered units, such as the 25^th, 33^rd, 43^rd Squadron became “Two-Five”, “Three-three” and “Four-five” Squadron. It follows that Royal Engineers, 2^nd Division was reduced to “Two Div Engineers”.

I walked through the main door of Block 24 and up a couple of steps into a corridor, turning right I came to the third door was marked as 16 Sqn Office. I entered the door and found myself behind a wooden chest high counter. When asked I introduced myself as the new clerk.

My new accommodation, a six-man barrack room was down the far end of the corridor. Later I moved into the clerk’s room immediately opposite the squadron office. Once I had settled in, drawing up bedding and putting kit away in my bedside and “wardrobe” locker, I was ready for work the next morning. Following normal army procedure I had to visit virtually every department in 16 Sqn and 2 Div Engineer to “booking in”.

My new Officer Commanding was Major RG Sfakianos a South African whose Greek name prompted us to call him “Nick the Greek”. He was replaced by, Major FR Beringer, from Northern Ireland. The Second in Command was Captain N Goodall from Southern Ireland not an altogether popular officer, and was married to an American. He was later to be replaced by Captain WT Dennison. Squadron Sergeant Major Jamieson was Scottish and married to a Yorkshire lady. The Chief Clerk, Sergeant Hunter was an ex-Durham Light Infantry soldier, later promoted to Staff Sergeant. Corporal Joe O’Neill a married man from Omagh, Northern Ireland was the senior JNCO in the office.

This picture taken in 1964/65 shows 16^th Field Squadron RE on parade. HQ Troop at the front.

I am, the second man from the right, in the front rank, Charlie Quinn is the third.

Lieutenant KF Bryant, an ex-ranker, had the unique job as “Administrative Officer”. I suspect having spent his life in the army clerical world when he was commissioned the authorities didn’t know how to employ him. The post was created for him. He was an enormously popular officer. When a Sapper had a problem he went to see Mr Bryant. Men would walk into his office and ask (for instance) “Sir, I’m due my re-enlistment leave next August, but I go on my annual leave to England leave in July. Is it possible to take it early, and go home for four weeks?” Mr Bryant would from his years of experience know the answer. “Yes” or “No” the soldier would happily leave the office within a couple of minutes with a definite answer.

Lt DC Revins, who replaced Lt Bryant, was a totally different character; recently commissioned from the ranks, Lt Revins was unmarried. He wore not just parachute wings, but also, parachute instructor’s wings. He looked not unlike Field Marshal Montgomery of World War Two fame. He was smart, strict and had never worked as a clerk. He made a name for himself soon after arrival in 16 Sqn whilst checking the Squadron Quartermaster’s Stores on a routine inspection. He found a couple of small items missing and made the storeman pay for them.

A Sapper wandered into the Admin Officer’s office to enquire about a private matter, perhaps taking his re-enlistment leave early. The new officer threw him out, and made him knock on the door, wait to be told to enter, march in, halt and salute smartly! Having listened to the request, Revins dismissed the soldier telling him to return in twenty minutes! Twenty minutes later the soldier knocked on the door, marched in, halted and saluted. By which time the officer having consulted the relevant regulations was able to give the correct answer to the soldier’s question. Revins went by the book, but within a few months was more popular than Lt Bryant had ever been.

The number of Irishmen in 16 Sqn led to its nickname “16 Paddy Field Sqn”. My new pals in 16 Sqn included Brian “Paddy” O‘Neill who was Joe’s younger brother. Brian often told me how he hated English people, although I took that at the time to be a joke. He could become violent whilst drinking, but that was true of many young soldiers. “Scouse” Rafferty was the only Sapper I ever remember in those days to own a motorcar, his party trick was to smash the china plug used in those days in beer bottles with his index finger.

23964960 Sapper Charles Edward Quinn, Charlie “Paddy” Quinn is exactly one year older than I, his birthday being the same day as mine on the 7 March. I always thought of him as my, “best mate”. Charlie, like Joe and Brian was a Roman Catholic and although religion is of little interest to me, these men from Northern Ireland often spoke of the discomfort and harassment they suffered on a daily basis at home from such people as the part time “B” Special policemen due to their religious belief. In truth, I didn’t believe a word of these stories. I did, however five years later in 1969 have cause to understand when I invited myself to Charlie’s house.

Charlie came from a little village called Fintona, near the boarder with Southern Ireland, where he had worked as an egg tester, or technically as he often told us, an “auto-spin-chandler”. Charlie’s party trick was to make a coin, disappear. He did this by flicking a coin from his finger and thumb, up his sleeve. On lowering his arm the coin dropped into his hand and “re-appeared”. Charlie and I got drunk together frequently; he tells me I introduced him to the drink rum and coke, and to the poems of Kipling. Charlie and I have kept in touch over the years.

In those days when we had to wear a suit, shirt and tie to leave the barracks, on return he would always fold his suit neatly on a coat hanger before retiring to bed. This might take about two minutes. When drunk, Charlie could take an hour or two to hang his suit up to his satisfaction.

There were other men from time to time who worked in 16 Sqn offices, about whom I remember nothing. Lance Corporal Jackson, Lance Corporal Graham Wharton and Sapper Bailey.

Sapper, later Lance Corporal, “Yogi” Jorgenson a tall Nordic looking man who worked in the Survey office as a draughtsman, lived in our room. He could imitate to perfection an NCO shouting “Room! Room shun!” calling us to attention. He caught us out many times! Yogi was an excelled squash player, and I a very poor one. Late one night he came back very drunk. I was stone cold sober and challenged Yogi to a game. He staggered drunkenly over to the squash courts whilst I collected the keys from the Guard Room. He still beat me!

