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Military memoirs and musings from a National Service infantry
soldier serving Her Majesty in the 1950’s with the 1st battalion The
Kings Own Scottish Borderers, somewhere in Malaya.
23139714. Private Wishart.A.
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MY ARMY DAZE.
There was a hell of a bang from the huge swamp nearby, hidden by the
dense Malayan jungle. Our mortar platoon had started to bombard the
nest of heavily armed Chinese Terrorists reported to have taken refuge
there.
Never volunteer for ANYTHING!! Guess I had already forgotten this good
advice drummed into my thick, Scottish head during my very recent basic
infantry training back in the U.K. What else could explain why McWhirter
and I were clanking along, festooned like bloody mobile Christmas trees,
adorned with lots of empty, noisy, aluminium water bottles. We were
walking alone on this lonely path through the edge of a rubber plantation
situated right next to dense secondary jungle which reared it’s prehensile
growth straight upwards seeking the open sky above.
I was following McWhirter, staring at the bad haircut just peeping out
from under his floppy jungle hat when I saw him jump as the shelling
started. Stupid bugger, flashed through my head. The stupid part actually
applied to both of us for putting ourselves in this dangerous situation but
my stupid head was now also multitasking by urgently signaling Duck and
Run! I should have had this bloody thought fifteen minutes ago when we
were still safely with the rest of our well-armed and situated mates in
their secure ambush position. My alarm was not triggered by the bombing
from our mortar platoon, we were used to that. The enemy reaction to
our shelling attack could really put McWhirter and me into a wee bit of
bother, isolated from our platoon by our stupid water fetching idea. There
could now be a whole gang of armed and desperate C.T’s making a break
for it, heading through the dense jungle directly towards our lonely little
piece of the neighbouring rubber plantation.
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Our platoon had been in this position since dusk the previous day and
each water bottle was now either empty or dangerously low. McWhirter
had probably been a bit bored. The wild excitement generated by
slapping ineffectually at the ravenous biting mosquitoes had eventually
lost its attraction for him. This was when he volunteered to gather up all
our water bottles and head for a stream which we had crossed on our way
to take up our positions on the fringe of the rubber plantation late
yesterday afternoon. Stupidly, (I mean that sincerely folks) I had offered
to accompany him, temporarily forgetting my usual attitude to the
volunteering thingy.
The loud bang alerted us to our plight. Our regiment was strung out for
miles around a huge swamp area in dense jungle where we had reports of
a heavy concentration of communist terrorists. The exploding carpet
bombing mortar shells in the swamp was designed hopefully to flush them
out, tempting them to make their escape through the neighbouring
rubber plantation where we would be waiting to strike. Well, as my Irish
friend Kevin might say with tongue in cheek, ’Dat’s de teory of de ting’.
It was a grand theory as theory goes, and, as is the way with grand
theories, it went. Unfortunately, the theory had not made any allowance
for the stupidity of both McWhirter and me when we jumped to our feet,
full of overgrown Boy Scout zeal, volunteering to skip on our merry,
innocent way to fetch a pail of water. More correctly, to festoon ourselves
with all available empty, noisy, clanging aluminium water bottles before
heading off down the track. We were now alone, only lightly armed, our
empty water bottles banging against each other, noisily advertising our
location to any interested party. Good thinking Batman!!
Oh we’re going down the track, and we’ll never come back.
Sergeant Harrigan is our leader,
Oh we know he’s true, but he doesn’t have a clue,
Away down in the green hell, yes – the green hell
The above couple of lines are from a popular army ditty of the time which
now started to repeat over and over rather ominously in my head.
The thirsty corporal who was the leader in charge of our platoon must not
have thought things through very thoroughly when he nodded approval
for McWhirter and me to bugger off and replenish water supplies for the
whole platoon. We were all a bit new to this jungle game, the regiment
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had only moved away from our safe barracks on Singapore Island a few
days previously to take up our active service posting in the dense,
dangerous jungle country of terrorist ridden Malaya.
This recent move into Malaya for active service had been planned for
months. We had all been through the very realistic jungle training course.
However, this was the real thing, it would take some time till we adjusted
properly and time was now in short supply. Just like Pronto, we would
have to adjust fast, or else.
It was at this point that McWhirter and I were both forced to adjust a lot
bloody quicker than pronto. An entire section of the bushes near the edge
of the jungle was being suddenly, noisily and violently, disturbed,
something or some bodies were crashing through the undergrowth right
towards us!
It’s amazing what goes through your head when the adrenalin starts to
flow through the endangered body. Apart from the repetitive Green Hell
tune, my immediate, rather detached thought was, “What the fuck am I
doing here”?
This thought should lead right into the real beginning part of the story
starting with the invitation from The Queen of England, requesting my
presence in this strange part of the world. But I am still mentally standing
on the edge of a rubber plantation in Malaya in 1955, frozen stiff with
fear, facing some violently disturbed bushes in the dense jungle only a
few yards away but getting ominously closer.
With only the regular plantation lines of skinny young rubber trees around
we had no available cover, we just had to stand and wait for God knows
what to emerge. My sweaty thumb was rapidly pushing the rifle safety
catch forward to the off position.
I also seem to be a wee bit frozen in time here you will just have to carry
on without me for a minute. Just get to the start bit all by yourself and
read on, I should catch up with you fairly soon…..
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INVITATION FROM THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND
The brown official, ‘On Her Majesties Service’ envelope came through our
letter box one spring morning in Scotland just after my eighteenth
birthday. It contained an invitation from Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2nd
of England to join her armed service forces at the depot of The Kings Own
Scottish Borderers Regiment. The destination was their H.Q. in Berwick
upon Tweed on 12th May 1955. I recall the wording towards the end of the
invitation mentioned, ’and fail not to appear’.
This could have also been applied to the invitation from a former Queen of
England, Elizabeth 1st. As the Protestant Queen of England, the earlier
Elizabeth had been aware that Catholic Queen Mary of Scotland could be
a strong threat and possible contender for the English throne, more than
capable of possibly dislodging her from that position. Queen Liz was no
fool. She promptly offered a hand of friendship to her cousin Mary, Queen
of Scots many years ago when she was experiencing a wee bit of bother
in her own country of Scotland north of the border. Queen Mary had
recently been engaged in pursuing the old Scottish custom of ‘hide the
sausage’ with great enthusiasm, this activity had caused a great deal of
concern among some of her subjects and led to the above mentioned
‘wee bit of bother’. She eagerly grasped the hand of friendship when her
cousin invited her to flee south of the border to take advantage of the
thinly disguised invitation to join in the old, traditional English ceremony
called, How to get rid of the competition, and eventually to have her head
chopped off.
I soon had a visit in late April from my friend Dave Abernethy who lived in
my home town. He had also received an invite from Her Majesty
requesting his presence in Berwick upon Tweed although there was no
small print about possible head chopping. I was pleased to see Dave. This
meant I had company for the journey which was to be our first step into a
world of action, travel, companionship and adventure. Not to mention a
chance to wear a pair of Leslie tartan trews. These pants to be offset by a
pair of sparkling white spats, worn over a pair of gleaming, black brogues,
a fairly big step into the world of men’s fashion for both of us.
Dave produced his army travel warrant for his trip by train from nearby
Edinburgh to Berwick upon Tweed, and I was about to have my first Army
Daze experience. My travel warrant from the same source, for exactly the
same day and purpose, was to jump onto a Scottish Motor Traction bus
when it travelled through my hometown of Penicuik, heading for
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Galashiels in the Scottish Borders! I was to change buses there and
wander off across the southern Scottish countryside, eventually winding
up just across the Scottish Border at the bus depot of Berwick in England.
No efficient and quick rail trip for this child, I had been chosen for the
panoramic tour. Lucky me! How the hell had the British Army managed to
send two entirely different travel warrants to the only two guys from our
small home town who were to travel to Berwick on the same day on 12th
May? I guessed it might be an intelligence test to see if I was possible
officer material. If this was indeed the case, I was about to fail the test
within the first hour of my journey.
We were both invited to report at Berwick on Tweed to enlist into the
army and serve Queen and Country for the next two years. This was the
compulsory conscript obligation of National Service in Great Britain during
the nineteen fifties. It applied to all young men on reaching the age of
eighteen, provided they were healthy and reasonably fit. This also
seemed to include the lame, sick and slightly batty if my, soon to be
companions were anything to go by.
I had been seriously considering applying to join the Seaforth Highlanders
as a regular soldier, the regiment my grandfather had served and died
with. My uncle had also been killed in action with the Seaforth
Highlanders regiment when on active service in Anzio, Italy during the
2nd World War. I had carelessly brushed aside the prospect that a long
and happy life serving with The Seaforth Highlanders might seem a wee
bit remote for members of my family. I would optimistically brush up my
Celtic heritage, wear the kilt with pride and travel to foreign places.
Fortunately, I was advised against my impulsive intention to ’sign on the
dotted line’ and join the regular army. My advisor had recently completed
his own National Service with the Royal Scots regiment where he had
spent some time in Korea. My wise twenty year old friend suggested I
wait to see whether my seventeen year old body would be passed as fit,
then wait to be called up for National Service to make sure I liked it. I
could sign and transfer to the regular army at any time after being called
for conscript service, I could then also specify which regiment I wanted to
join. My experienced friend must have guessed the basic infantry training
experience would probably push aside any daft thoughts of mine about
signing on to be a regular army soldier. He had guessed correctly that my
ideas of military derring do and romantic army service in the old British
Empire would soon evaporate.
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GOODBYE MUMMY.
I caught the bus on the appointed day as it passed through my home
town of Penicuik, changing at Galashiels, aiming for Berwick upon Tweed
as directed on my travel warrant. Galashiels is not exactly a humming
hub of activity. It’s just a wee Scottish border town, nice to visit on a day
out. There were only two buses at the small depot when I arrived, one of
which was actually edging slowly out of the bus station, I decided to
board the remaining bus and settled down to watch as the world went
past when we left Gala. This is the point where I really would have failed
any intelligence test.
I got my travel warrant ready to hand to the conductor as he worked his
way through the other passengers before he reached me. The guy looked
puzzled, then handed my warrant back to me, saying,”Yer oan the wrang
bus”, (the conductor spoke funny, he was a South Lanarkshire man). It
was time for panic stations accompanied by red face. What to do?? The
resourceful conductor with the strange accent saved the day. He would
talk to our driver to ask if he could possibly catch up with the correct bus,
the one leaving the depot just as I was arriving in Galashiels. He could
then try to overtake the other bus and head it off at the pass to arrange
the handover of the stupid wee bugger who was on the wrong bus!
So, as they say, it came to pass, our driver revved up to achieve a dizzy
50 miles per hour, managed to overtake the other vehicle, now being
steered by a very puzzled driver, looking anxiously at our unscheduled
approach in his rear mirror. He was reaching the point where his bus was
due to veer off in a different direction but our driver managed to overtake
and flagged the other bus to stop.
Our guy explained the situation about the stupid wee prat being found on
the wrong bus, I was then safely transferred, still with red face, onto the
correct bus for Berwick, viewed by the interested but puzzled looks from
passengers in both the receiving and sending vehicles. I can’t recall any
further incidents for the rest of that journey as I had buried my red face
into a book to escape further attention.
I duly arrived at the Berwick on Tweed bus depot where it seemed I was
the only new guy arriving by bus to join the army that day. I later found
out all the other recruits, including my friend Dave from Penicuik, had
already arrived by train that morning. The military authorities were at the
point of announcing me ’absent without leave’. This army crime, I soon
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learned, was a punishable offence. Here was I, not even started with the
army, but already committing a bloody offence which was actually the
fault of some travel clerk who had sent me by road, instead of rail, like all
the other soldier boys that day. To be fair, the dumb, anonymous clerk
who arranged my travel warrant probably had not anticipated my
boarding the wrong bus in Galashiels, but the word Daze had already
formed in my head.
Actually, there was one other guy, named McDow, already waiting at the
bus depot. He was wearing an army battle dress tunic with the coveted
tartan trews but minus the swanky, white, spats. It turned out he had
been sent to the bus depot in case I arrived there. It seemed McDow was
also a new arrival but had reached the army depot a couple of days
earlier. Unlike the rest of us, McDow was the only regular army volunteer
among our intake of conscripts, having signed for three years’ service
with Her Majesty which qualified him to receive a few shillings higher pay
(remember shillings?) than the National Service conscripted recruits. He
was also allowed to join the regiment a couple of days earlier than us.
This probably earned him the precious perk like jumping the queue for the
regimental barber before the rest of us arrived. His line jumping had
obviously been rewarded by received a bloody awful drastic army haircut,
badly constructed by the regimental barber armed only with old fashioned
manual hair clippers. The damage to his already strange looking skull was
now partly concealed by his T.O.S. (Tam ‘o Shanter), army bonnet, also
badly constructed by some anonymous army clothing supplier with
absolutely no eye for style. It was just the same shapeless piece of shit
hat which would be issued to my, soon to be shorn head, as well. He
seemed very important as he marched towards me, full of purpose, shit
and vinegar. Just then, a distraction caught his easily distracted eye, he
stopped, pointed to a vehicle parked in the bus station. The van was
painted in army khaki colour with a huge red cross on the side. For a
moment, I feared I would be transported to a secure location in this
vehicle but it was not to be. “That’s an ambulance, that’s for sick people“,
Private McDow informed me. This man should go far, I thought, as far
away from me as possible.
The effort of having imparted this vital information made him almost
visibly swell with pride and importance, it had also probably tired him out
quite a bit. With no further communication, this loony marched off
smartly round a corner to board a concealed army truck complete with
driver. Could this be my chance to correct my great travel blunder and
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pass the intelligence test after all? I managed to put two and two together
all by myself; no other communication was forthcoming from our soldier
boy. This vehicle was probably my transport to the army depot I merely
followed Private McDow with a sinking feeling.
If this loony man, who had a face like a dog’s bum with a hat on, was to
set the standard for my future companions, it did not fill me with a great
deal of hope for the future two years’ service to which I had been invited.
I did not seem to have much to look forward to.
MY FIRST DAY IN THE ARMY
My squad of soon to be, ex civilian recruits pictured on reception day at
the Army Depot. 12th May 1955. Why should Britain tremble?
I am seated in front row, second from left and wearing the unfortunate
tie, more of this tie later. My new friend Robbie is seated on my left.
Sergeant Fleming is in the middle. Big Ray who was soon to provide my
entrance to some of the mysteries of life is standing fourth from left,
second row. I am the good looking one.
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I JOIN THE REGIMENT
My disappointment increased when I realised I would be separated from
my old friend, Dave Abernethy. The alphabetical system applied to
everything in the army, Dave was assigned to join ‘A’ training squad while
I was sent to ‘B’ squad. There existed a rather home made sense of
rivalry deliberately engendered between the two training companies. I
guess this was intended to make us try really hard to aspire to be the
eventual winners of an imaginary competition which was to be
tantalizingly announced at the conclusion of our training. I remember
making a silent baaing sheep noise in my head (I was too scared to do it
aloud), imagine them thinking we would fall for an obvious con like this
competition nonsense. Of course we all did fall for it, spending the next
three months trying to prove how smartly we drilled, how fast we could
run, how we could survive personal insults, ignore verbal questions
regarding the legitimacy of our birth and all the other daft activities the
1950’s British Army offered us. I guess we were all too busy running
about all over the place that nobody noticed there was no announcement
of any winner of the competition when the training was completed.
Queen Elizabeth 2nd seemingly needed our regiment to be sent out to
Malaya in the Far East where some ungrateful Chinese terrorists were
objecting to being part of the British Empire. Their objections took the
form of total war, attacking the profitable rubber tree planting estates and
rich tin mining locations. Ambushing and killing anything that moved on
the Malayan roads or railways, their main targets were the British Army
and any Imperial British targets like owners of rubber estates, temporarily
displaced by the Japanese during the second world war but now back in
Malaya to take over again. The terrorists also wanted to be rid of the
British Army altogether which is where my mates and I enter the story.
The communists waged war indiscriminately. One of their favourite
methods was to derail the passenger trains as they steamed through the
perilous thick jungle covered mountain railroads. The now stationary
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trains would then be raked with machine gun fire from a previously
selected ambush position. These positions were usually situated on a
slope above the railway line anything else that still moved could then be
picked off with rifle fire from above. This attack method was very effective
but unfortunately did not discriminate in any way and often included
women and children and anybody else that got in the way.
The British government referred to the general slaughter and mayhem as
The Emergency. This made the problem sound as if a social visit could be
arranged to the Communist Terrorists by a friendly, local, British style
police inspector. He could give the C.T’s, as they were known a stern
talking to this would probably sort things out. If the visit from the local
cop had little effect then maybe, just maybe, the government could send
a gunboat up the nearest big river, that would do the trick, just like the
good old colonial days. I privately thought it had not worked in the United
States during their revolution and I feared it would not help much in
Malaya either, but what would I know. I was just a wee thick bugger from
Penicuik. The real ugly side of the Emergency system would be revealed
to us when we actually arrived in Malaya but that still seemed to be
somewhere in a faraway place. Actually it really was somewhere in a
faraway place, about 7,000 miles from home as the crow flies, even
longer if you have to walk. At this stage in the Army Game we were more
concerned with trying on our very uncomfortable army issue scratchy
shirts while trying to keep clear of any of the yelling authority figures.
They frightened the shit out of us.
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he alphabet seemed to be applied to all the military systems. It was the
same story when kit was being issued. By the time the issuing
quartermaster reached surnames beginning with ‘W’, he had run out of
boots, black, army, size 8, other ranks for the use of. SHOCK - HORROR,
no black army boots available for Private Wishart.A. This could hold up
the entire war effort for weeks, what to do?
Some high level discussion took place when the kit issuing store man
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popped his head round the door to the next room to ask the corporal in
charge what to do? It was decided that I should be given permission to be
issued with nice, supple, smooth, comfortable, BROWN, size eight, leather
boots, intended for issue to officers only. These boots were only a distant
cousin to the heavily marbled, stiff, unyielding, black army leather boots
for issue to the other ranks. It seemed my luck was turning. There was
only one problem, I soon had to get these nice, soft leather but bloody
brown boots disguised to a black colour to blend in with the other guys.
I was sent to the N.A.A.F.I. (Navy Army and Air Force Institute) canteen,
located inside the depot, to purchase a bottle of black dye and applicator
brush (bought with my own money of course). I was soon able to change
my new brown boots to an acceptable black colour just like the others.
Applying the dye was a very small inconvenient price to pay. My new
boots were very supple and comfortable from day one. The normal black
boots issued to the others were a different kettle of fish altogether. The
heavily marbled leather surface on the regular issue boots had to be
smoothed out by applying, I think, the heated end of a metal spoon
covered with black boot polish and a great deal of elbow grease. It all
looked a really messy business to me, involving heating the handle end of
the spoon over a lighted candle before it was applied hot to the boot
surface, then rubbed vigorously over the surface again, again, and again.
Quite often this surface smoothing exercise extended well past lights out
time in order to be ready for first parade in the morning. I remember
seeing the other guys toiling away at their boots by candlelight as I
slipped into dreamland.
y comfortable boots were obviously intended for a higher class of military
man. I was easily able to achieve a mirror class of shine on my officer
class brown boots with a nice smooth leather finish, now black, by
applying a soft, yellow duster with some black polish plus the merest
amount of spittle which soon displayed the desired ’spit and polish’ mirror
finish desired. I was beginning to think I may be destined for greater
things after all. The boots might be an indication that my intelligence test
was still in progress, a sign that I was ascending the promotion ladder so
to speak. It did cross my mind at the time that perhaps I should suggest
to the army authorities that it might be a good idea for the army to
supply smooth, comfortable, black boots to the other ranks. This would
cut out the laborious smoothing out of the stiff leather finish which took
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up so much time for the new army recruits. Army Daze had, of course,
made another mental appearance to me to suggest the leather smoothing
might just be some secret army training in discipline for the young,
conscript soldiers. After all, I had nice officer quality boots, the time
consuming smoothing of black leather boots was not my problem best
policy for me was to remain silent. I took my own advice.
I soon made new friends with some of the guys who, like me had been
conscripted from all parts of Scotland. It seemed we were now living in
what we were informed was the oldest occupied army barracks in the
country although why a Scottish Infantry regiment had it’s H.Q. situated
just over the border into England was never actually made clear to me. I
was aware that, Berwick upon Tweed, which now seemed to be a
commercial backwater, had once been a busy eastern seaport, providing
access to the European market for many years and quite the desirable
place to be till fairly recent times. Heavily fought over between both
England and Scotland, Berwick had been claimed, changed hands and
controlled by both nations over many years which gave the natives an
accent which was not quite the same as northern English Geordie but not
quite like the Scottish Border lilt either. I guessed our Scottish regiment
had been beached there after the last English takeover then overlooked at
some point and, everybody has to be somewhere. The local football team,
although technically English were closer geographically to soccer activities
in the north of the country, the local team played in the Scottish football
league as well. Two of my new mates were Ray Reid from Jedburgh in the
Scottish Borders and Robbie Robertson from a tough part of Glasgow. We
soon bonded together as some sort of defense against this strange new
world in which we now found ourselves.
obbie and I shared a room, there was another guy called Drew, also from
Glasgow. It seemed that Drew and Robbie were actually neighbours who
lived in the same neck of the woods in Glasgow’s Gorbals District but had
never even set eyes on each other. Robbie told me he belonged to the
Hammer gang back home, Drew, either because of religious difference or
even a slightly different territory, belonged to another gang in the same
area, neither guy had been aware of the other.
trange, I thought, I knew every guy who lived in my small country town
of Penicuik. I guess I still had a lot to learn about religious differences in
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parts of my own country. There was also a rather odd religious guy from
Hamilton in Lanarkshire, more of him later. Ray, my soon to be jazz fan
mate from Jedburgh in the Scottish Borders was in the next room just
over the landing. In the group intake picture, I am seated second from
left in the front row with Robbie seated on my left, I am the good looking
one but wearing an unfortunate tie as I did not wish to join the army
wearing my best gear, I suspected they might actually start training us in
the mud before issuing us with proper uniforms.
his advice was given by my mother, bless her, before I left home, she
was probably more familiar with stories of the Home Guard when my
father was a sergeant during the 2nd world war. The original Dad’s Army
had to wear their own clothes at the beginning of the war as uniforms
were then in short supply. My mother also advised me to make sure my
underwear was freshly laundered in case I should be involved in any road
accident on my way to start what was probably the greatest adventure of
my young life.
My mother was perhaps giving me more advice than necessary. However,
she was not even close to going overboard with her sensitive son than
was Mrs. Aikman who was a neighbour of ours when I was a young kid.
Every school day, eight years old Arthur Aikman would leave home in the
morning on his way to school around 8a.m. Mrs. Aikman would then
follow him from the house, watching to make sure he made it to the other
side of the street safely. Don’t know why she bothered really, we lived in
a cul de sac, a dead end street where nobody yet owned a car. It was at
this point, every school morning she would call out in a loud voice to her
departing son, “Boy --, Boy. .! Have you piddled”? Poor Arthur, highly
embarrassed in front of the neighbours would give a hurried nod of his
head before quickly escaping out of sight round the corner.
BASIC INFANTRY TRAINING
Our training squad had Sergeant Fleming in charge, assisted by a corporal
Donnelly and two lance corporals. These guys kept us on the move for
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everything. I had to shelve my normal slow shuffle which I thought was
rather cool and now ran everywhere, even for meals which, as far as I
remember, were not worth crossing the street for. We were all young,
about to become very fit and burning lots and lots of energy which gave
us enormous appetites so that even the disgusting food was demolished
daily.
I also started to swallow large quantities of peculiar army tea with every
meal, even although ugly rumours were circulating claiming the tea was
loaded with bromide which was supposed to curb our sexual appetite and
probable conserve our energy to enable us to burn the saved energy on
the other manly pursuits of marching and running everywhere.
I loaded my tea with large quantities of sugar which was available from a
large can in the mess hall I was really trying to make the drink more
palatable. There certainly was no possibility of sexual intercourse around
here but the sugar possibly helped to maintain my energy level to cope
with the extra physical effort now involved.
THE GREAT ROUTE MARCH
It was at this early stage of basic training that the dreaded route march
was announced and more rumours broke out. The only route march any
of us had ever seen would have been in a cinema. The film that comes to
my mind featured Laurel and Hardy, apparently marching with a Scottish
regiment in Afghanistan you would think we might have learned our
lesson about that region the first time round, apparently not. We are still
sending soldiers over there as I write this.
Stories about the dreaded route march started circulating. It was
rumoured the length of the march was 50 miles, guys would be driven
mad with thirst, guys would be falling about all over the place from
exhaustion, punishment for falling out of line would be rewarded by 50
lashes before the mast, although we were land bound and not a mast in
sight.
The actual route march was not really too bad, about ten miles distance
as I recall. All the instructors were marching with us instead of sitting
comfortably in an army truck and merely observing, that really
encouraged us a lot.
I had been really active in the Boy Scouts for years we had actually
walked the 10 miles from Penicuik into Edinburgh one evening in the early
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spring of this same year. There we boarded a steam train (remember the
old steam trains?) bound for the West Highlands.
We used to do a bit of smart marching in the boy scouts as well. All of us
used to keep in step by singing daft songs as we marched along, this
current army activity seemed much the same to me except for the
singing.
I decided to show the novices how. Unbidden, I started to sing the wellknown marching song. The one we all know, The Lassie wi’ the wee snub
nose, complete with a frequent chorus which, I was surprised to learn,
none of the others seemed to know at all. I thought everybody knew that
well known song, it goes; Oooooooooooh, the lassie wi’ the wee snub
nose,
Nobody knows, nobody knows,
My heart like a big steam engine goes,
For the lassie in the biscuit factory.
Chorus
Oompa, oompa, tiddley om pom,
Oompa, oompa, tiddley om pom,
For the lassie in the biscuit factory.
Second verse
Oooooooooooh, the lassie wi’ the wee snub nose,’
(Second verse, same as the first)
The trick I employed to make this one of the best marching songs ever
was to sing the beginning Ooooooooooh part, dragging it out till you come
to the lassie part at which time you stamp your foot in time with lassie.
This really gets the marching rhythm going and the whole hike goes with
a swing.
Unfortunately, none of the other guys seemed to know this song. I just
had to sing the whole bloody thing by myself, including chorus. When I
started to falter on my new solo career Sergeant Fleming fell into step
beside me, urging me to keep singing. I was really encouraged then and
kept on singing solo for several more choruses, quite chuffed really.
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Hindsight now tells me Sergeant Fleming was selecting me for the part of,
daft laddie, I, of course, being a very young soldier, immediately fell for
it. He had for a reason for doing this, during the first few days of being
formed up as a marching squad on the barrack square, he had instructed
us all to chant out the drill movements in unison which enabled us
duffers, unfamiliar with army movements, to do all the drill movements
together. He had instructed all of us to chant 1-2-3, 2-2-3-etc which
effectively guided us to follow the basic movements.
After this early stage in our training when the basic 1-2-3 etc. had
penetrated into our thick skulls, Sergeant Fleming wanted us to drop the
loud unison drill shouting which by now could have been alarming the
neighbours. He needed us to drop down to only one man doing the time
calling which would not normally be audible to anyone else but our own
drill squad.
I am now certain our sergeant had selected me as the very best man for
the job. He was probably intrigued by my marching and singing medley.
He decided I was to be the solo chanting voice, starting with first parade
tomorrow morning, where I was buried out of sight right in the middle of
the drill squad. Fame at last, thanks to my solo efforts at singing, I was
also convinced I had probably been responsible for the successful
progress of the dreaded route march. What age do you get any sense?
OUR BAND OF CONSCRIPT BROTHERS STARTS TO DISINTEGRATE.
THE GREAT McBAIN
Private McBain was a very interesting guy. He was a slight, nervous
looking wee guy who seemed to suddenly appear in our midst as if by
magic a few days after the rest of us arrived. It seemed he had been part
of an earlier intake but had then been sent away for an intensive ’building
up’ training course as he seemed a bit frail for the strenuous basic
Document1 24
training ahead. I have no idea what his building up course involved for he
was still not a very strong looking guy by the time he returned to join us.
However, his strength seemed to lie more in the business of entertaining.
He certainly enlivened our basic training with good stories although,
whether true or not, he certainly entertained us.
He claimed to have been on stage in his civilian life, performing as The
Great McBain, hypnotist and conjurer, touring the country on the Moss
Empire Theatre circuit.
Although our guys came mainly from the industrial centre of Scotland
from Glasgow to Edinburgh, where both cities had well established Empire
theatres, nobody could actually claim to have seen McBain perform in any
theatre at all. But this was not just any theatre. We were a captive
audience starved for any sort of leisure activity as we had neither the
time, money, permission nor leisure for that matter, to leave barracks.
Saturday afternoon was when McBain had his chance to shine and he
grabbed it with both dexterous hands. We probably had spent the
morning running around and also being drilled, drilled and drilled again so
we were usually relieved to be told we had the Saturday afternoon off.
This, of course, was just another shithouse rumour. In reality we had all
our kit, boots, buckles etc. to be cleaned and polished, shirts and
uniforms to be pressed and ironed. Our webbing had to be regularly
scrubbed till it was almost white. I say almost because a snow like white
was impossible to achieve with our heavy webbing but that did not
discourage us from trying to achieve the impossible.
We sometimes exercised on the nearby sea shore doing healthy things
like P.T. or sprinting on the hard sand. The North Sea was where I had
another of my really bright ideas. I persuaded a bunch of my mates to
immerse our webbing belts in the salty sea then spread them over some
rocks while we sprinted about doing healthy things. My reasoning was the
sea water would bleach our almost white webbing belts even whiter as
they dried in the sun. Unfortunately, our scruffy soldier Alfie had failed to
notice the returning tide was coming in, it wheeched his belt away for
good.
Our big fat Northern Irish quartermaster had a field day the following
morning when Alfie reported the loss of his new army belt. His loud bellow
echoed round the depot, “Deficient are ye, deficient! A’ll give ye deficient,
and that’s not all a’ll give ye, ya scruffy wee bastard”.
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Now looking back at our activities on the white webbing front, I scratch
my puzzled head at the futility of it all. When we eventually joined the
regiment a few weeks later almost the first thing we heard was some
sergeant shouting, ’Get some blanco on these bloody belts’! Sometimes
you just can’t win.
Normally we would gather in our rooms and shoot the shit on these late
Saturday afternoons while using lots of boot polish and Brasso (reg. trade
mark). This was the opportunity for The Great McBain to seize the
moment, shove his cleaning materials aside, stride confidently to centre
stage and entertain the troops. Most of McBain’s entertaining took place
in my room where something was always happening. Our squad would
crowd in there, giving McBain a good audience to work with.
He would usually warm up the small crowd with a few, simple conjuring
tricks involving disappearing coins. Not really much of a novelty for us
poor recruits, no coins ever stayed in our poorly paid pockets for very
long anyway.
His hypnotist act was always most popular though, everybody loves to
see somebody else made to act foolishly. However, it was amazing how
many of our guys were attracted from the nearby rooms to volunteer to
be one of McBain’s subjects, I guess most people think they are immune
to this kind of rubbish but the dafties used to line up regularly to test
whether McBain could, ’put them under’.
On any Saturday afternoon, it was not unusual to see one of our hard
men from Glasgow, sitting cross legged on the floor like a little girl,
singing, ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’, in a high, falsetto voice. He would
soon be followed by another guy hopping over the floor clucking like a
hen or possibly taking an imagined bath with imaginary soap while sitting
on the very real bare, uncomfortable wooden floor, all due to the hypnotic
efforts of The Great McBain.
He even had one tough looking guy attempting to make love to an old
broom handle. Lover man had even reached the stage of unbuttoning his
pants as a prelude to his next romantic move when McBain realised where
this act was going and gently brought the big guy back into the land of
the living. One witness to the randy sex act show tried to explain to the
unbelieving ex lover exactly what had taken place with the broom handle
and received a bruised face with a split lip from the disbelieving former
porn star.
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Our favourite event was when McBain whispered something to one of
these guys just before snapping his fingers, bringing his subject back to
what we regarded as normal.
The chosen guy, now apparently back to normal, would have no idea what
had been happening to him. He would then sit, scratching his head or
bum depending on his needs, asking us to describe exactly what antics he
had been made to perform then, without any knowledge or warning, he
would raise his head and shout, Get your Durex here, before picking up
his conversation again, exactly where he had left off.
Durex is a well known brand of prophylactic and was always good for a
laugh. McBain would whisper something to the hypnotised guy just before
he brought him round again, his whisper planted the trigger word in the
guy’s head. That was usually enough. The recently hypnotised guy would
take it from there all by himself when he got back to normal. This always
got an immediate response and loud laughter.
I accidentally got McBain into trouble one afternoon when I asked him if
he could hypnotise me. Yes, I know what you are saying but I was as
much of a daftie as anybody else.
I actually knew an amateur hypnotist back home. He had worked in the
Glasgow sales office of our paper making company during the last few
years of the second world war. Paper was so scarce by then that he soon
sold his weekly paper allocation. Having time to kill and being a bit of a
mystic himself, he appeared as a hypnotist and mystery man in the
matinee performances at the Empire Theatre, much like McBain claimed
to have done. Our paper salesman come magician had tried,
unsuccessfully to put me under once during tea break at the office where
he sometimes gave short, entertaining shows. He eventually gave up
trying to hypnotise me and told me I was not suitable. Why I was
unsuitable was never explained to me. Probably I was too bright for this
nonsense. I was curious to see if the Great McBain could do it.
He agreed and kept trying for ages until the rest of the guys got fed up
and headed for the NAAFI canteen to partake in the other late Saturday
afternoon diversion of tea drinking leaving us to get on with the
hypnotising by ourselves.
Once again, I proved to be an unsuccessful candidate so McBain decided
to call it a day and we followed the others to the NAAFI. However, on the
way there, I thought I would play a joke on the guys by acting a bit daft
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when we joined them. Unfortunately, I decided to do this playacting
without mentioning anything to McBain.
My acting effort playing, Andy the Loony, was so convincing that it
backfired and I had to make a quick pretend recovery to move between
Robbie and McBain and prevent the great hypnotist having his head
kicked in by my mate. Robbie, my roommate, was convinced I had been
mentally damaged, nobody does that kind of thing to Robbie’s mate !
I don’t think McBain ever forgave me for overacting. Our passing out
parade picture shows he completed our basic training. He is seated fourth
from right, so he was still with us up to that point.
Strange thing, I have no recollection or photographs of him after that,
perhaps he did his greatest act ever and made himself disappear from the
army at some point.
THE BLESSED BIBLE BASHER
One of our roommates was a rather strange guy from Hamilton in
Lanarkshire. He never seemed to join in with our usual telling of the
mostly imaginary stories about the various girls we pretended to have
known, interspersed with reciting all the blue jokes we could remember.
He never got involved with us relating farfetched sexual prowess stories
but seemed to prefer spending any, very rare, spare time, lying on his
bed reading the bible.
We started taking the piss by mocking his apparently earnest religious
fixation but eventually let it drop. We more or less started to ignore him
although he would still deliver little morality lessons to us from time to
time as if trying to get us to see the light and lead a better and clean
living life style by following his example. Instead we followed our live and
let live outlook, we rarely paid him any more attention. This all changed
dramatically one day.
We had changed for PT that afternoon and were gathering on the square
outside our building when I realised I had forgotten something in my
room so ran quickly back up the stairs but now wearing soft, canvas PT
plimsolls, not the normal heavy boots, I made very little noise and burst
into our room where I surprised our goodie two shoes religious guy. He
had his back to me with the window wide open and was making so much
noise he had not yet realised I was behind him.
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The window in that part of the building overlooked part of a nice park
often used by the locals for quiet walks and there were two attractive girls
doing just that. Their usually quiet walk had been interrupted by the
shouting from our resident loony bible thumper. The startled girls were
now rooted to the spot, staring at the wild figure in the open window.
He was making obscene gestures at them and his blue language included
some words that even I had not heard before, this religious zealot was
raving and screaming to the girls about various sexual acts he would like
to perform with them. He was standing on the window ledge with his PT
shorts round his ankles, waving his ‘John Thomas’ at the astounded girls.
He was so carried away that he did not even notice me at all so I just
grabbed my forgotten item and hurried back to the PT session. Our bible
thumper quietly joined us for PT a couple of minutes later, looking as if
butter wouldn’t melt etc., very strange.
We were kept very busy for the rest of the afternoon so I had no time or
opportunity to tell the other guys what I had seen and then it was soon
the final scheduled training for the afternoon and one I rather enjoyed.
Now it was time for a bit of bayonet practise and a pretty good way to let
off a bit of steam when we could possibly show off as wild warriors to any
holiday maker girls who happened to see us, Berwick was right in the
middle of the holiday season or what passed for a holiday season in those
days. Our daily drilling took place within the barracks but lack of suitable
space meant we conducted all our other exercises outside the depot on
the grassy area beside the thick defensive old wall which encircled the
older part of Berwick. The wall had probably been built in Elizabethan
times to keep out the unruly Scots. Bit of a waste of time as far as this
current group of unruly Scots was concerned.
Any visitors to this old town would be strolling around the wall about this
time in the afternoon where they could take the air, look out to sea and
seek out any divertissement available. This was the normal thing for
holiday makers to Berwick to do just before tea time and our training
exploits often attracted their attention.
It was now July and we were about half way through our three months
training and, bromide or no bromide in the tea, we were always ready to
show off in front of any holiday making girls who might happen by. Unlike
our bible basher, we did not lower our pants to our ankles. This would
have inhibited our forward or any other motion difficult as I would soon
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learn a few weeks later in steamy Singapore, much to Big Ray’s
enjoyment.
We approached our bayonet practise in the more conventional fashion.
We charged bravely, clutching our rifles with wicked looking bayonets
fixed, aiming at bags of straw swinging from wooden posts, yelling and
screaming in what we imagined was a very impressive and manly fashion
as we attacked the swinging straw bag enemies on the posts.
By coincidence, that very day we had a visit from a journalist and a
photographer from the very popular, but now extinct, Picture Post
magazine. They were constructing an article about training National
Service conscripts, one of our squad was pictured in attack mode with his
rifle and bayonet, featured looking fierce in one picture of the published
article, heady stuff!
What would we know then? We were eighteen years old, a wee bit on the
green side, this was all about to change in a couple of months when we
were due to insert real rounds into these rifles and sharpen our bayonets
properly before taking on the communist Chinese terrorists in Malaya but
that was the future and we would have to find out for real then, no
worries right now mate.
We were marched back to barracks after our showing off session, glowing
and sweating then dismissed to check our rifles back into safe keeping at
the armoury before cleaning ourselves and heading for the mess hall.
I was one of the last to check in my rifle at the end of the afternoon’s
practise but something made me turn round just as I was entering our
barrack block. I was just in time to witness our religious nut case who
seemed to have finally gone raving mad. Perhaps the strain of our basic
training had proved to be too much for our Holy Roller, he was yelling and
screaming cuss words at one of our passing Regimental Police but was
now brandishing his rifle at the guy. The rifle was unloaded but we had
just been to bayonet practise and the bayonet was still firmly attached to
his rifle when he made a mad charge at our cop.
None of us had any kindly feelings towards our home grown
representative of authority but attacking the poor bugger with a bayonet
was not to be recommended. The R.P. deftly sidestepped and quickly
stopped our hero’s mad charge with a powerful clout to the side of the
head, knocking the nutter unconscious to the ground. Two other
bystanders were quickly detailed to fall in, pick him up then haul him off
Document1 30
to ( I imagine ) the guard house with the R.P. marching quickly behind
them shouting left, right, left, right as they rapidly hauled him out of
sight.
That was the last any of us ever saw or heard of our religious zealot. By
the time we returned from the mess hall, all his gear had been
mysteriously packed and removed, I can only imagine he must have been
dismissed on medical grounds as he was clearly ’mad as a hatter’.
I don’t recall seeing him again for the remaining basic training days, nor
at any time after that. Another mysterious disappearance, I sometimes
had to wonder what happened to guys like him.
In my fairly short service so far, I had seen the mad bible basher
disappear after attacking a Regimental Policeman with a bayonet, never
to be seen again. The brave, muscular inoculation expert Nesbit
disappeared, aptly followed mysteriously at some point by The Great
McBain, hypnotist and magician, who had also somehow been conjured
away after our passing out group photo, none of us ever saw McBain
again, probably disappeared in a magic puff of smoke. Then there was
Drew from the south side of Glasgow.
Drew was posted to the same room as me and probably as normal as a
guy from the south side of Glasgow could be. We were in the ablutions
early one morning at the start of basic training. Drew was using the sink
right next to me. I was trying to be cautiously polite. After all, he was
from a rough part of Glasgow so you never knew how these guys would
react to even a very normal enquiry, observation or perhaps just a
pleasant, Good morning.
The Glasgow population was made up from a mixture of both Lowland and
an infusion of Highland Scots with a very generous measure of Irish
immigrants fired by the huge exodus from Ireland during the famine. This
volatile mixture sometimes only needed a faint spark to set tempers
ablaze but also produced some with a fantastic sense of humour unlike
any other, only problem was that you never knew which reaction even a
very innocuous statement like, Good morning, would invite.
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I seem to be equipped with peripheral vision so could not help noticing
Drew and the tooth brush appeared to be strangers to each other. Not too
surprising really as I have read that, only a few years before, during the
early days of world war two, when kids from London were being
evacuated to the country to escape the Nazi Blitzkrieg. Quite a high
number of working class evacuee kids were found not to possess tooth
brushes at all and were seeming strangers to soap and water, also any
basic hygiene.
I was standing next to Drew, cleaning my teeth like a good protestant
boy, but quietly observing him as he just seemed to be standing there
gazing at the toothbrush but making no move to start the cleaning
process. Suddenly he gave a tremendous jerk with his whole body, the
toothbrush went flying as he took a few jerky but involuntary steps
backwards till he made contact with the wall behind us and quietly slid to
the floor with a puzzled look on his face.
One or two of us rushed to help him asking daft questions like,
Are you O.K.? What a stupid question this is but I believe it is the usual
question asked even when some poor bugger has just been hit by a half
ton motor car and is obviously preparing to meet his maker.
Somebody alerted one of our corporal trainers who got Drew to his
unsteady feet and helped him back into our nearby room, he placed the
guy on the bed where he just sat staring at something none of the rest of
could see, he just sat there, staring.
However, the army routine allowed no halt to the military timetable. The
rest of us just had to leave our friend and his teeth from Glasgow with the
corporal in attendance as we hurried to the canteen for mugs of morning
tea (exactly the same as dinner tea if you want to know) with slices of
bread spread with breakfast marmalade. An army marches on its stomach
ye ken.
We rushed back from the canteen in what seemed like only a few
minutes. Actually, it really was just a few minutes as our trainers seemed
to make us run all the time from reveille to lights out. We made a quick
check back to our room before having to rush down to parade on the
square but Drew had been removed.
Removed to where we knew not, could have been a black hole as far as
we were aware but, like the others, Drew’s bed was now empty, all his kit
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etc. had gone. We never did get an explanation re his sudden
disappearance although I suspected he had just had some kind of fit
which would render him unsuitable for army service. This place was
beginning to feel like the setting for some cheap horror movie, who would
be next for the disappearing act?
THE DREADED KIT LAYOUT INSPECTION
There was an announcement that a mammoth bull shit kit inspection
would soon be held. This is not exactly how it was worded on our orders
pinned to the notice board but it was how we received the unwelcome
news, how did these rumours get started?
The inspection was due to take place in two days’ time. This would in
theory give us time but not very much, to receive instruction on exactly
how the kit should be laid out on the bed. The bed was even expected to
be a work of art all by itself, we were told to scrounge used cardboard
boxes from the NAAFI. The boxes were to be cut into long pieces exactly
six inches deep which were to be inserted into an army blanket after
being placed on your bed. Of course, none of us possessed a pair of
scissors with which to cut the bloody cardboard, we had to adopt, adapt
and improvise. Probably one of our guys had adopted a pair of scissors
from somewhere.
This adopting theory had an interesting sequel some years later in the
early sixties when my rock ’n roll band was playing at Dumfries in the
Borders, this will be a later story. However, this part is pertinent now. I
had slipped out at a short break from our dance hall activities with the
dance hall manager for a wee refreshment.
We were just about to enter the pub The Hole in the Wall for a wee drink,
this pub became famous when Robert Burns the famous Scottish poet
used to frequent the establishment. I was here I ran into a character I
had first encountered during our basic army training in 1955 at Berwick
on Tweed.
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Charlie was a great character from the Borders area, he was, I think, the
scissors liberator, the scissors were needed to cut and shape the
cardboard for bullshit reasons during our kit layout inspection during our
initial training at Berwick.
It seemed Charlie was the only guy sent back to our original barracks for
his release on our eventual return from the Far East, he was to serve in
Berwick for his last couple of weeks leading to release. The rest of us
were split up to be sent to various army depots around Scotland where
we would be closer to our various home towns when our service was
completed.
Charlie seems to have been left alone to while away his last couple of
weeks at the Berwick depot. This was a very thoughtless decision by the
local army authorities. They should have kept him busy with some official
duties. Instead, Charlie had kept himself busy and earned some extra
income for beer money by adopting various articles from the newly
appointed rest and recreation room.
This rest room was a recent advance in military thinking which had been
started when we were abroad, designed, I think, as a quiet place where
military types could take a break from military routine to relax in a quiet
and comfortable area. This room had several easy chairs, a TV set and
also little tables where homesick, new soldiers could sit and write letters
home or whatever.