Mick Lobb an old mate from 9 Para Sqn, returned to work in 16 Sqn office in 1965 or 66.

One soldier whose name is long forgotten had large teeth with large gaps between each; he also had remarkably large lips (like Mick Jagger). He was known as the man with “Teeth like tombstones and lips like Scammel tyres!” This gentleman has a natural skill for mangling common sayings. His most famous being “Oh, that’s how the cookie bounces!”

National service (conscription) had finished a few years before, but many “Nashies” had signed on to receive extra pay. Many still considered themselves conscripts, and I think many officers and SNCOs thought of us as conscripts. Each and every working day Monday to Saturday we had to place our bedding in a box at the head of our beds, just as we had done in basic training.

This picture shows Headquarters Troop, 16^th Field Squadron RE marching off the square following a practice Admin Parade. We are all dressed in berets and Combat Kit, carrying our personal weapons. The officers have pistols in holsters. Some NCOs carry 9mm Sub Machine Guns. Most Sappers have a Self Loading Rifle.

Capt Dennison the Squadron Second in Command is leading.

He is followed by Lt Revins, Squadron Administrative Officer

Behind the officers marches Cpl Taffy Meadows, who was the Right Marker.

Immediately behind Taffy is Charlie Quinn.

Next to Charlie, over Taffy’s shoulder is Sapper Jim Parker.

Next to me in the Squadron Quartermaster Sergeant whose name I cannot now remember.

Much effort was put into these Admin Parades, every year.

We returned for an exercise one night and after a shower threw ourselves into bed. We were given the weekend off to tidy up our kit. My MFO had arrived and I soon had my kit all over the floor. The next morning I could not find my identity card (Army Form B2603). This was a disaster! This would result in me being charged. Without an ID card or a chit in lieu of an ID card, I would not, for example be able to leave and return through the main gate of the camp. So with much trepidation I reported my loss. Monday morning I started to make up my bed box to find my ID card under my pillow, where I had placed it for safety Friday night when I went for a wash!

Each week we changed one sheet and one pillowslip at the Squadron Quartermaster Sergeant’s store. A large Scottish gentleman formerly a National Serviceman, due for release angrily pulled his sheets off his bed and said to the room at large “Thank God, next month I’ll be able to sleep in dirty sheets for once!”

I made friend with another young soldier named “Chalky” Le Blanc. Chalky claimed to be Canadian, but hailed from the Camberley area of Surrey. His mother had married a Canadian, and emigrated there with her son. He told any who would listen that he was in the Royal Mounted Police, and had enlisted to chase a suspect. Chalky had driven any car you could name, been anywhere you mentioned. We were at the AKC Cinema one evening when Chalky confided in me that he was going to get out of the Army. His mother, he informed me, had served in the Army with the Queen during the war. She had written to Her Majesty asking for her son’s release. I told him in no uncertain term to go away and that I was tired of his silly stories and outrageous lies, and stormed out of the cinema. It so happened, that was the only true story Chalky ever told me!

The German equivalent to a Fish & Chips shop is the Brocky Stall. Brotwurst and Bratwurst, the first being boiled, and the second fried sausages (I think that is the right way around can’t remember now). Chips are called pomfrits, and many Germans take their chip with “zemf” or mayonnaise. On my first night in 16 Sqn block, my roommates assured me, it was my “turn” to do the “Brocky Run”. That is go out of the camp, about a hundred yards up the road, by the traffic lights, to the Bratwurst stall. Each bloke gave me his money, the exact amount, and told me what to bring back. The list went something like, “Zwie bratwurst mit pomfrit. Drie pomfrit ohne zemf,” and so on. I memorised the list (why didn’t I write it down? I do not know.) I trudges though the snow reciting my list. At the Brocky stall was a long cue of in the main drunken soldiers. Eventually I reached the front and looking up at the stallholder recited my list – “Zwie bratwurst mit pomfrit. Drie pomfrit ohne zemf”, and so on until I had completed the request. He then said “Im papier?” I gawked back and said “What?” “Do you want it in f***ing paper?” demanded the man in an English accent.

One night a soldier returning from drinking took it into his head to set light to a notice board as he made his way to bed. Major Beringer, quite correctly realised the danger when it was discovered the next morning. He took immediate action and called for every member of the Squadron to parade in the Squadron Club in the attic in our block. Once there he made his point about the dangers of fires being ignited. He then said several time in his Northern Irish accent “It’s a felony! I’ll not have my men burnt in their beds! It’s a felony!” The squadron catch phrase for the next month was “It’s a felony! I’ll not have my men burnt in their beds!”

Charlie went off “skiing” at the Army skiing centre at Silbehutte. I remember him telling us on his return there was very little snow. They spent much time marching about and drinking.

Each working day in Roberts started with an NCO (the duty Squadron Corporal) touring the barrack block wakening all therein. He might choose the classic “Hands off your cocks and onto your socks!” routine or tour the block clashing mess tins on walls and radiators.

We then had three choices, go to breakfast, not go to breakfast or nip over for a cuppa. However, bringing tea or food into the block was illegal. On being caught by the SSM with a mug of tea the offender would be forced to pour out his hot sweet much needed nectar onto the road.

Generally I skipped taking breakfast, however now and again someone came back with tea. Every working morning the whole Squadron paraded on the square in front of the block. HQ Troop stood at the front, No 1, No2 and No 3 Troops behind. There was much marching about, stamping of feet, dressing to the right and inspecting. A few years later I was to notice with some surprise the lack of such “bull-shit” in the infantry. Once a week was enough for fighting troops.

Members of 16^th Sqn wore a small nameplate pinned on the left chest. HQ Troop’s plate was black and the other troops red, blue and green (although Major Beringer changed the latter to orange, because it was said he was an Irish Protestant). We were fined a twenty Pfennigs if the plate was found to be missing

We worked throughout the morning with a NAAFI break at 10 am. Lunchtime (known in the Army as “Dinner”) saw us standing in a long cue outside the Cookhouse. There was one cue for Sappers (private soldiers in the Royal Engineers are so called) and another for Junior NCOs. Woe betides a Lance Corporal who attempted to join our cue or enter our dining hall. I can vividly remember hearing the Beatle’s tune “Michelle” over the tannoy system in the cookhouse. I thought at the time it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard.

After dinner we went back to the barrack room and slept for half an hour. The afternoon work in the office led up to Tea meal, after which we again returned to the block and crashed out onto our pits (beds) for an hour or so. We rose and after ensuring our equipment was cleaned for the next morning, we made our way across to the NAAFI bar. There we drank (in my case) Rum and Coke, played table football, sang, and talked. On the closure of the NAAFI we returned to the block and put on our suits, shirt and ties to visit the local German bars.

This was our daily routine, whilst money was available.

We were paid weekly on a Wednesday. We were usually broke by Saturday and in debt by Sunday. Every Tuesday evening were scrubbed the whole block from top to bottom. After the inspection, those with money went over to the NAAFI. When broke we played cards. My particular game was a three-handed whist game known as “Sergeant Major”, or Partner or Nomination Whist. Everyone read books. Many men commented that they hadn’t read a book since leaving school, (at the age of 15). Charlie read cowboy books and my favourites were such authors as Harold Robins, Wilbur Smith and Lean Uris.

I took up cross-country running a Lieutenant Lipscome a notably ugly young man was a terrific runner and our trainer. I was able to leave the office a little early for training, but would be back for tea. I ran for the Squadron and 2 Div Engineers teams in various events. I once came 6^th in a Divisional Cross Country race, the height of my athletic achievements.

The Medical Officer in Roberts Barrack was a British civilian. He was an elderly gentleman who shook like a leaf. When administering injections he would hold the needle trembling, then his hand would dart forward and the needle enter in the correct place.

At regular intervals the whole garrison was placed on “Active Edge”, a high level alert. The whole garrison (not just those in Roberts Barracks) when ordered had to stop what they were doing and be prepared to crash out. Individuals during none working hours had to report to their barracks. This could happen in the middle of a good film at the cinema, or whilst drinking in a pub. Frequently we were “crashed out” and the Squadron with all it equipment drove out of camp to a specific area. Occasionally having loaded all the equipment and boarded our vehicles, we were turned back at the gate, and stood down.

One day each week, I think on a Thursday everyone was supposed to continue to do their normal work, but wearing a respirator, (“gas mask”) for an hour. I know several of us found sitting in the toilet with out a mask preferable to sitting behind a typewriter wearing one!

On one of the first exercises I went on in Germany, we worked close to a Belgian unit. Belgian soldiers wore a buff or mushroom coloured beret with a brass cap badge depicting roman helmet, armour and crossed swords. They wore a camouflaged smock under which they wore a uniform similar to our old serge Battle Dress. The tunic of this uniform was smothered in badges, not unlike those worn by Boy Scouts. As we drank together so we swapped pieces of uniforms. Berets and cap badges being the most obvious.

With my cap badge gone, in my drunkenness I wanted something else. I offered my dark blue Royal Engineer lanyard (a piece navy blue cord worn over the right shoulder). One Belgian who spoke no English took up my offer and removed a badge from above his left breast pocked. The badge was metal, and had been held in place by two screws. The badge itself was yellow with maroon markings and somewhat psychedelic. I was most pleased with my acquisition. The next morning on sobering some men found their combat jackets had turned into camouflaged smocks, cap badges were no longer that of the Royal Engineers. I was very pleased even when sober with my badge. I could get away without a lanyard. But, I was curious as to what the Belgian soldier had done to earn such an unusual looking badge. As he wore it above his left breast pocket, the area where medals are placed, I thought it might be important. Eventually I found an English speaking Belgian. “What is this for?” I asked. He pondered for a moment, his brow creased as he groped for the words “’Ow do you say in Eenglish? Blood donor!”

I had expected to go on exercise dressed and equipped like troops I had seen on wartime movies. This was not so! I wore combat kit and carried a rifle, a “scheme box” in which was spare clothing, washing kit, steel helmet and webbing equipment, a sleeping bag, (or two blankets), a Parka, and box of rations. Between two men we had a tent and crate of beer. We were transported from place to place by vehicle. Without a vehicle we would have been unable to move!

One morning Active Edge was activated just before or just after First Parade. We drew our weapons donned our combat kit, loaded our wagons and clambered into them. Most of 16 Sqn office staff Sappers and JNCOs had climbed into the back of one 3-ton lorry (which we must today call a 4 tonne). Then we sat on our pile of stores and Royal Engineers, Belgian and Blood Donor Badges waited. A case of hurry, hurry! Wait!