Charlie greeted this new room with enthusiasm, while the rest of the
military were busy elsewhere doing what military guys occupy their time
with during their busy army day. Charlie lifted anything that was not
actually bolted to the floor. To be fair, he was only carrying out the old
Scottish Borderer tradition of saddling up to ride out over the border to lift
or rustle English cattle and then herd them back home to north of the
border before the local sheriff found out.
Where else did you think the wild American west got the tradition of cattle
rustlers and sheriffs came from? It all originated in the wild border lands
between England and Scotland, I am not sure how they take care of
modern style cattle rustling now, but we certainly still have sheriffs in
Scotland to this day.
Charley quickly established contact with a local second hand furniture
dealer where he disposed of the TV set and anything else he could lay his
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hands on. It seems Charlie had passed himself off to the furniture dealer
as a rich house owner living somewhere in the Borders.
He claimed he had just returned from holiday in Spain where he had
fallen in love with that country and had now decided to sell his house in
Scotland to buy another in Spain. His story was that he was now selling
his furniture before moving back to Spain to start a new life.
Like the rest of us, Charlie had cultivated a deep mahogany sun tan
during his six week sea cruise home and tended to stand out sharply
among the local very white Scottish natives on a cold April morning, he
could have just returned from Spain as he claimed.
Nobody at the army depot could understand how Charlie had managed to
steal, move, deliver and sell the piano. Its disappearance was not
discovered till the following Saturday night. It was sorely missed by the
usual gathering of sentimental and slightly drunk group of new, young
soldiers who, confined to barracks during initial training, habitually
gathered together in the recreation room on Saturday evenings to sing
dreary sentimental Scottish songs mostly involving a wee hoose in the
highlands and a wee wifie far away. A situation none of these eighteen
year old young soldiers had ever actually encountered.
This sentimental and tear jerking twaddle was accompanied by the,
usually out of tune, piano, now reported missing thanks to Charlie’s
clandestine activities. It was, however, too late to question Charlie about
the missing piano as he had been released from military service on the
previous Thursday and managed to disappear, Scot Free, from any
provable blame.
Anyway, back to the kit inspection and basic shaping of the sacred beds.
The result was like a precisely chiseled woollen oblong display base, this
was even before you started to get your kit ready for inspection.
I see from the kit inspection photo included here that our standards of
fine crafting seem to have drifted downwards from the later drafts of
young soldiers who followed behind us. This photo which surfaced to me
later in my National Service was supplied by one of the young soldiers
conscripted with a later draft into the regiment. The picture shows kit laid
out neatly on a bed, this photo was the only one available at the time of
writing, it merely gives you an idea but is really nothing like the bullshit
work of art we were expected to produce during basic training. Its way
below our standards in 1955 or possibly some training officer realised just
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how pointless the ritual kit layout was heading and had recommended
some of the mindless bullshit be dropped. It is possible of course there
was real reason for the mindless equation to be included in the first place.
Soldiers who would blindly follow such daft instructions on the correct
method to display their humble kit would possibly offer no objection to an
order from above to fix bayonets and charge enthusiastically towards a
well positioned and heavily armed enemy, perhaps there was some
method in the old army kit bullshit after all.
I think it was around this point that I realised we had a problem. There
was no way we could possibly actually use the beds for sleeping on the
night prior to the great kit inspection. Time needed for bullshit bed layout
did not allow very much time for sleeping. I could see the problem
looming ahead.
Reveille was always sounded at 6 a.m. There was a true story about the
regular army soldier bugler based with us at the depot who occupied a
small ground floor room all to himself. His was a lonely life as he was one
of the very few regular army soldiers actually based at the depot, the rest
of us were conscripts and not allowed out of barracks until the conclusion
of our basic training. He had spent most of the previous evening, drinking
solitary beers at a local pub and returned late ‘well fortified’ as they say.
Next morning when he gradually and reluctantly awoke, he realised it was
only a few seconds away from 6 a.m., reveille which was his regular
bugling duty time and he was still in bed. Shock, horror!
He saved the day by scrambling naked from his bed, grabbed his bugle
then threw the window wide open, pointed his bugle outwards and put his
lips to the instrument just in time to sound the traditional reveille as
required. The bugle blowing legend grew some more during our time at
the depot. Last I heard was the beer swilling bugler had realised he could
always have extra time in bed and lead a healthy lifestyle.
From that day onwards he would open his window before proceeding for
his evening solitary drinking session. On his wobbly arrival back to the
depot he could crash into his bed, sleep healthily each night with fresh,
seaside air blowing in through the wide open window.
When morning arrived, he then only needed to prop himself up in bed,
reach for his trusty bugle and blow a merry tootle through the open
window to arouse the young, captive, draftee soldiers in time for them to
start another busy day. Our still half pissed bugler could then roll over in
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bed and enjoy another couple of hours relaxing, breathing in the fresh,
seaside air before it was time for his next, not too strenuous, duties. How
he handled the freezing cold winter nights on the east coast of Britain
with a winters gale blowing through an open window, was not mentioned
in the story.
We, on the other hand, were unaware of our duty bugler’s change of
lifestyle and could not have cared less anyway. We would have to make a
quick visit to ablutions followed by an even quicker scramble to the mess
hall. The kit inspection was scheduled to start at 8 a.m., we would still
have to dress in our gleaming uniforms by then for we were also to be
inspected along with the kit layout which took ages to construct properly,
so how in the name of the wee man could we get all this done in the time
allowed?
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Sample kit layout for inspection, this one includes jungle hat! I have also
noticed there is a pair of jungle boots included on this photo. Some
bullshit bastard has even applied boot polish to the rubber toes!
This kit layout must have been done by a very scruffy soldier indeed and
only bears a slight resemblance to the state of the art creations we
constructed at the depot.
I realised we had another problem, with the time and bullshit allocated to
this daft order, how would I manage to grab any sleep?
If I really tried to achieve the perfect kit layout I imagined the most
sensible idea would be to assemble the layout on the night before the
inspection. I could then grab a few hours of sleep elsewhere, jump up
when the bugle blew at 6 a.m. and, if I moved really fast through
ablutions, dressing and breakfast, I should be ready to be standing to
attention by my already perfectly made bed at 8 a.m.
Great idea with only one drawback, where was I to lay my pretty head to
grab a few hours sleep?
MR LETS GET ORGANISED HAS ANOTHER BRIGHT IDEA
This was an army barracks, not an hotel with spare rooms. It looked like
an uncomfortable night spent on a wooden floor was looming ahead, not a
comforting prospect. Then, BINGO! I remembered the old army
ambulance I had first noticed when I first arrived at the bus depot in
Berwick. It was now parked behind one of the buildings nearby. Situated
in a quiet location, it had never been used to my knowledge since our
arrival and would make an ideal overnight hideout prior to the kit
inspection.
A quick physical check proved I was correct in assuming the vehicle was
not locked, it was on secure army property after all and even had two
stretchers installed. I immediately conspired with wee Robbie to complete
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our kit layout display on the evening prior to the inspection, we could
then saunter quietly off into the night to occupy the ambulance after
nightfall where we could spend a comfortable night using our heavy army
issue great coats for covers. We could leap into action the moment the
bugle sounded at 6 a.m. and be well ahead of the game, clever us.
I had already reckoned, even at this early stage in my imaginary career in
the army, that I was certainly not NCO material. I rather liked the sound
of Lieutenant Wishart. It had a nice ring to it and I could even use it in
my entry in the phone book directory when I returned to civilian life. It
seemed that forward planning was the way to the top for me but I was
unaware the description of not NCO material would come back to haunt
me later in my service and thousands of miles away.
That evening, our gleaming kit layout was on the immaculate bed, Robbie
and I strolled away from our busy buddies with great coats slung casually
over our shoulders secretly heading for the stationary ambulance nearby
for a well earned restful night prior to the bullshit parade looming next
morning.
The unlocked ambulance door posed no problem and we were soon inside
the vehicle unseen. The only teenie problem I had overlooked was that it
was bloody pitch dark inside with the door securely shut so had to rely on
memory for moving around in the unfamiliar van, not a problem really as
all we had to do was claim a stretcher each and bed down for the night.
Robbie’s voice then came out of the darkness to admit he had, in his
excitement, overlooked making a visit to the lavatory before we left our
building, now he needed to pee before getting to sleep. I grunted at him
to hurry up and get outside quietly to pee behind the ambulance and
remain unseen in the dark. I could hear him blundering about trying to
find the unfamiliar catch which secured the door then he muttered he
couldn’t see a bloody thing in here and you would think they must have a
light switch somewhere. Unseen in the pitch dark I heard him muttering
to himself as he started to feel about on the side of the vehicle where he
imagined a light switch would be. At last he gave a satisfied Glasgow
grunt as he felt a switch of some kind beneath his groping fingers. He
now switched on with new found confidence.
Unfortunately, no light came on, instead after a few seconds delay, a
strange and alarming noise began to issue like a banshee wail from
somewhere in the dark. This frightened the shit out of us which
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threatened to frighten even more shit when the banshee wail loudly
developed into a full blooded alarm siren which was installed somewhere
in the ambulance drawing it‘s energy from the vehicle‘s battery. This led
to both of us scrabbling about in the dark trying to relocate the bloody
switch to turn the screaming racket off before it roused the rage of the
entire barracks to descend on our heads.
The noise was deafening and both of us were trapped in the darkness and
panicking when I accidentally located the lock for the door which shot
open suddenly and we both burst out in a heap on the ground.
There was a full moon that night which gave us some light into the
vehicle but Robbie had lost his cool and could not locate the siren switch
again so we grabbed our great coats, left the heap on the ground and fled
into the night followed by the enormous banshee wail which must have
awakened all of Berwick on Tweed. Even our regimental policeman, never
the brightest light in the shop at the best of times, must also be wide
awake now and heading for the source of the blast, heaven help us if we
were caught now, guilty as charged!
We slipped quietly back into our building where all the lights were now
being switched back on again and quickly mingled with the others now
roused and wide awake. We also faked big surprised yawns asking each
other what had happened, who did it? Somebody eventually located the
trouble and switched the siren off.
Gradually things began to quieten down, lights were switched off again.
Robbie and I had to bed down on the comfortable bare wooden floor
beside our immaculate beds adorned with a full, military kit display,
where we spent a very uncomfortable night before the bugle would sound
the start of another day at 6 a.m.
Luckily, the whole matter of the mysterious siren blew over as nobody
could offer any explanation for the alarm so our names were never
mentioned as suspects, too late now if anybody ever reads this.
THE MYSTERIOUS ANCIENT POLE SCRAPING CEREMONY
The entire training squad fell in one morning as usual, performed our
daily session of smart, drill marching, with me issuing sotto voce
instructions in the middle of squad.
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Then, with Sergeant Fleming in charge and Corporal Donnelly fussing
around us, we were wheeled to the right and issued from the barrack
gates into the public street outside.
This was an unusual turn of events for us, actually marching along a busy
street, first thing in the morning We must be heading out there for
something special.
We marched along to road then swung onto the old, Elizabethan, city
wall, still surrounding the old part of town and wide enough for us to
march along, coming to a smart but unnoticed halt beside what looked to
me like a pile of heavy looking, black, telephone poles.
Sergeant Fleming told us to fall out and gather round while he and
Corporal Donnelly lit up their fags. It was then we noticed Corporal
Donnelly was carrying a small canvas bag which he opened and started
handing out a safety razor blade to each of us. We were then ordered to
form into groups of four men, each group to manhandle one heavy, black,
pole from the heap, place it onto a level piece of ground then sit on it, all
facing the same way.
On closer inspection, we found the heavy poles were coated in a bitumen
type of material, probably left over from the second world war when it
must have seemed necessary for them to be painted thus for some
reason which was no longer important.
The black, bitumen poles must have lain there for years till some
anonymous ideas guy in the local council decided something should be
done with this valuable commodity, this is where we came in.
Each group of four sat, spaced a few feet from each other, but facing the
same direction on the pole, would then start to scrape the bitumen
coating from the wood using only a safety razor blade. Hard to believe
really, but the Army Daze could be a difficult thing to figure out at times.
We spent the whole morning scraping away at these bloody poles but
making very little impression on them. Obviously the twit who had
suggested that we use the safety razor method on the poles had never
actually tried to do this task himself before issuing instructions for us to
serve Queen and Country in this daft fashion.
Perhaps there had been some confusion and the twit maybe meant Queen
Elizabeth 1st. It might have worked in Elizabethan time when the town
wall was being built in the first place. They probably had a bigger pool of
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available labour then, when a large group of peasants could have tackled
the job, overlooking the obvious fact that the safety razor had not yet
been invented at that time.
I could see Sergeant Fleming was not at all in favour of having his
training squad wasting time on this futile task. He let us have plenty of
smoke breaks to while away the morning. ‘Smoke if you’ve got them’,
was the usual order, causing the smokers to search around for any of the
guys seen patting their pockets and who might have cigarettes about
their person. Nonsmokers like me just sat and looked out to sea, chatting
amongst each other and enjoying the fresh air.
The sergeant let us potter about, leaving enough time for us to
comfortably march back to the depot in plenty time for lunch break.
We stacked the poles back in their original heap, carefully disposed of the
used safety razor blades then marched cheerfully back to our depot
wondering at the mysterious workings of the military mind.
Many years later, I happened to be driving through Berwick on Tweed to a
business meeting nearby.
I had a bit of spare time before I had to be in Newcastle for my
appointment. I parked the car in Berwick then took a healthy stroll down
memory lane along the old Elizabethan wall where we had carried out
military manoeuvres back in the fifties in the sometimes daft old Army
Daze.
There, like spotting a group of old friends, I came upon the familiar stack
of old, wooden telegraph poles we had shared the morning with one day
long ago. They were still piled there, now with long grass reaching up
through them, awaiting for their chance to make an appearance and, once
again, come to the aid of their country in any future troubled times.
Why should Britain tremble?
SCRUFFY SOLDIER
Alfie McGinlay, another of our conscripts from Glasgow, was indeed a
contender for scruffiest soldier in our outfit and probably would qualify for
the scruffy title in regiments throughout the land.
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Alfie wasn’t dirty or unclean in any way, he expended as much effort as
the rest of us in cleaning or wearing his kit, he just always managed to
look like some kind of Neanderthal Man masquerading as a British soldier.
Alfie just could not help it. At one time I rather suspected Alfie would
make the move to the ever increasing list of those who made a sudden
disappearance from our training squad but just being scruffy must not
have qualified even him for the quick wheech!
Something else we found out about Alfie was that he could not manage to
march exactly in step with the rest of us. Being about the same height as
Alfie I was positioned behind him when we marched off in our drill squad
and so I was the first to encounter Alfie’s strange style of marching.
Now, dear reader, (I am assuming there might be at least a couple of
readers out there, I still have a few friends). I realise you may have
someone with military experience among you and no doubt you will
already be anxious to let me know that you and everybody else who may
have had exposure to the military world, has encountered the soldier who
marches in completely the opposite step from his comrades. Well, you can
sit back in your comfortable chair now and relax, for nobody and I really
mean nobody, could possibly march exactly like Alfie.
On the command, QUICK MARCH! Our hero would start off just like the
rest of us by stepping forward with the left foot first. However, before his
left foot actually completed this first movement, Alfie’s brain seemed to
rescind the first order and decide that perhaps the right foot would have
been a better idea.
Unfortunately, the mental instruction from Alfie’s brain to experiment with
another marching style arrived at his feet too soon. The result was the
left foot only took a short step about half the length of the steps being
taken by the rest of us. Alfie’s brain apparently decided to abandon the
idea of using the left foot and instead issued instructions to launch the
right on its merry way but this step was of normal size which meant that
our scruffy soldier was now exactly half a step out from the rest of the
drill squad. Pardon the pun but this was no mean feat. If you don’t believe
me just take a couple of minutes and try it sometime, it’s pretty much
impossible for a normal person, but Alfie was not exactly normal.
I was still responsible for calling out the timing for the various drill
movements but marching behind Alfie was starting to cause problems
with my thought process. I was calling out, ’Left, right, Left, right’ to keep
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the guys in step but was having to concentrate really hard now with Alfie
bobbing up and down right in front of me. His style of marching seemed
to involve taking a brief skipping movement halfway through the initial
step of the march which affected his marching style in a very distinctive
manner which I found fascinating. It was now influencing my own
marching, not a good idea. I could see disaster looming ahead.
Viewed from the sidelines of the barrack square our drill squad looked
pretty good, although I say it myself, because I felt rather responsible
being in sole charge of the time chanting, it gave me a sense of pride and
even a feeling of power.
I was part of a well oiled machine which made me feel good to be part of
this army outfit which probably meant the army training was taking hold
of this civilian guy as I was feeling more and more like I belonged with
the regiment. At least I felt like that till I remembered our Alfie handicap.
We were nearing the completion of the training period, the highlight of
this was a march past of our drill squad, dressed in full battalion dress
complete with lowland bonnet and blackcock feather, Leslie tartan trews,
white spats and very shiny black brogue shoes. Photographs would be
taken parents were invited so everyone would be lookin’ good baby. Then
I remembered Alfie and tumbled to a mental crash, there was no way we
could look good with him around. Here endeth Plan ’A’
PLAN B WILL SEE US THROUGH.
It was at this time I thought of plan ‘B’, which might just get us through
the passing out parade with honour rather than disgrace, it would only
take a wee bit of organising coupled with some obtuse maneuvering. I
have already mentioned our old fashioned army buildings which bordered
directly onto the parade square, this situation gave me the idea for plan
‘B‘. On the appointed bullshit passing out parade day, we would be
dressed and ready inside our barracks. When the command to get on
parade came, we all would stream out of the building and quickly form
our smart drill squad on the barrack square immediately outside the
building.
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This is where the Army Daze school of thinking came in. On the special
passing out day, we would all stream out, EXCEPT for Alfie, who would be
instructed to slide further upstairs at this point then take up a hidden
position behind one of the old, heavy, blackout curtains in a deserted
upper room and watch the parade from above. Brilliant!
We could complete the pass out parade minus Alfie, featuring successful
marching display and showing off a bit, then arrive back where we had
started, coming to a halt just outside the main door again where we
would fall out then mingle for a while outside the building feeling well
pleased with ourselves. At this stage Alfie would quietly reappear and just
blend in with the mingling. There would have been no role call before the
march past as we were captive bodies within the barracks anyway, so
nobody would think to count us at all.
I had cause to compliment myself for the perfect plan and solution which,
if handled properly, would go smoothly with the passing out morning
coming to respectable conclusion with tea and buns being served before
we all went off home for leave.
At this point in a work of fiction the carefully thought out plan would come
to an unexpected halt because of a terrorist explosion or possibly the
arrival of space aliens but nothing of the kind happened, this is more or
less a true story. Some names have been changed in case we ever meet
up again, you never know.
Plan B worked like clockwork, the parade went so well even Alfie shared
the congratulations from an appreciative audience afterwards. I had
convinced him that his evasive action had been a ’good idea’ and he had
been instrumental in making sure the parade went off smoothly. Anyway,
this part was actually true, if Alfie had really been allowed to take part in
our display, we would have guaranteed to be a very entertaining laughing
stock.
At the tea and buns affair following the successful completion to our basic
training, Alfie only once managed to spill his tea over a visiting
Episcopalian minister. This supposed tea spilling may not have been
totally accidental, Alfie was of the Roman Catholic persuasion, he also
hailed from the Gorbals district of Glasgow where these little religious
differences were taken seriously. The visiting now tea stained vicar was
Episcopalian, go figure.
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Alfie’s strangled cussing which accompanied the tea spilling accident, was
fortunately masked by quick thinking and loud talking from a close
colleague and Alfie’s carelessly dropped bun was luckily spotted by
another keen eyed soldier. The keen eyed guy quickly dislodged the sticky
bun from the chair on which it was resting and kicked it away, unseen,
into the crowd before a bulky lady sat on the chair.
Alfie was given a funny look from the fat lady when she sat down, he was
unaware his iced bun had been removed from the chair where he had
dropped it and he started to fumble around her rear end in an attempt to
locate it while she was actually in the process of trying to sit down.
He was trying to find the bun, not her bum which was plain for all to see
and would need no help with locating, even for the near sighted. Alfie’s
bunless and stricken expression must have been misunderstood by the fat
lady who was the wife of the now rather damp Episcopalian minister. She
struggled her bulky figure round to face Alfie then gave him, the look!
Poor Alfie recoiled sharply at this and disappeared, mumbling some kind
of explanation in his heavy Glasgow accent, his rambling was, luckily,
quite incomprehensible to the fat English lady. She probably supposed
Alfie was some sort of barbarian from the north, conscripted into the
British Army to fight on behalf of Queen and country. She was probably
not too far away from the truth. Luckily, Alfie was quickly removed away
from the embarrassing bun and bum situation when he wandered off to
try and locate another, fresher, bun.
So, in spite of the odds, our training came to a successful end.
MY PASSING OUT PERFORMANCE
It was decreed that we were to be allowed out for one ‘night on the town’
to celebrate, on the last Saturday just before the completion of our army
basic training. None of us had been allowed to leave the barracks at any
time during the entire training programme except for the route march and
once for a marathon in which I managed to complete only a part of the
run by hiding behind a bush not too far from the start, rejoining our best
runner as he returned and then coming in looking like a plucky second.
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The great day for our celebration finally arrived and we were all dressed
in our best walking out uniform, tartan trews, white spats and all. Exactly
at 6p.m. we joined the queue outside the guard room where we had to
pass inspection before being allowed out into the fleshpots of Berwick.
No problem there although we were each issued with a special evening
pass number which we were supposed to remember when we returned
as, for some daft reason, we would need this to get back in again! Why
would we even want to get back in again was my immediate thought.
Big Ray and I had teamed up to check out the town pubs together, this
was the first and only night we had been allowed to leave the barracks.
This seemed like a good idea at the time as Ray and I had bonded, being
the only jazz fans among the whole of the training company but pretty
much opposite in other respects. There was little chance of either of us
hearing any jazz in Berwick upon Tweed in those days, however, we
teamed up hopefully and headed for the nearest bar for some
refreshment.
Ray told me he had recently discovered a great drink called ’Black Velvet’,
it was really the poor man’s version where cider was substituted for
champagne then mixed with draught Guinness and served in a pint glass,
it seemed a bit exotic to me so I decided to join in with Big Ray to try a
few.
Over the next couple of hours we managed to try more than a few, soon
Ray was possibly a couple of pints ahead of me, I put this down to his
greater height, he also did not seem to be quite as wobbly and daft as me
but by that time I was feeling no pain, I was beside myself with the drink,
as they say.
Eventually, well refreshed, we made our unsteady way to the local dance
hall, after all, it was a Saturday night and this was our passing out
celebration. Actually, passing out, was the only sensation I had managed
to avoid so far that evening, I have little recollection of the dance hall
which turned out to be the thinly disguised Corn Exchange building, my
rock ’n roll band would play there a few years later, but I am straying
ahead of myself, later dudes.
Originally, our boast had been about what type of girl we would pick up
there but I have not been able to remember a damn thing about any
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success in that department, can’t even remember anything at all except
for Ray half carrying me back to barracks later where I disgraced myself
by forgetting the stupid, special number I had been issued with before
leaving that evening. For this misdemeanour I was severely blocked by
the thick, uncaring R.P.
I do remember arguing with the bloody Regimental Policeman in the
guardroom when asked to recall the damn number, apparently, I was
explaining to the cop what a stupid idea the whole number thing was. It
seems that I started to giggle in the middle of the explanation but I
managed to interrupt my lecture by throwing up on the guardroom floor,
not a good idea. Apparently I was saved by friend Ray who volunteered to
haul me off to bed, promising to return immediately to clean up the mess,
what a true mate. I would be able to return the favour to Ray one future,
ill spent evening, in steamy Singapore city a few months later.
I do remember being unable to remove my trews, two of my mates had
to lay me on my back on the bed, remove my shoes then each one took a
leg of my pants to haul the garment off me, I was unable to help in any
way having at last reached the passing out part of the evening and
passed out, quite unconscious, feeling no pain at all during the operation,
tomorrow was another story altogether.
Luckily, our last day was Sunday. Basic training was finished so I had the
entire day to recover from our big Saturday night out before smartening
up to board the train for home, back to Mummy to enjoy some
embarkation leave.
Here we are, having successfully completed our passing out day parade
where, as the picture shows, Alfie, our scruffy soldier, has joined us again
for the official passing out parade photograph, almost, but not quite, just
like another smart soldier, he is fifth from right, standing on a chair, back
row. The Great McBain can be found fourth from right in the front row, I
am the good looking one, still in front row. There are a few faces missing
from our ‘new recruits’ photo, taken on our first day, some of these
mysteriously vanished during training. We also have a few new faces
here.
We more or less retained our original positions as in the ’new recruits’
picture which now seemed like an age ago. Sergeant Fleming is joined by
his three corporals. Our soon to be mad, clucking chicken, McNichols, is
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extreme left, on chair in back row. You will read of his jungle chicken
exploits later.
EMBARKATION LEAVE- PENICUIK SCOTLAND
So I made the return journey home, this time I had hoodwinked the Army
Daze and travelled home by train to Edinburgh accompanied by my
buddies rather than wandering alone by bus across the Scottish
borderland.
I really enjoyed the three week’s leave back at home. We were awarded
one week’s leave at the conclusion of training plus the regiment had been
given two weeks leave prior to embarking for the Far East which gave us
new guys a total of three weeks off, that will do nicely, thank you. No
marching, running or being bossed about at every turn for the next three
weeks. We had been strictly confined to barracks since early May apart
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from our one night out for ‘Passing Out’ celebration. It was now August
and we were all ready for a break.
It was late August, lovely weather (it used to happen occasionally, even in
Scotland). I happily dressed in my old jeans and shirt and generally ’hung
out’ although I don’t think that expression was in vogue with teenagers at
that time though we certainly knew how to do it.
I actually dressed up in full uniform one day for my mother to take a
couple of photographs. My friend Dan Stephenson happened to call round
that morning so I pressed both him and his wee dog into service for
another photo.
Apart from posing for the above photo, my army uniform was hanging in
the wardrobe in my bedroom at home for the entire leave period, shirt
and jeans soon took the place of uniform, a feeling of wellbeing filled the
vacuum instead of our continuous striving to obey military orders and
attempt to be in every place at once and at all times.
I soon reverted to my pre army status of ‘only child’ again. I often took
off for solitary hikes up into the Pentland hills where Robert Louis
Stephenson also used to roam as a young man. Thoughts of army route
marches accompanied by lots of sweaty soldiers were pushed to the back
of my mind. The hills of home were just a short walk from my house
where I could relax to watch and listen to the curlews and lapwings. As I
started to mount the actual hill slopes I would disturb the occasional red
grouse from the purple heather. The grouse would explode from hiding
places in the heather before landing a bit farther away from my
interference giving their familiar call of, ‘Go back, go back’, before settling
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down as they went into hiding again. I was more than happy being on my
own up in my hills of home.
I do remember one evening though. I went to a local dance, must have
been a celebration for some local event, details of which I can’t recall
now. Dances for the celebration were actually being held in two halls on
the same evening. Both halls were situated quite close to each other,
different styles of bands were playing in each hall and it was possible to
wander between each hall to sample the different types of music.
I ran into an old friend from my schooldays, great girl, great dancer, and
great company. Her name was Maureen, this is not her real name but it
does contain the same amount of letters. I guess she will probably never
read this sort of military book, she would still know who I am writing
about.
Even then, I realised she was a wee bit special but my thoughts on
writing to her when away to foreign parts did not fit with my positive
ideas on that subject. I knew that being apart for two years was just
asking for trouble, arranging to keep in contact by writing to each other
was too much to ask any girl. We just hung out quite happily for the
whole evening together, no others were considered necessary. This is not
the prelude to a hot, steamy, teen age love story. It’s written because I
still have a very strong, happy feeling about that particular warm evening
which has remained with me ever since, we were very happy just being
with each other.
When the dancing had finished, we spent the rest of our evening
together, just strolling along, arms linked with no particular place to go. I
remember we actually ended up sitting on the kerb beside the road in the
dark. Feet in the dusty gutter, just talking and enjoying being together
into the wee, small hours. Tomorrow just did not exist for us that night.
It was a balmy night, even in Scotland, beautiful big moon above. It was
what we call, a Gloaming night. Late summer in Scotland where being
further north, it never gets completely dark at night during the summer.
This light effect is called ‘the gloaming’ in Scotland.
Maureen lived with her Mum and Dad then and I was in the same
situation except that my father had passed when I was younger so there
was just my Mum and me. Neither Maureen nor I had our own apartment
in those early years so there was no opportunity to take this great
relationship any further. Both of us talked and laughed together for pretty
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much the whole magical night till we eventually realised the concrete we
had been sitting on for hours was really uncomfortable and I happily
walked her home before giving her a farewell kiss and walking out of her
life.
I never did break my resolution not to write to any girl after I left for the
Far East with the army. She was the only one I would have wanted to be
with but my pig headed attitude did not allow for any of this mushy
romantic writing stuff. It would be two long years before I would see her
again.
WE HEAD BACK TO BERWICK ON TWEED
I was surprised that we all made it back to Berwick in time for the big
move to Ballykinlar army camp in Northern Ireland.
One or two of the guys had been making daft claims to ’head for the hills’
rather than head for active service in faraway Malaya. These claims had
mostly been wishful boasting although I did notice most of our young
soldiers had managed to consume fairly heavy quantities of alcohol before
reporting back to the depot.
There was much visiting with each other in our billets, stories of drunken
leave experiences, meetings with young women were claimed, the details
mainly fictitious. Also much speculation as to what may lie ahead of us on
the great far eastern adventure.
We entrained (love that word) at Berwick upon Tweed railway station first
thing the following day destined for Glasgow where we were to board the
Irish Ferry for Belfast, Northern Ireland.
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THE BROOMILAW.
We arrived at ’The Broomilaw’ in the Glasgow dockland which was the
traditional staging post for Scottish Regiments to board ships bound for
foreign parts over the many past years, way back to the busy old British
Empire days.
There are lots of Scottish marching songs attached to the Broomilaw, one
of the favourite doggerel songs used to be sung by the departing JOCKS,
as all Scottish soldiers were known. This was the song, Wha saw the tattie
howkers? The tune was ‘Scotland the Brave’.
This version also mentioned the 42nd regiment, The Black Watch,marching
doon the Broomielaw, some o’ them wi’ kiltie cauld bums, referring to the
kilted Scottish Highland Regiments custom of dressing regimental,
meaning nothing was worn under the kilt. Which gave rise (if you will
excuse me) to the question and answer routine, Is anything worn under
the kilt? The correct answer is, ‘Naw, it’s all in perfect working order’.
Last time I saw this custom being referred to was on St, Patricks Day
celebrations in Sheabeens Irish Pub when I lived in Colorado, USA, many
years later.
Bunch of guys came into Sheabeens, all dressed in kilts and led by a mad
Irish guy, Mark Brady, who had obviously been influenced by the movie
‘Braveheart’. He paraded the whole kilted bunch onstage where, on the
command, ‘Go regimental ‘ they turned their backs to the audience, bent
over, lifted up their kilts and cried ‘Freedom ’, showing their bare asses to
the audience. This kind of display used to be meant as a great insult to
the enemy but was greeted with wild applause from the friendly American
audience who were quite unaware of the meaning. As, of course, were the
actual half pissed kilt lifting gang doing the display. I guess they had been
giving this same performance at several other bars before arriving, well
primed, at Sheabeens Irish Bar.
At that time I was friendly with a Native American Indian, ‘Herbie Red
Cloud’ who worked at Denver airport. He had been christened, ‘Seldom
Seen Herb’ by his co-workers at the airport owing to his frequent habit of
missing a day’s work when nursing a hangover caused by his tendency to
celebrate into the wee, small, hours. Herb had just seen the movie
Braveheart when I walked into our local bar one evening.” Andy, have
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you seen the movie Braveheart”? shouted Herb, embracing me in a great
bear hug. “You and me, we are tribal people”, he then bought me a drink.
I made no comment at the time, for two reasons, reason one, the
Caledonian fighters had given up the habit of painting themselves with
woad about two thousand years before the time of William Wallace.
Reason two, Herb had bought me a drink, a most unusual action for Herb
and I did not want to discourage this new habit. He had also clutched me
in a very energetic type of Native American bear hug which almost
prevented me from breathing so speech was entirely out of the question
any way.
I was a bit taken aback by this show of affection. Then the penny
dropped. Herb must have been impressed when Mel Gibson appeared in
the Braveheart movie, wearing face paint, before attacking the English
army, just like Herb’s native Indian ancestors had done before attacking
virtually the same army now in American soldiers uniforms, during the
dying days of British world expansion many years later. It’s a funny old
world.
I VENTURE INTO INDIAN COUNTRY- SCOTTISH STYLE.
We had the prospect of waiting for a few hours in Glasgow before
boarding the Irish ferry. My friend Robbie who was from Florence Street
in the nearby Gorbals area of Glasgow, a sort of ’Indian country’ to
strangers, suggested I accompany him on a short visit to his place. We
could have a cup of tea and something to eat, which would be a perfect
break in a fairly tedious day.
Robbie’s house was in a big, old tenement building where we climbed the
stairs to find the door was unlocked. We were able to walk right in to find
his old grannie sitting comfortably by the open fire,’ Ahh, its Bertie ’, she
said in a very pleased and welcoming fashion, “Come away in son and
have a cup of tea.” Robbie whirled round to face me, grabbing the lapels
of my battle dress jacket as he did so, pushing his face right up to mine,
“If I ever hear you using that name to me, I’ll smash your face in,” he
hissed. He let go immediately, turned round to his grannie with a big
smile on his face,” Hello there grannie, how’s it gaun auld yin”?
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‘Bertie’ would not be a name commonly used in the Glasgow Gorbals, it
sounded too English and soft, a clear invitation to a bashing. He gave no
sign that he had just threatened to smash my face in, in fact he became
the perfect host, pulling his mother in from the wee kitchen in the
gleaming and spotless house to be introduced.
He never referred to the incident again, he never needed to, I had only
seen Robbie looking like that once before. The occasion was during our
early basic training when a much bigger guy than Robbie had started to
take the piss about some now forgotten training incident. The other guy
obviously thought he had nothing to fear from the smaller Robbie, in an
unguarded moment he had managed to pin Robbie to the floor and was
pushing down on his shoulders, laughing right above Robbie’s upturned
face. I saw that look on Robbie’s face for the first time, no hesitation,
Robbie immediately spat straight upwards into the other guy’s face right
above him. The guy recoiled backwards giving Robbie just the time he
needed to escape from the heavy weight for a second.
That’s all she wrote as they say, it took three of us to haul him away from
the bigger guy who was already receiving a ferocious battering and
probably making a huge mental note never, ever to upset wee Robbie.
My friend Robbie was, what would now be called, street wise, growing up
in the Gorbals area of Glasgow is a hard school, you tangle with these
guys at your own risk.
Robbie’s mum gave us cups of tea and scones and was really pleased to
see him at such short notice for they must have already said their
goodbyes before he left for Berwick the day before, this was indeed a
surprise visit. At that time, showing emotion was not really much
encouraged in Scotland, I think it was regarded as a kind of display of
weakness, best to be kept out of the way.
It was then I noticed his grannie had an Irish accent but was not really
surprised for Glasgow had been a huge melting pot for various
nationalities. Highland Scots had arrived here looking for work, Irish had
arrived for the same reason. They all joined in with the local lowland
Scots. The resulting mix of these peoples in Glasgow gave birth to, in my
opinion, a very interesting race of humorous, intelligent and fiery people
with their very own accent, sense of humour and slang which was rarely
understood elsewhere, even in Scotland!
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Robbie then said his brief goodbyes all over again, that did not take very
long for the Scots generally used to find it difficult to show much emotion,
I guess this attitude has probably changed by now.
It was then I thought about my own goodbye to my mother yesterday. I
had slipped quietly out of the house in uniform, kit bag over my shoulder
and was halfway down the street before my mother realised what was
happening. She came running out of our front gate, calling my name but
my only reaction was an embarrassed wave of my disappearing arm as I
turned the corner on my way off to far away Malaya with a good chance
that I might not ever be coming back. I, callous wee bastard, never even
turned round. Oh dear, je regret.
On our way back to the Broomielaw lay through the brooding Gorbals
area, I was just like a bloody tourist. Everything in this area was new and
different. I know I would not like to live there but could not help checking
things out as we walked through Robbie’s home district.
Without realising it, I had been selected as a strange chicken, ripe for the
plucking. Some guy appeared suddenly beside me, babble away at me in
very fast Glasgow patter. Robbie had carried on by himself for a few yards
before he noticed I was no longer beside him, he wheeled around
suddenly, made straight for the stranger, grabbed him by the lapels,
stuck a ‘Glesca Kiss’ directly on his startled face then spun him around to
deliver a hefty kick on the arse. “ Get tae fuck, ya bas,” was all he needed
to say. The strange guy whose nose was now streaming blood, was off
like a shot and, I guess, the chicken had been saved from an attempted
plucking although I had no idea what all the fuss was about. Robbie just
stared at me and shook his head” In the name of the wee man, ye
shouldnie be allowed out by yourself” was all he said before turning
around to lead the way out of this big city of Glasgow.
Nobody had noticed our absence and we arrived back to the Broomielaw
in time to mingle with the other soldiers and board the Irish ferry bound
for Belfast, Northern Ireland, on the sideways step westwards for the next
stage of our long journey to the mystical Far East.
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I JOIN THE REGIMENT IN BALLIKINLAR, NORTHERN IRELAND.
BALLYKINLAR ARMY CAMP, NORTHERN IRELAND
My only recollection of our arrival on the ferry to Belfast was a bit
restricted as I had my unfamiliar, new kit bag loaded on top of my back
pack and resting on my neck. This extra weighty bulk caused my head to
face downwards which gave me a clear view of my nice boots but looking
forward was out of the question, this made the task of negotiating the
slippery, upward sloping wooden gang plank very difficult.
My first impression of Northern Ireland was of seeing another pair of
shiny black boots, this time the boots were firmly anchored on the Belfast
quayside just above my head level. As I made my way up the gangplank
(why did a vision of peg leg pirates come to mind), labouring underneath
my full service marching order kit, my eyes moved up to see dark blue
serge trousers then, ‘gasp‘, a huge pistol strapped to the blue serge
pants.
Now I was able to see the whole uniform, my first view of a Northern Irish
cop. Coming from mainland U.K. where the cops are unarmed, this small
part of Northern Ireland, separated from the Irish Republic by an
imaginary line, but still technically in Great Britain, seemed to be
definitely my first view of a foreign country.
Army trucks were laid on to take us to Ballykinlar army camp in County
Down where we disembarked in fairly good order except we seemed to be
without Alfie, our scruffy soldier. A quick check was made, one of the
guys had seen him wandering off from our ranks to talk to somebody at
Belfast docks. Alfie had a habit of breaking into conversation with
strangers although he could also break a few heads if the conversation
got difficult.
A phone call was made which established that our vagrant was being held
at the dock on suspicion of trying to go absent without leave or, A.W.O.L.,
as the charge goes.
A small truck was dispatched to pick up our untidy soldier, unfortunately
for Alfie, none of our former training N.C.O’s had accompanied us to join
the regiment, there was nobody of any rank with us on our journey to
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explain Alfie’s eccentricities. He was in for a severe bollocking when he
eventually reached the regiment looking aggrieved for being accused of
some crime he had not even considered doing, the look of injured
innocence on his face was a picture, he was somehow minus his belt, his
shirt had come adrift, tie now untied and askew, I had to turn away to
have a wee laugh.
SETTLING IN
We settled in to our new life and were paraded into a large room for an
examination to see if any of us would be suitable or intelligent enough to
join the regimental signal platoon.
We were each issued with a printed sheet of questions with a blank area
for answers.
Question1. When the phone rings, you pick it up and what do you say?
(space for answer). I actually thought it must be a trick question so I
hesitated for a bit until I saw everyone else scribbling away, so I
confidently wrote, Hello.
You are probably wondering why I think this information is worth writing
about. We did not have a phone at home. This was not at all odd there
were no phones at any of my friend’s homes. Our local GP, Doctor Badger
had a telephone. He lived in the next street and ran his office from home
so there was a phone at his address but I was unaware of the existence of
any other domestic phones in my area. This was not unusual during the
early fifties. Luckily, I had worked in the sales office of our local paper mill
and was already familiar with telephones.
Now confident, I moved on to question 2. What is the name of the Prime
Minister? I managed to answer this correctly, also dealt successfully with
the 3rd and last question although I now can‘t remember the question,
never mind the answer.
The papers were collected, checked and, after a brief exchange between a
couple of sergeants, about a dozen of us had our names announced.
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Apparently we were the bright ones and were informed we would report in
the morning to start a signals cadre which would keep us busy for the
following few weeks.
The others must have appeared to be pretty dumb, probably cannon
fodder I thought, as they were allocated to various rifle companies in the
regiment.
The new arrangement meant a change to our accommodation but Robbie
and I were still roommates and we had a new batch of conscripts
transferred to us from The Cameronians, another Scottish Infantry
Regiment, now amalgamated like all the rest. This transfer would help to
bring our regiment up to strength before we left for active service in
Malaya. Once again, these new guys were mainly recruited from Glasgow
and the Lanarkshire area where my grannie lived so I was quite
comfortable with them.
I was completely unaware that not a single army soul in the military had
any concern whether or not I was comfortable with our new additions or
not. I was still what is called ’a young soldier’ and had not yet realised I
was just 23139714 Private Wishart.A. Not eligible to be an individual or
have any opinion at all.
We were soon issued our much discussed jungle green Malaya outfits
although we were not to wear them yet, the command to change from
thick khaki battledress uniforms to the new, lightweight, jungle green
gear would be given at some unspecified date during the troopship
voyage.
No prize for guessing it would be given when it grew too bloody hot for
comfort, causing sweating inside our normal British uniforms. In any case
our heavy boots would not be worn (no pun) on board the ship as the
sailor boys did not allow it, wearing our issue PT plimsolls on board would
be obligatory. We would not look at all military while wearing normal U.K.
army gear with canvas plimsolls.
The rubber and canvas green jungle boots looked cool and were very
popular although the green lightweight pants and blouse didn’t appear at
first to look very classy, it would be a few weeks in Singapore before we
saw how cool they could look after frequent laundering and with the
addition of exotic shoulder flashes plus some dexterious attention with a
hot iron.
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This would, of course, be the style affected by the office wallas stationed
at cushy positions on Singapore Island. The real jungle soldiers over in
Malaya, were engaged on sweaty fighting duties against the Communist
Terrorists or C.T.s as they were known, not a cushy situation, there was
no time or opportunity for style in the jungle. We would soon be receiving
our new shoulder flashes which would elevate us right above any others.
These shoulder flashes with their crossed kukris would show we served
with the very famous Gurkha Regiment but we would have to wait till we
moved into Malaya before we were issued with these prize shoulder
flashes. I still have mine.
I guess all the guys had, like me, been looking forward to the issuing of
the new jungle hat. In those early fifties times we had all been brought up
on Hollywood movies which, in the pre TV world, had an enormous
influence on our thinking which spanned every aspect from human
relationships, love, marriage and just about everything else. I recall
causing a bit of confusion when visiting a small restaurant in the small
border town of Peebles by asking for the check after what was probably
my first meal away from home in a restaurant. The waitress looked a bit
puzzled at first then directed me to the rest room.
I don’t think I had ever eaten outside our house up to that point, as far as
I knew, the American guys in all the movies I had ever seen always asked
for the check before leaving the bar for some regular adventures. I had a
lot to unlearn from my background at that age, all that was about to
change and I could not blame my Hollywood training for much longer.
The jungle green hat was a great disappointment to us who had been
raised on Johnny Weissmuller in Tarzan movies for that was where we
had seen the Great, White Hunter types, always scanning into the
distance with far away eyes, their strong, tanned faces shaded from the
merciless sun by wearing a large hat.
None of us would admit it but I know we had all rather fancied being able
to pose in a dramatic stance while wearing a big hat and staring into the
distance. Shit, we even had rifles now, what about the great photos we
could send back home. We had still to learn that staring romantically into
the distance would not apply to us in any way shape or form.
The Malayan jungle would restrict viewing to a few feet owing to the
impenetrable dense thick green foliage. Another Hollywood movie fantasy
bites the dust. Jungle soldiers were never sun tanned either, the hot sun
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above cannot reach them through the thick tree top growth competing for
sunlight. The only suntanned soldiers were perhaps the cooks back at
base camp.
Our jungle hats looked like nothing a great white hunter would be seen
dead in anyway, especially if he was trying to die heroically. Our military
version of a great white hunter’s hat was a scruffy looking scrap of green
material, mass produced somewhere that preferred to be anonymous.
The hat looked more like a substantial handkerchief it could be crumpled
into one hand. Wearing that bloody hat and doing even a lot of staring
just would not cut it. What a disappointment.
On the plus side, it was a wonderful unmilitary piece of our new uniform
as no two hats seemed to be the same style or shape, now we had a
chance to express individuality, which we did with great style and fashion
ideas.
The only thing the hats had in common was when they were removed
from us temporarily then returned with our cloth Leslie tartan regimental
shoulder flashes sewn on to the front, every piece of tartan in exactly the
same place as all the other hats. Apart from that we were free to wear
our jungle hats in any shape we cared to adopt
We young soldiers were allowed for the first time, to wander outside the
army area in Northern Ireland, but were not yet allowed to wear civilian
clothes. This privilege would come later when we had served in the army
for six months.
Very few of us took the opportunity to visit the nearest town which I think
was Newcastle, County Down. We would have to wear all our regular
army gear to do this and we would stick out like extremely sore thumbs in
our still new army uniforms and embarrassingly short army haircuts.
Just like the army jungle hat, most of us preferred anonymity. In our free
time we would wander off in the opposite direction from the town and
head towards the sea as there did not seem to be any formal barrier
between the army camp and the sea. The beautiful deserted beach was
only a short stroll away. The afternoons and evenings were still pleasantly
warm that year and the sea swell had, it seemed to us, enormous smooth
waves coming rolling in towards the shore with regular ranks so we
indulged in this free, surfing, activity regularly and the couple of weeks
we had to wait for our departure from Belfast passed pleasantly enough.
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WE SHIP FOR THE FAR EAST.
The great departure day finally came, we were all loaded onto open trucks
(This was the signal for a general outbreak of ‘baaing’ and freestyle
‘mooing‘) then transported to Belfast where the troopship Devonshire was
waiting at the docks for us to start our far eastern journey.
SUEZ CANAL
The Med ended too soon for me, our first stop was scheduled at Port Said
in Egypt where we were to join the queue of ships gathering to sail
through the Suez Canal in convoy. Traffic on the canal was one way.
Ships always went through in convoy style to make sure traffic flowed
smoothly.
We were only in Port Said for a few hours so there was no time or shore
leave for us, no big deal, I thought, viewing the area from my vantage
point at the ships rail, the place seemed to consist mainly of dust and
flies.
Entertainment was freely provided by bumboat proprietors, these guys
had what looked rather like large row boats crammed with cheap tourist
goods which they were more than willing to sell to the troops.
The sale transaction was achieved by verbal bartering from the troops
crowded on deck with the bum boat owners bobbing in their boats below
us, if a, usually disputed, price was eventually agreed, the chosen article
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was placed in a little basket securely tied to a cord which was then hauled
up to the ships deck by the customer for inspection. If the goods passed
inspection, the customer then removed the purchase, the agreed money
was placed in the basket then lowered to the waiting bumboat man.
The bargaining pantomime gave us great entertainment which was
welcomed by the jocks hanging over the ship’s rail on deck. Even the new
experience of sailing the high seas was beginning to pale slightly after
about a week held captive on the ship and we were all beginning to walk
with a bit of a roll, as they say, so the prospect of bargaining with the
natives provided a welcome break.
There was no language problem though. It seemed to us the bum boat
souvenir sellers appeared to speak good English judging by the barrage of
comments floating up to us at the rail. Of course, I realised, the second
world war only ended a few years ago and lots of that particular activity
took place right here in Egypt, these guys even seemed to be speaking
with Scots accents. “Hey McGreegor”, they shouted,” The Black Watch,
that’s the sheep shaggers, that’s right”?
They had guessed correctly we were a Scottish regiment although not the
one referred to but that was all the same to them after all.’We are all Jock
Tamsons bairns’. The crack exchanges between us and the vendors below
provide a lot of fun until, somewhat regretfully, our ship was added to the
required number of boats in the queue and we set off for the Suez Canal
to resume our journey.
I had been looking forward to seeing the Suez Canal which, after the sea,
looked a bit on the narrow side for me.
I did see the occasional clump of palm trees here and there to relieve the
monotony for a bit but eventually I had seen enough, my conscience had
started to kick in too. I had promised my mother I would write to let her
know where I was and what was happening, it had been three weeks in
Northern Ireland and then another week at sea so I had better salve that
bloody Scottish Presbyterian conscience by going below and scribbling
just a few words which I guessed would cover me for another few weeks.
Our letters were dropped off at the regular ports of call on the way.
I had just finished my short (very short) note to my mother and was lying
on my bunk when one of the other guys came below. “Did you see the
piper”? He shouted over to me.
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He told me that a piper from the Royal Scots regiment, stationed
somewhere in Egypt at that time, had been transported to wait at the
canal and play us through on the pipes.
I immediately dashed up above, but, of course, I was a day late and a
dollar short and had missed what would have been a very poignant
moment in my history at least. You would think it might have occurred to
some clod with authority to request the guy in charge of the loud speaker
system to broadcast a short message to let the ship’s crew know what
was about to happen.
Funnily enough, I found out months later I actually knew the Royal Scots
piper who played us through the canal. He was John Brown from my
hometown of Penicuik, his mother and mine were good friends and I knew
John well.
Looked to me like a touch of Army Daze might have occurred but more
likely our leaders were probably more than slightly dazed after taking
liquid refreshment in the officers mess, completely oblivious to what was
going on. I honestly don’t recall ever seeing any of our officers except for
our Signal Platoon officer, Lieutenant Henderson, actually mingling with
the men on that voyage. The other officers were possibly busy running up
huge bar bills in the mess for the duration of the trip to Singapore which
took approx. 4 weeks.
Our platoon officer Lieutenant Henderson we saw regularly every
afternoon when he conducted the signal instruction cadre for his new
batch of young soldiers with the hope that we would be ready to operate
with at least some semblance of proficiency in radio communications
when the battalion were sent into active service in Malaya.
Unfortunately, this hope was somewhat delayed when the Army Daze
surfaced yet again, we were ordered to adopt the new military signaling
procedure halfway through our course which managed to complicate
things quite a bit for us. We were only getting used to saying Able, Baker,
Charlie, Dog etc. when all that we had learned was changed to Alpha,
Bravo, Charlie, Delta and so on, all the way through the alphabet.
No big deal, I hear you cry, however you didn’t have to try to take in new
information at two in the afternoon in the bloody awful heat of a metal
ship with no air conditioning when sailing through the bloody awful hot
Red Sea, so there!
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The dull routine was luckily broken for at least one day when we reached
the old coaling station at Aden. The ship stopped there for a few hours
and we were at last allowed to go ashore, albeit walking with a bit of a
roll, as they say.
Aden was a big disappointment. I immediately decided that, if this was
the mystic east, you could keep it. My main impression was of dust, heat,
dirt, poverty and veiled women who looked not at all mysterious even to
our sex starved young soldiers. This was not the mysterious orient that I
thought I knew through Hollywood impression eyes, no lovely oriental
women, no intriguing bars, no bar at all of course, not a single, solitary
bottle of Coca Cola to be seen or obtained anywhere.
Ray Reid and I hung out together for a few hot and rather boring hours,
resisting offers from a scruffy series of locals promising to take us to see
a donkey shagging a woman if we would give them a reasonable sum of
money, the money was for the scruffy guys, not the donkey or the
fictitious woman. We were both starting to grow up really fast although
Ray was way ahead of me but I was fast catching up. We were pretty
sure the situation would change once the money had changed hands,
probably they would take us to see a mosque or some other boring Middle
Eastern building, conveniently forgetting the first attraction which
probably did not exist anyway.
I can only guess the soldiers, who were present in this area during the
war, must have started this particular donkey rumour. British soldiers
have a strange sense of humour.
Aden seemed to consist of a dusty lane which allowed us to wander along
on the east side of the street all the way to where the street tailed off
onto a dusty track. We then crossed over to the west side of the same
street to return back again to where we had begun with nothing of any
interest in between. The nonexistent attractions soon wore down any
slight interest we might have started with in that dump so we were only
too happy to queue at the dockside for the next liberty boat back to the
ship No wonder there is a Scottish Army pipe tune named, The Barren
Rocks of Aden.
Aden was the coaling station visited by all the shipping headed to and
returning from the Far Eastern destinations during the now expiring days
of the old British Empire. None of our former armies of the past had been
much impressed with this barren, rocky, dusty and dirty area in the
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Middle East, hence the rumours of shagging women and donkeys which
must have been started by some bored soldier long ago and was now
accepted as a true story till the boring truth of the situation dawned on
the new, young, soldiers. Nuff Sed.
CEYLON
The rest of the journey was fairly uneventful. We stopped for a day at
Colombo in Ceylon or Sri Lanka as it is now known. This was quite a
welcome change from Aden, a bunch of us managed to do a bit of
sightseeing although there really was not a lot of time to do anything
properly. We did not even look for somewhere to have a meal.
Of course, in the years since that visit, I have seen lots of TV programmes
by a host of seemingly endless Master chefs all willing to show us the
delights of Sri Lanka with loads of great spicy dishes we might have tried
when we were there, what would we know?
We were just a bunch of eighteen year old Jocks let off the leash for a few
hours, probably as dumb as a bag of spanners about life in general and
exotic foreign parts in particular.
In any case, we had been sternly warned by our officers of the dangers of
eating strange foreign foods which would certainly result in a case of
Gippy Tummy. The same tactic was also advised regarding any contact
with, ’foreign wimmin’, which would probably result in a, ‘case of the pox’,
or even, a case of,’ yer dick fallin’ aff’.
These grim warnings were confirmed when we would be compulsorily
marched into makeshift cinemas from time to time to see short but
frighteningly graphic films illustrating the resulting dangers resulting from
any contact with foreign women, although the women portrayed in these
film looked disturbingly very British. I guess the film making was, at that
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time, dictated by the dire post war economy in the U.K. and it was a case
of one size fits all as far as the cost of providing different actresses went.
If we were to judge from the English accents and white complexions as
portrayed on the VD films, most of us young eighteen year old soldiers
went through our army service believing all women prostitutes were white
girls from London.
The original warning of not consorting with girls like that was easily
complied with as far as we were concerned for none of us ever saw girls
like that in the Far East. We happily allowed our jumping hormones to
leap about when confronted by dusky or tinted Eastern ladies. We quite
happily parted with some money to these young ladies and, Got stuck in,
as the romantic saying goes.
Unfortunately, we seemed to accept the warnings about eating nasty,
foreign foods. As far as I know, nobody would even touch the stuff. We
therefore missed the delights of tasting lovely curries in Colombo and
delightful stir fried noodles etc. in Singapore. Discovering faint imitations
of these treasures was slowly acquired much later back in the U.K. when
both Indian and Chinese foods started to be accepted back home.
We actually did have daring eating adventures occasionally in Malaya
when our adventurous cooks from The Army Catering Corps or Corpse as
we called it, would throw something they referred to as curry powder into
a grey, meat stewie concoction which immediately turned the mess a pale
green colour. They offered this mess for an occasional treat or as an
alternative choice when they had beef stew on the menu. Actually there
never was a menu anyway. You got a ladle full in your mess tin of
whatever was the disgusting offering meal of the day. The green curry
was offered as an alternative treat which, I think, was a passing salute to
any of our regiment who had perhaps served in India during the old
Empire days.
The British Empire days had ended during the forties in India. I had never
seen or met any of our older soldiers who claimed to have ever even been
there. Certainly none of our cooks from The Catering Corpse, had ever
been in India so I guess the green curry day was another fable generated
through re-telling for years rather like the donkey and the woman tale
encountered in Aden. Incidentally, the green curry treat was bloody awful.
I was so disgusted by the regular offerings prepared by our Catering
Corpse’ that I once led an adventurous small band of food explorers on an
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expedition to the nearest small town of Batu Pahat in Malaya’s Johore
State where I had heard there was a Chinese eating house of some kind.
The Chinese owner was delighted to welcome us into his rather primitive
establishment and, after we requested chicken soup which we illustrated
by hunkering down, hopping for a bit and clucking like a hen. He was
pleased to put delicious bowls of Chinese chicken soup with noodles on
the table before us to be rewarded by blank stares from us ignorant
peasants. We had actually expected white coloured Campbell’s chicken
soup like the tinned soup we had back home. Eventually one of us tried
the watery looking stuff with bits of things floating in it and grudgingly
admitted it was eatable but nothing like the real thing by which he meant
good old Campbell’s tinned soup back home.
The next course we had requested was intended as our big treat, we had
ordered steak and chips all round. There was a bit of a delay with this
course. I later found out our new Chinese owner friend had scurried out
the back way to some meat supplier and returned eventually with bits of
some kind of meat (probably pork) which he tried to cook to our liking by
slicing the meat into thin strips and throwing them into a very hot wok for
a short time before sliding them into a large dish garnished with fried
onion and other vegetables which he placed on the middle of the table for
Once again we were decked out in full army moving gear or as it is
referred to officially, F.S.M.O. (Full service marching order). Every piece
of kit I possessed was fastened somehow to my body, this even included
an extra, smaller, kit bag for use aboard ship, my full kit was somehow
strapped, clipped or slung onto my body, one kit bag carried underneath
my arm, the other one balanced behind my neck across my back pack
resulting in my head being forced downwards, face looking at the ground,
result, I could see bugger all.
The entire regiment was now filing in a single line onto the ship, each
man dressed in F.S.M.O. with all heads pushed forwards and facing
downwards, this prompted an immediate response to the new Army Daze
affair when an enormous baaing chorus broke out from the increasing
amount of young men crowding onto the vessel.
Each soldier could only follow behind the guy in front. As each new line of
men entered the ship, the guy in front was directed down a metal corridor
where he could only plod forward unable to see where he was supposed
to be heading, followed by all the other guys pushing along behind him,
nobody seemed to have any clue where they were supposed to be going.
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It seemed to us that soldiers were being directed on board, then, it
seemed, were left to their own devices, that seemed to be the end of
available direction to destinations. For all we knew, all over the huge,
strange, ship, lines of khaki clad soldiers were plodding aimlessly up one
corridor then down another. The line in which I was embedded was even
encouraged to descend even farther into the bowels of the ship down
steep metal stairs.
We were confused, sweaty, tired of carrying the heavy and cumbersome
gear so we did what soldiers have always done when in distress, we
started to baa like lost sheep. God knows what we would have done if a
fire broke out.
The baaing sheep noises increased in volume now mixed with giggles as
the daftness of the situation dawned on us conscripts, the big advantage
of employing sheep noises as a form of derision was that nobody with any
authority could pin point the source of the baaing.
When authority approached, the sheep noise would die down till the
danger had passed then start up again when the authority moved on, still
looking for any culprits, no individual could really be identified or blamed.
I was now below the waterline of the ship when I eventually reached the
bunk which was to be home for the next month. The bunks on the ship
were intended for us ’other ranks’ and arranged in groups of three
attached to the three bunks on the other side. I had been allocated top
bunk so threw my kit bag up there to confirm my ownership.
I climbed up to follow my kit bag and was surprised to find another guy
already occupying the top bunk next to mine. He seemed to have made
himself comfortable and I guessed he must have had the smarts to
somehow reach the ship without being involved with our sheep noise
makers, he was lying on his side, face away from me, already settled
down and reading a book.
I noticed a full two corporals’ stripes on his arm. I was still a young
soldier as far as this guy would be concerned so I did not relish spending
a whole month in such close proximity to him. Without turning round he
surprised me by addressing me by name, “Yer late Wishart, and what was
all that sheep shagger noise you fuckers were making?” It was only then
he rolled over to reveal a wide grin on a friendly face.
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He was Derek ’Basher’ Gillies an old scout mate from my hometown,
Basher was a real Penicuik keep fit character. He was the first guy to set
up a professional trampoline on the lawn behind his house. I went to see
him in action just after I heard the news about the new trampoline. He
was not around when I arrived so I wandered round behind the house to
view the new toy. Still no sign of Basher then I heard a loud cry of
“Geronimo” from above me, looking up, I was just in time to see him
leaping from the window ledge of an upstairs bedroom, right down onto
the trampoline!
I had heard he was in the battalion but was a regular soldier and physical
instructor, away on a refresher course when I arrived. I learned he had
arrived back from the course just in time to head for the troop ship and
somehow managed to bypass the great military move to the docks.
Somehow, all our gear was stowed away somewhere in the dark bowels of
the ship, probably keeping the ship’s rats company for the entire journey,
they were not to be seen again till we arrived in Singapore in about a
month‘s time. We were left with just our romantic sounding sea going kit
bags containing just essentials such as military issue green drawers
cellular - pairs one .
Correct bunks were found, we all knew where the heads were located and
the great journey was about to begin. My 18th birthday had taken place a
mere few months past and I was excited as a wee schoolboy when the
huge ship started to vibrate, we were off to see the world.
Unfortunately, on my deck, the portholes in the heavily laden troop ship
were just below water level so I could see bugger all! You will note from
the picture of the ship, the lower port holes on the fully loaded
Devonshire actually dip below the water line about halfway along the
vessel, guess where my bunk was situated!
I SAIL FOR THE FAR EAST WITH MY REGIMENT.
The great adventure was under way, see how quickly I can adopt nautical
talk. I seemed to be very adaptable in these days as my only previous
sailing experience had been an exciting but brief trip on an actual lifeboat
on the storm tossed east coast of Scotland during Lifeboat Day when I
was about eleven. I also had a few hours experience, fishing for mackerel,
on a proper fishing boat sailing round Ailsa Craig on the west of Scotland.
Luckily, even these two short trips, made me realise I seemed to be
impervious to sea sickness and I was able to loll on my bunk listening to
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the land lubbers around me complaining the motion of the ship was
making them feel ill. As far as I was concerned, all I could feel was the
throbbing of the huge engines buried somewhere in the bowels of the ship
which filled me with forward looking excitement at the prospect of
heading towards foreign parts.
We were all blissfully unaware of the terrors ahead when we would reach
the notoriously stormy Bay of Biscay off the Portuguese coast, located
just a couple of sailing days away.
I should have known the army would not allow us to loll about on our
bunks or just stroll on deck for the next four weeks till we reached
Singapore. Yes folks, right again, as usual.
Army routine was quickly re-asserted, reveille was, as bloody usual, at 6
a.m. In barracks, reveille was always played by a drummer/bugler
followed by a piper playing ’Hey, Johnnie Cope are you wakin’ yet ‘? This
is the normal reveille morning ceremony in all Scottish regiments followed
at intervals during the day by the bugle calls for other activities like
Cookhouse, Defaulters, Mail Call, Parade Call etc. and ending in the
evening with the evocative bugle call, Last Post, followed by the piper
playing Lights Out, a slow lament which could bring tears to a glass eye.
However, if you happened to be close enough, the piper could be seen
marching quickly away in the darkness while playing a slow march, pretty
clever actually, but he was probably just heading for bed.
The naval troopship was not suitable for our army type traditions with
bugle calls or bagpipe players. The pre-recorded Reveille blasted out at
great volume from the p.a. system speakers on each deck at 6 a.m. The
volume was adjusted to maximum level just in case any sleeping beauties
missed the musical treat, to make things even more alien, the recorded
bugle call was different from the one we had been getting used to after
joining the regiment. This rasping, soulless dream chaser sounded what I
imagined was a very British Army call, if it was set to words it would
sound like, GET OUT OF BED, YOU LAZY BASTARD, not a very
encouraging sound to hear first thing in the morning to start your
adventuring sea voyage to the romantic far east. It seemed that all my
illusions about heading for the mystic Far East were being dragged out
from my head, one by one, then quickly dispatched.
I was brought up reading about tales of the old British Empire from Africa
to Hong Kong, Singapore and India. My grandfather, Corporal Munnoch
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had served with the Seaforth Highlanders in India and I was keen to
follow in his footsteps to see what this roving kind of life involved, so far I
was not experiencing any of the romantic shit.
We were each allocated some tasks and activities to keep us busy in the
mornings, I was lucky to land the daily task of cleaning the sick bay which
turned out to be a plum job as the place was not occupied at all for the
entire voyage.
I reported to the deserted sick bay each morning, selected a comfortable
chair and continued reading my book for a couple of hours of peace and
quiet, this was o.k. by me for I was an only child and never quite got used
to having crowds of people around. The sick bay always seemed to be
empty so nothing really needed cleaning. I was a man of leisure taking
life easy on a sea cruise.
P.T. on the open deck of the ship was scheduled immediately following
our regular morning duties. Must keep the chaps fit, you know.
Corporal Derek Basher Gillies was in charge of these activities, he
marched up and down the deck, barking orders in a very Nazi fashion,
keeping his evil eye out for any slackers. None of the guys were aware
that Basher and I knew each other. I have already mentioned Basher, we
knew each other from our scouting days, however, I was in the 1st
Penicuik scout troop while Basher was in the newly formed 2nd troop and
there was a great deal of friendly rivalry between the two. This, plus his
two stripes of army authority, gave Basher an excellent opportunity to
indulge his wicked sense of humour whenever I appeared on the scene.
We were moving steadily further south into warmer weather causing us to
start sweating so Basher would continue marching up and down among
the long lines of us snaking along the deck, barking out orders till he
arrived at my space. He would immediately come to a halt beside me
then pretend to take an interest in my poor performance before deciding
to make an example of someone he would describe as an idle soldier.
He was a real ham and would play to his captive audience by making loud
comments about my apparently feeble physical performance. He would
then order the others to stand/sit at ease and seem to concentrate on me
as a slacker, all the while there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes, hidden
behind his fairly thick glasses. I guess his eyes were the only weak part of
his body as the rest of him was built like a brick shithouse. “Right you”,
he would say, “let’s see you do some press-ups then”.
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I would then have to assume the position, and start performing in front of
the whole assembly who were more than happy to sit watching me sweat
while they took their ease and wondered what I could have possibly have
done to upset the corporal. After about 20 pushups Basher would add his
own contribution to the entertainment by placing his foot on the small of
my back, calling, “Come on lad, push”!
This particular part of the act brought much amusement to our audience.
Basher even managed to introduce a fresh slant to the daily show by
introducing new pieces of business to add to my embarrassment.
However, I eventually managed to invent an excuse myself to extend my
time to the fictitious cleaning of the sick bay and avoid the bloody P.T.
show altogether. I confided the news to Basher later that day when we
were in our bunks just before Lights Out. His only response was an
enigmatic but wicked grin behind his comic book, daft bugger.
WE HEAD FOR THE DREADED BAY OF BISCAY. (2nd choice).
Chapter title: TERROR on the HIGH SEAS! (1st title choice).
Question : PIRATES??
Answer : NO, Navy Porridge !
When we could just make out the distant Spanish coast, weather began to
warm up even more so permission was granted for us from below decks
to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere and sleep on deck at night. All
we needed to do was take a blanket and pillow when darkness fell and
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head upwards until we cleared the fetid atmosphere that existed below
the water line where each deck was occupied by several hundred sweaty
soldiers.
I was surprised to find that not very many of the guys took advantage of
a chance to exchange our airless bunks for the opportunity to sleep in the
fresh air under the stars. The only entertainment after lights out below
deck was listening to old jokes, lightened up from time to time by the
fascinating various types of sound from great, horrendous farts. Our
below deck soldiers managed to display a very wide and entertaining
range of farts often accomplished by contorting their young bodies into
interesting shapes. We seemed to have had more than our fair share of
beans with our seagoing fare and our stomachs were adapting to the
change.
Why stay below deck when we could escape to the fresh air and romantic
nautical atmosphere by bedding down above board. Every evening I
would head for the deck above with my pillow and blanket. Not many
guys followed my healthy example of sleeping underneath the stars on a
hard, wooden bench on a ship at sea, how strange.
There were a number of benches bolted securely to the deck at various
intervals. After nightfall I had no problem in securing one for myself by
merely spreading my blanket and pillow on top. I was then master of all I
surveyed which was bugger all really because of the darkness, the only
farts rending the night were all my own and not to be sniffed at.
Two nights passed in this peaceful fashion, each night I soon fell asleep
and slept very soundly, dreaming of the mysterious orient ahead until
awakened by the usual blasting recording of a bugle call on the loud
speaker system at 6a.m. in the morning.
We technically entered the normally stormy Bay of Biscay off the coast of
Portugal late on the afternoon of the following day. I had noticed no great
difference in the weather that day, so gathered my bedding in the
evening, heading for the deck and fresh air as usual. I selected my
favourite bench and settled down pretending I was a salty old seadog,
just like those damn movies which usually had me believing in the
stupidest of things till they were proved to be a load of old Hollywood
crap, and so I drifted peacefully into oblivion.
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I had drifted off to sleep on a solidly built, a safe and trusty British ship,
capable of sailing confidently over any of the fabled seven seas, strong as
the Rock of Gibraltar.
My awakening was not due to the usual stirring bugle call at dawn but to
the sight of huge banks of sinister black waves with frightening white
crests towering above me and about to thunder down to sweep me away.
The safe and trusty ship seemed very different now, bit more on the
vulnerable side than when I went to sleep. Powerfully frightening monster
waves were crashing into the side of her, making the whole ship shudder
and wallow with each hammering blow. The frantic shaking on my
shoulder which propelled me to abrupt wakefulness was from a really
scared Military Policeman. He was obviously frightened, hanging on like a
big human limpet to the metal support on my bench. He was probably
willing me to wake up and quickly get the hell out of this scary situation. I
eventually obliged but was awakened from a peaceful sleep and propelled
into a nightmare. The waves were rolling headlong across the open deck,
washing right up to his thighs and I had been sleeping through all this?
Apparently, he had made a previous sweep of the deck in case some
loony young soldier had been daft enough to choose a bench rather a
bunk below deck to spend the night but he must have splashed right past
me. He was not one of our Regimental Police but belonged to the Military
Police who had been sent above board for a second time to have a final
look to make sure none of the young soldiers had been overlooked after
an unexpected, fierce storm broke.
The weather had changed dramatically and the order had been to quickly
awaken any unlikely sleeping soldiers on deck and get them to security
down below. The now very active storm was sweeping right over the
ship’s upper deck. This guy had reluctantly agreed to face the storm for
the second time, he was ordered to have a final check in case any
sleeping soldiers had been overlooked after the first hurried sweep of the
deck which was now awash, in doing so I think he probably saved my life.
I had been in the blissfully deep sleep of the just and had objected to his
frantic shaking but woke to find white stuff crashing over both of us. The
scene was something like I had only seen when I went to see a Noah’s
Ark movie. Actually, I am lying about this part, I could not be dragged,
kicking and\or screaming to see a Noah’s Ark movie, except possibly to
have a good laugh.
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Even in the dark I could see huge, white crested waves towering over the
ship which was rolling and wallowing through deep troughs in the
suddenly storm racked ocean, the Bay of Biscay’s reputation was certainly
justified that night. The deck was awash as the Military Policeman sloshed
and slithered through the waves now crashing on deck. He was actually
pushed sideways by a wall of water and grabbed onto my deck seat to
keep his balance and avoid being washed overboard when he noticed me.
I was still fast asleep in the middle of the night and still fairly dry in my
elevated position, slightly above deck level. The bench was securely
bolted to the deck but I wasn’t!
He managed to wake me, bundle me safely below deck, to follow, quickly
and gratefully behind me, poor bugger was actually scared shitless. I
guess I was still half asleep or I should have been scared shitless as well.
Fast asleep on my usual deck bench, I must have escaped the flooded
deck at first as I was a couple of feet above it but it was only then I
realised I had been rescued just in time, before the next crashing wave
could sweep me away to Davy Jones’s locker, wheeeech!!
My sense of relief changed immediately when I descended to our deck
which was situated as far down as you could go. I was about to take my
last step from the rung to the deck floor when I recoiled just in time,
managing to step back quickly upwards to avoid a brown wave of vomit
sweeping across the floor.
This was the only time in my life when I felt nauseous at sea. It seemed
that I must have been the only guy on that lower deck who had not
upchucked. The dim night lights revealed the small but disgusting brown
wave as it slopped about to the motion of the fiercely rolling ship, I
guessed most of the sea sick guys had tried unsuccessfully to reach the
heads before being sick on the deck, others had only been able to get
their heads clear of their bunks just in time to add to the brown wave.
It was a nightmare scene, luckily, my bunk space was fairly close to the
entrance so, with a quick hop, skip and jump, I made it to my bunk at the
top, well clear of the disgusting mobile mess below, and so to bed dear
reader. Away from an experience I hope never to repeat.
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PORRIDGE
The morning bugle aroused me to a view of the brown vomit wave still
splashing around beneath me. However, by using perfect timing, I
managed to evade the brown slush and made it safely to the top deck
albeit rather scruffily dressed and unwashed, reaching the head to wash
was out of the question. If I had even been able to get there I am sure
my stomach would have rebelled at the stench and added to the mess.
I had considered slinking off to the hospital room where I usually spent
my early mornings cleaning the place. I could have a private shower there
but I realised the sick bay might actually be full of sick people at this time
and quickly changed my mind..
I headed off in the opposite direction and made it safely to the mess deck
(different type of mess - naval talk, you know) where I always ate well. I
enjoyed the navy breakfast, there was the inevitable porridge. Kippers
plus bacon and eggs were available. Kippers for me! I guess the merchant
navy looks after the sailor boys properly, unlike the army of that time for
I always found the army food to be bloody awful. Our four weeks afloat
with the navy gave us a welcome break and it also gave me, at least, a
healthy appetite from exposure to the fresh air.
That morning, instead of standing in line for my meal, it seemed I was the
only guy who had any appetite at all. The mess deck was deserted apart
from only one other brown job (army guy) who was seated alone in the
huge empty mess tucking in to breakfast. I didn’t know him but he
seemed to be observing me closely while he ate.
I collected my usual breakfast of kippers, porridge, bacon, toast and tea,
on the naval aluminium meal tray which had several shallow impressions
imbedded into the tray to take the various available courses. This made
meal times a pleasure and avoided sloppy mixing of different courses with
each other if the ship was rolling due to bad weather. It was still heaving
and rolling vigorously that morning.
I had to paddle and move sharply to the side on one corner of the deck to
avoid a strange grey mess on the unusually sticky floor. I then joined the
other guy, he told me he had been watching me to see if I would manage
to cope with the messy floor or fall victim to the slippery obstacle by
losing my feet and depositing my porridge all over the floor where it
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would contribute to the mess. He told me the last three guys had gone
arse over tit at that point and congratulated me on a safe journey past
the porridge deck obstacle to the table.
The two of us sat there for a while, betting each other on the outcome of
the few new diners progress with their porridge, however, even this
amusement started to pale after a while as there were very few diners
that morning. The vessel was still pitching and heaving although not quite
as fiercely as before or perhaps we were just acquiring a sailor’s roll,
adjusting to unaccustomed motion.
Not many of the others had been able to copy our new rolling and walking
system and were probably still lying and dying in their bunks for all
normal discipline seemed to have been abandoned. The recording of the
stirring bugle reveille call had tootled out at 6 a.m. as normal but that
was about the only thing that stirred on board ship that morning.
I did not fancy descending below to my lower, puke covered area again so
I took advantage of the lowering of normal army rules, picked a
convenient, if still pitching, bench on deck and passed the time watching
the heavy Atlantic seas, the only other people seemed to be the
occasional sailors going about their normal business. There were no army
types to be seen at all , I stayed happily on my undisturbed bench,
watching the world go by or more accurately, going up and down as the
ship pitched wildly from looking down into wild grey seas one minute then
up into heavy rain filled grey skies the next. I gazed ahead searching for
the first glimpse of The Rock of Gibraltar which was scheduled to appear
later that day.
Gibraltar was sighted just as we entered calmer waters when we
thankfully left the wild Atlantic Ocean to reach the wonderfully blue
Mediterranean Sea when we squeezed past the huge slab of rock that was
the Rock of Gibraltar. Obviously, I had never seen it before but I
recognised it immediately, it was so bloody big!
It was an unmistakable chunk of the British Empire right before my eyes,
this was the life of adventure as far as I was concerned so I clung to the
rail to drink it all in. I had been brought up with tales of travel, derring do
and the old British Empire, plus a large helping of fictitious Hollywood
nonsense, so I was more than ready for this sort of stuff. Bring it on!!
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We entered the Med, big difference here. It actually seemed quite a small
sea compared to the Atlantic Sea. We could even see the distant coast
occasionally and no more Bay of Biscay capers.
Next morning I was back to my duties in the sick bay which was empty as
usual, I guess most sick people were feeling too sick to go to the sick bay!
I looked out of the port hole and there was an Arab dhow right before my
eyes. I knew what it was but thought that kind of ship belonged to the
history book. This was an actual working boat, amazing.
This was the same area where ancient boats thousands of years ago,
used to ply their trade, shipping tin mined in Cornwall, England to ports
needing this material to mix with copper during the bronze age resulting
in pretty strong sword blades at that time, thousands of years ago.
Couldn’t help wondering if they sailed their primitive boats across the Bay
of Biscay like we did on that stormy night or perhaps clung close to the
shore of the land that would eventually be called Portugal to try and
escape the stormy sea. They must have either been very brave or very
daft guys in those olden days. They were Celtic men from what would
eventually be named Cornwall, the south west tip of England the last
refuge of the Celts who gathered in that area. Their ancient Celtic sailors
must have been a bit daft as well when they took their primitive boats
laden with heavy tin ore through the Bay of Biscay which we had just
wallowed through.
The traffic around us had increased too, as soon as my time in the
deserted sick bay was up plus a wee bit extra time to evade the wicked
Basher Gillies and his P.T. sessions. I was up on deck, leaning over the
ships rail up at the sharp end taking it all in, foreign shipping, porpoises,
even flying fish as we sailed into warmer waters, this was indeed another
world.
Some of the best shots in the regiment were allowed access to the blunt
end where they spent their time happily shooting at bobbing targets
thrown from the ship before the floating bottles and cans disappearing
behind us, they seemed to be having fun but I was more than happy up
front at the sharp end just savouring this new experience.
You have to understand, I was eighteen years old, the farthest I had been
till now was London and not a lot of my contemporaries back home in
Scotland had even been that far, this was the life as far as I was
concerned and I was absorbing it all greedily. The trip was costing me
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nothing, this was the middle fifties. The days of foreign travel, jet setting
and more affluent lifestyles was unheard of and still far away, near
impossible for a working class guy in 1955.
The world had yet to change, the days of holidays in Spain, flying trips to
Florida and glamorous visits to far flung places were still to come, this
was 1955 and I was heading for the Far East.
The only guy I had known who had ever been out there was an unlucky
prisoner of the Japanese during the war, poor bugger, he was lucky even
just to survive that nasty experience.
What could happen to me in these foreign parts? Possibly shot in the
head, end of foreign adventure story but that stuff never entered my,
soon to be endangered head, at that age.
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The good ship mv. Devonshire leaves Belfast for the open sea.
The Pipes and Drums of The Kings Own Scottish Borderers are assembled
on board to play the regiment out of port. The Pipes and Drums must
have received special dispensation from the sailor boys to wear their army
boots for this parade. The rest of the ordinary scruffy soldiers on board
are already obeying orders about not wearing army boots on board ship
they are wearing their P.T. canvas plimsolls in the picture.
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us to help ourselves. Baffled looks were exchanged but no complaints
were made as the Chinese cook would not understand what we were
saying anyway. The chip request presented another problem so he had
substituted soft noodles instead. I don’t know from where he borrowed
the six forks. He had tried to offer us chopsticks but was met with more
blank stares.
Please try to remember, we were a bunch of young eighteen year old
working class Scottish lads exploring the big wide world for the first time.
Even then any of our activities were constantly under supervision and
arrangement by the military authorities. Of the six guys engaged on the
eating out expedition, I was the only guy who had actually been as far as
London, quite an experience for a young sixteen year old in the early
fifties. During our London visit I think we chose a Lyons Corner House
where we ordered food. This was heady enough for us, certainly any kind
of foreign food was not even considered. English food was quite foreign
enough thank you, for our small band of 16 years old Scottish guys.
We were far from stupid. However, most of us had a reasonable education
until we reached the school leaving age of fifteen as was required by law
at that time. We mostly left school at that age to take up employment of
some kind as I do not recall any of my ex school pals not having a job.
Further education was sometimes mentioned at school at around the age
of fourteen but opportunities for more education were few and far
between at the time. The new, red brick colleges had not yet been built
and Universities only existed at either Oxford or Cambridge. In Scotland
we had St. Andrews, Edinburgh, Glasgow or Aberdeen. Those seats of
learning were rumoured to exist but we thought they were places where
the upper class frolicked. University was not even considered possible for
us, we had probably all read about such institutions but this was
something in a book, not real life.
Our main purpose seemed to be to leave school as soon as possible, most
of our war time teachers were past retiring age anyway and well past
their best. They had mostly been held over to reluctantly continue
teaching because of the war when most of the future young and fresh
teaching candidates had been in military service or even at school
themselves and were now completing teachers training education before
taking up a teaching position.
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I clearly remember a young male music teacher being appointed to our
school when I was fourteen. He was a breath of fresh air when he entered
our classroom for the first time. He strolled over to his desk but actually
sat on top of the desk itself, totally ignoring the chair which was the usual
position of control and authority. He casually introduced himself then
proceeded to break the ice by telling us a joke before throwing a
blackboard cleaning brush at the head of some troublemaker in the back
row. Fresh air indeed, none of the guys in my class went on to college
after the age of fifteen hardly any existed at that time. It seemed that
two or three years made all the difference later. New colleges were built
or appointed during that few years and the generations of schoolboys
behind us were able to indulge themselves by leaving home to attend
college, get some better education and do some growing up, just like the
American movies.
The main aim when leaving school at fifteen was to escape from the
stifling old fashioned teaching methods where the thick leather strap was
used to physically beat what was then described as education into what
was mistakenly considered to be thick heads.
My clear memory of when I attended a good school was of each dreaded
history lesson. This particular ‘teacher’ should have retired, but was being
held on until the new generation of young teachers qualified after their
training years were completed. Obviously resenting this delay to her
retirement, she took out her spite on us young pupils. If any pupil gave a
wrong answer or even hesitated after a shouted question, her immediate
response was, “Come out here, boy“. The offender would have to leave
his desk to make the dreaded shame faced shuffle through the class to
reach the teacher’s desk where the thick leather belt rested in plain sight.
Still firing questions into the class the teacher would grab the belt and lay
about her into the now stretched out offending hands held in the crossed
position, one hand over the other, palm upward. If the pupil had been
really bad or perhaps had red hair then six of the best was the usual
punishment. On the count of six, the hands to change position to receive
the second six and she certainly put every ounce of her spiteful strength
into each stroke.
Problem was the old bitch was still shouting questions into the class while
she was strapping the first boy! There was soon a small procession of
boys trailing towards the punishment area one after another while the
punished were nursing their sore hands all the way back to their desks.
This passed for education at the good school for which I had qualified.
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Years later I saw the excellent ‘Tomkinsons School Days’ written by
Michael Palin for TV. This was the part of his series of Ripping Yarns
where the boys line up to cane the Headmaster, my favourite episode. I
still watch it again when the mood takes me!
The aim of my contemporaries was to complete school at age 15 years
then leave to secure a job as soon as possible and be able to bring a
wage packet home to contribute to the household expenses.
Eating out was an experience virtually unknown to us although I do
remember being taken to the P.T’s store in Edinburgh once to have
afternoon tea with my Mum as a special treat.
My only other eating out experience was usually a visit to our local fish
and chip shop where there was no area to dine at in any case. The chips
were served in a wee paper envelope then wrapped in torn out pages
from the used daily Edinburgh newspapers, an unhygienic practice now
thankfully outlawed. However, the old newspaper wrapper helped to keep
the chips fairly warm when you walked home in the freezing Scottish cold
winter nights. Some warmth could be experienced by burrowing cold
fingers into the greasy old papers to extract the rapidly cooling chips
coated with salt and vinegar, savoured one by one.
We had, of course, seen American movies where happy families gathered
together in diners and restaurants, casually and comfortably ordering and
consuming food while busy chatting to each other as if they did this kind
of thing every day. Some movies even showed teenagers meeting daily
with their friends for coffee or ice creams in places called Drug Stores
with absolutely not one parent in sight, all very strange to our guys.
During our National Service, we had been warned off eating out in any
foreign districts. Our officers described strange eastern infections waiting
to be picked up by any unwary soldiers attempting to sample strange
food. The method was much the same as that employed to warn us of the
possibilities of catching a venereal disease although the VD warnings
usually came in the form of a news reel film, giving the warning a more
professional appeal.
The result was hardly anybody sampled food from street vendors in any
of the places we visited. This, of course, deprived us of having the
pleasure of eating foreign, spicy and, in my opinion, delicious food. It
would be another two years before I tasted either Chinese or Indian food.
That tasting adventure eventually took place in Edinburgh, Scotland.
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We were soon back aboard ship and under way again with Singapore only
a few days away.
I think we all felt the same and were pretty well fed up with the
monotonous daily routine on the ship where we had no alcohol, female
company or entertainment of any kind, unless listening to the only piece
of music available on the loud speaker system. This was an old 78 rpm.
recording of Guy Mitchell singing ‘Blue Door’ which had only a slight
suggestion of rhythm and sounded bloody awful. To make it worse it was
played at least once every afternoon on the loud p.a. system, there was
nowhere to escape from it and it was slowly driving us all nuts. Our young
hormones must have been bouncing about all over the place but there
really was nowhere for them to bounce.
This was 1955, the rock ’n roll music craze had started in the U.S.A. with
some of the greats like Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry and Fats Domino
already making classic rock records where the only likeness to the Guy
Mitchell record was that they were all made on the same old fashioned
shellac 78 rpm. breakable disks.
This was the time when some of the great sounds were beginning to be
heard for the first time in the U.K. We, of course, were heading away
from there about as far as we possibly could, way across to the other side
of the world.
The music scene back in Britain was chaotic in those days, a real mixture
of styles with a strong traditional jazz movement in the lead. The main
music newspaper in the U.K. was the Melody Maker, published weekly.
This was the favourite music newspaper then and my first choice. The
New Musical Express newspaper was, at that time, a distant and faint
competitor, a situation that somehow managed to be completely reversed
in the sixties when the new style of home grown rock started flooding the
country.
The Melody Maker was mainly concerned with the jazz scene which was
vogue in the 1950’s. I actually approved of the up and coming new rock
‘n roll music but preferred listening to the original Chicago blues bands
from the States, Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf style who were now
using early amplification and speakers which provided a more powerful
sound to their great blues numbers like ’I’m the Hoochie Coochie Man’
and ‘Smokestack Lightening’, great stuff.
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The young rockers down in London had also managed to hear this music
from occasional 78 rpm. records that sometimes reached the U.K. mainly
from ship’s crews and the working dance band musicians employed on the
big liners. These guys all regularly visited to States and were bringing
back copies of the American music which was very new to us in the U.K.
This style of music started to leak through from the big seaports in
London, Liverpool and Glasgow. Bands were rapidly forming to try and
emulate this new style of blues music.
Some of the new bands even managed to rescue a few of the great
American artists from oblivion, bringing them over to perform in the U.K.
to the delight of guys like me. I still preferred to listen to recordings of
the American blues guys in their own local environment but the local
British rock/blues bands did not need any help from me to soon establish
the fantastic boom in the rock industries which kicked off in the sixties.
In the local dance halls of the fifties, the ballroom style of dancing was
still king, dancing couples attempted to emulate this style, the crowd
moving round the floor in an anticlockwise direction, it all seems so
remote now as I sit here in the year 2011.
A small rebel contingent among the dancers would display their jiving
skills, a style which had arrived earlier during the war in the forties with
the American service men posted to Britain. They happily introduced their
new style of dancing to the fascinated and grateful dancers in the U.K.
their American style of dancing was called jitterbugging.
When jiving evolved from jitterbugging in Britain, it was regarded as
dancing to the devil’s music, strictly banished from the actual dancing
arena by bouncers who circulated round the floor chasing the jivers away.
The jive dancers then usually congregated in the ballroom corners to
display their dancing talent until an unsmiling bouncer would catch up
with them and move them onwards yet again.
The bouncer would spread his arms then advance, unsmiling, towards the
jivers, making them move along just like a farmer moving sheep, the
more agile of the jivers could keep up their dancing but quickly moved at
the same time to take up their new position in the next corner where the
whole, silly, bouncer performance would soon start all over again.
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Occasionaly, really clever jivers worked out they would have longer to
enjoy their jiving if they moved behind the approaching bouncer rather
than in front of him when he was about to disperse their corner activity.
Being a lot more agile than the average bouncer, a clever couple could
continue to jive then, still jiving, expertly move around and behind the
approaching bouncer to take up their new positions in the corner which
had just been cleared. This gave them more time to themselves before
the slow moving bouncer managed to clear the other corners and
approached these particular jivers once again.
A very weird scene, although a lot of the jivers were very talented and
entertaining, crowds would gather round them to watch until the
inevitable dour looking bouncer would break up the little corner
gatherings.
This daft situation continued for a few years in the fifties while more and
more teenagers, myself included, managed to drift into their own jiving
style of dancing. I remember we used to perfect our style of jiving during
weekly meetings of our Youth Club held in the local St Mungo’s Church
hall before displaying our new found talent on Saturday nights in the local
dance hall. Eventually, sheer weight of numbers swept the ballroom style
and the cruising bouncers, away into oblivion from the local dance halls.
Even the local dance halls would, in their turn, be swept away into
oblivion when the discotheque craze took hold in the sixties.
The next few days also seem to have been swept away into oblivion in my
memory, probably because I was getting bored with this Navy Lark and
welcomed the first sight and smell of Singapore.
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SINGAPORE
Sadly, I remember the sights and smell of Singapore docks with no great
affection. The smell I remember clearly, a high percentage of raw sewage
was featured which marked it out for me to make a mental note and
avoid this area wherever possible.
I was also surprised to see what I assumed was a group of coolies who
seemed to be engaged in loading a nearby ship manually, no cranes or
any mechanical help, they were doing all the loading by hand. I actually
have a memory of the coolies conveying the shipment into the vessel with
the cargo in bags loaded onto their heads! This particular scene was right
out of Conrad or else I witnessed a time warp of some kind, this was,
after all 1955. Perhaps the local government had overlooked this
particular activity or maybe a movie was being made, although I saw no
sign of any movie cameras.
The British Raj had taken over once again after the war, they were keen
to show the natives how good and kind they were to a grateful people
now liberated from one type of slavery and back to another.
However, the second world war was ten years ago, perhaps the coolie
activity would teach the natives that the Brits were back to stay, that, of
course, was why our fresh boatload of soldiers had arrived. Even with our
regular addition of fresh blood to the governing system, the old regime
was already doomed with the sounds of ‘Verdeka’, meaning ‘Freedom‘,
already being shouted with more and more fervour by the natives on
Singapore island.