The doors of the NAAFI opened at 10 am. Our vehicle was parked twenty yards from the NAAFI building. We looked longingly at the inviting open door. Rafferty decided he would go in. He collected our money to buy cartons of milk. He jumped out the back and sprinted for the NAAFI across the square. No sooner had he disappeared through the door than the vehicle engines started. As there were so many vehicles in 2 Division Engineers they started to snake around the square, and then onto the road surrounding the square. There was no stopping the convoy. We drove past the NAAFI as Rafferty emerged from the canteen, carrying close to his chest numerous two pint sized cartons of milk. He ran chasing the 3-ton lorry, cartons of milk dropping and exploding on the tarmac surface of the road. We cheered or jeered as he scampered after us. The driver unaware of the comedy unfolding drama behind drove to catch up, or drop back into convoy distance as required. Rafferty encumbered with cartons, ran forward then thinking the vehicle was stopping for him, slowed down. Then it sped off again. He eventually caught up, when the lorry had to stop for traffic lights some distance outside the camp. Those of us, safe in the back of the lorry, were laughing so hard it hurt.

We did a lot of travelling in the back of 3-ton lorries. There were several ways to pass the time; the most popular and memorable was to sing. We bellowed out “Rugby” songs at the top of our voices. The next most popular activity was sleeping, followed by gawking at German woman. The most popular place in the back of a lorry was next to the tailboard, so those seats those were taken by NCOs. There was often a problem of bodily functions whilst travelling. Urinating over the tailboard was risky, mostly from being caught by officers. Embarrassment when leaning with your private parts exposed, and the vehicle drives through a small town crowded with civilians.

Whilst at Hameln with the 43^rd Sqn we travelled standing in the back of open topped 10 ton lorries from our camp to the work site. I learned on these trips to make an “Ee-har!” cowboy whoop, which was in vogue by Sappers at the time. Twenty odd soldier Yippeeing to the locals, who simply ignored us!

Capt N Goodall never paid the usual five marks to his baby sitters. The word went around and no one would baby sit for him. Charlie warned me not to accept but when the poor bloke came around and was evidently desperate I agreed. His wife was a very nice American lady. When they arrived home from their “do”, he drove me back to the block, we stopped outside the block and in the dark he said very formally “It is my policy to pay baby sitters!” and slipped a coin into my hand, which I supposed to be a five mark piece. On leaving the car, and walking into the light in the block, I saw he had given me a two-mark piece.

I owned a black bow tie, a white shirt and black trousers. I used these whilst employed, for extra cash, as a waiter in the Officers’ Mess, and on a couple of occasions at special Sergeants’ Mess functions. As the Sergeants’ Mess Christmas Ball approached I had hoped to earn some money as a waiter. However the sergeant arranging the do had chosen men from his own squadron. Seeing my disappointment, he offered me the job of looking after the coats. As it was Christmas, and the weather very cold, I made a fortune! Then some of the “waiters” were not up to scratch, and I was asked to serve on tables. More cash came my way from tips.

Whilst acting was silver service waiter at the officers’ mess one evening, I was told I had missed my calling, as my general attitude suited the role. I thought, “Thanks a lot!”

We attended numerous exercises and schemes throughout the year. Once a year the Squadrons in the 2^nd Division went to Hameln (of the Pied Piper fame) for “Bridging Camp”, where the Combat Engineers or “Field Hoggys” as we called them, practiced building various types of bridges and floating pontoons. I cannot remember taking part in any bridge building when I went to Hameln with 16 Squadron.

16 Sqn football team won the Minor Units, Association Football Championship of BAOR. We were at Hameln and had been given the afternoon off to celebrate. A group of us went into Hameln. We all wore a suit, or at least jacket and tie. Most pubs in the town had “Out of Bounds” notices on their doors. However, we made our way into a bar and sat around a table drinking beer. Although I had myself not seen the match, it was the main topic of conversation. We were as we said “Chuffed to bits!” The word “Chuffed” was used to infer “Pleased” and used by us all. The landlord came across and waving towards the German customers dining at other tables, he asked us not to swear. We apologised took great care not to swear. The topic of football never wavered and we drank to the team, the Squadron. We stressed to each other how chuffed we were at the victory. Tight lipped the portly landlord came across to the table and ordered us to leave! He was very angry, and threatened to call the Military Police. We were totally at a loss as to the reason for our eviction.

A week later a German-speaking soldier commented that “chuffed”, sounded like a vulgar German word for a woman’s private parts!

Within Roberts Barracks there were many bars. Each Squadron had its own club, more of these, later. There were two Other Ranks NAAFI bars, one in 25 Regt half of the camp called “The Crow Bar”, and “The Pit” situated directly opposite 16 Sqn in 2 Division Engineers area.

The Pit was in the cellar of the NAAFI building. It consisted of tables and chairs and a football table. Decoration was simply Heineken beer labels stuck on the walls. A matronly German lady working for the NAAFI sat behind a small hatchway from which she dispensed alcohol. Should trouble break out the shutters were closed very quickly. The Pit was a man’s, no frills, drinking hole and nothing else!

The list of stories about The Pit is endless. I was told many tales some I will here impart. At one time the “hardest” man had a chain of office and he conducted barrack room courts martial for those who spilled a drink or committed a similar heinous crime! A similar chain of office was given to and worn by a man voted as the greatest drinker. These chains of office went to Hameln when a unit moved there at some time before I arrive. Tales of fights and of the Regimental Police being called to clear the pit were heroic. How the Orderly Officer ordered the door to be locked and hose pipes directed to drench hostile drunks were told to me. There is a story that only one man, who happened to be an RAMC Corporal was allowed to visit the Pit and drink tea. He was, the story goes, a very hard man!

The Pit was rough whilst I was there, but in truth I never saw a fight! There were however plenty of characters! One man evidently had his national service delayed whilst he completed his history degree. Like Charlie and me in The Pit, supping rum and coke many men he signed on for a few extra years and found himself left behind when conscription ended. “Geordie” from 7 Sqn spent his evening talking (teaching) history. He would talk of Kings and Queens, Romans and the Wars of the Roses. Then he would stop talking. This would indicate his glass was empty. On a refreshed glass being placed before him, he would continue. Another man always had a dictionary in his upper pocket and would at the drop of a word, give those who wished to know, the correct definition and spelling.