I must have somehow missed part of my geography lessons at school the
cause of my missed geography knowledge was probably due to the
eccentric geography teacher. For some reason this batty lady had formed
an intense dislike to any pupils from my home town located a few miles
away. She used to refer to us as the water rats from my hometown of
Penicuik. She would then refuse to address us in any way and continue
to give her current lesson to the local kids only.
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The bad attitude of this teacher probably contributed to my rather sketchy
geography knowledge for I though Singapore and Malaya were one and
the same, I now realise that Singapore City was built on the large island
of Singapore, the country of Malaya was situated over a causeway to the
north. We were to be billeted at an army barracks on Singapore Island for
a few weeks of re-organising and re-grouping, before heading north for
active service over the causeway, the short stay in Singapore was another
welcome distraction for me.
We were loaded onto a fleet of army trucks to be driven to Selerang
barracks on the east side of the island and close to Changi village which
was on the coast right beside the South China Sea, this was more like it, I
hoped things would be more Oriental soon.
I noticed all the trucks were without canvas covers which would have
been installed on all similar trucks in the U.K. This was because the heat
generated in canvas covered trucks would have been unbearable for the
passengers as we were only a few degrees from the equator. I soon found
out this rule also applied to all trucks operating in Malaya partly because
of the heat but mainly to allow a clear line of returning fire from the truck
for instant retaliation when ambushed by terrorists. It also provided
access for personnel to make a swift exit from the targeted truck to take
up defensive positions and get on with the urgent business of returning
fire.
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Chinatown, Singapore 1950’s
Business addresses all on ground floor. Lots of shouting, bargaining and
industry taking place down there. Accommodation was above, washing
hanging out to dry. Movie theater located at far end of street.
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I worked my way through the rest of the guys in the truck to gain access
to the rear of the cab where I could stand for a clear view as we were
driven through the city of Singapore, this was the orient I had heard and
read about and I was now actually part of it.
We drew away from the heavy, stinky smell of the dock area, into a whole
new scene where the smell and sounds were very different now, lots of
loud hammering and shouting in Chinese from some unseen source of
either industry or construction taking place.
Most of the Singapore citizens seemed to be Chinese rather than the
native Malays. There were lots of street vendors selling food by the
roadside. Their various spicy offerings contributed to the heady and hot
atmosphere of the city, so different, so strange, bit scruffy but not at all
like scruffy Aden. This was what I wanted to experience.
We left the city to travel the few miles to the army barracks, palm trees
all over the place till we came to a fairly clear area where a large,
forbidding, square type building came into view on our right. It was so
different from what we had already seen and some of the guys were
wondering what it was. I, alone in this crowded truck, could tell them. It
was the notorious Changi jail, I had read about it back home in a book
written by an Australian soldier who, with hundreds of others, had been
incarcerated in there after the British Army had surrendered Singapore to
the victorious and vicious Japanese Army in 1942.
The treatment of the imprisoned soldiers was scandalous with ill
treatment, severe beatings, very little food, overcrowding. There was no
medical equipment except for an improvised system implemented by their
own Allied medical people who had no medicines or hospital facilities at
all.
Russell Braddon, the Aussie writer of the book, ‘The Naked Island’,
managed to survive somehow, even after being marched up through
Malaya in unimaginable conditions to take part in the construction of the
notorious Japanese death railway. He labored and suffered there until his
final and welcome release to freedom when the Japs gave in at last after
our Americans allies managed to finish the war by dropping the atomic
bomb on Japan.
I was aware there had been a high proportion of Scots imprisoned at
Changi Jail. The Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders had been the last of
the British Army to cross the causeway from Malaya before blowing it up
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to retreat to Singapore after the Japanese had crushed the resistance
from the British Army all the way down Malaya after their landing in the
north of the country.
The Argyles had made their withdrawal over the causeway with pipes
playing defiantly before taking up their new defensive positions on
Singapore Island. They must have been completely puzzled when, a few
days later, the decision was made for the British Army to surrender
completely and they had the order to stand down.
I tried to explain all this to the rest of the guys in a condensed version but
most of it was lost in the general road noise and babble, anyway, the
mood lifted as we approached Selerang barracks with its modern looking,
big, white buildings with spacious accommodation and, crowning it all
more bloody palm trees!
CHARWALLAHS, SELERANG BARRACKS, SINGAPORE 1955
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“Anybody wanna tea, mucker“?
I awoke next morning before reveille sounded, wondering where I was.
The familiar sound of huge ships engines throbbing had gone, now
replaced by a strange voice intoning, with no urgency, “Anybody wanna
tea mucker”? I opened one eye above the sheets which had been issued
on our arrival at Selerang barracks the day before, no other bedding
seemed to be needed as the temperature was already high, even before 6
a.m.
It was then I saw my first Char Wallah, he was an Indian guy, squatting
just inside the entrance beside a large, copper urn which was heated by
charcoal alight in a special area at the bottom, giving off an intriguing
scent, unfamiliar to me. I suppose you would call him a tea vendor, he
carried a large ruled book with him, it slowly dawned on us that tea was
available to help us to gather ourselves together before heading for the
ablutions prior to wandering over to the mess hall in the early morning
sunshine for breakfast.
This was more my style and in complete contrast to the usual treatment
expected by us young soldiers so recently subjected to harsh early
morning military treatment.
Even the bugle call, when it came a few minutes later, seemed to be
different from the scratchy recording broadcast over the loud speaker
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system on board the troopship which had been our home for the past
month.
Our own duty buglers and pipers had taken over at Selerang already. The
bugle call for reveille was the more familiar Charlie, Charlie, call. It was
followed by the piper playing ’Hey Johnnie Cope are ye wakin’ yet‘? This is
the pipe tune played at reveille in all Scottish Regiments. It the tune
commemorating the lightening surprise attack and quick defeat of General
John Cope, commanding the British government forces crushed at the
battle of Prestonpans by the mainly Highland Jacobite army in 1745.
It all seemed to be somehow kind of romantic now but it is seldom
mentioned that, in fact, Scotland was sharply divided either for or against
Bonnie Prince Charlie and his bid for the British crown during that time
when Scot fought against Scot. In fact, The Kings Own Scottish
Borderers, the 25th of foot, then known as Semphills Regiment, actually
fought against the Highland army when the Jacobites were defeated at
the battle of Culloden Moor the following year of 1746.
The Char Wallah had no interest in Scottish history. His attention was
focused on obtaining new customers for his daily tea vending service. This
first mug of tea was complimentary, very clever, it would not cost much
to enjoy this wonderful early morning service and nearly all of the guys
gladly accepted the free mug.
We were well and truly hooked, Bushti the charwallah then produced a
much thumbed ruled book to record your name against which he would
enter the small charge for tea and any other charges during the rest of
the day for other purchases of cold orange drinks, sandwiches etc. which
could be obtained at their big tent erected conveniently just outside out
building.
Charges for each service were reckoned up on a weekly basis to coincide
with our pay parades held every Thursday, we would line up for our
weekly pay in the open air, the ceremony administered by a Pay Corps
officer. The Char Wallah would squat discreetly behind the pay officers
table, clutching his ledger. As soon as we received our pay we would be
accosted by the char wallah and we would then pay him for the services
provided over the previous week, it seemed to work out pretty well and
we were now also receiving an overseas pay allowance which eased the
pain slightly.
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I turned over in bed to reach for my mug in the bedside locker and was
surprised to see another Indian guy squatting on his hunkers there with
his hand in one of my boots which was being buffed to a high shine by the
shoe brush held firmly in the other hand. He greeted me with a friendly
good morning smile as if he had been cleaning my boots all his life. He
was the boot wallah engaged on a complimentary early morning boot
polishing service which, according to Indian service tradition, would now
qualify him to clean my boots each day for a small fee during my time of
service at these barracks.
I am from the Scottish tradition which believes in freedom and equality,
this was my first experience of someone from an Indian tradition who
would probably find my opinions incomprehensible as if from another
world, which, of course, I was.
I realised I was seeing the very tail end of the old British Raj, once the
prevailing system in India, written about by Rudyard Kipling which I
thought had all gone but here I was on Singapore Island in the 1950’s
actually experiencing the death throes of an extinct system once totally
accepted in the old British Empire.
It seemed an Indian contractor was only doing what he had always done
in India which was to contract to supply each British Army regiment with
a different, now much smaller, army of Indian servants who would
provide early morning tea service also boot cleaning services. We would
see the great contracting man only infrequently when he paid a visit to
his workers at the char wallah tent pitched conveniently near our barrack
block. It was easy to pick out the contractor on his regular visits, he was
quite a tall man but he really stood out in the head department for his
hair was bright orange due to frequent application of henna dye, bit weird
at first sight.
When we moved from Singapore to Malaya in a few weeks’ time, the char
wallahs moved with us. I spotted what seemed to be extra truck attached
to the end of our convoy, full of smiling Indians complete with all their
gear, quite amazing. I had to say goodbye to Liba our boot wallah, he was
remaining at the garrison in Selerang in Singapore as I imagine his
services would not be needed among the guys on active service in Malaya
where jungle boots were more the norm than leather army boots, he
would be attached to the next regiment coming to occupy this area.
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There was also a complete laundry service to save us scruffy young
soldiers from more exertion. The laundry workers were known as dhobi
wallahs and I imagine this was a service once provided for the British in
India. It was, of course, a very slick operation. Our bundles of washing
would be collected in the morning and returned next day, clean shirts and
uniforms starched and pressed for, of course, a small fee. Most of the
dhobi wallahs seemed to be Tamils probably imported from Ceylon.
There were also a few local Malays employed around the barracks. They
were a friendly happy go lucky bunch, but mainly I seemed to see
Chinese people everywhere. The Chinese seemed to operate and own
most of the businesses on Singapore Island.
I recall mentioning on more than one occasion in the middle fifties, the
Chinese would, within our time, rise to play a very important part in the
business community of the new world then being formed. They seemed to
be in control of most of the business interest on Singapore Island, they
also owned lots of the rubber plantations and tin mining operations in
Malaya. I reckoned it would not be long before they were calling the shots
over the rest of the world. Of course, my forecasting in the nineteen
fifties is now eventually coming to pass. However, nobody paid any
attention to the ramblings of a wee, obscure guy from Scotland. I guess I
just was not mixing with the right sort of people.
We also had the services of a wee Chinese woman, even I could see she
was no terrorist, she was tiny and carried a small bag and a little, wooden
stool which she set up just inside the entrance to our barrack room, ready
for some sort of business. Her bag contained an array of needles, threads
and wool. She was the, Sew sew woman‘, she had no English and sat
patiently and silently until we understood what it was all about. She would
then gladly receive our shirts to have buttons sewn on and woolen socks
darned. This service was almost better than being at home where I had
been taught to darn my own bloody socks.
Wednesday afternoons were set aside for sports activity. Being daft and
Scottish or even just being Scottish and daft, most of the guys trooped off
somewhere to play football in the horrendous heat of a Singapore
afternoon. I also Scottish but not daft, more inclined to the ’Mad Dogs
and Englishmen’ attitude where according to Noel Cowerd the natives
seemingly, banged a gong and ran from the heat of the mid-day sun to
take cover in the shade, leaving mad dogs and the likes to suffer from the
heat. Alfie - - - was still with us, serving as a rifleman in Dog Company
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which I thought was rather appropriate. Being Wednesday afternoon, and
Alfie being from Glasgow where football was a religion, he would have
joined the other sun lovers heading for the nearest football pitch. Being
around Alfie always seemed to be enough to inspire me to have good
ideas. I liked Alfie and looked forward to his weekly pre-football visit to
our billet. He made his regular Wednesday appearance in our building
with shoe laces dragging along behind carelessly tied boots. He was
seeking other kindred football loving spirits to join the regular weekly
exodus to the football field. This gave me yet another simple but artistic
idea.
I noticed when the other guys just wandered off in the heat to the football
pitch in a casual bunch, there was no marching or head count involved. I
then carried out my own simple plan where I would disappear into the
ablutions, wait there for a while until any stragglers had cleared out from
the barrack room. I would then reappear back beside my bed like magic,
clad in only a towel, ready for some Egyptian P.T. This was the army
description for lying on the bed in a horizontal position, either reading a
book or perhaps just dozing quietly in the afternoon heat but with all the
big louvered doors wide open and securely hooked back to allow any
passing breeze to enter and waft through this now peaceful and restful
place.
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JUNGLE FEET
I was practicing my Egyptian PT one quiet and peaceful Wednesday
afternoon when the peace was disturbed by a strange voice floating up
the stairs calling, “Jungle Feet, jungle feet”?, in a questioning sort of way.
The strange voice was followed by the entrance of an equally strange and
broadly smiling Indian man. He was dressed in old fashioned cream
coloured trousers and open neck white shirt. His feet peeped out from his
wide bottomed trousers revealing his natty leather flip flops. He carried
and old leather bag of the type once referred to as a Gladstone bag,
sometimes described as a doctor’s bag. He spotted me which was quite
easy as I was the only guy there and approached me with a beaming
smile as I lay with my bare feet sticking out at the end of the bed.
“Got any jungle feet John”? He beamed as he reached out quickly to pinch
my toe twixt thumb and forefinger. I actually squealed at him in surprise,
he was still smiling at me but his keen eye had spotted a corn on my left
little toe. I was really po’d as I just can’t stand anyone even touching my
feet and he was gripping my one and only corn painfully.
The corn was a legacy from a recent hard winter in Scotland where I had
been unwise enough to allow my old leather boots to get soaking wet one
morning while on my way to join the grouse beaters. We were
temporarily employed on a daily basis each Saturday for a day of ‘beating
up’ the grouse for the sport of the shooters. I had found it was hard to
resist showing off by splashing through a stream rather than walking a
few extra yards to cross by a little bridge. I was then obliged to wear wet
boots for a whole day trekking across the local moors to beat up grouse
for the shooters. I used to join the grouse beaters every week end to
make a bit of beer money to spend on Sat. night but somehow I also
managed to earn a seemingly permanent corn on my small toe on that
particularly cold and wet day.
Still beaming, Jungle Feet let go of my toe and, with a great flourish,
opened the doctor bag. “I fix jungle feet”, he repeated confidently,
showing me a tin of some unidentified sticky paste which he quickly
smeared on my affected toe. I started to object but he dismissed my
muttered complaint with a quick professional motion of his hand while the
other hand delved again into the magic bag, producing a roll of cotton
wool from which he tore a small piece and stuck the cotton to the sticky
stuff on my toe. Somehow The Great McBain and his conjuring tricks
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came to mind as I stared at the decorations on my foot. “What happens
now” I said, “I suppose you set fire to it”?
I was so busy looking at my foot and failed to notice he was still in action
over the bag, quick as a flash he had produced a box of matches, lit one
and rapidly applied it to my toe where a huge sheet of flame shot towards
the ceiling. I also shot up, cursing at Jungle Feet who was standing back,
still beaming, the spent match in his fingers, well pleased with himself.
It is difficult to look aggressive and threatening from the horizontal
position, with a smoking foot, when clad only in a green army towel. To
be perfectly honest, I was not actually feeling any pain either, only my
cool had been disturbed but Jungle Feet was standing at the foot of my
bed, still beaming, confidently expecting some reward for his professional
services. To be fair, when I inspected my toe there was no trace of the
little round corn which had been there a few minutes ago, to tell the truth
I never did see it again, neither then or ever since.
Just like The Great McBain, Jungle Feet appeared to be a great magician
and as usual I could not explain how it was done. This was the mysterious
East so I could only conclude it must be magic. I fumbled in my pants
pocket draped over my locker, gave him the two Straits dollars he
requested. Still beaming he wandered out of my life and away down the
stairs to become another strange, but memorable, little episode in my
Army Daze memories.
GUARD MOUNTING
I did my first and only guard mounting in Selerang barracks.
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The routine was for thirteen selected private soldiers to be marched onto
the square before 6 p.m. for guard inspection by the duty officer of the
day.
After completing inspection the duty officer would nominate the man he
considered to be the smartest soldier, this man had earned the title, stick
man, excused from guard duty for that night. The officer would notify the
duty sergeant who would bring the squad from the at ease position to
attention, identify the particular soldier then instruct only that soldier to
take a smart turn to the right and dismiss.
The lucky guy would then march off the parade ground and disappear
back to barracks where he would usually get rid of his rifle, get changed
then join his mates for a game of cards, beer or whatever. He was chosen
smart soldier so was excused duty for the night, leaving the losers to
continue with the guard mounting and march off to the guard house to
start their duties for the night.
The only task ahead of the stick man was to report to the H.Q. office the
following morning where he was actually issued with a cane, hence his
title ‘stick man’, he would then find a shady spot to the rear of the office,
select a newspaper from the office with which to while away the morning
and pass the time away.
The only chance of any action would be if the Regimental Sergeant Major
had run out of fags then the stick man was dispatched to the N.A.A.F.I.
building for a packet of cigarettes, remembering to take his little cane
with which to march, now wearing his daytime shirt sleeve order with well
starched shorts and short sleeved shirt, like the smart soldier he indeed
was.
This would be the only possible effort he would occasionally make all
morning till the sun got really hot around noon when he could then be
briefly glimpsed marching off again in a soldierly fashion, cane tucked
under his arm, looking very purposeful, one would assume he was going
about some more important business.
Not so, although it certainly important to him, this time he was again
marching smartly, as before, but heading for his own barrack block.
Mindful of the sound advice, ‘Bullshit baffles brains’ he could indulge in
perhaps some Egyptian P.T. and snooze the afternoon away till tea time.
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I recall being told about one enterprising soldier who had really
investigated the Army Daze state of military mind, he then adapted the
Daze to suit his own needs. This soldier seemed always too busy to be on
normal chores and duties usually reserved for the other, ordinary soldiers.
In reality, he was putting Army Daze to good use. He always carried a
folded piece of white bond paper in his hand, if an officer was spotted on
the horizon, he would pick up the pace to a good marching clip to
disappear round the nearest corner into oblivion.
Any onlookers guessed his white piece of folded paper carried a message
being transported from one army office to another, nobody ever
questioned him. In reality, it was always the same, neatly folded piece of
blank paper he kept clean in his back pocket. He was probably heading
for a quiet, shady corner where he could have a smoke from one of his
free fag issue cigarettes in peace. It would not have been correct for the
stick man to be seen smoking on duty, not good for discipline and all that
old crap, don’t ye’ know.
Our bond paper carrying warrior soon became a man of mystery. He
decided to expand his paper carrying scam to other days that took his
fancy and could often be seen in the distance marching smartly to
nowhere, now minus his smart stick but always clutching his official
looking piece of paper. He is possibly still serving his country somewhere,
marching smartly about some military establishment carrying his piece of
paper, still drawing his pay and doing bugger all.
The reason for thirteen soldiers to be paraded for guard mounting was
simple, the idea was they would all vie with each other to be smartest
soldier, the winner to be excused duty while the rest of the twelve
comparatively scruffy soldiers would march off to the guard room to
commence a boring twelve hours of guard duty of two hours on, followed
by four hours off when you were allowed to sit but not lie on a bare wire
sprung bed frame. Boots could not be removed and sleeping was a
punishable offence. Must keep the lads awake and alert in case of
emergency.
I must have been comparatively scruffy that evening when it came my
turn for guard duty. I was totally unprepared and not at my best for
selection as the smartest soldier. I was dispatched to guard the Motor
Transport compound for my first, and only, two hours on etc.
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Fortunately, there is bugger all twilight in that part of the far east, it gets
dark quite suddenly just after six p.m. so I closed the wire gates of the
compound behind me, locked them for security, clambered into the cabin
of a big army truck, got comfortable and snoozed my way through both
my two hour slots of guard duty. However, I was actually disturbed
during my second stag of duty that night. It was about 12.30.a.m. I was
back into the cab of what I was now calling my truck when I was
awakened by a loud, insistent rattling at the wire security gate. I had
taken the precaution of slipping the padlock shut then pocketing the key,
can’t be too careful you know, I was technically on guard and liable, I
believed, to be shot if found to be asleep on duty.
I found the cause of the bloody racket was a young, green, second
lieutenant just about my own age and only just posted to the regiment.
He was, like me, carrying out his first night as duty officer and, unlike me,
he was probably looking for promotion and prepared to make a good
impression to let everyone know he was for sure on the ball tonight.
My first impulse was bollocks to him, but decided against following my
first impulse when I saw he was he was accompanied in the gloom by the
familiar figure of the duty sergeant obviously pod at being dragged away
from his mug of tea in the guard room.
The young officer started a blustering verbal attack through the wire
security fence, wondered why the gates were locked and why was I not
standing beside the gate when he decided to check the place.
Two can play this game was my second thought. Full of bullshit, I came to
attention, started ranting about security procedures about which I was
sure neither of us knew anything about, throwing in statements about
can’t be too careful these days sir, lots of strange characters about sir,
just making it all up as I went along.
Anyhoo, you would think my brain had a mind of its own for it had
wandered off all by itself to consider the advice Sergeant Fleming has
instilled in me during my basic training, “Remember, Wishart” he had
said, “Bullshit baffles brains”, and baffle brains it did that night, the green
lieutenant had no comeback whatsoever, merely mumbled something
about, “well done, good man” etc. which was his best and only line of
defence before marching off back into the darkness followed by the duty
sergeant who paused to give me a thoughtful look under the light beside
the locked gate before turning away to follow the new young officer.
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I could only guess the sergeant was also thinking along the bullshit lines
as well as I marched smartly back to my comfortable but, out of sight,
cab.
I mentioned this guard duty was my first and last duty for the entire
duration of our stay at Selerang barracks. If it had not been for a touch of
the Daze, it would have been possible for me to avoid guard duty right
from the start. However, nobody had explained why thirteen guys were
allotted for the duty when only twelve bodies were actually required, this
was a piece of information nobody thought to point out to me or possibly,
just possibly, I was day dreaming at the time.
Qualifying for smartest soldier was no problem for me as I rather enjoyed
putting on a smart uniform taking care all the correct bits were gleaming,
hair cut horribly short, boots shining. All I was required to do was turn up
for parade as ordered, my previously mentioned talent for smartening up
did the rest so I would be ordered to take a smart turn to the right and
fall out. The other guys were then marched off in the opposite direction to
serve their twelve hours of boring night duty.
There was a slight problem with the uniform which prevented me
becoming an instant smart soldier. During the voyage to Singapore, we
had been issued with our jungle green uniforms. These outfits were
intended for jungle warfare, all a bit floppy and obviously very new, not at
all suitable for British Army bullshit parades. We also had strict
instructions to have jacket sleeves rolled down and long pants to be worn
after 6 p.m.
The reason for this order was supposed to be as a guard against mosquito
bites which caused malaria although it was a known fact the Singapore
area was virtually mosquito free owing to fairly strict insect control.
Added to this we had to take anti malaria pills, I think they were called
either Paludrin or perhaps Mecaprine, tablets, these were dished out to us
first thing on muster parade each morning, taken under supervision by
the duty officer. Seemed to us to be a load of army bullshit but, to be fair,
this daily parade went on during all of our Far Eastern service. As far as I
know, nobody contracted malaria.
The uniform problem could be helped by frequent laundering whether
needed or not, this removed the sheen of obviously newly issued clothing
material. The green colour soon faded to achieve an ’old soldier’ effect, a
look which was much affected by the young soldiers at that time.
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We already had a sunburnt look from our month long sea voyage to
Singapore, this tanned look plus frequently laundered and starched jungle
greens enabled us to do lots of posing when any new replacement units
arrived from the recently introduced air flights from the U.K. to
Singapore. This allowed us to shout witty, old soldier, cat calls at the new,
painfully white, obviously new young soldiers, oh how we laughed as we
called, “Get yer knees brown” or, “Get some time in“, plus other witty
saying which, we thought, marked us out as very urbane, quick witted
types. What the new guys, ashamed at their pallid looks, thought has not
been recorded.
You can see from my first and only, pre guard mounting parade photo, I
was still a bit new myself, the frequent laundering with heavy starching of
my uniform had not yet reached the desired effect, this was soon to be
taken care of and would lead to my being a consistently smart soldier,
spending the whole guard duty night in my own bed. Fetching fags next
day for the Regimental Sergeant Major, then practising Egyptian P.T. with
a cool, old soldier flair. Wondering if I should sign for another tour of duty
and play at soldiers for a few extra years - - - - -NOT !
My cool, old soldier flair attitude to suburban guard duty ceremonies in
Singapore Island would come to an abrupt halt as soon as we were
transferred over the causeway into Malaya, an extra stick man was
surplus to requirements up there.
Shotguns were also issued to patrols for close encounter emergencies
where the wider shot spread could compensate somewhat for the very
limited views offered by the thick, heavy, flora surroundings.
One had to always be aware the ambushers would have chosen their
position very carefully with all advantages to them. Leaving very little
cover or protection to the ambushed so quick weapon response was
needed to try to level up the survival chances a wee bit. Quite a few of us
carried light weight American carbine rifles on jungle patrol instead of the
heavier British Army issue rifles.
Resorting to Al Capone style of dirty trick protection methods by frequent
use of shotguns was actively encouraged, can’t be too careful.
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My granny used to offer somewhat similar advice when I was young and
preparing to start at Primary School for the first time. Can not quite
remember what her advice was at the moment.
I did remember something the other day though, nothing to do with my
Granny but the word tiffin mentioned near me in a pub the other night
brought back some memories of the army days in Singapore.
Our working day started right away then I guess we had a break around
7a.m. for some kind of greasy breakfast. Back to business again till, wait
for it, tiffin was served at 12 o’clock. Tiffin was the army idea of some
kind of lunch, this new idea caused confusion with our, mainly working
class, young soldiers who were used to having dinner at 12a.m. Lunch did
not really exist for us lads in those days, dinner was always at midday,
tea time came later around 5.p.m.
However, the new\old system called for a complete stop referred to as
‘the quiet time’, to take place at midday when the Indian Army was
allowed to snooze for a couple of hours in a shady room away from the
heat of the midday sun. It was rather like the Spanish siesta custom. A
grand habit but, I think, it is now bowing to the great god of International
Business and is now more of less discontinued. It would not be cricket if
there were no Spanish people awake to answer the bloody phone when
some prat decides to call during the afternoon.
This is what is meant when Noel Cowerd sang about, “Mad dogs and
Englishmen, go out in the noon day sun”. In Singapore, we quite happily
followed the, now long defunct, Indian Army’s example by retiring to our
modern, well ventilated, army barracks at Selerang. Where all the doors
were firmly hooked back, remaining open onto the verandas to catch any
slight breeze which might happen by.
In theory our afternoon practise of lying on top of our beds in the
horizontal Egyptian P.T. position trying to escape from the heat by having
a wee snooze should have been interrupted when the time for another
work session came around. The second session was scheduled about
midway through the afternoon till the working day came to an end for tea
time.
This is beginning to sound like something from The Mad Hatters Tea Party
and never really seemed to catch on with any of us. Our NCO’s seemed to
be a bit disorganised at that time in the afternoon. Possibly the extra time
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they had spent in the wet bar during the quiet time had something to do
with it.
The practise of gunfire, tiffin and especially the quiet time caper, quickly
faded away when we received orders to stop with the fucking about on
Singapore Island and get ourselves up into Malaya to tackle some real
soldiering. Pity really.
QUEEN’S OFFICIAL BIRTHDAY PARADE, SINGAPORE 1956.
1st Battalion Kings Own Scottish Borderers, 25th of foot, The Edinburgh
Regiment.
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The smartly dressed bullshit squad preparing to march onto the Padang,
Singapore 1956 taking part in a parade to celebrate the Queen’s official
birthday.
For anyone remotely interested I am almost second from right, one eye
and part of a bonnet with blackcock feather just visible over the corporal’s
shoulder, I am the good looking one. Just take my word for it.
Here we are starting the march to the Padang. These lads were pulled out
of active service in the impassable Malayan jungle especially to don white
tropical jackets and Leslie tartan trews for this brave display in Singapore
to impress the natives.
On inspecting this photo a bit closer I can see the start of a seriously out
of step situation starting to develop towards the back of the squad. Could
it be that my old pal Alfie from Glasgow was included in this drill squad by
mistake, you may recall Alfie was the femme fatal of our basic training
drill squad. He had a very unique style of marching which I have
described elsewhere in this book. I fear he could have destroyed this lot
without breaking sweat.
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Having studied this photograph again, I, at first concluded the Motor
Transport captain, second from left carrying sword, may have actually
given the command to march. This was quite a grand affair with lots of
different military type of groups present, lots of yelling, shouting and
banging going on and it is more than possible that our entire squad did
not hear his command, possibly being reduced to improvising the actual
start themselves, not really recommended practise in the British army.
However, I have also noticed he is actually in step with the rear section of
our squad, just check out number seven, the guy marching immediately
behind the corporal in the front row this is where the fault begins. The
Motor Transport captain is actually perfectly in step with the back section
of our squad.
The plot thickens my dear Watson. Yes! I think I’ve got it. Observe the
sword carrying major, extreme left of picture. He must have been
responsible for giving the command to march. I recall he did not have a
very loud voice which probably did not carry very far so it would have
been wiser if he had actually been facing the squad when he gave the
command rather than facing forward. He could then have picked up the
step as we all marched off together rather than giving the order as he
faced ahead like the rest of us. Only the front half could hear his quavery
voice command so we stepped off with him, leaving the poor buggers at
the back to make it up as they went along, oh dear.
I have decided to blame the major anyway because I have just realised
he was the company officer involved in putting Johnny Scott and myself
on a charge for us having the having the nerve to volunteer to join the
S.A.S. in the first place. At the time it felt as drastic a move as trying to
join the Foreign Legion or having stolen a precious diamond or something
but everything comes to he,who,ha!!
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Well, we obviously made it safely at last as you can see.
SELERANG BARRACKS, SINGAPORE ISLAND
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Top picture, I am enjoying an early Sunday morning relaxing with a copy
of The Straits Times on the verandah of the Singapore Island garrison of
Selerang barracks.
Picture below is of our charwallah Harry snatching a break in his
otherwise busy day having a snooze on his charpoy. Harry is Moslem, it is
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Ramadan time and he cannot eat during the daytime but must get
through the day as best he can until allowed to break his fast at nightfall
which, lucky for Harry, comes quickly at around 6.30 pm, even on
Singapore Island.
I volunteer for the S.A.S.
My Singapore sleep habit was similar to my outdoor sleeping habits on
board ship. I used to drag my entire iron bed across the cement floor,
through the big, louvered doors onto the veranda where I would spend
my night in the cool, fresh air. Back inside the billet room there was a
strong wire line installed the full length of the room on each side, right
above the lines of beds. Our mosquito nets were strung on a metal ring
from these wires, one green netting cocoon above each bed. We all used
them for the first few nights, however, there was no real need for them
and the few mosquitoes that ventured into our huge, airy rooms were
soon gobbled up by the many geckos who shared our accommodation
with us.
Like the nets, the geckos were a novelty at first as they wandered about
above us. They seemingly anchored themselves vertically or completely
upside down on our walls or ceilings. The only time I used the mosquito
net was to give me a bit of privacy in the evening if I was either reading
or not wishing to be disturbed when writing the very occasional letter
home.
I only wrote home to my mother, writing to any girl friends back home
was, in my opinion, a waste of time, we would be away from home for a
long time which would be a sure way to court disaster to the friendship if
the girl got fed up waiting and decided to send a ’Dear John’ type of letter
instead of a ’Happy Birthday’ card. No girl had even asked me to write
anyway, I showed ‘em. One girl did write to me once. Unfortunately, she
broke the news that a friend of mine, Pete Ketchen, serving in Cypress
with the Royal Scots, had been killed when a terrorist chucked a hand
grenade into Pete’s passing army truck.
The girl was very upset about Pete, so was I. However, she finished the
short letter by saying she would not know what she would do if I got
myself killed. That was enough emotion for me. I can’t remember sending
an answer back to her, a thoughtless, selfish act on my part, one I have
regretted ever since.
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Big Ray and I were sitting on my bed chatting one evening around closing
time for the wet canteen, Ray strolled out onto the veranda then turned
round and silently but urgently beckoned me to join him.
“It’s Bushti”, he whispered quietly as he motioned for me to hurry over to
duck down behind the small wall on the veranda. We were now out of
sight from the small, military, very drunk old soldier who was making his
very unsteady way across the hallowed barrack square which was strictly
reserved for military drill functions only.
It was forbidden to walk across the barrack square. Even if you needed to
go from a building on one side of the square and cross to another on the
opposite far side it was necessary to walk all the way around to get to the
other side. How the proverbial chicken would tackle the crossing problem
was never discussed and here was one of our very own ’old soldiers’
weaving his drunken way home to his billet, brightly illuminated by the
huge, full moon above.
I never knew his proper name but Bushti had soldiered with the regiment
for many years, all over the British Empire world, often during very active
service, with more than his share of battle scars. The most recent
disfiguring wound had been inflicted in a pitched battle in Korea. He had
been hit in the face by shrapnel and now affected a large, bushy
moustache to cover a bit of the damage.
Right now Bushti was feeling no pain. He was probably soldiering in his
befuddled brain somewhere in India when Ray made him stop as if he had
marched into a brick wall.
“Bushti“, Ray said into the dark and steamy night, in a loud, quavery,
stage whisper voice. “Bushti, we’re comin’ to get you, we’re comin’
Bushti”. The very drunk old soldier was struggling to stay upright, he
could hear but not see the speaking ghost but he was ready to fight it
whatever it was. That bloody ghost was going to be made to suffer if
Bushti could just get hold of it. He was twisting from side to side, arms
reaching out, trying to pin down the elusive, malevolent spirit. “A’ll get ye
ya bastard, a’ll get ye“, he threatened, weaving this way and that in an
effort to locate the source of the spooky voice. We, of course, were on the
balcony above him, doubled up with laughter. It seemed to Bushti the
voice appeared to be coming from the night sky, “A’ll get ye ya bastard, I
know you’re in the Empire“, he yelled into the sky. His final effort spun
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him backwards where he fell on his arse, unable to get up and was
reduced to incoherent mumbling, waving his arms about.
I actually started to feel sorry for the old guy, lying on his back, arms
feebly waving like an overturned beetle. Bushti was probably in his late
thirties by now and would soon be reaching his time to be released from
the army service, not very well equipped to face future civilian life.
Luckily, some of his mates approached, having come all the long way
round the square in the more conventional way. They could see Bushti,
illuminated in the bright moonlight, raving to himself. It seemed as if he
was totally unable to get to his feet. His buddies could see no sign of
authority so quickly ran across the sacred square, heaved him to his feet,
dragging him off to sleep in safety. We withdrew discreetly from the
veranda, giggling and choking with laughter like the insensitive clods we
were.
Strange thing happened to me around that time we teased Bushti. One
night, in my bed on the veranda, I woke up suddenly to see a dark figure
standing at the end of my bed, the figure was totally silent, without any
movement. It seemed to be staring down at me but it was impossible to
see anything of the face owing to the very bright moon behind the figure.
I actually thought it might be Bushti wandering about still drunk from his
usual drunken evening activities at the wet canteen. But this figure was
silent and immoveable, our old soldier would probably have been swaying
and muttering a wee bit.
The thought that the strange figure might be something from the
supernatural was just too much for me to comprehend, my only way of
dealing with this situation owed a lot to my imaginative childhood. I made
a kind of sleepy, grunting noise, rolled onto my side pulling the sheet over
my head and feigned sleep.
Could not think of anything else to do at the time, I made deep breathing
noises for a while, still hearing no movement from the dark figure so had
a sly peek from under the sheet, nothing there at all. Oh, I forgot to
mention, the thing had no head!
It was a fact the place was haunted. Ghost stories abounded in this
tormented area since its terrible experiences with the Japanese guards
during the last war. This was the main reason the solitary sentry position
at the isolated old motor transport compound was one of the least
attractive positions for night guard duty.
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I have already stated that I preferred to sleep most nights out on the cool
veranda wearing only a sheet for cover. The veranda at the opposite side
of the building provided what I considered to be the perfect position to
experience a new dawn on a Far Eastern morning.
It faced away from the barrack square towards the distant city of
Singapore with exotic views of very foreign trees I had never seen before.
The sounds from the char wallah also provided the eastern affect as he
prepared our morning tea following the discreet early morning tea making
ritual noises coming from just inside of the main entrance nearby.
This low, charwallah muttering while getting the early tea ready was a
sound which had been heard for many years by serving soldiers in India,
my grandfather must have heard it when serving long ago in India with
the Seaforth Highlanders.
Now heard no more except for locations like ours which still had its char
wallahs, boot wallahs, dhobie wallahs, jungle feet ‘doctors’ and old ‘sew,
sew‘ women. All of this nostalgia would soon be no more as the old British
Empire shrank smaller and smaller to finally disappear. The Empire would
be gradually replaced by an organisation called the British Commonwealth
where sporting events are now held, rather than the old Empire building
form of territorial conquest of old.
I usually awoke some time before the official rousing time of 6 a.m. as I
preferred to be ahead of the mass of unwashed bodies who would soon
erupt into the ablutions Each body contributing to the morning outbreak
of coughing, encouraged by smoking our free weekly fag issue of
cigarettes, also lots of hawking, spitting, farting and all the other manly
sounds of Her Majesties’ army preparing for another day.
These sounds were hardly an appropriate welcome to the fresh Far
Eastern dawn and the sensibilities of romantic imaginings by a young
Scottish soldier.
Influenced by my only child background, I could wake myself to order by
thinking of a suitable time to rise before I went to sleep if you know what
I mean. By rising early from bed I managed to shave and shower before
the daily eruption started and was then to be found, leaning on the
balcony, gazing upwards into the, fresh, early morning, cloudless sky at
the regular early morning sprinkling of beautiful parachutes, gently
drifting earthwards.
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I watched this wonderful parachute show every morning but only
mentioned it casually to Robbie one day as we went to the canteen for
what some guy with a sense of humour must have called breakfast. I
went mainly for a mug of tea and piece of burnt toast. Anyhoo, Robbie
told me the morning display was put on by members of the Special Air
Service when they performed their early morning parachute training
exercises.
This fabled bunch of dare devils was originally recruited by a Scotsman
named Stirling during the 2nd world war. This new organisation was
intended for behind the lines action and had been very successful
disrupting the German war effort in North Africa. Apparently, there was a
small training company of these guys stationed beside us somewhere at
the barracks.
I then realised they must be the same guys I had often seen around
9.a.m. probably returning from their early morning parachute training.
They seemed to pay no attention to our rules and bullshit regulations,
making their merry and irreverent way right across the sacred parade
square wearing bits and pieces of military type uniform, they were
obviously from some army unit, quite unidentifiable dress as far as I could
see, with absolutely no regard for the sort of rules we were subject to.
It had occurred to me there seemed to be no effort on the part of any of
our officers to discipline these tearaways as they horse played their merry
way across the square, in fact, I had the impression they must be
invisible to anyone but me.
I, being a National Service conscript, had no time whatsoever for any kind
of military bullshit. I was certainly subject to it for my two years army
service and had to conform to it, or else! What made things different for
these ’special’ guys? John Scott, one of our signal platoon bunch of young
soldiers was sitting beside us in the canteen and clued me in. John had
been over at the dhobie laundry on the edge of camp, trying to trace a
missing item of uniform which had failed to be returned to him. On his
way back he had run into a training sergeant from this mystery unit.
The sergeant had just shot a stray dog as John came on the scene. He
was so taken aback at this seemingly cruel act and he aggressively asked
the sergeant what he was playing at. John Scott was a dog lover, he was
raised in Glasgow and could handle himself so was going in rather hard
with his approach, however, he could see the sergeant also looked like he
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could take care of himself so he was approaching the situation with
caution as the other guy was still holding the loaded pistol he had just
used.
The guy holding the pistol explained that stray dogs could be a big
problem at the barracks because they formed packs of hunting
scavengers when their numbers grew. These roaming packs could turn
dangerous and it was the practise here to round them up and shoot them
on a regular basis. It turned out that John and the sergeant were both
from Glasgow so they were soon the best of friends. John learned the
hard looking sergeant was also a member of the Special Air Service. He
was responsible for the training of these young S.A.S. guys, all Maoris
from New Zealand, on their daily parachute jumping exercise. It seemed
they were a law unto themselves. As members of a unit of Special Air
Service, they certainly didn’t answer to any of our senior officers nor did
they seem to take orders from anybody else but their own training
sergeant who seemed to be in sole charge of these recruits from New
Zealand. The Scottish sergeant put them through their para jumps which
were then followed by strenuous daily PT exercises which actually took
place undisturbed on the hallowed parade ground.
They were a work hard and play hard bunch of guys who obviously rose
from their beds earlier than us to take advantage of the comparatively
still, early morning conditions on Singapore Island for their para jumps
before returning to our barracks for very strenuous physical exercise as
mentioned above.
What they did for the rest of the day was a mystery, probably shot stray
dogs, cats or stray people for all we knew. I do remember they all
seemed to return by taxi from a mysterious ‘somewhere’ during the night,
well after our evening lights out routine. Their taxis were often driven off
the access road and right across our taboo parade ground towards their
billets, accompanied with lots of shouting and laughing, it seemed to me
that strong drink might have been taken. They were all a bit of a mystery
and, strangely enough, none of our officers appeared to see them or
remonstrate with their noisy antics when driving across our sacred parade
ground in the middle of the night.
It seemed John had been complaining to the S.A.S. sergeant about the
length of time we were spending on the training cadre for the regimental
signal platoon. Most of our battalion had moved ’up country’ into Malaya,
completed their jungle training and were now on active service being
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spread out in their individual rifle companies to form a huge perimeter
across the state of Johore. Our little happy band of brothers were still
being held in Singapore to complete our signal training cadre which had
been delayed by various interruptions from our departure in Belfast with
all the various distractions till arrival in Selerang barracks to settle in,
reform and commence our training yet again. We were just awaiting
orders as radio operators to be allocated to our various rifle companies
now in place at their Malayan positions.
The S.A.S. sergeant had listened to Johnny bitching for a while then
interrupted with a suggestion. Why not sign on with the S.A.S.?
Apparently, there was no buggering about with this unit, lots of serious
activity. They were even involved in some very covert activities which
none of us ever heard about. Unlike us, discipline in their mob was barely
discernable, based on establishing a strong bond with comrades who
could be counted on in a tight spot.
It all seemed rather exciting and romantic to us. The unit had originally
been conceived by an adventurous Scottish guy, David Stirling, during the
2nd world war. The S.A.S. had gained quite a reputation as a rather
special, hard hitting force with more than a little mystic surrounding
them. The unit had been disbanded after the war as it was thought they
would of no further use. However, Britain still had lots of trouble spots all
over the world and the regiment had been reformed. This all sounded
very attractive to John and me. We decide to join up and have some
adventure (bear in mind we were eighteen years old and daft).
We would have to sign on for the three year minimum service of course
but we had already just recently started our two years compulsory
conscript National Service so one extra year would be no problem for us.
We were in the same age group as the Kiwis already being put through
their training, the only sounds we heard from them was their exuberant
laughing and joking as they carelessly strolled or drove in taxis over our
seemingly holy square, they were even paid more than us, it all started to
sound better and better.
I AM PUT ON A CHARGE
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John and I gave no further thought to any further doubts or details, this
sounded like the life for us.
What to do? It was agreed we should approach John the Bastard for
advice. After all, he was what we considered to be an old soldier and was,
in any case, our signal platoon sergeant. He was not a very popular guy
with us young conscripts as he seemed to be more concerned with
discipline rather than dispensing information about signaling technique.
However, we were destined to soon be free of too much discipline when
we joined the S.A.S. but needed guidance on the correct method to follow
and achieve this move..
I honestly cannot recall the sergeant’s real name. He was always just
John the Bastard or JTB to us. The one thing I do remember about JTB
was the day when he carried out a quick pre inspection of our billet before
the orderly officer was due to have a look at us. He came marching out of
our ablutions, all red faced and blustery, grabbed the nearest guy,
instructed him to get a scrubbing brush to erase a scribble he had found
on the wall. Some daft bugger had, in a fit of spite, scribbled on the wall,
Beware of John the Bastard. JTB followed the designated scrubber into
the ablutions as he was curious to find out who John the Bastard was. He
re-emerged with a satisfied grin on his face which he quietly wiped off,
after all, he had just found out that the terrible JTB was, in fact, himself
so had to act his part while secretly bursting with pride, fame at last.
John Scott and I decided to seek advice from JTB on how to apply for a
transfer to the S.A.S., he had no clue but told us he would check it out
and get back to us. We did not have long to wait.
About half an hour later JTB burst into our room looking all official and
dangerous and frightened the shit out of us, “Scott and Wishart “! he
shouted. “On your feet, come to attention, NOW! Quick March to the
company commanders office, Left, Right, Left, Right“, he bellowed ,
chasing the two of us downstairs at a hell of a pace and wheeled us
straight to the company commanders’ office. It certainly didn’t reassure
us when he muttered to us as we entered the office, “You’re for it now,
you are on a charge”.
Without ceremony he pushed the office door fully open then, with much
stamping of boots, he placed us at attention before our company officer, a
fairly elderly (to us) man of about forty. ”Hats off,” commanded JTB,
apparently you have to remove your bonnet when you are being charged,
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I had no idea why and no reason was given, all I remember was a large
dose of Army Daze had enveloped me. I was quaking in my size 8 army
boots, the nice former brown ones, wondering just what sort of crime I
had unwittingly committed.
The elderly officer sitting at the desk before which we stood to attention,
hatless, seemed to have a wee touch of Army Daze himself, not quite
sure of how to proceed.