The Crow Bar in 25 Regiment was renovated soon after I arrived in Osnabruck. The authorities tried to make this bar the opposite to The Pit. A shirt and tie had to worn and some effort was made to decorate the walls.

16 Sqn bar was in the attic, and for some reason I did not like going there. Once I walked in, and I immediately spotted a black and white picture, behind the bar of a naked woman with dark pubic hair. Pornography at that time was very rare. “Gis a look!” I exclaimed wide-eyed pointing at the photograph. The bar man pickup the snap and showed me it at arms length. But he turned the picture around to reveal a naked man! With a rum and coke in my hand, for the rest of the evening I watched every new customer react the same as I had.

One day whilst I worked in 16 Sqn Office a soldier came into the office and declared that he was due to leave the Army in two weeks time. Soldiers are entitled to four weeks terminal leave, plus much time is required to process certain documents. The man was right, and there was pandemonium. I was charged with not processing the discharge documentation in time. I was more surprised when instead of landing in jail or receiving a heft fine, the Major Dennison found me not guilty! It was only months and months later that I discovered why. It is the Chief Clerk, and the Chief Clerk alone who is responsible for handling discharge papers! Sgt Hunter was due for promotion to Staff Sergeant, if he had been charged he would have lost his crown. I was the scapegoat.

Although not from an overly religious family, as a child and adolescent I attended church and was a member of a church choir. Aged 15, I decided I did not believe in an after life. Therefore I could not agree with Christian teachings. Whilst in Osnabruck in October 1965 I went through a surprisingly simple procedure to change my official religion from Church of England to Agnostic.

There was a minor traffic accident near the barracks one night as Charlie and walked by. One car had backed into another. For some reason, we were asked to make a written report (perhaps one of the vehicles belonged to a soldier). SSM Jamieson read through my report, which said the black car had reversed into the red car. He looked puzzled, and read Charlie’s notes, which also stated the red car had been damaged by the other one. He grew angry and stood up and lent across his desk and shouted “Are you to (blanks) trying to (blank) me about?” It was our turn to be puzzled. Giving the SSM his due, he resisted strangling us, and asked “What colour was the damaged car?” We replied in unison, “Red, Sir!” Then it dawned on all three of us, that, the car was white, but the rear lights made it appear to us, red!

On or around 1 April 1965 due to reorganisation, a clerk from each squadron was sent to the HQ. I was sent to work in the Headquarters of 2 Div Engineers. I moved into a room in the HQ accommodation block. When called out on Active Edge I had to return to 16 Sqn.

Sapper Jim Rutter a clerk in HQ 2 Div Engineers was not the most intelligent man in the world, as can be gathered by an expression often used by the Adjutant; “I’ve been Ruttered!” As in most offices, first thing in the morning someone might ask, “What’s the date?” or even “What day is it today?” I will always remember Rutter for the day he walked though the office door. He stopped and stood with his hands on his hips looked around the room and asked, “Have we had Tuesday yet?”

At Headquarters I was Captain EG Willmott the Adjutant’s clerk. I placed correspondence on his desk and removed documents from his desk. Such work is often like that of a waiter, to complete the task without disturbing the “customer”. He arrived for work just as I was placing papers on his desk and would on entry say “Hello!” I never knew how to answer. If he had he said, “Good morning!” I could reply, “Good morning, Sir!”

Another officer at the HQ was Captain P Klimowski, who was a Polish Jew, and very intelligent. His driver once told me Klimowski would whilst being driven somewhere often start to speak in German.

The officer commanding a Royal Engineer regimental sized unit is known as the Chief Royal Engineer – CRE. I simply cannot remember the name of any CRE I served under whilst in Osnabruck.

Warrant Officer Class 2 Smith was the Chief Clerk of HQ 2 Division Engineers and was called “Q” not “Sir”. “Q” Smith appeared to us youngsters quite ancient. He was bald and wore glasses. One day we, the clerks, came to the conclusion that the duplicating machine was in the wrong place in the office. We suggested it should be on the other side of the room. “Q” Smith didn’t argue, but said “You can move it there if you want to, but if it doesn’t work out, you must return it to its original position!” Three or four of us struggled to shift the heavy machine across to the far side of the office. As the Chief Clerk had predicted, that was not the right place. Sure enough we had to move the damned thing back again a week or so later. However, I did learn a lesson. Years later as a senior NCO when my staff made a suggestion, I would reply, “Right, do it. But if it doesn’t work you’ll shift it back!”

I can remember the names of the clerks in the HQ because I have many photographs of us together. Cpl Jock Ainsley replaced by another Scot Cpl Jock Stirling, Lcpl Paddy Fendley, Lcpl Dave Ellison, Sappers Danny Vidot, Eddie Peach and Aspinale. Danny Vidot was half cast and I think had some French connection. Eddie Peach was a very clean-cut fresh-faced young man, a former Junior Leader. He had applied for his discharge, as he wished to become a monk. He was very sensible and his request quite genuine. I think Aspinale must have been in the HQ as a runner; he came from 7 Sqn and soon after was promoted to Full Screw (Corporal).