I then realised this was probably all JTB’s doing, neither he nor the
company officer had a clue about how to handle our situation. JTB had
probably advised strict discipline as a solution. “Just give them a
bollocking, sir“, he must have recommended, “frighten the shit out of
them. That should do the trick sir“, he must have said.
The company officer waffled on for a few minutes about how we young
soldiers were important to the regiment. He told us our battalion was
waiting impatiently in the steamy Johore jungle for our signal training to
be completed so we could joint them to help kill Chinese terrorists for the
honour of the regiment.
We should have been looking forward to getting sweaty and stinking with
the rest of the regiment. There would be no more delays in our case as
our signal course was almost completed. Soon we would be totally
involved in the total soldiering business. There would be no more visits to
the seaside or steamy Singapore city. He tried to paint an attractive
picture of us happily heading to the Malayan jungle to face dirt,
discomfort, possible sickness and a more than possible sudden and messy
death. Both John and myself totally failed to focus on the happy picture
he was trying to paint for us. We were more inclined to think of the Happy
World and our regular trips to steamy Singapore when finances allowed.
In that direction lay the dens of iniquity where taxi dancer girls were
available and would partner us on the wicked dance floor provided we
purchased enough tickets to pay for the slightly tatty dancing service.
Most of these girls would partner us if requested for the rest of the night
in equally slightly tatty apartments. Cash was again involved to pay for
this service. Having had lectures on how to avoid venereal diseases which
always seemed to consist of instructions on avoiding having any sex at
all. I was aware of the naughty dangers just waiting to pounce down in
Singapore but I was also aware of the dangers lurking in the other
direction of the Malayan war zone over the causeway.
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However, I recall one night when I had perhaps taken strong drink, it was
possibly late December, I seem to remember a woman was involved as
well. I could have been celebrating Christmas. My attention was drawn to
a Christmas card on a shelf in her tatty wee apartment room. It had
caught my attention because it was an officially printed regimental
military Christmas greeting card tastefully inscribed, Merry Christmas
from the 1st Battalion, Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders. Not really very
reassuring in the present situation when you consider a battalion at full
strength consists of around one thousand men!
Never say but, always say however, as an old friend of mine used to
advise. It seemed that our transfer had ground to a halt in that office, the
officer finished giving us a talking to, considering our past good behavior.
He offered to let us off this time and he would forget our immature
attitude, our supposed case was dismissed and we were ordered by JTB to
replace bonnets, take a smart turn to the right and bugger off rapidly
back to our billet where nothing more was heard of or even mentioned
about, our little scheme.
With the benefit of hindsight, I imagine we could have pursued our
transfer to the S.A.S. by other means. After all, we were volunteering to
sign on rather than being just National Service conscripts.
However, I have since heard reports of the actual rigorous training
involved where the reject list is rather heavy. We were intending to join
up in 1955 when the actual selection of potential new members may have
not been so strict. If rejected, we would be returned to our own regiment
as regular soldiers with still three years of service to complete in any one
of the rifle companies in the sweaty jungle, probably not a very attractive
idea.
MY ENCOUNTER WITH THE FLATULENT HOOKER
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My mate, Big Ray from Jedburgh, regularly enquired about two things.
One question was had I had managed to find out where we could go to
hear some live jazz in Singapore. We had tried jumping into a taxi,
ordering the driver to take us to hear some jazz only to be puzzled when
we were deposited at some whore house instead. It was only when we
realised the taxi drivers had very little English and girls always seemed to
be involved with army personnel taxi rides so they always just took the
soldiers to a whore house. The taxi drivers were awarded a small
commission for every successful delivery of keen, horny, customers. We
actually fitted this description very well ourselves. However, our sights
were firmly centred on being able to sample some jazz music sometime
soon so any girlie project was shelved for the time being, but not for long.
Ray’s second enquiry was usually about my virginity, was I still was or
was I not. His inevitable question whenever we met, more of this later.
It took us a few more weeks to find where to hear good jazz. We
eventually discovered it was really only a couple of miles from our army
barracks. Surprisingly, it was situated at the nearby Changi Royal Air
Force base located only a fairly short stroll away from us, now the site of
Singapore International Airport.
However, there was absolutely no similarity between our two camps. For
starters the RAF had a jazz club which was held on base once a week.
Modern jazz music was provided by very talented Air Force personnel
playing good music to an audience of sun tanned young men casually
dressed in shorts and Hawaiian style casual shirts.
Ray and I were suntanned as much as any of the young Air Force men but
there the similarity ended. We had not yet completed our initial 6 month
period so we still had to wear military uniform if it was after 6 p.m. That
was the official time when the military decided we should guard against
mosquito attacks, we were compelled to wear long pants instead of
shorts, with jacket sleeves rolled right down as well, we must have looked
like a right pair of eedjits in the RAF holiday camp surroundings.
Apparently we were being asked to believe our entire regiment was at risk
of contracting malaria unless we wore long pants and rolled our shirt
sleeves down after 6pm. The rest of the population of Singapore must
have been immune and, of course, members of the Royal Air Force (also
known as The Brylcreem Boys) did not catch Malaria.
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Surprisingly, we seemed to be quietly accepted by the casually attired
group of young, mainly English, modern jazz fans in spite of our military
attire and heavy Scottish accents. Jazz fans, particularly modern jazz fans
are an eclectic lot with a strong leaning to what would soon be known as
the cool generation which was even then beginning to raise its
unflappable head at that time. We bought a couple of soft drinks then
settled down to enjoy a couple of hours of surprisingly very good jazz.
Being more than slightly inclined towards the cool approach to life, Ray
and I immediately joined the club of modern jazz aficionados which soon
happily coincided with the end of our young soldiers six month
compulsory order forbidding the wearing of civilian clothing so we were
able to mix on a fairly even keel with the young, sun tanned, Hawaiian
shirted gods at the RAF jazz club.
We had managed to acquire a pretty good sun tan ourselves on our
outward bound sea voyage but had rather drawn the line at the Hawaiian
shirts choosing instead rather smart plain white shirts laundered full of
starch which would pass inspection when we had to exit our army camp
via the guard room where the sight of a pansy American style shirt would
probably cause an outbreak of something akin to apoplexy. At the very
least we would risk of a very severe bollocking accompanied by bulging
eyes and veins as the bollocker (just invented that word) vented his
outrage at the two young soldiers.
It never seemed to enter these regular army brains that the government
spent huge sums of money on advertising the sunny prospects of joining
the army as a career. Running simultaneously with this recruiting
campaign were the clods daily dispensing the daft army daze rules and
regulations in complete contrast to the recruiting effort. Many thousands
of young, some very bright, civilian National Service conscripted soldiers
who, after exposure to this kind of old fashioned army crap discipline
would never, ever, consider joining such an outfit as the British Army as a
career.
I never met any National Service conscript who would even consider
signing the dotted line. The decision that John Scott and I had made
about joining the S.A.S. was inspired by a desire to serve with other, like
minded young professionals for a life of action and adventure which, I
imagine, had no room for the hidebound regular army discipline which
was part of the old army training.
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This traditional training method had previously managed to send young
men marching into battle in nice, orderly straight lines, preferably
wearing nice, white belts crossed over their chests to provide an easy X
shaped target for enemy sharp shooters. This old fashioned type of
approach was indeed Army Daze style of thinking which, surprisingly, still
seemed to be fairly evident in parts of the 1950’s army.
The fact that our smart, white, starched shirts were almost immediately
turned into floppy, soaking wet pieces of material caused by our excessive
sweating in this near equator location as soon as we made even the
slightest physical movement did not matter as long as we still looked
smart when making our exit through our army guard room. However, the
blazing sun also made a fairly quick exit at that time so we always looked
forward to a comparatively short stroll in the relative cool of the early
evening on our weekly visit to the RAF jazz club.
The jazz club also had a few girls, probably nurses from a nearby hospital,
hanging out there, dressed in casual, light, civilian clothing. To us, this
place seemed more like a holiday camp than a military establishment.
Neither of us had ever seen a real holiday camp except some news reel
account of Mr. Billy Butlins’ all new family holiday camp venture launched
in Skegness in Lincolnshire during the 1950’s. We also realised these girls
were unofficially out of bounds to the two of us with our heavy, Scottish
accents and outlandish army uniforms.
It was many years later that I found my later rounded and softened
Scottish accent could be very appealing to American girls when I lived in
Colorado, USA.
This was mainly because the James Bond movies starring Sean Connery
from Edinburgh. His 007 movies had made a great impression over there
in the sixties. Soon to be followed by Mel Gibson‘s adopted accent in
Brave Heart, where all the guys ran around in cute kilts, this was a major
hit except for the end bit of the movie at which point I had to warn an
American girl friend who accompanied me to see the movie, there would
not be the usual Hollywood happy ending.
I also recall going into my local bar in Colorado at the time of the ‘Brave
Heart ‘ release, to be greeted warmly by Seldom Seen Herb, a Native
American friend who gave me a bear hug before beaming at me saying,”
Andy’, we are both tribal people “.
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I guess he was much impressed by the face painting on Mel Gibson before
he attacked the dastardly English in the movie. It probably brought back
thoughts of the early white settler days in Herb’s native land. I recall he
was from Plains Indian stock, I think Sioux, his ancestors had used war
paint in a similar fashion. I tactfully did not disabuse him of the fact that
we Scots had dropped the idea of woad face painting more than a
thousand years earlier than the making of the movie.
However, my Colorado adventures were some time in the future and I
still, at that time, had to satisfy Big Ray’s regular enquiries as to my
virginity.
There was a really neat swimming pool near to the RAF base which, I
think, we had access to. I never actually checked to find out if rough,
army personnel like us were really allowed to visit the pool, however, it
seemed that nobody else was prepared to challenge our decision to use
the pool so that, as they say, was that.
The young, sun tanned god who was in complete charge of this pool was,
I think, a member of the Royal Air Force. I was not quite sure as we
never actually saw him wearing anything else but a pair of brief swimming
trunks as he laid his towel on his exclusive part of the broad surrounding
wall where he had decided to spend most of the afternoon working on his
already perfect tan.The actual pool maintenance, skimming etc. was being
carried out by a couple of young Malays. The young British god paid
absolutely no attention to either of them as he was always very busy just
working on his sun tan. I guessed some of the old British Empire
privileged habits were still alive and kicking, albeit on a slightly smaller
and doomed scale
On Wednesday afternoons, I would sometimes gather a few Egyptian P.T.
enthusiasts together. Bearing in mind that Wednesday afternoons were
devoted to athletic diversions, I decided to put another one of my Alfie
inspired ideas to work and head for some swimming exercise at the pool.
A few of us would dress according to our newly granted permission to
wear civilian shorts and short sleeved white shirts. We then rolled the
swimming pants into our jungle green army issue towels, stuck the smart
green bundles under our left arms, then, keeping in mind our training
Sergeant Fleming’s information that bullshit always baffles brains and
being unsure whether we were officially allowed out of barracks at this
time of the afternoon, I promoted myself to pretend corporal then
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marched my men in an orderly fashion right past the guard room. We
made a smart turn to the left at the barrack exit still marching in military
fashion to disappear smartly away from the puzzled but not well informed
gaze of the duty Regimental Policeman. We would continue to march in
good order till we were out of sight through another bunch of bloody palm
trees.
My accent is what I believe is referred to as, ‘Educated Scottish’,
whatever that means. However, I sometimes adopted my, officer class,
silly twit, type of voice for the benefit of the guys as we passed the
regimental policeman standing on duty at the guardhouse entrance. We
were all dressed in shorts and short sleeved white shirts, an off duty
officer could be wearing the same clothes as the men were as far as the
not too bright regimental policeman was aware.
I often pretended to be a young lieutenant type as I marched along at the
head of my men. I was never quite sure whether or not the guard on duty
would attempt to challenge my authority. I guess I was really seeking to
be the centre of attention at that age and would throw discretion to the
winds. “Smarten up a bit you chaps”, I would order loudly as I mentally
promoted myself from Private soldier to Lieutenant. I would often get
really carried away with my new identity, even turning completely around,
now marching smartly backwards so as I was facing our guys who were
marching along enjoying the show. “C’mon McNeill“, I would say in my,
silly twit voice, “Get these shoulders back, you look more like a facking
wet hen than a smart soldier. Mustn’t let the regiment down, must we”? I
would then turn nimbly around to resume facing the front, still keeping
perfect step, marching with my chaps just like a keen, popular, young
lieutenant taking his men out for a healthy swim on the exercise
afternoon, dropping the occasional silly twit type of cuss word, just like
the rest of, my chaps, as we passed by the regimental policeman, till
disappearing from his sight round the corner.
We could then dissolve into our daft, laughing routine like any other
bunch of normal teenage, rule breaking, nonmilitary civilians we really
were and headed purposefully towards the swimming pool where there
was no army discipline and we could spend a carefree couple of hours in
the sun, safe from exposure to Army Daze. Almost, but not quite, like
normal, almost adult, people.
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Some years later, I even managed to return a salute when I was with the
reserve Territorial Army attending the annual camp at Larkhill in
Somerset.
I was making an unofficial, afternoon exit on some outing or other and I
drove slowly through the camp gates wearing my peaked hat as worn in
the Artillery Military Band. I had guessed the guard on duty at the exit
would assume I was an officer as all he could see of me in the car was my
head wearing an officer type hat. He came to attention as I approached
and saluted smartly, I acknowledged his salute with a casual touch to the
peak of my hat as I had seen in some army movie or other and made my
illicit exit. No problem, as they say.
I had absolutely no authority over the rest of the guys at Selerang
barracks or anywhere else, I only qualified as I was usually the ideas
man, should we ever be discovered breaking any daft army rules then I
could claim there was nobody in charge and therefore responsibility could
not be laid at my particular door. Where ignorance is bliss,as they say.
I managed to wander through my entire military service employing this
method, I was pleased to find out two years later that someone had
always suspected me of something but could never put his finger on
exactly what I was doing. On my discharge pay book I later discovered a
handwritten comment ‘Wishart has a highly developed sense of humour,
NOT NCO material’. This observation was hand written, obviously added
after the usual typewritten remarks in the character description section.
I recall being a bit po,d at this comment, it seemed that I was certainly
not mentioned for possible promotion as a commissioned officer type but
I was not even noncommissioned officer material. It slowly dawned on me
the comment, being handwritten, must have been done by someone in
our orderly office after my discharge and was quite unofficial. The
handwritten entry must have been written by someone who thought in
the same way as me. I then realised it was more of a compliment than
anything, gotcha! It had to be Sergeant McIntosh who was in charge of
the orderly room.
It was then I remembered one night before our weekly pay day not long
after our arrival in Singapore Island. Time must have been dragging a
wee bit that evening. We were all broke and unable to partake of the
fleshpot delights available in the city. I invented a caper which called for
some noisy and energetic audience participation, there was no military
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law breaking involved and our activities could probably come under the
heading of daft.
I was, and still am, an admirer of the musical offerings of Spike Jones and
his City Slickers, particularly the recording of, At the Races. This is where
Spike and his daft band portray an actual day at the racecourse complete
with radio compere giving a running commentary describing the horse
racing and the whole band making horsey noises etc.
I had arranged two of our guys to sit at the ends of opposite beds,
holding a broom handle stretched between them to provide a makeshift
horse race course jump. The rest of the guys lined up in two’s, taking
turns to race down the room then, prancing like horses, each one would
attempt to jump the hurdle which in reverse limbo style would be raised a
bit after the participants had all completed one pass. The whole thing
being accompanied by shouted vocals from me as I tried to remember all
the Spike Jones vocal gems I could remember. This included such
renderings as the radio commentator shouting, “And it’s banana, banana,
banana, banana pulling away from the bunch”, the whole thing being
accompanied by horse neighing noises and fanfare sounds, yes, we
actually did have a bugle handy.
The other guys involved in our, simple, homespun race might have been
at a slight disadvantage, unlike them, I could actually hear the Spike
Jones record, broadcasting quite clearly inside my head. I have been told
I must have ears like a shithoose rat, never actually having seen a
shithoose rat I will just have to take the remark as a compliment.
This scene might not appeal to my more sophisticated readers, however,
you must bear in mind this was 1955. Probably none of us could even
spell sophisticated, we had nothing but our inventive minds and very few
opportunities with which to amuse ourselves. No TV, no cell phones and
only one small, battered radio with uncertain reception which only
seemed to provide weird Chinese music and even that came in small,
uncertain, surges from time to time rather like a frightened, uncertain,
virgin in our midst.
It was at this point I happened to look up in the middle of a loud, horse
neighing impression on the bugle and noticed Sergeant McIntosh who was
duty sergeant that night. He must have been attracted by the daft noises
coming from our barrack room and was standing in the shadow just
outside one of the veranda doors, our eyes met, he gave a short
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conspiratorial grin to me then shook his head in a resigned kind of way
before quietly leaving us alone to our daft evening.
When I look back on these army daze times and think of the hand written
remark in my army pay book when discharged, it all was made perfectly
clear that Sergeant McIntosh, a wee, perceptive Highland man with a
sense of humour was in charge of the orderly room. He must have been
the author of the short but succinct hand written comment in my pay
book. WISHART HAS A HIGHLY DEVELOPED SENSE OF HUMOUR, NOT
SUITABLE N.C.O. MATERIAL. Quite the compliment as far as I can see, his
comment says it all.
The above happening was just after we had completed our signal training
and before we were due to leave the Island of Singapore to rejoin our
regiment in Malaya which would soon bring an end to any more
excursions to the big city. However, it came to pass that Big Ray was
determined to resolve the question of my still intact eighteen year old
virginity while we still able to visit the wicked city of Singapore.
It happened on a Saturday night when the two of us usually took the
opportunity and also the passenger bus which picked us up near the
entrance to the barracks to transport us into the steamy capital of
Singapore Island. Saturday night was our favourite time to head for
Singapore. The army held its weekly pay day on Thursdays and we would
probably still have some Straits dollars left intact in our pockets.
Our usual heady delight was a visit to the Cathay cinema where we could
enjoy the air conditioning experience and once we actually saw a movie
featuring the great American singing group, The Platters and others.
Magic! I say featuring The Platters, however the director at that time
must have thought it would be boring for the punters to have to watch
these great performers all the way through a number.
We would get a brief shot of The Platters when they started to sing then
the camera was whipped quickly across the supposed night club to
concentrate on some bloody, boring, unmemorable couple at a table. The
exciting sound of The Platters would drop down in volume to let us hear
the fucking boring supposed conversation from these two absolutely
forgettable bad actors. I guess the movie makers of the time had a hell of
a lot to learn about lovers of the new popular music which was then
spreading across the world.
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You can see I felt a bit strongly about this daft kind of situation back in
the fifties. I still feel the same way now but just tend to rant a wee bit to
myself, not quite right in the head you see.
The movie featuring The Platters that afternoon was actually a bit of a
bonus for Ray and me, the novelty of the air conditioning system was
perhaps the original main feature in the movie theatre for us that day.
Located as we were, very close to the equator, it was sheer luxury for us
to revel in the delights of the cool cinema atmosphere for a couple of
hours away from the hot and steamy humidity outside on the streets.
Leaving the cinema building was like receiving a wet punch in the face as
our cool attitude quickly vanished, we had not yet gathered enough
service time to entitle us to wear civilian clothing and were dressed in
jungle green uniforms, jacket sleeves rolled down plus long green pants,
puttees and boots as laid out in our battalion daft rules and regulations.
We were already pretty close to being laid out ourselves after we left the
air conditioned cinema, for our shirts were already turning a very dark
green colour when the sweat started to pour down our backs again.
INSERT THE PAGE RE CATHAY MOVIE THEATRE SOMEWHERE IN HERE.
PAGE#118
Big Ray threatens to bash my head in unless I hurry up and lose my
virginity!
Observe the upturned army bed spring leaning against wall in the
background. We were plagued by bed bugs here. The only successful
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method to eradicate the disgusting little buggers was to completely strip
and remove bedding which was then sent to laundry service, mattresses
returned to stores for fumigation.
Next step was to gather four of the empty cans from our weekly free fag
issue (healthy stuff!)then half fill each one with petrol cadged from our
transport section. Lower the now naked but heavily infested spring bed
down (the buggers would nest in the actual springs) so that the bottom of
each bed leg fitted into the petrol filled cans.
We would then ignite each can thus ensuring the bugs could neither
escape nor return to that area. Next step was to use a blow torch
borrowed from the same source to give the entire bed a good roasting
which seemed the only way to make sure the bed would be bug free. We
usually stuck the roasted bed against the wall to cool off for a while, we
could the bump it up and down on the veranda floor to dislodge the
incinerated bugs, give the springs a quick brush then place another
mattress which had just been withdrawn from the company store onto the
springs, hoping it was bug free.
This exercise would probably have to be repeated in a few weeks’ time.
Ahhh- - - the romantic East.
This is how I would be dressed for a night out in town before my
probation time of six months was completed, then I would be able to
dress in civilian clothing. Photo shows actual uniform dress but rifle would
not be carried for recreation purposes! Please note boots and puttees,
these will feature in this tale.
Cont.
huge Cathay cinema in the city which, apart from showing recent
Hollywood delights, had also installed air conditioning. This air treat was
completely unknown to us at the time, particularly if you came from chilly
Scotland where a small refrigerator was a pretty snazzy new affair. You
could sometimes be lucky enough to actually see one if you had a friend
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who lived in one of the new fangled post war pre-fabs which actually
boasted one of these refrigerator things in the small kitchen.
We had neither a pre fab nor was there even a small refrigerator in our
house, my mother had a larder just off our kitchen which had a fine wire
mesh screen fitted just in front of the small window which gave us a fine
view of the Pentland hills. My mother kept our pint bottle of milk in that
larder, when the newspapers ran the occasional, ’ What a scorcher ’!!!!!
heading which would break the news that a temperature of 65 degrees
farenheight (remember farenheight ?) had been reached in Scotland. My
mum would decide it was time to open the little window with the wire
mesh screen in the larder that let the cold wind sweep in from the
picturesque hills but kept out the occasional hardy but not acceptable
flies. That was as close as we would get to air conditioning in these days.
Ray was determined to get me closer to the actual losing of my virginity
so we meandered into a less well known district of the city that night
where we were openly accosted by small groups of working girls, mostly
Chinese. I had never actually been attracted by this Eastern type of
female, I can only think it must have been the shape of their eyes. I may
have been influenced by Hollywood movies portraying Japanese with
slanting eyes as the bad guys in lots of war films.
I was aware that the Chinese were a completely different people and had
been on our side during the war. However, I was also aware that some
Chinese were now on the other side, fighting and killing our soldiers over
the causeway in Malaya. Chinese were also responsible for the ever
increasing violent riots here in Singapore, then, of course there was this
problem I had concerning the shape of their eyes.
Ray took care of the eye problem, he impressed on me that this affair
should not take very long so we should hurry up and get it over with as
quickly as possible. This would leave plenty time for us to get to the
Union Jack club to drink a few beers before catching the last bus back to
barracks.
He added the tempting attraction that, for my sake, he actually repeated,
‘for my sake‘, he would be prepared to also get involved and pick up
another girl for himself, provided I paid for her as well. This would enable
us to at least be in the same building, if not actually together, when I had
completed the session. He said he was doing all this just for my sake,
what a great guy he was.
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I seem to remember I usually managed to have a few bucks in my pocket
in these days, I was a nonsmoker and virtually a nondrinker at that time.
I was probably one of the few who might still have some cash in my
pocket on nights before and, sometimes, for a few days after, the weekly
pay day. Ray must have been of the impression that I had a money tree
hidden away somewhere, cash seemed to be no problem that particular
night.
The quickly setting sun solved the eye shape problem and we were soon
in a really gloomy lane with an open and fragrant monsoon drain running
along just beside us. The street lighting was practically nonexistent in this
area so I could not really see the eyes of the small Chinese woman Ray
had picked for me. I was actually more interested in trying to avoid falling
into the open and very smelly monsoon drain close beside us.
Ray chose a slightly taller one for himself, he also did all the talking such
as it was, he even arranged the price which was agreed upon after a few
pidgin English words with the Chinese girls. He told me how much I
should pay for the two of us before we were led to a very basic dwelling
house nearby where Ray and his girl disappeared into a room. My girl led
me through another door where the only furniture seemed to by a raised
wooden platform which I soon gathered was some kind of sleeping bunk
but with only a few cushions for comfort.
‘Sod the comfort’, I thought with the full amount of my hormones flooding
through my eighteen year old, pretty fit and willing body.
‘Sod it again’, was my very next thought. Here I was fully dressed in my
full olive green army uniform (this was when we still had to wear full
uniform as our daft six month Army Daze dress rule had not yet expired).
I was wearing long pants which were lovingly wrapped firmly in the old
Indian Army style puttees round my ankles just above my huge puddle
jumping army boots. This outfit had taken me quite a long time to get
dressed as the puttees required to be wound several times around the
bottom of my pants, making sure the pants were held firmly in place
before securing the puttees also firmly with the attached long piece of
tape, wound round several times, making sure the broad tape was also
smoothly wound to give a very smart appearance in a uniform style.
This performance would take several minutes to complete each leg, not
something you would want to undo except for undressing before hitting
your army sleeping cot last thing at night.
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The current arrangement with the lady of the night made no allowance for
sleeping. You could, if you wished,extend the time of the performance but
there would be an extra charge for an allnighter. This was not in our plan.
I could almost hear Ray saying, ’Not another bloody problem’.
He would probably be finished with his girl now and here I was, standing
in the middle of the floor with my pants tied round my ankles, plus socks
and boots still securely on my feet, not yet even started on the great
performance However, you will be pleased to know that romance is not
dead, especially not for a wee Presbyterian guy from Scotland. I dropped
my long olive green pants down to my ankles where they were firmly
anchored by my puttees and boots, then taking little, short steps I
waddled awkwardly but gallantly across the floor, firmly hobbled in my
temporary cloth manacles and army boots. Scrabbled clumsily and noisily
onto the bare wooden sleeping platform, very uncomfortable on bare
knees more used to contacting at least some kind of mattress, then more
or less fell onto the waiting Chinese girl who had already removed most of
her clothing by then, probably wondering why I was wasting time, after
all, time is money in this game.
Thankfully, she was obviously probably more used to this activity than I
was. She brushed aside any kind of foreplay as she grabbed hold of me
and stuffed it right inside her.
You must appreciate I had never actually done this kind of thing before.
There was no way I could rely on any of my previous experiences for
guidance.
My prior experience of these situations mainly included just lots of tedious
wet faced kissing with the chosen, warmly dressed, girl. Shit! The only
way she could be warmly dressed in wintertime Scotland was to put on
layer after layer of warm if unromantic wool clothes which provided an
enormous obstacle course to any ideas of foreplay, anything further was
out of the question. The two of us looked like a couple of waddling teddy
bears, she all wrapped like a comforting, woolly gift and myself in huge
but also warm duffle coat with heavy sweater underneath, clutching each
other, leaning on a sturdy fence to her front garden in the middle of a
freezing cold Scottish winter before seeing her safely into her house while
you hobbled back home in the dark, doubled up with sexual frustration.
Sometimes I was lucky enough to take another girl out to the pictures
during these cold winter nights. Her mother had a house quite close to a
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telephone box which was located in a fairly remote street. This particular
box was not patronized very much, particularly on late and cold winters
night in Scotland. Both of us could squeeze into the old, red phone box
(remember them?) and I would reach up. Unscrew the light bulb,
plunging us in almost darkness. There was a street light nearby which
illuminated our frozen breath into clouds, how romantic.
You must remember, this all took place during the early 1950’s. Average
age was about 17 nobody had their own flat or apartment in those days.
It would be another decade before the great sexual revolution would start
to happen in the swinging 60’s, perhaps the weather had improved due to
global warming by then as well.
I now tackled this new, strange and humid, far eastern sexual freedom in
great, if clumsy, style. My polished and gleaming boots drummed on the
bare wooden boards, beating out a great rhythm but damaging the shiny
surface on the toes of my boots as I bounced inexpertly but with great
enthusiastic thrusting on top of the girl.
My bouncing was so energetic that a huge and very loud fart was expelled
from her! It was so sudden and quite unexpected, it actually rattled on
the bare bed boards giving it quite a resonant booming quality. I
immediately dissolved with laughter which was so infectious that she
started to laugh as well which seemed to encourage more farting noises.
We were laughing so hard and I guess my virginity came and went almost
unnoticed at about the same time.
The loud laughter and farting attracted the attention of Big Ray and his
consort through the thin wooden partition wall. Ray rushed naked into the
room to see the cause of all the disturbance, his wee, Chinese friend more
modestly hesitated at the open door. Ray exploded with laughter as well
when he saw my romantic, virginity losing costume, tangled around my
ankles. My boots still held firmly in place with the damaged polish on the
toe caps of my big boots playing peek a boo through the unromantic folds
of my long jungle green pants plus, also displayed were my jungle green
drawers cellular, pairs one.
I considered how lucky it was having Big Ray as my friend. He even
offered to help me to get rid of the leg encumbrance around my ankles
then we could all have another go, in peace and quiet this time, provided
I had enough cash for a repeat performance for both of us.
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I reminded him severely that I was Scottish and the very thought of
spending extra cash in this wanton fashion did not appeal to me. After all,
I had inadvertently provided light relief to all rather than personal
satisfaction for a job well done. I would now prefer to forget the
embarrassing episode in what I thought should have been quite an
important milestone in my life. I had achieved losing the virgin state he
had always requested, could we go now and have a cold beer? I would
buy.
Ray and I were soon having a beer at the bar in the Union Jack Club
where we still had enough time to have a good laugh at my romantic
efforts before catching the last bus which took us as far as Selerang
Barracks.I had one last ritual to observe before I could say with some
conviction that I had lost my virginity.
There was a small building discretely situated right behind the guard room
at the entrance to the barracks, this was a place erected specially for
guys heading to Singapore for what was referred to as ‘wick dipping’ with
naughty girls. Most guys bent on having ‘naughties’ were usually in so
much of a hurry to catch the regular bus to the city that they bypassed
this building completely.
This rather put the cart before the horse.The whole idea was to avail
yourself of the services provided there before leaving the garrison rather
than on the way back to barracks later when a different kind of service
had already been provided in town.
I had never actually been in there as I assumed the service provided in
that room did not apply to me for I had not indulged in the naughty sex
act before. Returning from past visits to Singapore city, I had noticed
quite a few of the other guys branching off into this small building, some
of them made quite a business of this visit, a few even adopted a bit of a
swagger in their walk.
I guessed, probably correctly, that some of these visits were more of a
macho display than a necessary visit, more like a display of mating
prowess than anything else.
I, on the other hand, had man’s business to attend to. I marched straight
into the small building.
The first thing I realised was that perhaps I should have entered this
room before taking off for my Singapore adventure as the main articles
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on display were free prophylactics or, as we called them, French Letters.
These were freely available in generous quantities which indicated a
strong belief in the sexual prowess of the British soldier but only induced
in me a feeling of inadequate quantities concerning my one and only
performance, how would I ever be able to reach these figures? For a
start, the army did not pay me enough to be able to buy all the necessary
extra sex, how would I ever find the time?
At times like that I really envied guys like Big Ray, I always seemed to
worry about daft things, seeing problems everywhere. When confronted
with a similar situation Big Ray would briefly consider the possible
problem, say, “FUCK IT”. Then stride on forward into life having already
mentally brushed aside the current annoying situation.
It was obviously rather too late to stock up with free birth control
appliances after the first sex event, I think the idea was to obtain the
birth control thingies before leaving the barracks, I was probably in a bit
of a hurry that day and missed this important part in the proceedings.
I meekly applied some free gel to my naughty member, this gel claimed
to ’possibly’ keep the dreaded venereal disease at bay after intercourse
which I thought might be an optimistic boast, I was not much reassured
by the word, ’possibly’.
I then headed for bed with probably a dreamless sleep ahead, so much
for the big adventure. It seemed to me this sex thing might not be all it’s
cracked up to be. I could only hope things would improve with practice,
as the soldier said to the girl.
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At last! Permission to wear civilian clothing granted for outings after the
completely unnecessary six months Army Daze probation time. I could
only imagine some member of the military had contacted the local
mosquito’s to let them know we could not now get malaria from their
bites.
It’s late 1955, here I am waiting for Ray then off to hear the jazz at the
RAF club.
I HIT THE NEWSPAPER HEADLINES AT LAST!
Before completing our signal training and prior to moving up country to
rejoin our regiment, a few of us were chosen to make up an honour
guard, have our picture taken to be featured in the Edinburgh Evening
News back home.
I have no idea who had thought of this event, apparently we had a
professional football player assigned to our regiment to serve his National
Service with us. He played for one of the Edinburgh teams, I have no idea
which team or even what his name was. Please remember I was more
interested in Egyptian P.T. than running about in the heat chasing after a
leather football.
Apparently some sports writer back home wanted to write a piece about
our hero fighting with the Kings Own Scottish Borderers for Queen and
Country in Malaya.
It had then occurred to someone that this was Singapore not Malaya
which was a bit further north where the real bullets were flying about.It
was decided to borrow a Hollywood idea using one of our issue machetes
to cut down a few bushes from behind the cook house building to make a
bit of a fake jungle. Our celebrity football star suitably attired in jungle
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green uniform could be placed in front of the bushes, looking real fierce
with some black grease paint smeared over his face and waving a rifle
about. I could only hope the rifle was not loaded.
It must have also seemed a good idea to have some of the smarter
soldiers to do a bit of posing in tandem with this sporting pantomime
which was taking place nearby us. We could probably use the services of
the same photographer to include our little charade honour guard photo
in the Evening News publication, probably to attract some possible
business to the local Army Recruiting Shop in Edinburgh.
After all, we were the official Edinburgh Regiment portrayed by the castle
image on our regimental badge although it never really looked like
Edinburgh Castle to me.
During our basic training we were told the regiment was raised in
Edinburgh in 1689 to defend the city during the turmoil following the
accession of William and Mary of Orange. The new regiment then
marched north to fight in a wee bit of Highland bother at the Battle of
Killiecrankie. It was reported the regiment then withstood a ferocious
charge by the Highlanders supporting James 2nd.
More power to the early regiment, I thought, for it was the usual method
of Highland armies to select the top of a sloping area for their battles.
This gave them a distinct advantage, they could discharge their guns
down towards at the enemy then throw their pistols to the ground, draw
broadswords and launch a murderous charge at great speed downhill
towards the opposition, probably now scared shitless, with no holds
barred.
If the 1689 Edinburgh recruits could stand fast against an onslaught like
this then they were surely made of solid stuff for I believe any other
troops involved in that particular battle, used their common sense and
fled.
A wide part of the river below where the battle took place is still referred
to as The Soldiers Leap. This was where one of the fleeing soldiers
managed to escape by making what appears to be an impossible jump
over the river, being closely followed up to that point by the highlanders
who then decided the distance involved in the leaping part was far too
wide to make any sense. Not wearing any underwear below the kilt could
also have influenced their decision not to leap over the cold running water
in case they slipped into the stream.
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It was possibly about this time the old saying came into use, it goes like
this;
(Question) “Is anything worn under the kilt?”
(Answer) “No, it’s all in perfect, working order“.
So there we were, parading on the hot barrack square at mid-day, very
close to the equator, dressed in our best white parade jackets with hot
and heavy tartan trews, rifles etc. I think it was Noel Cowerd who used to
sing about ’mad dogs and Englishmen, go out in the mid-day sun’ in this
climate.
We were not even remotely like Englishmen, the only foreigner among us
was the fat, Irish, Quartermaster who had been put in charge of us
because of his rank and certainly not for his physical appearance. Most of
the regiment were already serving up country in Malaya. The
Quartermaster was probably found skulking in the relatively cool darkness
of the Quartermasters Store and pressed hurriedly into service with the
rest of us for this special guard.
Unfortunately for us, the Irish Quartermaster was alarmed by the sudden
limelight falling, uninvited, on him. He panicked, parading us onto the hot
square long before a photographer even appeared. He was probably still
chatting with the celebrity football guy still posing at his home made
jungle area constructed behind the cookhouse.
You may have noticed the celebrity word does not really receive much or
indeed, any attention from me. It seems to me these celebrity prats are
famous for being famous, not many of the celebrity comedians I have
heard these days, seem to make me laugh, perhaps the occasional
derisive snort if that can be called a laugh, probably not. Most of the
present day celebs seem to be cooks or even Master Chefs, cooks used to
be a rather lowly position when I was younger. Does that make me a
grumpy old man now?
If the Quartermaster had any sense, which he obviously did not, he would
have kept us in the shade of the nearest building until the photographer
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showed up and was ready to do his bit. Instead, he had us paraded to
attention on the square. Now read on.
Here we are, actually standing stiffly in the ’present arms’ position in the
bloody heat. The fat Quartermaster was usually more involved with
parading blankets, mess tins etc. in his Quartermasters Store rather than
parading people. The silly bugger should have known better than to have
us standing to attention on the heat blasted square on Singapore Island
at that time of day.
The official photographer eventually arrived behind us, we were still
standing to attention but wilting fast as he dawdled at the back, chatting
to an officer. Then, suddenly realising it must be about lunchtime and
time for some liquid refreshment, he trotted round to our front without
any warning he just clicked a button on his big camera and was gone, job
done.
Unfortunately, I was done as well, a heat stroke took over. I staggered
forward before Paddy had time to dismiss us and crashed to the ground
on top of my rifle, probably the only time I actually regretted I had been
chosen as one of the smart soldiers. The photographer probably missed
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my performance because he had clicked his button then turned away
quickly to head for the free drinks at the Officers Mess. He did not
actually see nor care to see or even hear, my couple of staggering steps
then the sudden transfer to the horizontal position. Even the loud sound
my rifle made as it suddenly hit the tarmac followed by the dull thud
made by my head which quickly followed, did not attract his fast receding
attention.
He could have taken a good picture of me sprawled flat on the square, I
could imagine the headlines in the Edinburgh Evening News, Spunky
Scottish Soldier Succumbs, Silently in Sticky, Steamy, Singapore’, see
details supplied be our foreign correspondent.
The Edinburgh Evening News eventually published the only picture the
photographer took of us that day, he missed my change from
consciousness into oblivion, but his camera caught it. I am actually in the
process of fainting, eyes already half closed and body starting to pitch
forward.
My mother cut the picture out of the newspaper weeks later, it shows us
on parade, if you look closely, I am the second soldier on the right. You
can see my eyes are actually closed. A split second later I had fallen
seriously on my face but our photographer missed that as he was sensibly
heading for liquid refreshment at the Officers Mess where the drink was
being served under the cooling breeze from large fans dotted about the
place.
I, on the other hand, had a cup of tea made by the charwallah as I sat,
recovering, on my bed. Just to prove the authenticity of the picture you
can view the overweight Quartermaster on the left of the front row.
WEE VISIT TO THE ARMY KINEMA
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We had a small cinema on the Base at Selarang Baracks. It was run by a
small group of military guys who called themselves, The Army Kinema
Corps. They ran regular film shows but I have no idea if they were a
regular army unit at all, never met anybody, never saw anybody. The
name sounded like something from an old Mack Sennet movie that might
have been dreamed up as a means of entertaining the troops during the
1st world war.
If I remember them for anything at all, it was for giving me the
opportunity to see a real live, genius of humour and comic situations of
the movies, I will never forget it.
The rumour (yes, another one) went round our barracks, there was a
French fillum on at the picture house tonight. Nudge,nudge,wink,wink,
kinda movie. By the way, fillum is how the word film is pronounced by
our, mainly, Glasgow troops.
The fact that the film was French was enough for our sophisticated guys.
It had to be more sexy than anything Hollywood could produce. I asked,
but nobody could tell me, the name of the movie, if it was French then it
would star somebody like Bridget Bardot, it would be a great naughty,
sexy fillum.
The wee, wooden, Army Kinema Corps building was packed that night. It
seemed the movie was something about somebodies holiday, who cared,
it was French, got to be sexy. Never mind the holidays, let’s check out the
French girls on the beach.
I bought a small packet of peanuts from the wee, old, Chinese woman
peanut vendor. The packet was just a twist of newspaper filled with
peanuts still in their shells, then settled in comfortably onto my rattan
seat which was tied to a long bamboo pole fastened to all the other seats
in my row.
The place was crowded with young soldiers like myself. Everybody was
ready to see the naughty movie, we hardly paid any attention the news
reel which started the show. It concerned something about trouble in the
Middle East region with the president of Egypt pouting about the Suez
Canal or something, loud muttering from the crowd who wanted this shite
to finish and let us get on with the French fillum.
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At last the main attraction started, there was hardly any dialog, no
problem, it would have been in French anyway. Something about some
bumbling guy going away on his holidays in a strange, little French car,
where was the sexy angle in this shite.
About 10 minutes into the movie I noticed there was nobody sitting in the
rows of seats in front of me, I screwed round only to find I was the only
guy left in the building at all, completely alone. The entire audience had
signalled their opinion of the movie by voting with their feet and left the
wooden building.
To be honest, I like sex, at least as much as the next guy, a sexy fillum
might have been a nice diversion that hot evening. I also have a daft
sense of humour and this guy in the movie was encountering endless
situations which I found really appealing. I found out the well meaning
guy was the little known, as far as I was concerned, Jacques Tati.
I later learned he was much loved by some aficionados of the film
industry, he was a bit of a ’one off’ kind of guy. The dialog in the few
movies he had made was minimal, in this particular film there was some
sort of background sound of various voices speaking, it did not really
seem to be part of the film. The faint almost background was either in
faint English voices and one family of holiday makers even spoke with
American accents, just some kind of background but the sounds were
really pertinent to what was happening.
The main thing as far as I was concerned that night, was that I was all
alone in the empty ’Kinema’ theatre, being introduced to a fantastic part
of the movie business which I had not encountered before and laughing fit
to burst. At one point I actually fell off my rattan chair and continued
laughing while prostrate on the floor.
The crazy situations in which Jacques Tati found himself, made me think
of the him again when I later experienced my first hearing of my hero,
Spike Milligan at his daftest on the Goon Show radio broadcasts with the
great Peter Sellers, then later still, the Monty Python t.v. shows.
Hard to explain properly, but it was similar to listening to some really
good jazz for the first time, when you think that only you and a few,
select others have discovered something quite rare which, I suppose,
really sums it up for me.
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I was really grateful for the strange circumstances that evening which
allowed me to discover the great Jacques Tati who shared some of his
daft life encounters with me, while seeing life from his off balance point of
view.
WE MEET THE GURKHAS
Our regiment came under the direction of the 2nd/10th Gurkhas in Malaya,
what a remarkable group of little men they were. It was suggested by
somebody or other that our signal training cadre should visit their signal
platoon for a day of ’getting to know you’.
This visit soon came to pass as you can see from the following
photographs.
I was looking forward to this meeting and was not disappointed. The
Gurkhas are great bunch of guys, bright, humorous and very, very smart
dressers, our lot look like a right bunch of scruffs amongst them. Their
prowess as fierce fighters is a byword and needs no superfluous babbling
from me.
I had read about the Gurkhas, of course, and was fascinated to actually
meet some of them at last. I had read about them in books like, ’Bugles
and a Tiger’ written by an ex officer who had actually served with them in
the far east and was full of praise for them. I also knew some of their
regiments were affiliated to Scottish regiments with admiration and
respect being mutual, based on a history of serving together in many
British Empire expeditions and beyond, they are still serving with us
today.
Some years later, when it was announced the Gurkhas were heading for
the Falklands to fight in that particular campaign, I could understand the
wave of panic which spread through the Argentinean enemy soldiers at
the approach of these guys, such is the power of the Ghurkha reputation
as great fighters.
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The top photo shows some of the Gurkhas posing for a photo, they even
sit to attention when they are supposed to be at ease, if you know what I
mean.
How they keep their big hats in perfect shape is a mystery to me. I tend
to squirm with embarrassment thinking about the state of our rather
similar boy scout hats, especially after a trip by train to our annual scout
camping expedition to the Scottish Highlands. Our hats could not be seen
in polite society after they had been sat on, slept in, had rucksacks piled
on top of them, even, on one occasion, rescued from the sea by an
anxious owner.
My admiration goes out to the Gurkha hat wearers but I have no idea how
they achieve hat perfection.
The bottom picture shows us as comparatively sloppy dressers, this was
while I was still wearing the issue T.O.S. bonnet (Tam ‘O Shanter to you),
before I realised any local Chinese tailor could make a very smart replica
overnight, charging about ten straits dollars for the service.
I am located at left of front row, I have just realised I also have the one
photo in my possession of John The Bastard, our signal platoon sergeant
who managed to have John Scott and me put on a charge for volunteering
for the S.A.S. Instead of just supplying us with the transfer information
details, which was all we had asked for in the first place. This two faced,
smiling man also known as J.T.B. was there with us.
From henceforth he will be known as, That Bastard, John the Bastard!
John Scott, my companion in the S.A.S. crime charge, is seen
approx. four rows back, also approx. forth from left, smiling.
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THE FIJI REGIMENT HAND OVER TO THE K.O.S.B.
The Kings Own Scottish Borderers took over the active service, front line
territory of Johore State, Malaya from the Fiji Regiment at the end of
1955. Above picture shows some of the Fiji regiment posing with a recent
’bag’ of Chinese terrorists.
Our Headquarter Company moved into the former camp of the Fijians at
Batu Pahat in Johore while our other rifle companies set up for business in
individual company camps straddled across the state which gave us quick
access to any trouble spots as and when any cropped up. Our only
contact was by wireless and each company started regular foot patrols in
the surrounding heavy jungle, keeping in regular radio contact with our
Gurkha friends who were in overall control of this area.
Our Pipes and Drums were at Singapore docks to play the Fiji Regiment
away from port. This was a very moving but fairly casual ceremony which,
as far as I was aware, was actually unofficial. The Pipes played a slow
lament as the Fiji troop ship pulled slowly out of the harbour then the
Fijians replied by chanting a traditional Fiji salute of brave men, hardly a
dry eye in sight.
We had grown fairly close to the Fijians in the short time we had been
involved with them. This bond had grown stronger one night in the Union
Jack Club in Singapore when a fight broke out between a bunch of English
guys and a heavily outnumbered small group of Scottish guys from our
regiment. I have used the word ’small’ advisedly for most of our lot were
originally from the Glasgow area of Scotland where most of the guys were
fairly short by nature, something to do with their poor diet during the late
thirties. It seemed their tempers were also fairly short and fights with
’the auld enemy’ were a regular occurrence.
The Fijians present in the club bar that night were at first puzzled at the
sight of the outnumbered, smaller white men battling it out with the
larger group of also white but taller men. The big, tall Fiji’s immediately
decided to intervene to help the outnumbered small men who talked
’funny’. They mistakenly assumed the smaller, outnumbered men would
soon be in trouble but decided to even things up a bit by joining in on our
side.
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I say, our side, because I was actually present at this little fracas
accompanied by Big Ray that night. We had been to see the Frank Sinatra
movie, Love is a Tender Trap, at the big, air conditioned Cathay cinema in
town and decided we just had time to visit the medium sized but non air
conditioned Union Jack club for a quick beer before catching the last bus
back to our barracks.
I think I may have previously mentioned that Big Ray came from
Jedburgh situated just a few miles from the Scottish Border. In the long
forgotten bad old days of unrest between our English neighbours to the
south of the border and Big Ray’s ancestors in Scotland, there were
always a few scores to settle, all that was needed was something to fan
the still burning embers, any old excuse would do.
Ray found an excuse the first minute we strolled into the bar just in time
to see the beginning of the evening’s entertainment. The show started for
us just as we entered the bar where we saw an English military guy
seemingly accompanied by an enchanted chair! Both objects were
apparently flying through the air and over the beer bar together. The
flying illusion was shattered when the guy travelling apparently airborne
slithered over the bar coming to rest when his head connected with an
ornate ceiling support post. The chair carried on all by itself until it
smashed into the big mirror behind the bar, shattering it completely.
It was immediately evident this particular feat had been instigated by a
huge Fijian who was now surrounded by a group of English soldiers
determined on revenge. The big guy was obviously in his element,
laughing like a drain while energetically cracking a few heads together.
The whole scene before us was just like one of the staged bar room
brawls featured in Hollywood Wild West movies except this was real
blood. Anybody knocked to the floor remained on the floor, nobody got
back to their feet, shook their head Hollywood fashion, then started to
fight again fresh as a daisy. That just does not happen. Ray quickly
contributed to the mayhem by grabbing one of the opposition by the
scruff of the neck and smashing his face into the wall, he slithered down
and sensibly stayed down.
Apparently, The Military Police had already been summoned, just about
the same time as we walked into the bar, their arrival was dangerously
imminent by now and none of the participants wanted to remain in situ
when the military cops made an appearance. The punishment meted out
for causing a scene like this would not be pleasant so the bar room
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cleared quickly with Big Ray and I giving up any thoughts of having a
beer, we both made a smart about turn to disappear rapidly into the
humid Singapore night.
Scottish regiments preferred to let their own Regimental Police take care
of any incidents involving their own soldiers. Punishment was usually
handed out by our own officers then administered by our own Regimental
police, any involvement of British Military Police with any of our
regimental antics was never invited, it just ’wasn’t done’.
This little affair was outside our regimental area though, even the very
drunk Jocks realised that. They scampered away into the night as steadily
as they were able, leaving the military police to puzzle over the wrecked
bar. Our Fiji pals just carried on with their beer drinking, they were due to
sail for home in a few days and didn’t give a fuck for anybody, plus, they
were each above 6 feet tall so who in their right mind would want to
tangle with them anyway?
We were still stationed in Singapore, our signal training successfully
completed. We were now awaiting orders to be dispersed to our
respective rifle company locations in Johore State, Malaya. We had all
spent some time visiting these locations in small groups for a few days at
a time to familiarise ourselves with the radio communications involved. I
had spent a few days with Able company, even been allowed to make the
daily Sit Rep (Situation Report) by radio to our friends the Gurkhas.
Headquarter Company had established their base at Batu Pahat, the
former Fiji base in Eastern Johore so the very few of us still remaining in
Singapore were having our small numbers depleted daily on orders from
the H.Q. office as they settled in to their new location in Malaya. Whether
we had been temporarily overlooked during the H.Q. Office move up
country or perhaps just forgotten, John Scott and I were beginning to feel
a bit lonely as all our mates had now been sent to their allocated rifle
companies.
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At last John and I received our marching orders one morning from an
uninterested office wallah who must have been ordered to remain at the
old office in Selerang barracks to tidy up the odds and sods like us two.
Our marching orders were unlike the instructions issues to all of the other
guys. They had all been told to get their bodies on parade then to board a
truck and be dispatched to their various destinations in Malaya. John and
I were told to roll up our bedding and move only to another building at
the other side of the barrack square, select a bed space in an otherwise
deserted and empty building to await further instructions. I was suddenly
aware another Daze situation was approaching. We could get no further
information from the office wallah, mainly because he had no further
instructions for us anyway and we had nobody else around to ask either.
We settled into the other, deserted and spooky building across the sacred
square as directed.
We were used to having other guys around us, they could be annoying at
times and often we would get pissed off with other guys, some of whom
were forever cadging something, ranging from borrowing boot polish (how
the hell can you borrow boot polish? Perhaps you could take a spoonful of
the stuff and return a replacement later). Some even tried to obtain the
loan of a favourite shirt which would probably never be returned. Some
optimistic borrowers even invited a definite refusal to any attempt to
cadge cash from you to pay for an evening out.
However, annoying as other guys certainly are, it is certainly strange for
only two guys to be situated alone in a large three story but empty
building, especially when it gets quite suddenly dark at around 6.30 p.m.
We were used to hearing shouts from an orderly sergeant ordering us to
“Get these fuckin’ lights out”, at 11 p.m. when the bugle had sounded
Last Post and the duty piper had played his Flowers of the Forest lament.
Even our faithful charwallas had departed, last seen as they packed
themselves into an army truck and were driven off to rejoin the rest of
our regiment. Now we would have loved for somebody to turn some lights
ON at 6.30 p.m. as the entire building started to get dark about that time.
Even the usually irksome sound of a Glasgow voice cadging ’a wee tate o’
yer polish’ would be welcome. But no sound came, just the occasional
bang as one of the unsecured doors to the veranda was caught by a
sudden draft and slammed unexpectedly against the wall. This
unscheduled forlorn banging noise gave us the willies. We rushed round
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the gloomy vastness of the huge room, switching on any light switches we
could find, checking to make sure all the doors to the veranda were
hooked firmly open. No more scary bangs in the night, as the soldier said
to the girl.
Could it be that the big, bad, brave, potential SAS volunteers were
starting to feel a wee bit nervous all by themselves? Bloody right we
were! We had heard stories of hundreds of dead bodies killed by the Japs
and buried beneath the barrack square, perhaps the location of the buried
bodies was a myth but the killing, beatings, tortures and plain starvation
stories were all true and all these bodies had to be buried somewhere
around here.
I had already witnessed the mysterious and scary black figure standing at
the bottom of my bed only a few weeks ago. Might just have been old
drunken Spike but I really don’t think so. When this place was full of
daylight and jocks, it could often be quite cheery and comfortable. A
deserted night spent here was quite another story. Changi Jail had its own
horror stories and it was located just down the road from here, the whole
area had a reputation for being haunted.
I was relieved when John suggested we take a walk over to see if the
NAAFI beer bar was open. We intended to do the only sensible thing
which was to get pissed before trying to spend a lonely night in this
bloody place.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny as always in this area. Our
heavy drinking the night before had driven away any of the threatening
potential ghosts and ghouls from our thoughts last night, leaving not only
just bloody hangovers but also the worrying thoughts about our future
and what was to happen to us. We were each a bit concerned in case the
spectre of our attempt to obtain a transfer to the SAS might have been
resurrected. Why had we alone been selected for isolation, why were we
not heading up into Malaya like the rest of the guys?
Luckily, there was a happy ending. A couple of hours later the office
wallah guy finally made it to our new location in the isolated lonely leper
colony to which we seemed to have been sent. It appeared he had
received instructions for us late the previous afternoon but did not
consider the news was of any urgency so had postponed walking over to
tell us in the heat of the afternoon. It seemed he had also decided to
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linger to have some breakfast tea this next morning, even then he had
taken several mugs of British Army tea before wandering over to give us
the news. Why should Britain tremble when there are guys of this calibre
to defend the country?
It seemed his news was good and the direction of our next move had
been solved. John and I had been transferred to the Regimental Pipes and
Drums.
This was great news for both of us, however, we had to remain where we
were for the time being as the Pipes and Drums were presently on board
a Royal Navy destroyer heading north on the South China sea to take part
in an official goodwill visit to Bangkok, Thailand. They would return to
Singapore in few days, hook up with us then proceed to report to the new
location of HQ Company over the causeway in Batu Pahat, Johore,
Malaya.
This was fantastic news for us, the Pipes and Drums are the crème de la
crème of the regiment, never referred to as ‘The Band’. There already was
a regular instrument playing army military band with us, as in all British
regiments. We referred to this military band rather disdainfully as, ‘The
Girls’. The Pipes and Drums are different. Exclusive to Scottish
Regiments, they are infantry trained men first and foremost, able to carry
out the same duties as the man in the rifle companies. The best shot in
the regiment was one of our pipers. An earlier soldier, Piper Dan Laidlaw,
was awarded the Victoria Cross during the first world war for playing the
Borderers into battle with the regimental march, ’All the blue bonnets are
over the border’. Although unarmed, shot through both legs, he was
downed but continued playing the pipes as the Regiment charged and
victoriously took the enemy position successfully.
Members of the Pipes and Drums were all regular soldiers, two year
conscripted soldiers like us were seldom considered so this was indeed
something special for John and me.
Apparently, our transfer came about because of unexpected
circumstances. Drum Major Moore had returned to the U.K. for medical
reasons prompting the promotion of Corporal Black, the leading drummer,
to the position of Drum Major. By coincidence, a few of the regular pipers
and drummers nearing the end of their service also had to leave the
regiment to head for home. Their departure left the Pipes and Drums a bit
short of pipers and drummers, hence our transfer.
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We also heard the breaking news the Suez Canal had been blocked owing
to a dispute between the Egyptian Premier Nasser and the British. It
seemed General Nasser had ordered some ships to be scuttled in the Suez
Canal thus effecting a complete blockage of the canal. This blockage now
caused all ships returning to the U.K. to re-route across the Indian Ocean
to reach home via Cape Town, South Africa. The returning military
personnel now had to travel up the west side of Africa which added
another two weeks to the normally four week journey to the U.K. which
was now extended to six weeks.
This was the reason for the regular soldiers leaving the Pipes and Drums
sooner than planned if they were to reach the U.K. in time to be
demobbed. The custom of flying replacements to join or depart from
regiments in the Far East was just starting at that time. This mainly
applied to replacements, the ‘old soldiers’ returning to the U.K. still
returned by sea, which seemed to me to be a great idea.
Both John Scott (a piper from Glasgow) and me (a drummer from
Penicuik) had really met the Pipes and Drums only once. They were
returning from completing a season of shows, parades, beating retreats
etc. in London. They made an overnight stop at the Regimental depot in
Berwick on Tweed while we were still undergoing our basic training. John
and I had wasted no time in telling them about our background. Even
better, I discovered I even knew Corporal Black’s younger brother Bob.
This obviously stood me in good stead when Black, the leading drummer
and bugler, was later suddenly promoted to Drum Major things were
certainly looking up for us at last.
A few days later we joined the Pipes and Drums. They were all full of tall
stories about Bangkok. We loaded ourselves and our kit onto a couple of
three ton trucks, drew our rifles from the armoury and we were off at
last, heading for active service over the causeway connecting Singapore
to the State of Johore, Malaya for the next adventure. On the way to the
causeway leading to Malaya we were entertained with tales of their exotic
doing in sexy Bankok. Having only recently carelessly lost my virginity, I
was at last able to give the occasional knowing nod of approval to their
farfetched stories, I was really ‘one of the lads’ at last.
We reached Batu Pahat army camp in Johore State after a fairly short
truck journey and I noticed the camp looked a bit frayed at the edges.
This was understandable as the Fiji Regiment had only recently vacated it.
I imagine they had partied hard before taking their leave. This brought
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back fond memories of their evening spent lending strong support to
some members of my own regiment during their slight disagreement with
other soldiers at the Union Jack club in Singapore.
Piper Campbell. 1st Kings Own Scottish Borderers.
Selerang Barracks, Changi, Singapore Island. 1955.
SETTLING IN
We settled in quite happily at H.Q. company, based at Bhatu Phahat in
Johore, Malaya. Instead of being billeted under canvas as I had expected,
we were allocated a wooden hut with floor raised above the ground, I
initially thought the raised floor was probably to keep us free from snakes
although it was more likely intended to keep the air circulating around the
hut in this steamy country. Security at this camp was a bit relaxed with
armed guards only at the front gate so I imagined we were relatively
secure from attack by Chinese communists although I had misgivings
about the funny shaped and heavily wooded hill beyond the wire right
behind our hut. However, I was fascinated by the whooping sounds made
by the gibbons living on the hill behind us as they went about their daily
business. This soon pushed any security concerns to the back of my brain.
I was even offered a brightly coloured parrot type bird for purchase but
eventually declined as I was worried about what would happen to the bird
when I was eventually moved on. That, with the added leg pulling that
would be involved for being a parrot owner, ’ Ahoy there, matey’, type of
thing with the bird perched on my shoulder rather put me off.
This was more like it as far as I was concerned although we were living in
comparative luxury compared to the rest of the battalion in our rifle
companies stationed in their individual, securely fenced in camps spaced
out in a many miles perimeter around our allotted area where the real
action was encountered.
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Our happy wooden home in Malaya.
I have just mentioned the wild life amongst us and my feelings about this
sort of thing. Our officers discouraged us from becoming pet owners,
mainly for the reasons I have already stated plus it was not really fair to
the animals due to the uncertain nature of our residence in the area. Most
of the guys I knew respected this but one old soldier Willie who was
nearing the end of his service could not resist adopting ‘Junior’ a
mischievous little monkey, I mean the monkey, not Willie, both pictured
here.
Looking back now, I realise that Willie was another ‘old soldier’ the
regiment seemed to try to look after as they neared the date for the
journey back to the U.K. and final release. There were not many of these
old soldiers left with us, the one or two I remember seemed to have come
through the Korean war earlier in the fifties with injuries possibly both
physical and, certainly in the case of both Spike in Singapore and Willie in
Batu Pahat, a bit of a drinking problem. Both Lieutenant Henderson our
signal platoon officer and also one of his sergeants had been wounded in
action in Korea, each of these soldiers limped a bit when walking. They
might not be able to run a mile in four minutes but they were each still
capable of doing a good job with the signal platoon in the regiment.
ADD IN A BIT ABOUT THE KOREAN V.C. (Bill Speakman. V.C.)
I think Willie’s case was a wee bit different. He had some kind of job at
the Motor Transport depot at H.Q. company, where he was seldom seen
but, on his occasional outings among the rest of us, there was certainly
strong drink taken.
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Seeing Willie always reminded me of my occasional pre drinking age visits
to ‘Listers‘, actually called ‘The Railway Inn’, one of the local Penicuik
pubs I tended to visit before I reached the legal age of eighteen, it was
not a case of sneaking in and pretending to be over eighteen, a pair of
long pants were all that was needed for entry to The Railway Inn.
One of the regulars in the pub, when he could afford it, was ‘Auld Jock’,
an ex- regular soldier who had served all his life with the Royal Scots
regiment. Auld Jock had seen military service all over the world in the
British Empire which was now sadly a bit ragged at the edges in the early
fifties, a bit like Jock himself.
Jock may have been a bit frayed in the clothing department but his
moustache was always meticulously waxed in the old military style, he
even wore his old tweed cap just as he had worn his Scottish Army
bonnet, pulled smartly over to one side of his short haircut head. At the
bottom of his worn and frayed trousers, his down at heel black shoes
were always gleaming with spit and polish, army style.
Auld Jock usually arrived promptly in the pub at mid-day on Saturdays.
He would then promptly progress fairly quickly to a happy state of
inebriation and always stood at the bar in exactly the same spot. Auld
Jock may have swayed a bit when beside himself with drink but he always
swayed standing to attention in old regular army style.
I used to enjoy visiting the pub at lunch time on a Saturday. The
description of lunch time is an affectation of mine, no lunches were ever
served there and the bar tenders efforts were devoted to pulling lots of
pints of McEwans beer for the guys. I never saw any women in that pub,
not because they were not allowed, I guess no self-respecting woman
would ever dream of entering there anyway so we always had it to
ourselves, we didn’t expect it to be any other way.
After a couple of pints Auld Jock tended to break into a familiar
reminiscing ramble about his old army days. His vocal rambling was never
directed at anyone in particular, I guess he was just thinking aloud so
anybody could join in, and they sure as hell joined in. There was a fair
crowd in the pub one Saturday at lunchtime when Auld Jock broke into a
vocal ramble about China. For some reason, China was the country his
rambling old mind happened on that day. It was at this point that he
started to reminisce loudly about the Great Wall of China.
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“A’ve been there ye ken” he announced loudly to nobody in particular,
staring around belligerently, as if challenging anybody to dispute his
claim. “Aye, A’ve been right on top of the Great Wall of China ye ken”, he
repeated. Sure enough a familiar but unseen voice responded loudly.
“What were ye doin’ up there Jock- selling bloody deck chairs”? The place
erupted in laughter from everybody except Jock, he was staring wildly
into the crowd but unable to identify his tormentor and threatening, “A’ll
get ye ya bastard, ah ken who ye are”!
Jock could never actually identify the owner of the mystery voice but all
the rest of the laughing crowd knew it was ’Prancer’, our local postman,
never short of a quick comment or quick response.
I knew Prancer very well, he was Jack Brown, a good friend of my uncle
Fred, but even Fred never knew the origin of the ’Prancer’ nick name.
These were the days when every area seemed to have their favourite
local bars full of eccentric and humorous characters. Each character more
than capable of both having their legs pulled and also pulling other legs
right back. Great crack, as they say, but it seems to have diminished
greatly these days.
My Irish friend always explains the correct spelling of the word crack is
really, craik in Irish Gaelic, probably similar to its cousin, Scottish Gallic. I
don’t give a shite, as long as the crack is good, that’s O.K. with me.
Our short settling in spell was ended when we all received orders to be
prepared to leave tomorrow morning for a few days duty as armed
escorts to a convoy of trucks delivering ammunition to some units
stationed in the middle of bandit country. The ammunition was to be
picked up from a depot in Kuala Lumpur, the Malayan capitol where we
would stay overnight then head north through the mountains to make the
delivery.
By the time we reached K.L. it was late evening so we quickly found our
overnight destination then heaved our packs onto our designated beds.
Jock Winton and I decided to have a stroll out into the city but, after
about an hour of aimless wandering in the dark, found we were still rather
far from the centre. Having been warned the next day would be long and
tiring as we advanced into ‘bandit country’ where we would have to keep
alert and watch out for possible ambush on the road, we decided to listen
to sound advice and crashed into our beds instead.
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First light next day saw us arrive at the munitions depot where we
transferred from our two Bedford trucks to half a dozen trucks of the
Malay Regiment which were already loaded, ready to go, each complete
with a smiling Malay driver. We allocated ourselves in small groups of
three or four to each truck with all canopies removed as was the custom,
this gave us good all round vision to employ fire power plus the ability to
vacate the truck to take better cover behind or even underneath it should
the occasion demand.
We were all very alert and watchful as the trucks left the city outskirts
driving through mainly rubber plantations and scrub. We then started the
slow, steep, climb up into mountainous country west of the Main Range,
the road began to wind sharply upwards through very steep mountains
thickly covered by primary jungle and we quickly reverted to being
tourists again.
The road wound its way ever upward following great swirling S-bends,
clinging to the sides of the slopes, so steep in places which brought our
truck to a position level with the tree roots on one side but almost above
the tree tops on the other. It was almost as if we could reach out and
touch our buddies on the bends below and we could even see the
monkeys swing about in the tree canopies below, which were now level
with us. An evolutionary thought crossed my mind we were now on the
same level as our ancient relatives the monkeys so that would be about
right for a bunch of army infantry guys. It didn’t bear thinking about.
However, our open bed truck was an ideal platform for viewing the
monkeys and the brightly coloured parakeets on top of the trees so we
just let our jaws drop and made oooing and aaahing noises, just like the
bunch of big kids that we were.
It was also an ideal spot for a bloody ambush. Thank goodness the
Chinese must have been occupied causing mayhem at some other place
that day as they certainly passed up an excellent opportunity to chop us
into little pieces.
Of course, our little expedition had not been publicised in any way, even
the smiling wee Malay drivers had only been alerted early that morning to
prevent any accidental information on destination, cargo, personnel
strength, timing etc. from slipping out accidentally.
We finally reached the top of this first mountain only to find what seemed
like another whole range of hills ahead.
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I also found my daft sense of humour had not deserted me although my
heart was quite often in my mouth on the slow, vulnerable journey
upwards. I had observed on the earlier, gentler hills leading towards the
mountain range that our truck tended to back fire noisily after cresting a
hill as soon as our driver lifted his foot up from the accelerator pedal. The
driver kept the back window of his cab open so we could have some kind
of conversation going to while away the miles although his English was
pretty basic but he was a pleasant and happy wee Malay man and I
thought he would be willing to be part of my stupid antics.
As we started to descend I reached through the open window and
gestured for him to remove the pedal from the metal as they say. He
laughed and took his foot away sharply, I guess he intended to do that
anyway as we were now about to descend also sharply down the
mountain but even I was not ready for the loud bang that rang out
amongst the echoing mountain tops. This huge bang was a thousand
times louder than even the horrendous fart which had been released by
the flatulent wee Chinese whore mentioned in an earlier chapter.
The effect was instantaneous, with the exception of the guys on our truck,
all the guys in the other trucks hit the floor with rifles pointed frantically
upwards and outwards ready to take on all comers if necessary, they
were all sure an ambush was taking place. Luckily, none of our guys let
fly with any rounds fired in response, after all, there was nothing but the
loud bang from our truck to respond to anyway but by now everybody
was jumpy but they all held their fire although it took a few more bang
alarms on our descent before they realised what was actually causing the
panic. By the time we had crested a few more mountain tops all our brave
escorts had got used to the scary noises coming from our truck and
managed to relax and even laugh a wee bit.
However, I made the guys on my truck swear to keep silent about my
having started the panic in the first place although they were still laughing
about it and I only managed to get their assurance when I threatened to
say we were all involved if I was ever accused. That managed to shut
them up, after all, we were on active service in well-known bandit country
but I was convinced this daft leg pull could escalate into a court martial
affair if the facts surfaced so complete silence was needed and, thank
goodness, agreed to.
I could get no sense out of the wee, happy Malay driver who continued to
create the bangs at every available opportunity, I thought he was a wee
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bit daft anyway and, as they say in Scotland, ’a joke’s a joke’ but keep
yer arse off the pillow.
So far, we had no contact with the Chinese Communist terrorists. They
could have been all around us but were able to stay hidden in the heavy
jungle, choosing exactly where and when to appear, usually with
disastrous results. It was at this point that a disastrous result almost
happened to us! We were slowly climbing up towards the crest of the last
mountain before we could descend down into the valley when a mortar
bomb exploded just wide of the truck ahead of us. This was no truck
backfiring now. This was the real thing and was followed by erratic rifle
fire upon us from some position above us. We, in turn, rapidly vacated
our former position of seated sightseers to vanish and instantly re-appear
again with rifles at the ready from a safer place underneath the trucks. A
second mortar bomb landed near the first explosion luckily it was about
as far away from the truck as the first one had been. The bandit who had
fired it still had not corrected the range enough, their rifle fire was no
better but was heavy enough to keep us pinned down underneath our
trucks, it would only be a matter of time before the bastards managed to
get our range with the mortar and down would come cradle, baby and all.
Something had to be done and done bloody quickly. I glanced around
behind me from my hiding place beneath the truck and spotted a small
group of our guys heading upwards through the bush from a truck below
but at an angle to us. They were soon level with us but were aiming at a
spot about fifty yards to our right where I guessed they intended to break
cover for a quick spring across the area of exposed road heading to a
suitable spot slightly higher than our attackers which would give them an
advantage over the C.T’s from a position above them when the tables
could be turned.
Our guys must have been spotted as they raced over the exposed road, a
couple of rifle shots were fired in their direction but they were wide of
their mark. Then there was silence, briefly broken only once by a last
hurriedly fired mortar bomb which this time exploded even further away
from its intended truck victim which indicated to us the attackers had
realized they had bitten off more than they could chew this time and had
fled. Our lot were not encumbered by women and kids but were ready
and willing to retaliate. When our guys completed their flanking operation
they found no sign of our attackers, only some flattened undergrowth and
a few spent rounds were to be seen. Our, would be killers had fled. There
was little point in trying to follow them as they were more used to this
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area than we were and could be miles away by now. All we could do was
to radio the attack position to the troops covering this mountainous area
and perhaps give them a lead to be followed up. The attackers firing had
been so erratic we guessed this had not been a carefully prepared
ambush but probably an opportunist idea when our convoy had been
spotted climbing slowly upwards on the mountain. The only blood which
had been shed was from McWhirter when he cut his knee by landing
heavily on the road surface as he hurriedly vacated the truck. We had a
quick head count followed by a traditional British Army cup of tea before
boarding our trucks again to continue with our ammunition delivery.
These same C.T. guys had actually been our allies during the occupation
of Malaya by the Japanese army in the forties during World War 2. Some
Chinese avoided the Japanese and entered the densely wooded
countryside where of them had even been trained in jungle warfare. They
even forged an uneasy alliance with some of the British soldiers who had
either gone to ground as the Japanese over-run the country or others who
had been cut off from their own troops owing to the rapidity of the
Japanese advance. These British officers and men were to emerge
secretly behind enemy lines and contact the Chinese Liberation Army.
They then joined and trained the Chinese in the jungle warfare and
sabotage joining them to continue the fight until the allies finally returned
in 1945.
Of course, after the war ended, the Chinese Terrorists wanted no part of
the British Empire which had comfortably moved back into Malaya to
carry on where they had suddenly left off in 1942. The Brits were only too
happy to take over the country again so they could once more play the
part of the white tuan, sipping stengahs, having sundowners, playing
cricket, week-ends spent at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore or the flesh
pots in ’K.L.’ as Kuala Lumpur was familiarly referred to.
The Chinese had made no secret of the fact they wanted the Brits out.
They had been willing to be allies with the Brits against the Japs but
carefully made no arrangements or any post war agreements with the
United Kingdom. They continued their wartime activities after Japan
surrendered but this time the warfare was being directed against the
British and now under the leadership of a hardened Chinese jungle
veteran named Chin Peng. He was a clever, experienced man in complete
control of what Britain now referred to as the Chinese Communist
Terrorists or C.T’s who proceeded to unleash mayhem all across the
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Malaya peninsula bringing death and destruction to any part or enterprise
connected to the British Empire.
Strange as it may seem, their leader Chin Peng had been highly regarded
by the Brits during the 2nd World War, he had even been awarded an
Order of the British Empire decoration for his services against the
Japanese. He was a good friend and ally to British hero, Freddy Spencer
Churchman who survived as a much decorated fighter behind Japanese
lines in Malaya for over three years.
Chapman had been training in Scotland with Bill Stirling brother of the
founder of the S.A.S. when he then received permission to transfer from
the Seaforth Highlanders to a special force now training in Australia for
further covert services. He then travelled to Malaya just before the
Japanese attack, their rapid advance from the Malayan coast left
Chapman cut off from the retreating British forces. It was a situation
Chapman had actually planned for anyway and he was left to make
contact with any Chinese communist forces he could locate when the
Japanese army quickly overran both the Malayan Peninsula and then the
island of Singapore.
Both Chapman and his new found Chinese friend Chin Peng conducted
fierce and effective guerrilla warfare against the Japanese who eventually
had to deploy an entire regiment against Chapman, hunting for him and
his friend Chin Peng. Chapman was actually accidentally captured by a
patrol of Japanese in the jungle at one time but managed to escape from
them during the night, he was quite a resourceful character.
But now, the tables had turned, Britain’s former friend Chin Peng, (Holder
of the Order of the British Empire decoration) was now Malay’s most
wanted man, being hunted in the impenetrable jungle. He was mainly
responsible for my regiment’s recent arrival in the Far East to join many
other Brits there.
The Chinese who had taken to the jungle to defy the old British rule had
even set up school classes in selected parts of the jungle where lectures
on the Communist system were held secretly. Their young men and
women probably referred to themselves as Freedom Fighters who now
fought against our young men fighting for the British Empire.
Most of our young men were conscripts on National Service serving our
obligatory army term of two years, the majority of us really unaware of
any particular reason for being there. This was our necessary spell of
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army service, it was what was expected of us at that time. We just did
what we were told. I guess after two world wars followed by armed
enemy eruptions everywhere, British lads expected to be called up to
serve in the military. That is how things were in those days, we did what
we were told and did not question why, although the old Empire façade
was now beginning to crack a little bit. A blossoming new sense of
humour was spreading over the old country, traditional systems were
being held up to ridicule and to be laughed at. The old regimes and ways
of doing things topped by silly bowler hats and other traditional habits
were being laughed into history. It could not happen quickly enough as
far as I was concerned. It’s a funny old life.
Next morning found us, somewhere in Malaya, entertaining the natives.
Here we are, smart as paint, relaxing ’at ease’, during a bullshit parade.
Ex corporal, now Drum Major, Tom Black is extreme left.
I am the good looking one, very smart in Leslie tartan trews and dazzling
white jacket, approx. fifth from right. Corporal Danny Grant, our ‘old
soldier’ and reliable fount of all knowledge, centre of photo with two
stripes on his sleeve.
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SUBLIME TO RIDICULOUS
Including for your titillation a little bit of indecent exposure
Plenty of variety in the Pipes and Drums, next day it was almost as if we
had been sentenced to a spot of hard labour.
It seemed some local landowner needed a small favour, he must have
been a friend of the Sultan of Johore or something, he had requested
some help with removing a heap of rubble at a tin mine plant, guess
which bunch was selected for the chosen rubble removing day ?
We had to swop our pristine white drill jackets for jungle hats, P.T. pants
and boots, this costume to be set off by us carrying spades and rifles just
in case the C.T’s decided to pick on an easy target, ripe for the picking.
Some wag suggested the spades might be intended for whacking any
attacking C.T’s. That would teach ‘em.
We had been told at this stage of the game that progress had been made
in seeming to gain the upper hand during the conflict in certain areas, this
was one of the ’safe’ areas. We managed to arrive at the unwelcome
conclusion the shovels were really intended for shoveling dirt rather than
possibly fending off attacking bandits
Some prat of an officer tried to sell the whole exercise to us by saying it
would be a great opportunity to capture some of the sun’s beneficial rays,
this was, of course, some years before it was established that ray’s from
the sun would cause premature ageing and most certainly generate skin
cancer, just the exposure we needed being situated only a few degrees
from the equator.
Perhaps this officer was related to the other guy who, during the fifties in
the Pacific, ordered soldiers and airmen to face the early atomic bomb
blast to witness the spectacular sight, armed only with cheap sunglasses
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probably purchased in bulk from a high street pharmacy, I sometimes
wonder how these guys are feeling now.
How is this for a coincidence? I have just heard a broadcast earlier this
morning from BBC Radio 4, regarding a failed claim against the military
from a group of British ex-servicemen who served on Christmas Island
during the testing of the hydrogen bomb there back in the fifties.
It seems the army has rejected their claim for compensation for the times
they were paraded to witness the exploding test bombs with no more
protection than wearing a pair of cheap sun glasses. These were the lucky
service men, the ones without the cool shades were instructed to cover
their eyes with their hands and no peeking out between their fingers
during the horrific explosions.
It seems that a high percentage of these guinea pig servicemen appear to
have a higher than average percentage of cancer sufferers, also an
abnormal group who may have radiation problems which could have
caused inability to have children.
We were young and foolish then so what did we know? This was the early
fifties when our training was to obey orders without question. Some of us,
however, were already starting to think there might be a different way to
do things, although these were not yet the days which would follow when
we would ban the bomb, taking on the cops when we protested and
marching, not to yet another war but trying to make a point.
I don’t think we were quite daft enough to march obediently towards a
heavily armed enemy while we carried only an old fashioned musket and
protected by wearing conspicuous white belts conveniently arranged in
the shape of a cross over the chest to encourage the enemy to take good
aim. We were making progress though, albeit rather slowly, daft and
stupid policies were being questioned.
I like to think we guys of the fifties were the breeding ground for change
in music, politics, fashion, class system and a whole different way of
living, all the nostalgic sixties stuff would never have happened without
our generation in the fifties. We started to make things happen for the
guys who would follow later even if it only sometimes involved gangs of
Teddy Boys dressed in long jackets and drainpipe trousers smashing up
concert halls to the naughty rock ‘n roll music of Bill Halley and the
Comets, well, we had to start somewhere.
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I do not recall doing much ranting (or any smashing) in those early days.
This was a trait that must have developed later. All I remember from that
particular day at the tin mine is lots of laughing and joking, wee bit of
shoveling exercise and lots of dry dust which leads me to the excuse to
show the picture you have all been waiting for, the INDECENT EXPOSURE
one!!
THE INDECENT EXPOSURE PHOTOGRAPH
This is Drum Major Tom Black in very casual dress. The half obscured guy
behind Tom is me, accidentally showing off my white arse. I was
innocently washing off the day’s dust. You can see the primitive bucket,
rope and well. That’s all folks, good clean fun, bring the kiddies.
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SOME GURKHA FRIENDS.
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By a stroke of good fortune, our Pipes and Drums had three members of
the Gurkha Regiment Pipes and Drums posted to us for a while, probably
to gain experience.
Who cares about reasons, they were great wee guys, two drummers and
a piper who came to share our wooden hut for a while. They were also
sharp military dressers, proud of their regiment. This influenced our guys
to try a bit harder and not let the side down, when the Gurkhas appeared
on parade with us.
Dress bullshit was important, but then, it always was with us as well, guy
likes to be sharp looking on parade. Only one problem with any of our
regimental gigs, never any females to impress overseas, have no idea
what the scene was like back home as I was only in the Pipes and Drums
in the Far East.
This photo is of our Gurkha friends during their stay with us;
Back row, Me and drummer Pancha and our Piper Tug Wilson.
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Front, drummer, known to us as ‘D.B.’ and piper, Birkha Bahadur Rai. He
had a passion for our headwear, lover all things Scottish, here he has
borrowed a Glengarry from one of our pipers.
The jocks reciprocated with a great respect for the Gurkhas and their well
known reputation as fierce fighters. I still have my kukri till this day. The
kukri is their army issue big knife for want of a better description. It was
a present from one of my Gurkha buddies, much prized by me and
coveted by all of my army friends. The Gurkhas carry these long, powerful
knives everywhere and have often been seen with naked blades ready as
they disappear into the jungle in pursuit of the enemy. The legend is the
kukri, when drawn from the scabbard, must draw blood before being
replaced. It could be only a legend, however, I have noticed that when
my Gurkha friends were preparing for a real bullshit parade, they would
check to make sure the blade was gleaming then gently make a small
slash on the back of a hand (preferably theirs) before sliding the big,
shiny and very sharp blade back into its leather holster. The blade had to
draw blood before being replaced, no bullshit!
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SOME CHARACTERS AND HARD MEN IN THE REGIMENT
Big Lynn was one of our various Glasgow ‘hard men’ serving with the
regiment. Thankfully, I did not come into contact with him very often. He
was with our other training company during my time at the depot in
Berwick -on- Tweed.
On joining the regiment, he did not qualify for the intake to our signal
platoon and was allocated to one of our rifle companies serving in Johore
State in Malaya.
He was big in stature, mouth and attitude, bit of a bully really. He was
probably a mess of insecurity which might explain his behaviour to a
psychologist, which I am not.
He was a pushy sort with a bad attitude, always ready to dish out a
’smacking’ at the least provocation, a right prat in my opinion who did not
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fit in with the rest of the guys and very unpopular as a result. Certainly
not the type to be selected for a close knit platoon on jungle patrol.
His behaviour brought things to a head eventually. His company was
stationed in what we called the ’Ulu’, somewhere in Johore. At one
particular period his company had two separate platoons absent on patrol
for a few days in the jungle at the same time. This left the camp with only
about half of its usual compliment of active soldiers present. Darkness
falls early in that country, there was not a great deal of camp activity to
occupy the guys at the best of times so they were always isolated and a
bit frustrated at being permanently stuck there.
No little jaunts down into Singapore, no little jaunts to anywhere, there
was no anywhere to jaunt to around there, this was active service in the
thick, humid, bloody awful, Malayan jungle. Service in this part of the
world usually involved long periods of seeming inactivity, interspersed
with short bursts of frantic activity, usually an ambush either perpetrated
by the C.T’s or, more hopefully, by the army.
Unfortunately, Lynn’s bad behaviour in the camp managed, as usual, to
break the monotony at last. He struck one smaller guy during one of his
common outbursts and most of the other guys could be classed as smaller
guys considering Lynn’s stature. This time the smaller guys banded
together and struck back with a vengeance, a group of them surrounded
Lynn, armed with a variety of makeshift wooden clubs. They started
laying into him with a long suppressed vengeance.
He was severely beaten for the first time, most of the other guys in the
camp, hearing the noise started to join in as well to take their long
dormant revenge on Lynn. Some of the new additions to the fray were
armed with the parangs normally reserved for attacking jungle vegetation
the rising situation did not look good for the bully Lynn. He certainly did
not qualify for the title of flavour of the month in the camp. Things were
now beginning to look very ugly, Lynn, now badly beaten and bloody ran
back to the temporary safety of his tent. The illusion of safety provided by
his tent was soon found to be very temporary indeed. A group of the
other soldiers surrounded the tent, bent on continuing Lyn’s punishment.
Lynn’s stature had qualified him as the bren gunner when on patrol, the
semi-automatic bren machine gun was bigger and heavier than a normal
rifle, the gun, plus the necessary loaded live round magazines were
usually allocated to one of the bigger and heavier guys on patrol.
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Lynn had been cleaning his bren just before the altercation had broken
out, it was still sitting on the ground in the active position with legs
extended at the entrance to the tent.
Lynn grabbed the bren, threw himself behind the gun, slapped in a loaded
magazine and in a panic induced frenzy, loosed off a few rounds towards
his attackers. The attackers realized just in time that the silly bugger was
about to fire and split away from the front of the tent. They narrowly
escaped from Lynn’s mad, but badly aimed, outburst of live Bren gun
rounds which flew wildly upwards into the night sky.
Sudden stalemate! Everybody froze, including the big, loony, Lynn as
what was almost about to happen was the unthinkable, what did the
impetuous guys waving their parangs intend? Was their next step being
to lop the odd leg from Lynn, perhaps an arm and leg or even a wee ear
was their intent. Was Lynn about to mow down a fairly large amount of
his erstwhile comrades with a fatal burst of crazy fire from the loaded
semi- automatic bren gun?
Murder was still a hanging offence at that time in the nineteen fifties. For
all Lynn knew, it was also punishable by execution from a firing squad for
military offences. He was now standing erect but shaking violently in the
entrance to his tent, raving incoherent threats at the shocked other guys,
any further moves at this point would certainly lead directly to the
unthinkable.
Luckily, our Regimental Padre was visiting Lynn’s company for a couple of
days, he came running out of the darkness, closely followed by the
alarmed Company Commander, his approach managed to introduce a
touch of sanity to the situation. The Padre slowed down as he approached
a possible headline grabber scene, if reported back to the press in the
U.K. Reporting a situation like this to the press back in the U.K. was
always to be avoided.
He walked right up to the, now deranged and extremely dangerous,
heavily armed Lynn. The padre talked quietly but forcefully to the crazy
soldier, led him firmly away from the bren and made him sit down quietly
on an army bed in the darkened interior of the tent. All the time he spoke
in a low but authoritative voice, calming the stressed Lynn down to
safety.
Meanwhile, the company commander got a grip of the erstwhile violent
and almost mutinous soldiers, he also got a grip of the loaded bren gun
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and removed it from Lynn’s vicinity. He diffused the dangerous situation
by issuing orders for someone to contact H.Q. company by radio to send a
truck complete with armed escort to fetch the now Loopy Lynn and whisk
him off for psychic examination.
Needless to say, Lynn was never seen again, he seemed to have joined
the small group of soldiers in my intake who had suddenly been
transferred from the normal to the ’suddenly missing’ brigade.
It was really fortunate the Padre was in the camp that day to avert almost
certain mayhem. I later found out the same Padre had also been with the
regiment when they served in the Korean War a few years earlier in 1952.
They were almost over run in action against hordes of the Chinese army
when some sections of the regiment were so hard pressed by ammunition
running low and they were forced to use shovels and even threw full beer
cans to fight the heavily outnumbering enemy.
Private Bill Speakman 1st K.O.S.B. was awarded the Victoria Cross for his
brave actions that day, also in the front line then was the same quick
thinking, Regimental Padre, who gave council to the men who had
managed to come through an almost impossible situation in Korea
without becoming totally frayed, thanks mainly to our Padre.
SPOT OF PIG SHOOTING
Just to illustrate the variety of life available to the young soldier while
serving Her Majesty in foreign climes, we were detailed for a few days of
‘stake out duties’ somewhere in Johore State.
The task afoot was for our regiment to encircle a very large and swampy
area where a large body of C.T’s was reported to be lurking. The army
plan was to lob mortar bombs into the swamp then pick off the bandits as
they tried to escape through our encircling, keen eyed sharp shooters
(us)!
Luckily, a small section of us was positioned at the edge of a rubber
plantation which ended abruptly at the start of an area of secondary
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jungle which, it was understood, led to the swamp where the bad guys
were reputed to be hiding.
Secondary jungle means jungle that has been cut back at some time but
left to reassert itself which it does with a vengeance, resulting in very
heavy growth. This can be even more impenetrable than the normal
jungle which is bad enough. We were fortunately placed in the amongst
the skinny rubber trees which provided no cover at all but cover was not
our problem. All we needed was a clear line of fire to mow down any
escaping C.T’s, that was the plan and it is a well known fact that I would
always have a plan to take care of any event, possibly something to do
with my ’Bullshit baffles brains’ approach to life which had stood me in
good stead so far.
We soon got ourselves organised into the usual British Army routine of
two hours on duty followed be 4 hours off. However, in this case all of us
were more or less on call at all times, the possibility of having your head
blown off really concentrates your attention on staying alert and alive.
We had drawn emergency rations including wee stoves for cooking the
interesting KP rations. This allowed a few of us to relax while
experimenting with the food stuffs, all water bottles were full, the rest of
the patrol in guard positions so, all was right with the world, apart from
bloody mosquitos which were driving us nuts in spite of having face
netting supplied.
The netting made us all look a bit odd which was not unusual although
the poor bugger who had been a wee bit tardy with applying his face net
in time, had been severely bitten so that his face had swollen in great
style. The swelling left just two evil looking slits for eyes, this gave him a
really scary appearance, more like a sort of Hollywood Fu Manchu which
would give any escaping Chinese something to think about. There was
even a proposal bandied about for a while suggesting he be left apart
from the rest of us to crouch all alone for the C.T’s to encounter, we
reckoned the sight of him would make the bandits turn and flee.
You can see we had all been brought up reading comics where the hero
could always resort to amazing feats of valour in a tight spot. According
to our action comics quick thinking applied to any possible danger could
be enough to save the reputation of the British Empire and its soldiers. By
trouncing a heavily armed enemy (usually a fierce Zulu type) with a really
sporting, good, clean, manly punch to the chin, any dangerous situation
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could be taken care of. This idea was shelved when somebody announced
the gooey mess of bully beef heated over the tiny, smelly stove was
ready for dinner.
We settled down to the dreary but reassuring rhythm which dragged on to
the next day. We were adjusting to the irregular exploding mortar bombs
provided by our mortar platoon, they were gaining good experience, at
the same time enjoying the good feeling state of mind gained by lobbing
their bombs into the huge swamp area, still no activity from any fleeing
C.T’s so far.
It was about this time on the second day we all seemed to have lowered
our water to the near empty level in our aluminium water bottles at
around the same time. I was bored out of my skull so volunteered to
collect all the water bottles then wander off to find the stream we had
crossed the previous day where we would be able to replenish our water
supply. We had the means to purify the stream water from our supplies of
little pills for this purpose in our survival packs.
I was joined by Private Charlie McWhirter who had surprisingly offered to
help. He was a strange, dour, wee border man who tended to keep
himself to himself. I assumed he was as bored as me, only too glad for
the chance to take a break.
We festooned ourselves with all the aluminium water bottles we could find
then picked up our rifles and clanked off along the track. The usual silent
state of movement was not considered necessary this time, our mortar
platoon had seen to that, our total of around twenty rattling empty
aluminium water bottles fastened to our persons ruled out any pretense
of silent movements anyway.
We had no problem finding the little stream which, I guess, was a run off
from the large swamp our mortars were shelling. The water certainly had
a rather muddy look about it but we trustingly added the prescribed
number of little white decontamination pills as we filled each bottle.