Lcpl Jim Gillies was also a member of HQ, but in what capacity I cannot remember. He ands I were great mates. He was married, and when his wife came over to Germany my girl friend and I would often look after his child, thus we had time to ourselves. Before his wife came to Germany Jim Gillies and I used to hitchhike at weekends. We were usually pretty broke and as we had to work Saturday mornings, we had 36 hours free time! Occasionally the QM would give us our rations so we could cook and eat that whilst camping. Many of our trips were complete disasters, on one occasion we managed to “hitch-hike” twelve miles! Then sat in a pub and thumbed our way back. On another trip we got a few kilometres over the Dutch boarder, and prepared to sleep in a ditch. We pitched a small tent and walked back into the local village. However, we couldn’t find a pub!

Jim Gillies, roughing it on an exercise!

The Tea drinkers of Headquarters 2 Div Engineers

Danny Vidot, Me, Eddie Peach, Spr Aspinale, Cpl Jock Ainsley, Lcpl Dave Ellisdon and Lcpl Paddy Fendley.

On one trip we ended up in the port of Bremen on the banks of the River Wesser. We hitched in uniform each carrying a pack, and a tent pole. The weather was bright and sunny. It took us some time to get to Bremen. At the railway station we deposited our packs and changed into civilian cloths. We walked out of the station and posed by the River Wasser for photographs and entered the second guesthouse we encountered, with five marks in cash between us. The outlook was not bright. Unbeknown to us, Bremen had, that day won the German Football Championship. The pub was very crowded. We sat at a table nursing a beer. From then a German gentleman not only bought the beer but also supplied us with Turkish cigarettes. Each time we lifted our glasses Jim and I shouted “Codswhallop!” Soon we soon had everyone shouting “Codswhallop!” Each time we were he offered cigarettes we took two!

This might have gone on all night, but Jim and I were getting a little conscious stricken. Suddenly a group of Germans appeared and spoke with our friend. They had been in a fight, and had blood on their hands. They looked as if the had enjoyed their scrap! Jim asked a passing waiter if we could change tables. We were whisked away to a table the other side of the pub around which sat two couples that spoke English. As we sat down they got the beers in! By then we were very drunk but well behaved. To top it all, one of the ladies played footsie with me!

We left the bar around one o’clock in the morning, pissed as newts. We saw a pair of drunken sailors walk by holding wads of money. We were going to roll them and pinch the money. Trouble was, we couldn’t even keep up with them! In a park we ended up sitting astride a horse monument behind the statue rider. We returned to the railway station, and made friend s with a pair of American travellers, who kindly bought us a drink! German policemen toured the station; their aim in life seemed to be to stop anyone sleeping in the canteen. They would come up to a table over which some poor bloke was slumped and bang the tabletop. I went to the toilet to find a British soldier, very drunk, standing by a sink. In the sink were his trousers. He was bemoaning the fact the German police had stripped him and placed his trousers in the water. I suppose he had wet himself and the coppers were helping him out. I couldn’t stop laughing at his predicament. As I left the toilet there were two coppers sniggering, and for a moment looked alarmed as I came out, until they recognised I had seen the joke. As the sun came up that Sunday morning wearing civilians we walked out of Bremen and almost immediately got a lift to Osnabruck.

I have a story to tell which is shameful. Worst of all I didn’t think of it as shameful, until a couple of years later. By which time I was an infantryman and had matured a great deal. I was walking through the side streets of Hameln when there was a traffic accident. The injured people were an English couple groaning in pain. The man in the driving seat was covered in blood. My pal and I took one look and turned around and walked away. I heard a woman say in German “Look at those English boys! Why don’t they help there own people?” I have no excuse.

In the HQ office worked a German lady, Frau Spearing the typist. She had an office to herself and was a mother or head mistress figure in our lives. I suspect we were often very rude to her. I once asked Frau Spearing to type out a card for me saying “This wallet is the property of Sapper Parker, 16 Sqn RE, BFPO 36”, and would she also type it in German and she wrote: “Diese Brieftasche gehort Sapper Parker, 45 Osnabruck, Winkelhausen-Kaserne”

The Regimental Police Sergeants whilst I was in Roberts Barracks was Sgt Donald who was later killed in Ireland, another was Sgt Ginger Martin, who Charlie remembers, but I do not. Sgt Donald ran a fearsome Guard Room not a pleasant place in which to be to be locked up. A prisoner in one of his cells had spent time in the Army Corrective Training Centre at Colchester. He told Sgt Donald that his Guard Room was worse than “Collie”. Sgt Donald was as please as punch and went around telling everyone!

One day into the office came a very pretty young brunette named Pauline Dixon to work with the Frau. I was very fortunate in that she chose to go out with me. For almost a year Pauline Dixon was the most important person in my life. The story of my time in Osnabruck would be incomplete without the many stories of what we got up to! Most importantly, whist courting (what a lovely old fashioned word that is) Pauline I gave up heavy drinking. My stories of our friendship I intend to write up separately. Pauline lived with her parents, her Dad being the CSM of an Ordnance Company, her five siblings in married quarters a couple of miles away up “the Tank Road”. They lived in a flat, which thankfully was on the ground floor. I escaped out of the flat over the veranda as Sandy Dixon came through their front door several times.

With the exception of married officers and sergeants, I was the only single bloke with an English girl friend. Pauline Dixon the daughter of a Sergeant Major of another unit worked in the same Headquarters office as I. There is very little privacy anywhere in a barracks full of lecherous squaddies. At lunchtime, just to get out of the office we’d walk around the barracks. We could not hold hands although Pauline would hold my arm. Wherever we wandered frustrated lonely soldiers gawked at her.