We re-attached the now heavier bottles to our persons again then
waddled off to rejoin our mates about half a mile away.The track followed
along through the rubber plantation with it’s precisely placed trees
providing a stark contrast beside the impenetrable jungle which reared up
abruptly in fearful, prehensile profusion just where the plantation ended,
running alongside the orderly rubber trees in a menacing, ‘wild wood‘ sort
of way. I was just starting to wonder why any C.T’s trying to make an
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escape would decide to head for our defensive position further down the
track. Trying to make a break for freedom would probably involve inviting
certain death to them when there was this seemingly deserted and
unguarded area right here. Surely the escaping CT’s could slip through
this area and avoid our well placed ambush position all together. Here
they could they could wander off at will, even a casual stroll would do.
Perhaps they actually preferred to stay where they were, to remain in the
smelly swamp.
There was a sudden, tremendous crashing in the solid undergrowth just
opposite us, we both froze rifles ready but our bodies still stupidly
festooned in aluminium water bottles like useless bloody mobile
Christmas trees. Both of us tried to take cover behind a rubber tree but
each failed miserably for the trunks of these trees are normally a bit on
the slender side. This prompted a fierce grunt of frustration of, “Oh Shit,”
from McWhirter, both of us were ready with safety catches off but rather
exposed to whatever was heading noisily straight for us through the
dense undergrowth which was now heaving and waving as if an
emergency path was being urgently hacked through it by a desperate
bunch of escaping C.T‘s. This was the real thing, the bit when you shit
yourself and then die a really messy death. Not much dignity there. The
only thought that went through my shocked brain was ’What the fuck am
I doing here’ not much comfort from the brain department really.
There was a hell of a crash as the last piece of foliage was demolished
and into the clearing rushed a herd of wild pigs. A tremendous bang came
from the direction of McWhirter and one of the pigs fell dead almost at his
feet. I was actually sweating just like a bloody pig myself for I had really
expected a heavily armed bunch of C.T’s to erupt from the jungle, ready
to mow us down as they made their escape from the swamp.
The rest of the herd disappeared through the rubber trees and McWhirter
turned round to me, unfazed, he ejected the spent shell from his
magazine. He bent down to pocket the tell tale empty shell, then
straightened up with an evil smile.” Give us a hand wi’ that, we can have
a proper meal of that bugger when we get back” he said, indicating the
unlucky piggy. My frozen brain had started to function again, all it said
was a mental, ’What a cool wee bastard’.
I had actually been convinced I was about to breath my last and here he
was McWhirter, cool as hell, looking forward to a decent piece of pork
with plenty for all of us. I mentally awarded him a medal for valour. I was
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quite impressed until I noticed I was still pointing my rifle with rather
shaky hands at the jungle so I decided it would look rather cool if I
casually lowered it now. There was a lot of noise from the constant
shelling so one more rifle bang would not have been noticed. I managed
to return a conspiratorial grin to McWhirter, two could play it cool, you
know.
McNICOLLS TRIES TO WORK HIS TICKET!
Most of our guys adapted to the different qualities needed for jungle
warfare. However, there was the odd one or two who just seemed unable
to adjust and McNicolls was one of them. He was a wee guy who had
hung out with a bunch of troublemakers from Bonnyrig and I remembered
seeing him in that neighbouring town occasionally. He was no hard man
but there is safety in numbers and he used to belong to an unruly crowd
led by a constant trouble maker called Skin Purvis who was always being
banned or ejected from local dance halls.
A very good friend of mine, Gerry Scott, lived in nearby Rosewell and was
the manager for Border Dances, the company who ran most of the dance
hall activities in Scotland. Gerry had also served with The Kings Own
Scottish Borderers in Middle East trouble spots a couple of years before I
was called up.
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Gerry was an ex coal miner but had boxed his way up and out from
mining and reached the position of General Manager for Border Dances
where his organisation skills were appreciated, his skills as a fighter often
came into play in the dance business as well.
One night, Gerry had organised a ’Go as You Please’ night at the dance
hall in Rosewell. I should explain a Go as You Please night was when the
punters could dress up in fancy dress, ’as they pleased’. Anybody who
thought they were talented could apply to mount the steps to the stage
and volunteer to sing with the band or entertain in some way.
To be honest, it was rather an old fashioned country approach to an
evenings’ entertainment but, in those days, the band and the local people
used to join in the fun and ’a good time was had by all’, except for Skin
Purvis, he always seemed to be bearing a grudge about something or
other.
Gerry had spotted Purvis as he approached the hall. Tactful and fair as
always, Gerry had button holed him, told him he would be allowed
admission but he would be ejected the moment he caused any bother.
This usually worked with potential troublemakers. Gerry could command
respect, depending on the amount of alcohol already consumed before the
potential troublemaker had reached the dance hall. Gerry was only about
my height but there the similarity ended, he was built like a brick
shithouse plus, he had a real boxers nose acquired through many hard
won fights, not a man to be tangled with.
Skin Purvis and hangers on, including McNicolls, were admitted to the
dance hall and Gerry, who always entered into the spirit of the evening,
went off to change.
Gerry emerged to great cheers and whistles, dressed like an old fashioned
little old lady, complete with shawl and crowned with an old bonnet
perched on his head. The crowd loved it and Gerry played up to the
situation as well, everybody having fun till the ever watchful Gerry was
the first to see Purvis taking a swing at an innocent bystander in the
corner.
Quick as a flash, Gerry jumped from the stage, pounced on Purvis and
grabbed him before he could resist. He then frog marched the much
bigger yob straight to and through the exit door before anybody else
realised what was happening. Gerry was, of course, still dressed as an old
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lady and Purvis was the only one who could not see the humour of the
situation.
At that stage Purvis made his second mistake, as soon as he was released
outside the door he tried to take a swing at Gerry. Not a good idea, Gerry
punched him rapidly about the chest which started him reeling then
landed a head cracking punch which completed the job. Purvis staggered
backwards, collided with a low wall and completely disappeared over the
other side, just like the movies but this was for real.
As Gerry, still dressed in his ‘granny’ outfit, stood in the dark waiting to
see if Purvis was going to attempt a comeback, he heard laughing coming
from the darkness and two local cops appeared from round the corner,
helpless with laughter. They had been having a quiet smoke behind the
building when they saw what they took to be an old granny woman
bundling the local hard man trouble maker out of the building. ’Granny’,
still wearing the old bonnet, then concluded the evenings’ entertainment
by knocking Purvis clean over the low wall, the cops could hardly walk for
laughing.
The ’Go As You Please’ dance continued smoothly. The now leaderless
Purvis gang, McNichols among them, soon made their crestfallen exit to
commiserate with their fallen hero outside and things got back to normal
in the dance hall.
THE CRAZY CHICKEN COMES HOME TO ROOST.
About a year later we meet McNicols again, this time as a private with one
of our rifle companies in Malaya. He still yapped a lot, however, as one
old soldier remarked,’ He speaks all day and says nuthin’. This pretty
much summed up McNicolls as a loud but empty bag of wind.
McNicolls did not manage to adapt to jungle warfare at all, there were
reports of him displaying erratic behaviour when on patrol. This was not
an acceptable attitude when he had other soldiers relying on him for the
common safety in the jungle. There were even rumours of him being so
unnerved when detailed for patrol duties that his actions were possibly
signs that he was, ’ Trying to work his ticket’. This is an army expression
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to describe making one’s self unsuitable for army service on the grounds
of either physical or mental unsuitability for the army and possible
discharge from the service. I eventually heard the full story of McNicolls
disappearance from our ranks from another Penicuik friend, Jimmy Oliver
who was in the same rifle company.
It seemed McNicolls erratic behaviour was getting progressively worse as
the days went by. He had been disciplined for breaking the silence when
on jungle patrol, apparently he would suddenly start to bark like a dog
and sometimes would break into his cockerel impression. He would shout,
’Cock a doodle doo’, in a strange, high pitched voice, sending shivers
down the spines of his companions, goodness knows what it was doing to
any C.T’s who overheard him. I imagine the sound was something like the
noise a banshee would make although I have never actually heard a
banshee so I have no idea how one should sound, I can only hope the
C.T’s thought it was some sort of banshee too.
McNicolls last dramatic performance came during a foot patrol in the
jungle. This patrol was scheduled to last over a five day period but,
thanks to the mad chicken McNicolls, the schedule had to be suddenly
revised on the very first night.
I have probably mentioned just how quickly night falls in Malaya. It even
appears to happen a bit sooner in thick jungle. As a result, jungle soldiers
usually try to stop at any suitable spot before the light disappears to set
up camp for the night. They try to gain about half an hour’s light to allow
them to erect some primitive kind of shelter from the rain which descends
in torrents, particularly during the rainy season, the area is not called a
’rain forest’ for nothing.
On this first night of the patrol, perimeter guards were in position, the
rest of the guys had erected their individual ’bashas’ made from draping
one groundsheet on a makeshift basic roof structure made from branches.
Then, using the groundsheet belonging to his mate who was already on
guard, the ‘off duty’ guy would spread the other groundsheet over any
kind of grasses or moss available. When pushed for time before the inky
black night descended, they sometimes just laid the groundsheet on the
damp earth for the night to keep them above the wet ground. However,
where possible, the lads would try to make some kind of raised bed which
would hopefully keep them above ground and a bit further away from
slinking snakes, sneaky spiders and stinging scorpions.
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Forget any thoughts of a romantic Far East evenings, watching the stars
and moon and enjoying a back to nature experience. This is the thick,
wet, sticky, sweaty jungle, not the South Downs or some pretty camp site
beside the English Channel. It’s bloody Malayan jungle, usually with heavy
rain sheeting down, you are almost permanently soaking wet. Gazing at
the stars is totally out of the question as the forest around you is so thick
it makes any stargazing impossible. Leeches are usually also busy sucking
blood from various delicate parts of your fine young body but you can’t
see that kind of shite at all at night when the use of artificial light is
strictly forbidden. The treat in store for the victim with these loathsome
bastards already attached would have to wait till dawn break which would
provide enough light to disengage them.
All your senses are engaged listening to strange rustling sounds in the
pitch dark, is that sound being made by a slithering snake coming closer?
Apart from hearing the sounds from creeping things during the dark night
you can sometimes hear other sounds which could come from a different,
unseen, creature. This is tiger country after all. You have to hope none of
your mates on guard ’stag’ have dozed off when they should be listening
intently to these noises, it could be a bunch of heavily armed C.T’s
creeping towards your wee camp, intent on bloody murder. No wonder
daft McNicolls was trying to work his ticket to escape from this lunacy,
perhaps McNicolls was really going daft.
That particular first night on patrol the guys were making use of the few
minutes of daylight left to organise themselves for a long night ahead.
McNicolls was very busy too but he cut really thin branches, not suitable
for constructing a basha. Nobody noticed at first, they were all busy
making their own preparations before the sudden nightfall. McNicolls
appeared to be weaving the thin branches into a round shape rather than
building a normal basha as the other guys were doing.. Instead, he
seemed to be weaving what can only be described as a round nest.
When the walls of his nest reached about a foot high, McNicols stepped
into the middle of his construction, hunkered down, laid his head back
and broke into a loud ’Cock a doodle doo ’, routine in a loud, cackling,
crazy voice. He really was a daft chicken, coming back to his home made
nest to roost.
All hell broke out in the little encampment that night. The strictly enforced
rule of silence where all commands and communications were done in
mime had been disastrously broken. McNicolls was overpowered but what
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to do now? With this gibbering nutter on board, the patrol would have to
be abandoned and McNicolls would have to be escorted to the nearest
road to be picked up, under heavy escort, by a truck from the base camp
where a wireless message had just been sent. Roads were few and far
between in this jungle covered country, marching through the jungle to
try and find the rendezvous in the pitch black would just be asking for
trouble so the decision was made to head out at first light.
That was the last sight my friend Jimmy Oliver had of the now raving and
probably overacting McNicolls trying to ’ work his ticket’. The entire patrol
had to retrace their tracks next morning, board the truck requested over
the radio, return to base, get rid of McNicolls, complete an official report
concerning the trouble caused, replace McNicolls, then re-organise and
start another patrol all over again next day.
All this mumbo jumbo was due to McNicolls and his nonsense, not to
mention the dangerous situation he placed his comrades in by making
them all open to possible ambush as they had to retrace their tracks back
to the main highway. He was a complete waste of bloody time. He was
never really popular with the other guys but his, crazy chicken act, had
threatened the security of the rest of the patrol. I was told the other guys
now wanted to throttle the bastard.
McNicolls then joined the group of ’never seen again guys‘. I can only
assume his erratic behaviour had progressed to a real illness, he was
probably discharged and sent back to the U.K.
I was the only one to actually see him again while I was still in the
regiment, not in Malaya, but in Bonnyrig, Scotland, on my very last day of
military service before being demobbed the next morning.
After returning back to the U.K., we still had a few days to serve in the
army before we were released. A bunch of us gathered together for a
farewell drink at a pub in Edinburgh on our last official day of service. It
was our very last day being together and we were all a bit subdued with
our own thoughts, wondering and perhaps worrying about returning to
civilian life again. The evening was not really much fun and was actually
pretty boring. Our sense of humour seemed to evaporate as the evening
wore on until we thankfully had to break up to catch buses and return
home to various parts of the area. I decided to board a bus to Bonnyrig
where I knew there was a regular weekly dance on Wednesday night, I
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would see what the dance hall had to offer then catch the late bus back to
my home in Penicuik.
My visit to the dance hall proved to be a waste of time, so much for the
effect my attractive, world traveller tan had with the local girls. I think it
was because the lighting in the dance hall was a bit dim, that was my
excuse, but perhaps it was me that was really dim. Disappointed, I
wandered over to the bus stop to wait for the regular last bus to take me
home. Had a bit of a flashback as I approached the line of people waiting
by the street light for the bus, there was the troublemaker of old. Skin
Purves who featured in my story of the ‘Go as you please’ night at
Rosewell, he was drunk and lurching past the travellers waiting at the bus
stop, looking for any excuse to have a go at somebody.
Capering and whooping on the fringe of the old and still familiarly
obnoxious Purves gang was our ex friend Private McNicolls. Now in civilian
clothes, prancing, weaving and gibbering a load of shite into the
darkness, mad as a bloody hatter. He must have received an early
discharge from the army because he was not with the rest of us on the
troopship as we headed back to the U.K. We had all started with the
military at the same time, way back in Berwick on Tweed in 1955, but
McNicolls was not aboard the good ship Devonshire as we set sail for
home.
I stood there just out of sight of the lamplight, till the threatened trouble
passed, I had absolutely no desire to re-establish contact with this guy.
Piper Jock Winton and me, back at the hut, full of roast pork. You can see
the Gurkha crossed kukris on Jock’s sleeve.
Still full of roast pork. I am the good looking, well fed, one.
Above is picture of Corporal Derek ‘Basher’ Gillies, my supposed
adversary in shipboard physical exercise, but actually good friend. he is
accompanied by Jimmy Oliver, another old friend of mine, also from
Penicuik.
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This is a much damaged picture of my good mate Ray Reid from Jedburgh
who guided me through my formative years.
He claims the hole in this photo was from a round fired at him by a C.T.,
the photo was enclosed in a slim tin box in his shirt pocket where he kept
his fags dry. He swears it saved his life but I know for a fact the hole was
actually caused when one of his lit fags burned a hole in the picture, I told
him I had already heard several versions of that tale.
Makes a good story though, fags were ’easy come, easy go’. We had a
free issue of tins containing fifty cigarettes each week. I was a nonsmoker
and used to sell mine to a smoker buddy for one Straits dollar per week. I
even took a load of cigarettes with me as gifts for friends when I left for
home, walked right through customs at Southampton with the lot. Good,
healthy stuff! Some gift, some friend! It was all a bit different in those
days.
Ray Reid, my mate and somewhat guide through life’s mysteries.
JUNGLE SOLDIER
Let’s just put the romantic picture of the jungle soldier, portrayed by
Hollywood, firmly to rest.
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The life of the actual jungle soldier in the Malayan rain forest has
absolutely no connection with a nice countryside ramble, examining
interesting fauna and stopping for the occasional picnic. Picnic in the
woods it most certainly is not, although there were some soldier boys who
recalled the old BBC children’s radio broadcasts when we were growing up
during the second war. In my case the jolly song about the Teddy Bears
always came to mind, ’If you go down to the woods today, you’d better
go in disguise. If you go down to the woods today, your head might be
blown away’. It almost scans, anyway, we just loved to skip and run down
to the Malayan woods.
Survival in the jungle can be achieved provided you have the training and
experience to ensure said survival. All of us were sent in sizeable batches
to the Army Jungle Training course in Johore before being sent on active
service into Malaya. The short spell of jungle training on the course was
sure an eye opener for our bunch of mainly city boys from the streets of
Glasgow.
In our case the instructor was a lean and energetic sergeant who showed
us how to obtain drinking water from certain bamboo trees and also how
to locate edible snails and small animals for dinner. All of this was a bit of
a shock to any of our city bred guys who imagined dinner was obtained at
the local fish and chip shop back home. More recently our dinners were
provided by the inexperienced Army Catering ‘Corpse’ cooks back at our
isolated company outposts. The cookhouse was where these guys
excelled, they could take rations that started out as not very good food
then work their magic resulting in bloody awful grub. Even the bread had
crawling beasties inside it by the time it was offered to us. To be fair, the
’cooks’ may not have been responsible for the bread beasties which were
rumoured to be part of a communist plot. Who knows? Quite a few of us
began to long nostalgically for the edible snails back at the jungle school.
A few of us country bred boys had a slight advantage over the city boys.
Our crack shot and champion wild pig slayer McWhirter was a prime
example but even he would be at a disadvantage by having to soldier
through the jungle in complete silence. His rifle skills would be very useful
in a tight spot as he had already proved, however he was forbidden to use
his rifle to provide dinner. All of us, whether city or country bred, tended
to back off from consuming small animals or wee crawling insects.
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Most of us however, proved to be trainable when it came to constructing
temporary bashas to shelter from the torrential rain when trying to rest at
night on patrol.
The training on the jungle course did prove to be very useful to us
although the time allotted for training each of us was only about a weeks’
duration before we actually took ownership of our own slice of territory for
active jungle service.
Fortunately, our real spells of jungle patrolling usually lasted only for a
few days at a time, our emergency food rations were carefully organised
to be spread out among the patrol for conveyance and should be enough
to last for that length of time. Any unexpected increase in the patrol time
being extended for some reason necessitated in small groups of us not
actually on duty to be used as pack animals to carry in extra supplies on
foot, heading for a wireless arranged rendezvous area after being dropped
into the jungle from trucks on the nearest point of the road where contact
could be made within a day’s march and allow time for the suppliers to
return to the road for pickup before nightfall if possible.
JUNGLE SOLDIERS
What our guys feared most in the jungle was not an ambush by the CT’s
but an attack by a tiny little animal called a leech. This loathsome,
abominable creature could insert its tiny self into your clothing and even
through eyelets in our jungle boots with the driving instinct to reach
human flesh. This is where the expression, ’Hanging on like a leech’,
comes from. These creepy little bastards would attach their almost
invisible selves to your flesh, sometimes in the most sensitive areas of
your body, take their fill of your blood till detached with difficulty from
your person. By that time they looked for all the world like fat, slimy
slugs, (the leeches - not the guys.) My stomach never failed to lurch
whenever I discovered any leeches attached to my body, bloated and
satiated with my very own, precious blood. You could wait till the bloody
things sucked their fill then they let go and slithered away but none of us
could ever wait that long with some of these creatures hanging from
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various delicate parts of the body. The detaching operation sounds simple
but was in fact a very tedious and revolting operation for us to perform
daily as soon as we stopped somewhere to rest for the night. If the
bloody thing was simply pulled of when it was feeding, its body could
leave the firmly attached mouth part still in position on your skin causing
the blood to continue to flow even when creature had been apparently
dealt with. The leech would already have injected its chosen feeding area
on your skin with an anti-coagulating element to keep the blood flowing
freely, all very horrible and messy. The quickest way to get the bloody
thing away from your person was to bum a lit fag from a mate, but not to
smoke, (wee play on words there), you applied the lit end of the cigarette
to the attached leech, then you might get a little satisfaction as the
creature shriveled and let go quickly. I always offered to return the still lit
fag to the donor but the return was often refused depending on how
many fags the donor had left in his damp packet. You just had to hope
the bloody shriveled horror would leave your groin or other tender parts
without bursting. ’Oh the army life is the life for me’!
I believe there exists, but never saw, a species of squirrel that can fly and
also a reptile called the gliding snake which can propel itself at you from
the jungle canopy above, pause here for a violent shudder.
Apart from lead, gliding snakes and suicidal squirrels flying through the
air at you, there were other dangers all around. Thankfully we had all
been successfully inoculated during initial basic training against the
unspeakable Far Eastern horrors such as, Beriberi, black-water fever,
cholera, dysentery and other ghastly diseases. That was the day during
our initial training when our brave muscle man Nesbit passed out cold at
the prospect of being injected with the powerful T.A.B. drug. He was still
out cold when his inert body travelled back down the stairs being
manhandled hand to hand over our apprehensive heads. He was soon to
join the ‘never to be seen again’ club.
Malaria was dealt with when we paraded to receive and swallow our daily
dose of anti-malaria tablets under supervision every morning. As far as I
know, there is no injection available to guard against flying lead. You
must take your chances with that problem. However, there are other
delights still available in the wet and humid jungle. Ulcerated legs used to
be quite common, scratch these legs at your peril. Some light relief could
be obtained when anybody developed tinea. This is a fungus which
usually affects damp and sweaty parts of the body, it is similar to
ringworm. It usually attacked the groin and could be cured after a fashion
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when the M.O. applied a bright purple ointment by painting it generously
onto the affected area. This caused lots of merriment when the afflicted
party hit the showers in the morning, jolly shouts of,” Hey, Purple Balls”
etc. Oh, how we laughed. Morning showers were, of course, not available
on jungle patrol, you just have to stink till you get back to base. No M.O.
available in the jungle either. You have to wait to reach base at the end of
your patrol where the regimental doctor is scheduled to visit about once a
week. Too bad if you arrived back at camp too late and have just missed
the MO’s visit.
I never looked forward to bed time when on patrol. For starters there was
no bed to snuggle into. You were very lucky if you had managed to find
any vegetation that was not wet or at least damp on which to lay your
pretty head. There was no opportunity for real sleep. We had to share
sentry duty in pairs in case anybody dropped off to sleep for a few
minutes while on guard. The rest of the guys were laughingly referred to
as being, ’Off duty’, and allowed to sleep for a couple of hours, a luxury
which was bloody near impossible anyway.
Well, I don’t know about you, but I always seem to fall over little bits and
pieces in my night life that might seem a wee bit odd to other people.
There was the time when I saw the ghostly black thing standing at the
end of my bed that night in Selerang barracks in Singapore. It frightened
me shitless but I think I have almost convinced myself it could have been
old Bushti beside himself with drink roaming around our billet in the
moonlight. The only problem was this scary thing was not blundering
about the room in the darkness, it just stood (I am assuming it had feet)
silent and stationary at the foot of my bed. Oh, and the other thing, it had
no head!
I still swear I saw a phantom black dog at twilight one evening at the
Neolithic stone circle in Avebury, Wiltshire. In some parts of England this
seemingly flesh and blood animal is called, Black Shuck, it looks real but it
ain’t. At first I thought it was a big black Labrador scratching a hole in the
ground beside the huge man made ditch ramparts where I was standing.
As I watched it very slowly started to disappear into the ground, Must be
a big hole was my only thought at the time. It’s owner will give it hell
when he sees the mess it’s in was my other thought but there was no
sign of any owner around and I could see the whole empty field from
where I was. Actually, I still thought I had been watching a real dog
although with the failing light I could not get a clear look at it. The other
problem was, it did not seem to really be digging, it just started to merge
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into the earth with no movement. I guess I was in the right place at the
ancient Neolithic site to see a phantom happening. The hole into which I
assumed the black dog had disappeared, appeared to have been a
phantom hole as well. I made a point of driving back that way when it
was light next morning, I stopped the car and walked over to examine the
exact spot where I had seen the dog disappear slowly into the earth.
Nothing there but undisturbed green grass, not even a tiny rabbit hole.
Will try to stop rabbiting on, don’t really know why I am telling you about
these weird things, I guess I am trying to stress that I am just an
ordinary guy like everybody else but I have started to confess that
perhaps I am a wee bit on the weird side so I must finish with my most
recent scary happening. It was in the wild west of the United States in
Colorado where I lived for some years. I had a two bedroom apartment
with a cute circular iron stair leading up to the second bedroom and
bathroom upstairs. I was living alone except for my half Siamese cat
called Sable. I had inherited Sable from a lady friend who had decided to
move back to her home state to look after her ageing father.
I admit, I had been to my favourite Irish pub that evening to have a few
brews but nothing to excess and had returned home to feed Sable and
then watch a bit of TV. I eventually retired to bed in the first floor room
with Sable settling down in her usual spot at the end of my bed. I put the
light out about 2 or 2.30 a.m. and could still see Sable nestled at the end
of the bed for there was a bright Colorado moon shining through the big
bedroom window. It was then I heard a faint tapping coming from
downstairs, I had heard this for a few previous evenings and assumed it
was caused by the single mother who had the apartment underneath me.
The tapping was like the sounds made in these apartment buildings when
residents wanted to hang framed photographs on the wall. Due to the
different style of building in the US where the walls were mainly
plasterboard, all you had to do was tap a picture holder nail into the
plasterboard in the desired position, then hang your framed picture, job
done. What I could not understand was why she seemed to tap away at
her wall late at night, I guessed it was probably because she had just
returned after a late shift at work, but the regular tapping always seemed
to start around 2.30 a.m. which I thought was a little bit inconsiderate
and decided to have a word with her about this next day. It was then I
recalled I had seen her driving off with her young daughter to drop her off
with her parents who lived in the area. Caroline worked in security at
Denver International airport and frequently had to work through the
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night, on these nights she always left her daughter at her parent’s house.
I was alone in the building that night.
I sat up in the moonlight and heard the faint tapping growing in intensity,
the noise got bolder and, even worse, it started moving towards my level
and I could soon even pin point it to the bottom of the far end of the wall.
I saw Sable at that end of my big bed slowly sit upright, her back was
now arched, the hackles on her fur quite visibly raised. The volume of the
tapping now changed to a loud banging as if someone was on the other
side of the wall, it now started to approach us along the base of the wall
getting even louder as it came. Sable have a loud hiss, leapt from the bed
and fled through the open doorway into the front room leaving me to face
whatever it was all by myself. I copied Sable by leaping off the bed but
stood my ground bravely, shaking with fear, clad only in my non
protective short tee shirt, bare bum and feet ready for instant flight.
The thing in the wall seemed to anticipate my plan for flight, before I
could get up my nerve to attempt an exit which involved me having to run
down the side of the bed towards whatever this bloody thing was then
make a quick left towards the open door and ofski to the other room to
hide under the chair if Sable would make room for me. It started to get
even louder and began to move, crashing at the wall all the way to the
door thereby cutting off my escape altogether as I would almost have to
touch the wall at that very point when I crashed through the open
doorway.
At this point I had had enough, my temper rose to such a point that it
overflowed, temporarily flooding my fear to one side. Unaware of my
ridiculous state of undress, I drew myself to my full height of 5’ 7” to
shout, ’ Ya bastard, get tae fuck away from me’, my Scottish accent
seems to come on a bit strong under stress. There was a very brief
hesitation in the hammering. It then switched locations by jumping
several feet across the room into the little cupboard beside the door.
From there it gave three very loud bangs against the cupboard door then
- silence. Before my courage had time to dissolve I marched to the
cupboard and wrenched the door open to disclose the vacuum cleaner and
couple of winter jackets I normally kept there, nothing else. I notice I
have started to refer to the ‘thing’ as ‘it’, don’t know what else to do.
I was aware of the German word poltergeist, meaning ’noisy ghost’ but
this was the first time I had encountered such a thing. I went through to
the front room and tried to tempt Sable to come out from under the chair
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but it seemed she had had enough, ’the lady was not for turning’. I went
back to my now peaceful bedroom but did have enough courage to put
the light out, nor did sleep come easily that night and for a few more
nights after that.
I went to Happy Hour at the Irish Pub next day after work, met my
French Canadian buddy Daniel and could not wait to tell him about my
mysterious and scary adventure. Daniel listened quietly to what I had to
say. To my surprise he did not disbelieve my weird tale and told me he
was well aware these sort of things could happen. He then reached up to
his left ear to unscrew an ear ring he always wore there. The ring was in
the shape of a cross which I had never thought odd in any way, Daniel
was a good Roman Catholic guy and I am sure his mother was proud. He
handed the cross to me saying, “This has been blessed by the priest at
my local church, I want you to borrow it for a few days, keep it with you
till things quiet down in your apartment”. He pressed it into my hand and,
quite honestly, I never let go of the bloody thing for a whole week, even
went to bed every night clutching it in my palm, still leaving the light to
shine brightly every night just in case. Funny thing, a couple of days after
I returned his blessed cross to him, he pulled something out of his pocket
one day then opened his hand to let me look. It was his cross, now
mysteriously broken in two pieces, strange. I guess accidents can happen
but for it to suddenly to break like that seems a bit odd don’t you think.
I realise I have wittered away for a bit to relate a few seemingly unrelated
tales, however, these stories have an odd connection to an experience I
had when on patrol in the jungle one night.
As usual night fell quickly in the jungle, our sentries had been posted so
the rest of us bedded down for a couple of hours till it would be our turn
to squat, in the pitch dark, silent and alone in the wet undergrowth on
sentry stag. Ears straining, every nerve jangling, waiting to hear
something, every slight noise seeming suspicious, could be caused by
anything.
It was then that we all started to hear a noise but it was certainly not
slight. Nor was it coming from our ground level, it was happening directly
above us. I was aware none of the other guys were asleep, the jangling
nerves had taken care of that. Of course, we were not allowed to break
our silence and risk giving our position away so we could not
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communicate by talking nor could we make hand signals as it was pitch
black so we all just waited, scared shitless, wondering what in hell was
moving around unseen in the canopy above us.
We were right in tiger country here although none of us had ever seen
one except back in Scotland in Edinburgh zoo. For my part I was
frantically trying to remember what little I knew about these animals
except they were certainly man eaters, sometimes sneaking into
settlements in rural India to drag away the occasional human dinner to be
enjoyed at their leisure. After all, India was just up the road from here if
you allow for the rather sketchy memories of school geography lessons
when the teacher seemed to be trying to impart knowledge to us which
we were sure would be of no further use to us in later life. Too late now
for wracking your wee brain Wishart, was all I could come up with. My
next daft thought was wondering if it was the tiger or the leopard that
could climb up into trees although I had a nagging feeling the leopard
might be the clever tree climber. Didn’t the leopard hang out in Africa
though? I was really wishing I had paid more attention to Mrs Patterson
our ever optimistic but frequently disappointed geography teacher.
I did remember the Orang Utang was found in Asia but mainly located in
Borneo which was fairly near here. We had trackers from Sarawak here
with the regiment but not one of them was with us that night, where was
a head hunter when you needed one? As far as I knew, the Orang Utang
was not to be found in this country. I had seen pictures of this animal and
I thought a full grown male would be about the size of whatever the
’thing’ was, rustling unseen in the trees just above us.
I am willing to bet that none of the sweaty soldiers around me had ever
heard of a Orang Pendek except for me. This fabled ape like creature was
seldom seen, just like my American Indian friend of that name in
Colorado.
It may even have been the reason for the old expression, ‘the wild man of
Borneo’, strongly rumoured to be the missing link between ape and man.
Common sense was now, oot the windie as far as my daft imagination
was concerned, my poor eyes were straining in the darkness trying to
identify whether the invisible creature was friend or foe. Of course, sleep
was now also oot the windie for me although whatever the ’thing’ was, it
gradually moved away during the night and I could tell by the heavy
breathing around me that my companions, unburdened with much
imagination, were now catching up with some shut eye.
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Lucky for them I was still alert and watchful. I gripped my rifle and stared
into the night, just like a battery I was, Ever Ready. I managed to stay
awake, alert and ready for action till daybreak, just an overgrown Boy
Scout employing my bush craft skills taught by Baden Powell in his
manual ‘Scouting for Boys’. Never did get a wink of bloody sleep that
night.
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THE SECURITY TIDE TURNS A WEE BIT IN OUR DIRECTION.
Due to a piece of inspired thinking from a forward looking military type. A
decision was made to hit the terrorists where it would really hurt, in the
stomach or, as we would call it, the breadbasket.
The decision had actually been made a couple of years before our arrival
in Malaya but results were now showing quite clearly in the levels of
terrorism through the country.
The ’bread basket’ idea was really quite simple. Since the time of the
Japanese occupation, the Chinese terrorists had always obtained their
food from local peasants whether the peasants were willing or not. A
method for cutting or at least reducing these food supplies was
implemented. This was achieved by throwing a secure fence around every
rural village, called kampongs, in the country. A kind of curfew on the
natives was installed in as much as all villagers had to be home by a
certain time in the evening when the entrance gate was locked and
patrolled by armed guards.
This method was not totally effective in cutting off all food supplies to the
C.T’s. A heavily armed attack would certainly overrun any small guard
force guarding the village, but would have to cause a great alarm to be
set off to alert the British army now spread out all over the Malay
Peninsula.
Results of this security action could now be seen, food supplies and
important medical supplies to the terrorists were being very much
reduced. The C.T’s even had to start their own vegetable gardens by
clearing spaces in the middle of the jungle, these gardens were hidden as
much as possible then they would have to tend them regularly to produce
vegetables. I imagine this must have pissed them off quite a bit as it was
using precious time which they could have spent more productively by
carrying out ambush actions, more their style really.
OH - AN ACTORS LIFE FOR ME.
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Strangely enough, the trend in making the natives live in secure
kampongs provided an unexpected benefit for us. I was sent with a small
patrol to keep an unobtrusive eye on a kampong not too far from one of
our outposts. The guard was provided by soldiers of the Malay Regiment
but even they were not informed of our sneaky visit, we just wanted to
check and see how things were progressing.
We set up our basic little camp for another uncomfortable night just
before nightfall then four us were detailed to approach the secure
kampong to see what was going on. We had chosen to camp near a
narrow path through the woods which was used by the local labour force
during the day time. It was, of course, deserted at night (we hoped so
anyway), and my well armed foursome used the path to advance quietly
to reach the village then stay hidden for a couple of hours to check things
out for security before returning.
I am so glad I was chosen as one of the four spies. As we got closer to
the kampong we could hear the distinctive Chinese music, it was pretty
loud and did not seem like a radio programme. We were aware we should
not get too close in case the village dogs sensed our nearby presence,
they would figuratively, ’Blow the whistle’, by setting up a loud racket of
barking and our covert cover would be blown.
We found a secluded vantage position where we had a pretty clear view of
the lamp lit village, just far enough away not to alert the dogs. One area
was very brightly lit, the light and the loud and very impressive music
was coming from a travelling Chinese theatre with their own group of
musicians and actors dressed in traditional style. The actors were putting
on quite a show for the captive villagers who were loving it. They were
not the only ones, I was enjoying it as well, could not understand the
language of course but I didn’t need to. The acting was so dramatic and,
to me, overacted but this was just their style, rather like the over acting
in the old silent movies. The whole drama being unfolded to wild, scary
music accompanied by sudden cymbal crashes and wild shouts, it was
great. I was very reluctant when our allocated two hours was up, we had
to leave the fun and creep away along the narrow path in the dark to
reach our overnight camp, what a great experience for me. This was the
type of thing I had hoped to see.
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WEE SPOT OF LEAVE
We returned to our happy wooden home to receive good news, we were
all due to take two weeks leave, quite a nice surprise as I had no idea we
had any leave time due. However, when I actually considered the news, it
did seem to be a long time since the leave I had enjoyed way back at the
end of basic training in 1955.
The army had decided the Pipes and Drums should all take two weeks off
at the same time which made sense really but what were we to do as we
were all stuck in this bumfuck no-man’s land, somewhere in Johore State,
Malaya.
WHERE THERE’S A WILL ETC.
One bright thinking guy suggested applying for rail passes to Singapore.
Easily done, the clerk who worked in the orderly office would do that for
us, better still, it would not cost us a penny or Straits dollar, our currency
at the time.
Where to stay was next problem, none of us was exactly flush with money
and we had no warning to try to save any, problem solved again as we
would each be paid our two week’s leave money in advance before
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leaving. If any of us gave a thought about how would we live when the
cash ran out before the leave ended, that thought was immediately
brushed under our non existant carpet. The only remaining problem was
where could we find a suitable place to live if we went to Singapore?
Nobody had a clue about how to tackle this particular problem, maybe we
could just turn up at our old barracks to see if we could stay there for a
couple of weeks.
It all sounded a bit haphazard to me but one old hand who had been
round the block a time or two solved the problem. He recalled a still
existing relic from the old British Empire, we could stay at a Sandes Home
for Soldiers. “What’s a fuckin’ Sandes Home for Soldiers”? This wail came
from a profane young soldier. He was quickly reprimanded by the old
hand who was, after all, a full corporal, demanding some respect. “It’s a
place run by fuckin’ Christians you fuckers, so show some respect”.
We learned, (not from the corporal, I had to do some checking up on this
myself) Sandes Homes for Soldiers was founded in 1869. Named after its
founder (bless her), Miss Elsie Sandes. During the 1800’s, she started a
soldier’s coffee room in Tralee, County Kerry, Ireland. This country was a
fertile recruiting area for the British Army at that time but has come a
long way since then.
Sandes Homes were to be found in Africa, India, Malaya, Singapore, Hong
Kong, Jamaica, Iceland and, for some reason, France, this last probably
because of the 1st world war, anywhere British Soldiers were stationed.
We learned there was a Sandes Home in Singapore. The Homes provided
affordable bed and breakfast accommodation for the lads and were
efficiently and charmingly run, as we were about to find out, by small,
very select groups of refined, elderly ladies. Rather like the sweet, slightly
older British ladies often depicted in the old Ealing comedy movies of the
late forties and fifties.
It was decided we would all head for Singapore to stay at Sandes Home
for Soldiers, this turned out to be a very fortunate choice. The home in
Singapore had a rather imposing entrance and reception area leading to a
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great swimming pool which was surrounded by very comfortable
accommodation for up to four persons to a room.
We quickly split up into the four persons currently sharing bed space in
our happy, wooden home. I was to share with Pipers, Jock Winton, Lance
Corporal Les McKinley and our ’old hand’, Corporal Dan Grant.
SANDES SOLDIERS HOME SINGAPORE.
Here is a photo Dan took of me, Les and Jock arriving at Sandes Home for
Soldiers, entrance looks a bit swanky. I am the good looking one, wearing
unfortunately fashionably wide bottom trousers. Some followers of fashion
may notice waists were a bit higher then.
These are all pics of good, clean fun. After all, we were on holiday in
steamy, sweaty and hopefully wicked Singapore, I was sending all my
photos directly back for Mummy to see, what did you expect to find here?
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What a great place we had chosen to stay. True, it was (still is) a
Christian establishment but, unlike some other so called Christian
establishments, nobody questioned what you did or where you did it
(thank goodness) or pushed unwanted literature under the door of your
room. In fact, I can’t recall anybody bothering us in any way and all of
the ladies who ran the place were very sweet and kind, probably a lot like
the mothers some of our guys would have gladly swapped for their own
mothers. I even borrowed a pair of scissors from one dear, helpful lady,
have you noticed scissors keep popping up in my memoirs?
It was like this, I had purchased a pair of denim trousers in a Singapore
street market, I don’t think they were being called jeans at that time,
probably work overalls or something. I liked to style myself as a follower
of fashion so I had a bright idea to cut the pants legs off with a pair of
scissors, yet to be borrowed from the sweet lady mentioned above, I
would then be the proud possessor of a pair of denim shorts which I
imagined would establish me as a kind of trend setter, a real dedicated
fashion follower.
Alas, it was not to be, I really did not like the look of the new shorts I had
created, even after I had jumped into the swimming pool wearing the
bloody things. I was possibly not quite sober at the time but that did not
improve the way they looked, strands of material from the scissor cut
area started to hang down exactly as the fashionable look came to be
years later when worn by the trend setters.
Unfortunately, I could not see into the future but was destined not to be a
trendy fashion pioneer so I threw the bloody things into the trash bin
regretting my waste of money instead. The nineteen sixties would have to
wait for someone else to set the trend when the time was right, just like
my attempt to be a great and much in demand lover, my chance came
and went at the same time as my first attempt to prove I was a love
machine, something like a damp squib really.
To cheer myself up I suggested a group visit to the Tiger Balm Garden, I
had passed the ornate entrance to this delight but had no idea what Tiger
Balm meant. Once again there was a cry of, ‘What’s the fuckin’ Tiger
Balm Garden ?’ Nobody else seemed to know anything about this balm
thing either although some guy claimed to have seen something about it
in a local pharmacy at Changi village once.
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The four of us decided to pay the Gardens a visit to see what it was all
about. Actually, we really enjoyed the trip, place was full of Chinese
fables with actual size figures displayed in a way totally unfamiliar to us
Jocks.
IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT AND I JUST GOT PAID.
It was the first Saturday of our two week’s leave in Singapore when Jock
Winton requested an urgent meeting to discuss fiscal matters, we each
dug deep into our pockets to extract what seemed to be a much dwindled
cash situation. Not one of us had in excess of $20.00 even if we pooled all
our funds the total would barely reach $100.00. I am, of course, dealing
with Straits dollars, not American dollars which have a greater value.
We still had a full week to go, what to do? Luckily, we had paid for our
two weeks accommodation up front but we really would be in a tight spot
financially for our second week in Singapore and we were hoping to have
a Saturday night on the town this evening.
It seems financial planning was not a strong point among bagpipe
players, even if we pooled our remaining cash for food, we would be
having slim pickin’s for the week till we could use our rail warrants to get
back to our safe, wee, wooden hut in Johore where the army would
supply accommodation and food of some kind at no charge. This fiscal
brush with civilian life came with a jolt which underlined how even we
young, conscripted soldiers had come to rely on the military for
everything. Release back to civilian life might come as a shock to some of
conscripts after even only two years army life. What effect it had on
regular soldiers who had served for years before finishing their stint with
the secure if rather Spartan military style of life must have been
incomprehensible to some, they would need to find work, pay for their
food and accommodation without having any experience in coping with
this type of situation before, some of these guys had perhaps even
enlisted for boys service in the army, straight from an orphans home.
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The army was a kind of mum and dad for these guys, facing up to civilian
life when eventually released by the military must have been horrendous
to some of them. What could the future hold for people like old Willie the
monkey man, I shuddered to think.
Once again our reliable old hand Danny Grant seemed to offer a faint
glimmer of hope” We could try Housey, Housey tonight,” he suggested.
“What the fuck’s housey, housey”? I bleated, already beginning to regret
mixing with bloody pipers.
You could rely on drummers every time. You might perhaps, not know
where you were geographically with drummers when operating under the
influence of strong drink. Improvising came into play quite frequently with
drummers, particularly with pubs. At least you could rely on being able to
enjoy a few beers with drummers while having fun, wherever you
wandered.
This puts me in mind of my first engagement with Penicuik Pipes and
Drums about a year or so before I received my invitation to give up the
soft civilian life to join Her Majesties armed forces.
I was about sixteen or seventeen then, had just been accepted into the
drum section as, I am convinced, a bit of a novelty. I worked at that time
in the sales office at a local paper mill while the rest of the drummers
were employed as coal miners. The other difference was I was a Church
of Scotland Presbyterian while the other drummers were all of the Roman
Catholic persuasion. This might not seem like much of a difference to you
but this was Scotland in the early 1950’s when there was quite a
difference, not exactly ferocious as a Northern Ireland difference but fairly
normal for Scotland at that time. I am quite sure I was being quietly
described by the other drummers as, ‘A wee Proddy’, meaning one of the
Protestant persuasion. I, in turn, thought of the others as, ’Left footers‘,
Pape’s or Roman Catholics.
That particular day of my acceptance into the drum corps was to take
place on the following Saturday.The Penicuik Pipes and Drums were
booked for the entire day to play at the Shotts Town Miners Gala Day.
The coal miners, accompanied by their wives and kids, were travelling by
train to Galashiels in the Scottish Borders, not even remotely like
Singapore City but I thought you might like to hear about my baptism
into the music world and Galashiels was where my baptism took place.
We gathered together on the morning of the Miners Gala trip outside a
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local pub. Leaving a committee member outside to guard our collection of
assorted drums and pipe cases stacked on the pavement. We nipped into
the pub for a quick couple of pints before leaving to play the Shotts Town
Miners and families to the train station. Of course, being only sixteen,
under the legal age for drinking, there was a good chance I could be
refused to be served with a manly pint of beer which could lead to me
losing face with the other guys. I had no clue what I should ask for when
it came to my turn to be served, I merely tagged along with the entire
pipe band, after all, we were all dressed in the kilt and all the gear of
hairy socks and military looking jackets. Our dark green jackets actually
were ex army gear, bought in a cheap job lot when the pipe band was
being formed just after the end of the second war. I was mingling with
the best of the manly types when we lined up at the bar to be served by
the solitary and very busy young lady working behind the bar. I listened
carefully to try and remember what the other guys were ordering as I did
not want to draw attention to my real age. ’Pint ’o Heavy’, was the
universal request as the girl worked her way individually along the thirsty
crowd. She would take each order, pull the pint of heavy beer(I later
found out ‘heavy’ indicated a strong beer, what was I to know?) she
would then take the money before turning to the next needy customer. I
came to my turn, I leant on the bar, striking a manly pose and said, ’ Pint
’o heavy’, just like all the others but my voice was still at the adolescent
stage when it would slide unexpectedly from rather a low baritone to a
high pitched squeak without any warning. Unfortunately, it chose that
very moment to reach for the high notes which attracted the attention of
all the guys around me. Thank goodness the girl serving the drinks was
so busy with the unexpected crowd of kilted men that morning, she shot
me a funny look but took my money anyway before moving on to the
next customer, I was in, woo hoo!!