It was Sgt Donald of the Regimental Police responsible for camp security that we encountered most often. When I was not with Pauline, Sgt Donald took great delight in calling me “Golden Bollocks!” He would shout, “Golden Bollocks go and fetch a fire bucket!” or on the telephone “Golden Bollocks, report to the guard room!” On our trips around the barracks at lunchtime Sgt Donald greeted us with “Good afternoon Miss Dixon and how are you GB?” I would blush scarlet.

Pauline would ask, “Why does he call you ‘GB’?” In those days rude words were never uttered in the presence of a female, so I shrugged my shoulders and muttered, “I don’t know!”

As I was in sight of losing my leave if I didn’t take it, Pauline and I went back to England in late January 1966, to stay with my parents for two weeks. She intended to stay in the UK. I received the dreaded “Dear John” two weeks after my return to Osnabruck, on 25 March 1966.

Me, Lcpl Fendley, Pte Brown and Cpl Stirling being briefed by Capt Willmott, the Adjutant.

Exercise Channel Link III (30 May to 4 June 1965).

We were trying to have our breakfast!

I returned to 16 Squadron on 9 September 1965 after some time at HQ. I went back to England for an overdue period leave with my girlfriend Pauline. On my return several things happened quite quickly. I received a “Dear John” letter from the girl. I was accused of incompetence (which was unwarranted) and posted across the square on 1 March 1966 to 43^rd Field Park Squadron RE.

Before venturing on this leave, I had returned to 16 Sqn Office where I worked as the documents clerk. I handled passports, birth certificates amongst other things. I enjoyed the job and took on more than I was required to do. I handed my job over to Brian O’Neill before I left for England. When I returned from leave, my feet, as they say, never touched the ground. I was up in front of the Chief Clerk and Major Beringer, kicked out of 16 Sqn and sent across the square to join 43 Sqn. Looking back, I see that Brian had not taken in my instructions. He had not processed the passports and birth certificates, as he should have done. I took the blame and was “sacked”. I found myself in 43^rd Field Park Squadron RE. I missed Pauline very much and my fall from grace hit me very hard. The Dear John from Pauline was a body blow. I remember crying and sobbing myself to sleep at nights. The two men in my room, God bless them, did not make fun of me, on the contrary they helped me through my trauma. It is a pity I cannot give both their names, although one was “Puss” Passenger. I have photographs of them both!

Between 28 June and 16 August 1966 I attended a Clerk RE B2 course at the Royal School of Military Engineering, Kitchener Barracks, Chatham, which I failed. The World Cup was played and England won during this period. I was more concerned with Sandra, but as this happened in England, and not in Osnabruck or Germany I’ll tell you about that some other time!

The Chief Clerk of 43 Sqn as John Logan, but I cannot remember the names of any officers in the Squadron except a Captain Read (Reid?). I regularly babysat for the OC. I have no memory of him, or baby-sitting. I also baby sat for Sgt Bryant. The SSM was a Londoner, who had ginger hair and a moustache. I remember the Chief Clerk and the office staff rushing around preparing for the arrival of a new Squadron commander. A man came through the door, and one of the clerks asked him if he would come back later as we were waiting for a new Officer Commanding. The man replied, “I am the new OC!”

A Lance Corporal committed a crime and was placed on orders. He was bust to Sapper. When the daily mail was opened it reveal the soldier had been promoted by RE Records to Corporal some days before. The OC was informed and the “Sapper” marched back in and “promoted” to Lance Corporal!

I took it into my head to educate myself. The Church Army had a very little used library. I paid a couple of marks to join and took a book out, and returned it read and swapped it for another. The Church Army people in the canteen were please to see a “drinker” using their establishment and their library. I took out Pickwick Papers, which I enjoyed very much. However, I discovered no matter how much I enjoyed Pickwick Papers, it sent me to sleep. If ever I suffer from insomnia, I shall buy a copy and put it by my bedside. One day two or three weeks later I was back to my usual position, that of being stony broke. Bingo! I had an idea. I turned in my library card and receive my two marks back. I had enough for a beer.

Corporal Jim Howell a signaller in 43 Sqn was very popular and a comic. I cannot forget two incidents indelibly impressed on my mind. The first was learned second hand. A Sapper wanted to see the Jim one evening, and without knocking on his bunk door walked straight in. The NCO was masturbating, and was near to reaching his climax. He looked up at the intruder and said, “I’m not stopping for you, nor no fucker!” Most of HQ Troop 43 Sqn during an exercise were driven into a near by camp to take a shower. So about twenty of us were in a long shower room together. At the top of his voice the Corporal explained that we must be sure to wash our “dingle- berries”. “What the fuck are dingle-berries?” was the cry from us lesser mortals. “Dingle berries are the little nuggets of shit that stick to the hairs on your arse!”

Dad was demobbed from the Army after 35 years service and sent me five pounds (a week’s wages) to celebrate the occasion. All my mates were occupied with other things that evening, and I eventually treated people, some of whom at that time I hardly knew. I had a photograph taken and sent back to Dad. Amongst those who probably had no idea why I was buying were an unknown man, Cpl Jim Hendry, Pete Conner, Mick Latham and Tubby Taylor. I know this because I wrote their names down on the back of the photograph and sent it home to Dad.

I have a photograph of 16 Sqn on parade (see top of page 4). HQ Troop’s junior NCOs and Sappers are stood in two ranks. Behind are two SNCOs, a Sergeant and Staff Sergeant. Very oddly, Cpl Hendry is the person “in charge of the Troop”. There were comments afterwards, and Staff Hunter was ordered to do the job in future.

Mick Latham became great pals with Mick Lobb when he returned to 16 Sqn. Mick Latham, a sign writer by trade followed Mick Lobb everywhere. Mick Lobb was very athletic and one of his party tricks was to run at a wall, and jump in such a way as the flip over and land back on his feet. Mick Latham, particularly when drunk, tried to emulate his mate. He invariably failed, and fell with a thump on the floor. He would try again and again, but amazingly never seriously injured himself.

One night I came in to the camp and staggered drunkenly across the square. I pushed myself through the swing doors into 16 Sqn block, and then fell down on the floor. As I lay there I thought to myself. “If I get up, I will fall down again!” So I crawled on hand and knees to my room opposite the Sqn Office and pulled myself up off the floor by the door handle. The next morning I thought long and hard. I decided I never wanted to be so drunk ever again. I started to think about not drinking in access from that time. Having said that I have been drunker many times, but I started to think about not drinking. At that defining moment I did not become an alcoholic.

The SSM of 43 Sqn organised a trip to Amsterdam. We were to visit the Amstal breweries. A coach whisked us off to Amsterdam where he was put up in a hotel. On leaving the hotel to see the sights, I looked back and saw “K.O.K.” written across the top of the building. I thought “Cock Hotel” couldn’t forget that. The Canal Strasse area of the town is where we wanted to be. The ambience was terrific, and naturally we drank ourselves silly. When ready I asked a taxi drive to take me to the “Cock Hotel”. He replied, “Which one?” KOK being the name of a chain of hotels! Luckily for me, he took us to the correct one first! No so many of my chums! Early in the morning we were roused for breakfast and clambered aboard or bus for a tour of Amstel breweries. But the SSM misdirected the driver. We could see the building, so we abandoned the coach and made our way by foot. (The SSM was not being able to organise a piss up in a brewery!). We arrived, just as the tour had finished. In a bar decorated like a medieval castle with long bench table we were served free Amstel beer. The free drinks were available for about an hour. During that time we sat and drank and sang. At 10 am our “tour” was over and we had to leave. I stepped out into the morning sunshine. I for one was totally pissed! A pal and I took a trip in a canal to see the sights. Halfway though the trip I was desperate the toilet! The “red light” district” of Amsterdam we called Canal Strasse, I never had enough cash to visit the ladies of the night, and my time was spent drinking and singing. Dutch ladies, travelled around on bicycles and we took great delight in seeing flashes of white thighs. They all wore bright coloured cloths. Colours, that an English girl would not wear, as they would clash. The Dutch girls cycled by wearing bright green shoes with yellow stocking and that sort of thing. Almost every Dutch person I met spoke English. In one bar all the tunes on the Juke Box had a saucy meaning. Then I found “Land of Hope and Glory” on the machine. I enquired of the landlord why such a song was in his collection? Listen to the words, he replied. “Wider still and wider”, and “God who made me mighty, make me mightier yet!” (Think about it!) That tune became very popular as we sang the words with appropriate actions! For some unaccountable reason, I had to borrow civilian cloth for the trip to Amsterdam. In the photographs I am wearing my own shoes, but the trousers and jumper are borrowed. I wonder why? On our return from a splendid weekend in Holland, I climbed the stairs to 43 Sqn bar in the attic and entered the Squadron bar. I ordered an Amstel beer from the bar man. The next thing I remember was waking in my pit, having vomited all over my sheets and the floor. I have no recollection of where or what I did for something like ten hours. This was my second warning with regards to heavy drinking. Although I continued to drink, I started to consume relatively less.

There was a young Welsh soldier in 43 Sqn. He had I heard a reputation for not being as hygienic as he might have been. One evening I returned to the block and went into the toilet at the end of the passage. The Welsh Sapper’s bed, bedside locker, and mat had been placed in the toilet. A note was pinned to his pillow “If you want to live like a shithouse, live in one!” The man was in tears, and I helped him move his stuff back into his room. He had learned a lesson!

Here are two similar tales. I purchased a book “Where the Lion Feeds” by Wilber Smith then lay down on my pit and opened the book. I started to read the first chapter. The story was set in South Africa and told of two boys running across the veldt. One accidentally shot the other with their father’s rifle. I threw the book away across the room. Having nothing better to do, I picked the book up later and read it “for something to do”. I could not put it down! It is one of my favourite books, and I have re-read it many times. Exactly the same thing happened when I bought “Battle Cry” by Leon Uris in Singapore. The opening words were “My name is Mack, you’ll recognise me by the stripes on my arm and the hash marks on my chest.” Wang! The book flew across the barrack room floor. I picked up later and read avidly. It is another of my favourite books

Paddy Shields was a small Irish man and very popular. When drunk Paddy frequently came into the bar and looking around would shout, “Come on, I’ll take you all on!” We always laughed and ignored him. Our Company cook was a muscular Welshman who came into the bar one evening and mimicked Paddy looked around and shouted “Come on, I’ll take you all on!” About six blokes jumped him. He never did that again. Perhaps it was his cooking?

I have many happy memories of time spent in 43 Sqn bar. We’d sit around in a large circle with our drinks and sing. We took it in turn to sing clockwise around the table. My party pieces were “A Pub With No Beer!” or “The Jolly Swagman!” Most of the songs we sang were crude Rugby songs. Between each turn we would bellow, “Sing, sing or show your ring!” and point to the next singer. Occasionally a man would stand up and expose his backside (his “ring”) and we would shout, “We’ve seen your ring, now sing, sing, sing!” The singer sang the verse and everyone joined in the chorus. Woe betides anyone who started to sing a verse before the singer anyone who did so had to complete the song and the original singer could “stand down”. We were required now and then to recite a limerick; I only know one disgusting, limerick and was on tender hooks that someone would say “mine”.

An Engineer Told Me Before He Died.