On arrival at Galashiels we were to detrain (love that word).We would fall
in again to lead the parade to a local recreation park which had been
booked for the day, it was arranged we would play for their entertainment
at intervals during the happy day. Might not seem like much of anybodies
idea of entertainment but it used to be quite an event in the Scotland of
the early 1950’s.
Our leading drummer had to cancel his trip at the last minute, due to a
family affair and the guys had voted to have me join them for the first
time that day, to see how I would fit in with the rest. Our leading
drummer lent me his kit to wear for my big first day, it fitted more or less
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and I was accepted although my squeaky beer ordering style was
mimicked for the rest of the day, a small price to pay.
I had actually served quite a long, unofficial, apprenticeship with Penicuik
Pipes and Drums without ever being offered a chance to play with these
guys. Now I was accepted as one of them.
I was not quite sure what their objection had been, possibly they
expected me to get fed up attending their weekly practise sessions and
eventually I might just bugger off to leave them alone. They gathered
weekly in an unheated pavilion located right in the centre of an also
unheated public park over which the cruel Scottish winter wind used to
blow unceasingly, probably still does.
At the early stage hanging around the band I was not yet allowed access
to an actual snare drum. My practicing was done on a wooden table. I
guess the real drummers were trying to piss me off and perhaps, just
perhaps they thought I would just go away and stop attending. No
chance, I was made of stern stuff in those days.
How the pipers managed to play their chanters with frozen fingers in the
freezing winters was a mystery to me, however, I noticed the attendance
numbers of pipers used to fall a wee bit during the winter months.
Drummers, of course are a different breed, all the good, catholic lads
attended faithfully every week, they did the same thing every week at the
Catholic Chapel, I know because their church was in the next street to
mine.
They had all probably got drunk as usual on Saturday night, more than
likely some of them had probably had falling out sessions, usually
resolved by punching hell out of each other if Protestants were a bit thin
on the ground that night. But, come Sunday, they gathered at the chapel
early morning, black eyes seemingly immune to the freezing winter
weather, all together again to confess their misdoings from the night
before to their priest.
Their bad behavior absolved, everyone friendly once more, they would
then make their way up to the Gamblers Wood as everybody called that
remote wooded area at the time. There they would join the regular
Sunday afternoon gambling session with their coal miner friends engaged
on gambling their wages away in some mysterious, illegal games
involving throwing coins in a circle or some other forbidden activity.
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This ritual would take up all afternoon till tea time when they would head
home for a bite to eat. When evening came it was time to head for a
couple of pints at the pub, however, they still had to overcome the
drinking ban as local hotels were not allowed to serve any local residents
on Sundays.
Hotels, as most drinking establishments were called in Scotland, were
forbidden by law from serving residents of the town on Sundays. Only
bona fide travellers could be served a refreshment, this Sunday service
was only offered to any weary travellers passing through town on the
Sabbath, provided they qualified by travelling for at least three miles to
get there and signing their name in an official type ledger type book
thoughtfully provided. There was usually a pencil fastened securely to a
string, which usually dangled from a hook on the wall above the signing in
book at the entrance.
This outdated law was easily circumvented by resorting to the efficient
local bus service which, by coincidence no doubt, had a good supply of
buses running from somewhere to somewhere else but always for about
three miles distant at that vitally important opening time only to repeat
the whole charade in the opposite direction at closing time. The whole
activity was pointless as far as I was concerned for very few of so called,
‘hotels’, were actually residential anyway.
Our Sunday night travellers were a serious bunch of dedicated drinking
travellers. Actually staying overnight at any of the hotels was never even
considered or, in most cases, not even possible. Lots of the pubs in
Scotland are called, ’hotels’ although they are totally without
accommodation for weary travellers.
I remember police would make occasional visits to these hotels to make
sure the law was being observed. It was not clear if the constable ever
checked to establish if any of these thirsty travellers was signed into the
ledger book as Mr. M. Mouse or the other frequent visitor, Mr. D. Duck.
That was a mystery usually contemplated thoughtfully while the polis
enjoyed a complimentary pint of beer while standing discreetly in the
shadows.
I eventually must have somehow convinced the drummers that they
would not be sent straight to catholic hell if they allowed me, a heathen
Protestant, to play with the band so I was happily present on that sunny
day in Galashiels at the Miners Gala Day.
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I was really pleased to be accepted by these guys and had a great time
marching up and down on the grass, bagpipes wheezing, drums beating
etc. this was great.
Nearly each member of the pipes and drums was a coal miner so all their
mates were there, I admired the way they all joined in on sporting events
and games. There were also special games and activities for the wives
and kids, I was included in everything that was going on and felt rather
grown up for the first time in my life.
I must have still been feeling very grown up that afternoon because I
agreed to join the entire drum section when they decided to ‘just slip
away for a wee while’ to have a couple of quick pints on that hot, sunny
day. Well, it seemed like a hot, sunny day to us in windy Scotland.
We melted quietly away from the crowd to materialise at a nearby pub
just outside the busy park where the pints of beer were soon lined up on
the bar before being sunk gratefully by the entire drum section.
I was having a great time, drinking pints with the grown up’s, having
been assured by the more experienced guys that our main show was
over, all we had to do was to play the entire parade back to the railway
station at the end of the afternoon which would not take place for ages
yet, we could, and did, relax.
I was only about sixteen as I have mentioned before and a bit younger
than the rest of the guys which might explain why I also seemed to be a
bit more relaxed than the others after the intake of several pints of
‘McEwans Heavy’ beer. I did not even think it strange when, sometime
later, I remarked that I thought I could hear some bagpipes playing. The
other guys were all busy singing a song I had never heard before, I could
not join in with them as I didn’t know the words but I could still hear the
pipes playing and they seemed to be getting louder so I again drew their
attention to this noise.
“Oh shite, that’s oor pipes ya daft bastard” cried one of the other
drummers. There was a Mack Sennet type of mass exodus, with bodies
colliding in the doorway. We emerged, swaying slightly and blinking in the
late afternoon sun to see several members of the committee struggling
awkwardly in our direction. Each trying to carry several drums at the
same time, all staggering clumsily towards the pub where they had
guessed correctly, we were taking refreshment.
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They were followed by Penicuik Pipes but minus Drums, marching bravely
at the head of the procession without the assistance of even one
drummer.
We grabbed our drums, quickly clicked them into position on our drum
slings and slipped rather unsteadily into our familiar place at the rear of
the band where we joined in marching, playing as if nothing out of place
had happened. I was unaware then of my future advice which would come
from Sergeant Fleming during my basic army training. “Never forget.
Wishart”, he would say, “Bullshit baffles brains”. Simple, homespun
advice, however, it always turned out somehow, to be good advice,
extremely useful during any stressful situations.
However, back to the matter in hand, I was still ignorant regarding the
question of Housey, housey. Luckily, Corporal Dan explained it all to me.
Dan was a regular soldier, he must have been all of perhaps twenty six,
or thereabouts but we all regarded Dan as an ’old sweat’. If we had any
problems we went straight to Dan for advice or guidance. Dan explained
to me, Housey, housey was an army game played regularly on Thursdays
and Saturdays at the Union Jack Club in, not only Singapore, but at Union
Jack clubs worldwide.
Apparently, the club authorities held sessions where members bought
slips of paper, each printed with different sets of numbers. Armed with a
pencil, they would all sit at tables in a fairly big hall where a committee
member would call out random numbers obtained from numbered rubber
balls as they spilled out regularly from a rotating drum.
The contestants would check off any number on their sheet which
corresponded to a number being called out by the committee member
from the number on the rubber ball as they individually exited from the
rotating drum.
The contestant who managed to cross out all his or her numbers first
would call out loudly, “House”, all activity ceased as another member
checked the winning numbers with the caller, if the numbers all checked
out successfully, prize money would be paid out to the winner then the
whole game would start over again and so on.
Dan reckoned the prize money could be a fair amount according to how
many people were in attendance, he understood Saturdays attracted a
fairly big crowd. This was a Saturday, 6p.m had arrived. Unfortunately it
arrived unaccompanied by any other bright ideas regarding any
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improvement to our fiscal situation. Housey, housey seemed to be the
only chance for making money our brain storming had come up with. We
had better visit the Union Jack club pronto to see if Lady Luck would
favour us.
I was guided in this seemingly (for me) daring, gambling scheme by our
old hand Corporal Dan Grant who made sure I had bought enough slips of
printed paper and understood the correct procedure.
I also took part in group singing of jolly boy scout songs like ’The Lassie
wi’ the Wee Snub Nose’ with which I later found fame as the drill squad
time keeper already mentioned earlier, during our basic army training.
My nightlife experience as a young teenager had consisted of being
allowed to sit in the gallery for a charge of three pence when the town
hall ran its weekly dance with Bill Watson’s dance band providing the
music.
Entrance to the gallery cost three pence in what is now called ’old money’,
I privately thought I should have been paid to endure the noise provided
by Bill Watson’s Band as it took me a few years to recover properly from
this exposure to realise there actually was a product called ‘good music’
available elsewhere.
I eventually graduated to the level of ‘dancer’ when I became old enough
to gain admission to the weekly Saturday night dance in the town hall. I
seem to remember, if you were wearing long pants and, if you could
produce enough cash to cover the cost of the admission ticket, you were
old enough, you were in!
The Saturday night dance finished at 11.30 p.m., the high street pubs
closed at 10 p.m., this gave the local inebriates enough time to weave
their merry way to, the dancin’, where they could enjoy a few wee dances
before the hall closed for the night.
The audience in the gallery above the dance hall looked forward to this
weekly,’ throwin oot time’ at the pubs as it regularly produced good
entertainment for the last half hour or so when the merry makers
infiltrated the dancing crowd below.
T.V. had not yet reached Penicuik at that time but the entertainment for
the observers stationed in the gallery above the dance floor was really
extensive, surpassing anything television would ever be able to offer. This
live entertainment ranged from the love interest below where every move
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you made was observed, dissected and discussed, the threat of violence
and mayhem was often also to be observed.
Back in the early fifties, one of the band would announce the next dance,
each dance came in sets of three tunes, whether it was a quickstep, slow
foxtrot, modern waltz or whatever. Believe it or not, in those far off days,
when I was a young man, the guy in the band who made the
announcement would grasp the only mike, saying, “Gentlemen, please
take your partner for a Quick Step”, or whatever kind of dance it was.
The guys were lined up along one side of the hall, girls on the other. As
soon as each dance was announced, the men would have to move pretty
fast to claim whichever girl he fancied. Moving too fast showed you up as
an insecure, silly prat, too slow a move meant some other bugger beat
you to it, you would to have to make a quick but dignified shift if you did
not want to be left with one of the ugly sisters. This was the usual
destination for the slower moving inebriates, having just arrived from the
pub.
My worst case scenario was always the possibility of a refusal after you
marched forcefully across what seemed like a vast empty acre of floor
space till you reached the girl you thought you fancied, only to have your
request to dance refused, SHOCK, HORROR, left standing there with red,
embarrassed face for all to see.
This sudden, abrupt, ignominious end to your lonely quest over the bare
floor was keenly observed by the watchers in the gallery. The assorted
old women and younger kids not yet accepted as dancers downstairs,
watched intently from above, just the same way their modern
counterparts now watch a programme like ‘East Enders’ on TV.
It was a small town, all of the older lady viewers in the gallery high above
the dance floor knew who your mother was, where you lived and worked,
they never missed a thing. Every rejection was noted and discussed, they
also were sure to spot the guys who had dallied too long at the pub, they
gossiped about which girl showed signs of being quite willing to dance
with all comers.
There was an Army barracks only one mile away from the town hall, God
help the reputation of any of the girls who accepted an invitation from
one of the hopeful soldiers, usually wearing uniform. They stood out like a
sore thumb, and, of course, the upstairs observers were convinced that
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all soldiers were only out for one thing so any girl partnering a soldier had
her reputation immediately ripped to shreds.
However, the intellectual aspect was not neglected in the evening’s
entertainment. There was always a spoon player in the dance hall after
the pubs emptied. For those of you unsure of what a spoon player is, it is
probably now a lost art where the ’musician’ produces a pair of soup
spoons from his pocket, holds the spoons in one hand, spoons reversed
against each other. He then accompanies whichever dance music the
band is playing by rattling the spoons in a rhythmic fashion.
Please do not scoff, it really is an art, not easily learned. A good spoon
player can produce a really catchy syncopated sound from two spoons, I
reckoned I was a pretty good drummer but could not emulate the rhythm
produced from a good spoon player.
I was, however, intrigued by the possible situation at home prior to
leaving with the spoons before visiting a local pub to get the confidence to
later appear in public as a spoon player at the local dance hall.
Spoon players were usually at least middle aged men who liked to take a
drink. I never established whether they lived alone, did they have a wife?
Mother? Or perhaps they lived alone and nobody cared whether they
absconded with the soup spoons or not.
I often used to put myself in the spoon players place. I would imagine my
mother observing as I inserted two large soup spoons into my jacket
pocket before leaving home in the evening. I could imagine her saying,
’Andrew, where are you going with my best spoons’?. ’A’m just going out
for a wee walk, Mummy’ and off I imagined I would go, walking with a bit
of a swagger. That’s show business.
I saw a similar situation one evening when the very new, expensive
Miners Institute was opened close to my hometown. Upstairs in the
lounge there appeared a wee man, possibly related to a spoon player, he
appeared, armed with drumsticks, no drum kit, just drumsticks.
There was canned music playing that night, some kind of Scottish Dance
music as I recall. The wee man with the sticks hanging out of his jacket
pocket, heard the music, looked all around for a wooden table to play on,
there was no empty table around but there was a brand new grand piano,
recently purchased by the club committee in an optimistic mood.
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You could actually see the wee man deciding what to do, he could see no
available table but had soon spotted the grand piano, that would do.
Without even a hint of hesitation he wheeched the drumsticks from his
pocket and started to accompany the music by beating a loud tattoo on
top of the brand new, shiny, grand piano. Happy as a pig in shit. Funny
thing was, none of the customers present seemed to think this was even
slightly out of place, he was still rattling away with his sticks on the piano
when I left, shaking my head and laughing.
The Miners Social and Welfare Club was a very new and novel scheme,
just built, situated right in the middle of the coal mining district in our
area.
It was immediately nicknamed ’The Casino’ by the locals, and was
referred to as that for the rest of it’s useful life, it’s gone now, gone just
like the coal miners it used to cater to.
The new building had a grand function room, lounge bar, patrons viewing
balcony, even had a crèche. This was the beginning of a new era for our
district, a new, slap up venue ready for the sixties to happen. This was it!
There was even more than one electrical socket in the function room
where musicians playing for dancing could plug in their early examples of
amplification units plus several electric guitars, all at the same time !.
This was ‘ the cutting edge of technology’, an expression not yet in use in
the late fifties but progress was certainly happening. When booked to play
in any of the more ’rustic’ type halls, the new, young guitar playing
musicians would have to search diligently around the hall to locate the
only electrical socket in the building into which they could plug their
equipment.
This was probably the one and only socket available to them, it soon
became necessary to pack a small drum of electric cable to be able to
reach from the socket to the stage on which they were to perform with
their guitars. Heaven help them if one of the patrons accidentally tripped
on the cable, unplugging the only socket, plunging the whole band into an
abrupt silence. Guitars were now all the rage, pushing away the ‘sit down’
musicians who could read the dots but were unable to play any of the
current music scene hits.
Unfortunately, the new crèche was never used, possibly because the new
’buzz’ word, crèche was not familiar to the new patrons, it was discussed,
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often pointed out to new members with pride, but remained unused, it
was soon closed down.
The socialising and viewing balcony was soon urgently barred and shut to
exclude any viewers, the balcony offered an excellent viewing area but
some of the patrons had a habit of settling old scores by lobbing empty
beer bottles from the new lounge bar down onto the heads of the dancers
in the ‘Casino’ function room below.
The Miners Social Club had seemed like a good idea at the time, perhaps
my generation were just not yet prepared for it.
Remember the spoon payers ? Most times the spoon players at the local
dance hall played in a corner, on a really good night, one of the drunk
guys would dance all by himself till he danced himself into a corner. Once
there, he would produce the spoons with a flourish to entertain the
audience and commence to play the spoons to whatever kind of music the
band played. Sometimes, the spoon man could even perform very
intricate flourishes, travelling the spoons in long trills right down the other
arm and often even on parts of his opposite leg, completely in a world of
his own. He did not seem to even require an audience at all. He played for
the rest of the evening, seemingly oblivious to anything else, waiting
patiently and singing to himself between dance numbers.
I, of course, being not quite right in the head, was fascinated with every
performance.
Drama performances were usually handled by the soldiers from our
neighbouring army depot, or sometimes a group of our local ‘Teddy Boys’
would oblige by starting a punch up. All drama was happily watched by
the gallery patrons above, sometimes rooting for their favourite
regiments.
The army guys were paid on Thursdays, somebody had the bright idea to
hold regular dances on Thursday nights while the soldiers still had some
cash left as they might be skint by the time the Saturday dance came
around.
All hell could, and often did, break out during the Thursday night dance.
The nearby army depot was the regimental H.Q. of the Royal Scots
regiment, another part of the camp was a transit camp, reserved for
troops on the move. It also had accommodation for reserve forces like the
part time Territorial soldiers, they had to serve an obligatory couple of
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weeks there while completing the necessary training with firearms at the
firing range on the slopes of the nearby Pentland Hills.
Trouble tended to brew when an English regiment happened to be
stationed at the transit camp. Things came to a head one night when the
9th Lancers were temporarily stationed in the area. The fleshpots of
Edinburgh, a mere 9 mile bus ride away was the usual destination for
visiting regiments but Penicuik, my home town, was only 1 mile away in
the other direction, you could always have an evening in the Penicuik
fleshpots, drink a few beers in The Railway Tavern or The Crown pub,
then slide over to the dance hall for a wee fling, check out the local girls
and still have time to catch the last bus back to barracks at the end of the
night. If you missed the last bus, it was only a mile’s walk to get back to
base.
One slight problem, the Royal Scots rather considered this area belonged
to them, add a few beers, include the traditional enmity between English
and Scottish regiments, then you have a recipe for mayhem.
The inevitable happened one Thursday night in the dance hall, payday is
on Thursday in the military, as you may recall. There was a large
contingent from the 9th Lancers confronting a mob of about the same
number of the Royal Scots. The usual beer drinking associated with
paydays took place in most of the three drinking establishments in
Penicuik High Street.
The inevitable taunting arguments between the Lancers and the Royals
took place. The Royal Scots correctly claim to be the first official regiment
to be formed as part of the British Army. Their slogan is;
’The Royal Scots,
1st of foot,
Right of the line,
Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguards.
The reference to the Roman, Pontius Pilate of biblical notoriety was made
because of the time distance involved. Pontius Pilate was the Roman
Military Prefect of Judea at the time of Jesus, over 2,000 years ago. The
legend was that the Royal Scots were formed so long ago, they were
probably old enough to have been bodyguards to Pontius Pilate!
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The Royals never missed an opportunity to rub in that they were the
oldest regiment in the British army. There had always been lots of
different armies busy fighting in and for Britain. The Royal Scots were
actually the first group of fighters to be named as the first regiment to be
registered to what was to become the British Army. ‘Smart Boy Wanted, a
keen interest in fiction a definite advantage‘
This kind of taunting can usually be relied on to be the start of something
big. The ‘big one’ eventually broke out later that evening in the dance
hall. It was such a melee that all the regular dancers fled the floor,
leaving it to a khaki clad mob intent on tearing each other to bits. Only
the habitual watchers in the gallery remained, gleefully watching all the
military action below. The bandstand was also a fairly safe height from
the action on the floor. The band guys had long ago discovered it made
sense for them to continue playing when trouble erupted on the floor.
Their music at least seemed to provide an illusion of some type of
normalcy. The only bouncer there was usually more than capable of
dealing with any trouble. However, that evening he was totally
outnumbered by the heaving khaki mass of fighting soldiers, he sensibly
abandoned an impossible task by heading towards the only telephone in
the building to call the local police. Relying on the soldiery to sort things
out themselves, all the other civilian dance patrons had fled by now.
The band, of course, were made of stern stuff and kept the music going,
the band stand was high enough to keep them above the army lunacy
below.
Their action created a kind of surreal effect, the music happened to be
‘The American Patrol’, Glen Miller style which was now floating across the
military chaos on the floor below. The patrons, secure in the gallery
above, just loved the spectacle they were even selecting their favourite
soldiers in the melee. They shouted encouragement, adding advice when
their favourite seemed to be in danger, which was about every minute.
“Watch out Ginger, there’s some bastard behind ye”!
The Lothian and Borders Police eventually arrived in force, they were well
used to violent army outbreaks in this area, on this occasion, they were
aided by a small contingent of the Army Military Police, armed with
regulation truncheons with which they waded into the mass of struggling
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bodies, breaking more than a few heads as they made progress through
the crowd.
A few empty trucks soon arrived from the nearby Glencorse barracks to
park outside the building, ready to receive the wrong doers to be
transported to the guard room at the depot.
Sandy Craig, one of my young pals, was very popular at school next day.
His uncle was caretaker at the Town Hall, he had collected several
mementos of the military fracas from the debris left on the dance hall
when he cleaned it next morning. There were a few 9th Lancer cap badges
litter around which he gave to his nephew Sandy. He in turn distributed
the badges to his favourite pals at school. I still have one of them at
home today.
THE UNION JACK CLUB, SINGAPORE. 1956.
The four of us arrived at the Union Jack club in Singapore, properly
prepared for action at the Housey, Housey activity with specially
purchased pencils sharpened to a business like sharp point. We took our
seats at a small table among a well attended group of expectant fortune
seekers, and so my experience of gambling night life commenced.
Being a beginner, I was a bit slow locating the numbers as the caller
announced them, wee bit too quick really I was thinking as I was aware I
was no match for the regulars. I seemed to be playing ’catch up’, just
behind the rest but I was still managing to cross out quite a lot of the
numbers on my slip.
The guy was still calling numbers when it dawned on me that I had no
numbers left to check, I turned to Jock Winton to ask what to do, he
glanced at my ticket, quickly established I had no more unchecked
numbers visible, then,’ Shout HOUSE ya daft wee bastard’ he yelled at
me. In my confusion but aware that I seemed to be letting the side down
I shouted at the top of my voice just as my occasional stammer decided
to join in, ’ H, H, H, HOUSE YA DAFT WEE BASTARD’! I shouted.
Immediate silence in the crowd but Corporal Dan saved the day, “It’s his
first time playing Housey, housey”, he called to the rest of the audience to
explain my frantic outburst. This raised a few titters from the crowd and I
guessed my language infringement had been overlooked.
The checker arrived at our table, checked my numbers then gave the
caller the thumbs up. “Congratulations rookie, you have just won $500
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announced the caller into his mike. My table erupted in cheers, slapping
my back trying to shake my hand all at the same time as the checker
came back to hand me the winnings.
I had never won anything in my short life except perhaps for the Tootal
tie I won back home at the spot dance during our weekly fund raising Boy
Scout hootenanny. I had already fixed that win with the guy who picked
the winner so I don’t think that counts. It’s too late now if anybody ever
reads any of this.
Just to prove we were not just visiting the Union Jack Club for the chance
to win some money. We played one more perfunctory game of housey,
housey before leaving with our winnings. Housey, housey is the old army
game which eventually evolved to become the very much alive, ‘Bingo’
pastime of the present day.
We then made our exit from the club where I split the winnings four ways
with the guys before we stepped, flushed and happy, into the steamy
Saturday night scene in Singapore.
The scene was now set for a possible orgy of spending and drinking in
naughty Singapore. Unfortunately, chasing loose wimmin was out of the
question as Corporal Dan was a happily married man and I think both of
the others were faithfully writing to their girls back home. In spite of that
circumstance, we still managed to enjoy the evening drinking in the old
Scottish fashion and, although I later became overcome by strong drink
also in the traditional, old Scottish fashion, the rest of the lads kindly
waited for me for a few minutes (that’s all the time it took) when I
vaguely remember taking a young lady back to her apartment for what
was then referred to as, ‘A bit of Nookie’ or, ‘A Short Time‘.
The rest of the evening is unfortunately a bit difficult to remember. I only
seem to recall piling into a taxi at a later point then falling flat on my face
trying to make a dignified exit from the cab when we arrived back at
Sandes Home for Soldiers. I can only assume my less drunk mates
trundled me to my bed when I made my unsteady exit from the taxi.
Although a vague memory, is all I remember.
One thing I remember quite clearly is enjoying the next few days when
we all had a few bucks in our pockets and could eat and drink well until,
once again, we ran out of money. So great was my reputation as a
provider that the lads hauled me off once again to the Union Jack Club
where we used what was left of our cash to invest in the Housey, Housey
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lark. I actually won the bloody thing again although for a smaller amount
this time but we were the only guys from the whole bunch of leave takers
to return to the unit with cash in our pockets.
Looking back now, I think I should have made a career in the gambling
business as I seemed to be quite successful there. Instead, I wasted my
time when I returned to civilian life by going to boring evening classes to
obtain a qualifying certificate in papermaking armed with which I intended
to further my career in the papermaking industry where I was employed
in the sales office. I also later studied advanced techniques in selling
industrial goods and services.
MERDEKA
Boredom was never a problem in our outfit, just as we were leaving to
return to our army base, riots started to break out in Singapore. These
riot outbursts had been threatening for some time but, luckily for us, they
started to burst out all over town just as our train was pulling out of the
city to head back north.
These were the ’Merdeka’ riots. Merdeka being the local battle cry
meaning, ’Freedom’, the same type of word, I recalled, as the word used
by the Scots during our own struggle against mainly the same people now
oppressing the locals in Singapore.
This was mainly the brainchild of the majority Chinese population who
had not wanted the British back here again after the war and, come hell
or high water, they only wanted for us to quit playing at empire building
and just get the hell out of Singapore to let them get on with running the
place.
Our regiment had been preparing for some time for just such a situation,
I recall we had paraded up and down on the sacred drill square ground at
Selerang barracks, rehearsing the nice, firm but friendly, British style for
handling possible riots. This practice consisted of armed squads of us
marching in a determined manner until being confronted by gangs of our
own guys thoroughly enjoying themselves playing the part of wicked
rioters, dressed in sarongs etc. I remember that shouting and yelling
insults was one of the most popular traits displayed by our ’rioters’. We,
in turn, had a fierce white cloth banner mounted on stick supports which
we unrolled when we halted smartly in front of the mob to reveal the
menacing message printed in both English and Cantonese telling them to
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disperse. Failure to obey this command would, it was promised, surely
end in tears for them or some such sporting, fair, British terms.
Just to add some flavour to the entire affair, one of our squad was armed
with a tin loud hailer which he used to warn the rioters about arse kicking
being possibly involved in our retaliation. This information was, of course,
delivered in a strong Glasgow accent, accented with suitable unintelligible
Scottish threats, probably totally incomprehensible if we had any real
Chinese rioters present. Our own hooligans really loved this part of the
procedure, their shouting always rose in volume as all of them joined in
swearing and shouting Glasgow insults right back at us, this was their
chance to shout at authority with permission and no likelihood of any
comeback. I remember thinking at the time it all sounded very realistic.
How any real rioters would react was, thankfully, not my immediate
problem.
To be quite honest, after the regiment moved over the causeway away
from Singapore to be stationed in Johore State in Malaya to take on the
real, live C.T’s, the riot problem behind us in the city rather faded away
for us, we now had different happenings to take care of.
Surprise, we arrived back to the regiment from our spot of leave to find
our HQ company headquarters a hive of activity. We were ordered back to
our happy wooden home to debus and wait there for further instruction.
We were to receive further, urgent marching orders. It seemed, as we
were sitting comfortably in the train travelling north to rejoin our
regiment, there was, ’A CHANGE OF PLAN’!! Said regiment was rapidly
passing us in the opposite direction in another train, heading urgently to
cross the causeway to Singapore Island where the mother and father of
all riots had just broken out.
Our regimental white cloth riot signs plus megaphones had been hastily
unearthed from storage and the whole regiment in full combat gear was
making all haste to Singapore city to quell a massive uprising, no more
silly wee riot games for our lads, this was serious stuff.
This mass exodus of our regiment from Johore state had left all of our
company camps almost completely unmanned. It was decreed the pipes
and drums were to split up into a few small sections, get into combat
gear, then make haste towards our now almost deserted widely spaced
rifle company locations scattered across Johore State. We were also
instructed to gather up any available odds and sods to be found lurking at
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H.Q. Company, including even the unfortunate few being held in our
small, homemade regimental prison compound for our naughty boys.
We somehow had to man each denuded rifle company camp, from Alfa
company through Bravo, Charlie to Delta company compounds spread
across Johore State, this task left us a bit thin on the ground to put it
mildly.
I recall I was sent to man the ramparts at Bravo Company accompanied
by a few other brave souls, just enough of us to provide some kind of
skeleton guard which would enable us to provide basic security for the
now almost deserted camps, only protected by a few strands of barbed
wire.
One Regimental Sergeant Major, normally based at our fairly secure H.Q.
Company base camp, was detailed to accompany us to keep some
semblance of order, organise guard etc.
This particular sergeant major had been a bit of an old fashioned martinet
type of soldier when we were stationed in Selerang barracks in Singapore.
There he had a parade square on which to strut, he had a fairly fierce
reputation back there but had not been seen very often after we moved
to bandit country in Johore State.
I found out that this guy was nearing the end of his army career. He was
due to leave us soon to return to the U.K. and retire from the army. His
move from the comparative safety of the base camp to what we called,
the sharp end, at Bravo company camp, now without its usual band of
scruffy but reliable Jocks must have caused him some misgivings as to his
safety. He now only had our small, motley crew to rely on, bless him. For
the next couple of weeks he could have been named Seldom Seen
Sergeant Major, he secured an attap thatched hut right in the centre of
camp, armed himself with a bottle of whisky, leaving us more or less to
our own devices which was o.k. as far as we were concerned.
I befriended Simon, a German Shepherd cross, now temporarily deserted
when his usual owner was urgently called to Singapore for riot duty.
Simon and I bonded quickly, possibly due to my sharing some grub
Simon and me, Johore State, Malaya 1956. The dog has obviously seen
some other guy across the compound eating a sandwich. I am no longer
at the centre of his wee world, fuck filial - - -
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with him, he soon settled into my tent, making himself comfortable
beneath the bed as if we had been buddies for years.
It must have been my day for making new friends, I found out one of the
prisoners released from our little regimental jail to help us guard the
camp at Bravo Company was named Alec Hanratty. Turned out his
brother Eddy was Drum Major with Penicuik Pipes and Drums from my
home town back in Scotland.
Alec had been in our regimental jail for being A.W.O.L. from Bravo
company. I have no idea where he had intended to head for when he
went absent, I suspect he had no idea either, probably quite glad when he
was arrested, wandering around by himself in darkest Malaya.
“Fancy us meeting like this, better have a wee drink to celebrate”,
suggested the resourceful Alec. I agreed, but could think of no way to
cement this new found friendship. Alec, however, immediately checked
things out and had the solution which lay in the direction of the wet
canteen in the camp which was now also deserted but was technically still
operating with a happy, wee Malay bartender in attendance although all
his usual customers had been called away on riot duty to Singapore.
Alec and I gamely attempted to step in to represent absent friends, we
made such a good job of representing that we managed to keep the
canteen open all that afternoon, consuming quantities of Tiger beer, not
one of my favourite pilsner beers but any port in a storm as they say.
Before retiring to his ’safe house’ in the camp with his bottle of whisky,
our seldom seen sergeant major had appointed one of our only NCO’s to
organise a night guard squad to gather near the entrance gate at around
6 p.m. He promised to make an appearance to make sure a squad would
be mounted for the night. It seemed the sergeant major was to be picked
up in an armoured scout car around night fall as he had been invited to
the home of a local British rubber planter for dinner and would be staying
away for the entire night.
We, of course, were also staying for the night, but, unlike our sergeant
major, we would be guarding the deserted camp against any possible
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attack from the C.T’s who would now be aware of the absence of the
entire personnel of Bravo company now sent to Singapore.
Our number of troops left to hold the camp secure was rather sparse, to
put it mildly, we could only muster a total of eight reasonably fit bodies
plus Simon the dog which was not even enough for one normal guard
mounting never mind manning the camp on twenty four hour shifts as
would be the case if the entire company was here.
The total would actually be nine if we counted ‘seldom seen’ but we were
soon back to total of eight, after he appeared briefly when we were
gathering for guard duty, nodded curtly at our young lance corporal who
had been left in charge, then hopped smartly into the waiting armoured
scout car to be driven off safely in search of dinner. Luckily, the Sergeant
Major had already taken a few before dinner snifters in his tent, the
strong drink must have affected his vision and he never noticed Alec and I
had were experiencing a wee bit of the strong drink situation also.
In sharp contrast to the sergeant major‘s dinner arrangements, our
dinner was to be easily found in the cartons of emergency rations held in
the storage tent, I actually preferred the emergency stuff to the usual
mess dished up by the regular cooks from The Army Catering Corpse, as
we referred to them, there were no cooks left here at all, we could each
choose which rations we wanted, also we could prepare our grub when,
and where, we wanted.
There was still one slight problem with mounting a security guard that
night, problem was, at least four of the available eight guards had spent
the afternoon in the corrugated shed referred to as the wet canteen and
were now pissed as rats.
It was indeed fortunate the departing sergeant major had only given us a
fleeting glance as he made his quick exit in the scout car. In different
circumstances he would probably have noticed I was actually using my
rifle as an aid to balancing myself in an upright position. Simon the trusty
dog resting on my unsteady foot to await further instructions which really
helped with my balancing act. Alec was leaning on his rifle which he was
using as a crutch, feeling no pain. Mercifully dusk falls rather rapidly in
the Far East which probably covered our real condition from the rapidly
departing but slightly pissed sergeant major who had probably already
partaken of a few before dinner whiskies.
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The lance corporal was the only guy left in charge of us, luckily, he had
the sense to pair each of the pissed guards with a sober one. There was
not the slightest possibility of mounting a normal two hours on and four
hours off guard routine, we just did not have enough men either drunk or
sober for that. He instructed us to bugger off to patrol on the inside of the
barbed wire in pairs and watch out for any sign of trouble outside the
perimeter which was lit by powerful lights when night fell to the sound
from our powerful, industrial strength electric generators.If anything
moved outside the wire we were to shoot immediately. I gathered this
was the old shoot first and ask questions later approach which I fully
agreed with.
Luckily, I was the odd man out in more ways than one that night so I was
paired with the doggie as I wandered off around the perimeter wire,
accompanied only by man’s best friend, Simon the dog. He could switch
quickly to being another man’s best friend provider the other man
possessed a beef sandwich. Fortunately for me, beef was rather like our
absent sergeant major, very seldom seen and rare commodity in this
area.
Even in my unsteady condition I sensed, correctly, that Simon would be
my best bet for emerging unscathed from night duty. He had stuck
faithfully by my side since my arrival at the Alpha camp. To be fair, his
affection was probably caused by my sharing all food rations with him, I
had even drawn a full set of rations for him from our slightly confused
Seldom Seen RSM who found himself in charge of the stock of emergency
rations. Simon and I had really bonded though and I was certain he would
give me early warning of any approaching danger. I was carrying a loaded
shotgun plus a revolver and I was also armed with the knowledge that we
were behind a robust security fence well lit by our powerful perimeter
lights.
My faith in my new friend Simon was well placed, after a couple of rather
wobbly circuits of the surrounding wire, accompanied only by the dog I
was suddenly aware I was really pissed so retired to my nearby tent to
take a little rest on the bed, Simon soon made himself comfortable on the
other bed near mine. I immediately passed out, snoring and clutching my
shot gun in the true drunken soldier fashion, secure in the knowledge that
my friend was keeping a watchful guard until it was time to take breakfast
with me.
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The following few days and nights passed pleasantly enough for me.
Simon and I would take a stroll around the wire from time to time,
breaking only for a friendly shared breakfast and lunch followed by a
leisurely visit to the wet canteen where I spent the afternoons getting
quietly pissed with my friend Alec. The ever watchful Simon lay beneath
my bench seat ready to receive any tit bits that were going. I still had
enough beer money for both Alec and myself, there was absolutely
nothing at all to spend it on anyway, this was more like a wee bonus
holiday.
It seemed the only duty for the few of us was to have a presence there in
the camp, surrounded by thick jungle possibly infiltrated by hostile C‘T‘s.
We may have been small in number but we had a healthy range of fire
power available, enough cash for beer, virtually no discipline and, of
course, we had the faithful Simon plus half a dozen Sarawak Ranger head
hunter friends I had discovered who were stationed there with us.
I carried out my daily tasks diligently. I was never late arriving at the wet
canteen every afternoon, getting slightly pissed with my buddy Alec, then
taking an evening stroll round the perimeter with my other pal Simon the
dog to look after me. This was the life for me.
Actually, I was quite happy when the Singapore riots broke out and the
regiment had been sent there to sort things out. This was the reason for
my small band of brothers being sent out to this remote and now
deserted location as the lone representatives of the British Empire in the
area.
I realised I had recently enjoyed two weeks leave in sunny Singapore only
to be closely followed by being sent to this deserted camp where I was
really quite happy with the zero discipline situation. I could still make
believe in the old British Empire romantic shit I used to read about, I was
now part of it myself, good old Kipling, I thought, happy and pissed as I
took a wander round the camp beside the brightly lit perimeter wire at
night. I was presenting a fairly accurate picture of a nineteen year old
conscripted British soldier on duty, showing a well illuminated target
beneath the bright perimeter lights, inviting a hole to be shot in my daft
head, silly bugger. Oh the romance of it all.
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THE HEAD HUNTERS FROM SARAWAK
I mentioned I discovered we had company. There was a small band of
Sarawak Rangers stationed within the camp, these were former Eban
head hunters from Borneo employed by the British as jungle trackers to
hunt out the C.T’s and very good at the job.
I made friends with the Ebans, found them very outgoing which, I
suppose, depended on which side they were on. Probably not a good idea
to make enemies of these guys, luckily, they liked the Brits so I was
accepted as being o.k. I liked them too and was soon admiring their
various exotic tattoos.
I had avoided having a permanent tattoo plastered on my body for all
time as a whole bunch of my mates had acquired a variety of these body
decorations during their various drunken visits to Singapore city. My
feelings about tattoos fell into an even worse category than sending
letters home expressing undying love to girls. Imagine having I LOVE
MARY permanently printed on your body then receiving a letter from Mary
to let you know your true love affair was suddenly ended as she had run
off with a big, hairy guy from Jamaica, not a good idea.
One of our conscript members from Motherwell, near Glasgow, was taken
suddenly drunk on a visit to Singapore one night. For a dare, in his
confused state, he had a huge, painful tattoo plastered across his chest.
In bold, blue, capital letters, the message read, ONCE A BORDERERNEVER AGAIN. This was bad enough but it was based on the regimental
motto, ONCE A BORDERER - ALWAYS A BORDERER. Our hero from
Motherwell obviously regarded Border born people as something akin to
the word ’tcheuchters’, roughly meaning slow, country people. It’s not
normally meant to be a compliment.
Our not too bright guy from Motherwell had not been given a chance to
consider his actions, having been suddenly taken drunk that evening. He
was beside himself with the drink when he discovered the tattoo parlour. I
guess the notion to have a permanent protest tattoo plastered across his
chest must have seemed like a good idea at the time. He had really
overlooked the fact that, come Monday morning, our usual mode of army
dress for normal duties in the hot barracks was mainly jungle green
shorts with socks rolled over boot tops, referred to as shirt sleeve order,
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this never made any sense to me for a shirt was not worn, as a result, his
newly decorated bare chest was now visible for all to view.
His freshly printed torso was soon spotted on Monday morning by our
regimental sergeant major. With apoplectic face and raging voice he soon
had two men fall in beside the Motherwell guy to march him up to
temporary custody in the guard room. The R.S.M. then confronted our
C.O. to break the dreadful news about the newly discovered chest
decoration. After a hurried conference, some money was extracted from
regimental funds and the tattooed soldier was in turn extracted from the
guard house, placed still under guard into an army truck and transported
with haste directly to the tattoo shop in Singapore city where the deed
had originally been committed. A complaint was issued to the tattoo
artist, who then explained the offending decoration could not be erased
but a compromise tattoo might be arranged to take care of the problem.
On muster parade next morning our painted friend was the centre of
attention, his new decoration now read, ‘ONCE A BORDERER’, this was
now followed by a row of large, blue, Scottish thistles which completely
obliterated the previous insulting words, ’NEVER AGAIN’. Payment for the
additional thistles to completely cover the original words, was a cash
transaction from regimental funds, such was the stature of the supposed
insult to the regiment.As far as I know, the daft bugger from Motherwell
must still be carrying the body decoration to this day. I imagine it does
not invite much comment now that he is back in temperate climes, his
offending chest now warmly covered, unseen, against the colder weather.
Having seen the exotic tattoo’s sported by our trackers, I was now
considering having something fairly small and obviously different style of
tattoo, perhaps on my shoulder. Being almost nineteen, I still was striving
to be seen as a bit different from the herd. I was already imagining
comments being made by envious observers as I shed my shirt on the
beach, preparing to take a manly dive into the sea, displaying my exotic
tattoo. There would be no possibility of any potential bully kicking sand
into my face if this manly, head hunter tattoo, was on display.
The more mature reader will notice our nineteen fifties way of thinking
was still being influenced by the old Charles Atlas adverts featured in
newspaper ads. These ads usually pictured a drawing of a skinny white
male bather on the beach having sand kicked carelessly into his face by a
big bulky bully. The advertising message advised similar skinny male sea
bathers to enroll in the Charles Atlas body building course. The resulting
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newly built muscle body afforded by buying the course would make any
potential bully think twice about his bad habit of sand kicking. The
attractive girls were now ignoring the bully and gathering around the
former skinny guy who was sporting a recently acquired muscular look.
All thanks to the Charles Atlas muscle building course.
Manly decoration thoughts were abruptly chased away from my thinking
that evening. I had strolled round to the big tent used by our trackers,
still considering which decoration to request. One of the younger Ebans
was lying bare chested, on a bed with one of the others applying an
intricate tattoo to the young guy’s throat, the light for this operation was
provided by only a dim lamplight!!
The Eban tattoo artist was using a slim piece of bamboo with a needle
inserted in the split end, he kept dipping the needle into the lid of a boot
polish tin which contained a homemade native concoction of dye made
from wild plants. This dye was applied by placing the left hand on the
shoulder bone at the top of the young Eban’s chest then, holding the
sliver of bamboo firmly in his right hand, he would strike the right hand
quickly down against the left. This action absorbed some of the force and
acted like a pivot to allow the needle to strike the skin but prevented it
from actually burying itself fiercely into the young guy’s throat, only
breaking into the flesh at just the right depth to achieve the necessary
correct tattoo penetration.This, obviously very painful action, was rapidly
repeated again and again, following some design plan, broken only by the
frequent dipping of the needle into the mess of dye. The young Eban
never flinched or even so much as blinked an eye. Brave guy, I thought,
rather him than me. I could not help comparing his composure with the
performance of our hard man Nesbit as I reported during our initial
training when he fainted clean out on seeing the innocent but sharp little
needle presented by the medical orderly.I was told the manual tattooing
was still being made in this painful, old fashioned tribal way as a sort of
manhood test. The Iban guys in the following photo are each sporting just
such a decoration of painfully acquired manhood.It was about then I
remembered these guys had fathers in Borneo who had probably earned
another manhood qualifying test by obtaining the head of some other guy
belonging to a neighbouring tribe. Still striving to be different, but not
willing to strive just that much, I just smiled and shook my head when it
came to my turn. I tried to look cool but thoughtful, and declined.
After about a week or so, the news arrived from Singapore city that the
riots had been subdued, probably involving a lot of broken Chinese heads.
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This was in the good old days of the fifties when the British Empire could
still display the effective use of ’the iron rod’ to control the natives. My
guess was the riots had been broken but not forgotten by the ’natives’
who got their revenge a few years later when the Brits finally gave up any
pretense of being worldwide empire builders and returned to the U.K.
Our merry little band could now return to take up residence again in our
’little wooden home’ at Batu Pahat to see what the future had in store for
us there. I said a reluctant goodbye to Simon who probably could not
follow a word I said, I also laid a dish of bully beef at his paws which
would keep him going till his owner appeared again later that day. I also
said farewell to my new buddy Alec who was about to become absorbed
again into his returning rifle company and could make his own dining
arrangements, little did I realise Alec and I would soon meet again in
different circumstances.
THE PIPERS, 1st BATALLION KINGS OWN SCOTTISH BORDERS 1956
John Scott, second from left, my companion for the S.A.S failed bid!
DRUMMER/BUGLERS 1st KINGS OWN SCOTTISH BORDERERS 1956.
Including two visitors from the Gurkhas.
Drum Major Tom Black on right, I am second from left.
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It was nearing the end of the year, being Scottish we were starting to
have thoughts about having an expedition into the small town of Batu
Pahat to visit a small liquor store situated there with the objective of
purchasing our chosen strong drink for New Year. This was considered the
necessary traditional thing to do at the time.
Hogmanay was soon approaching. It was now time to exercise the old
Scottish tradition of, ’getting your bottle in’. This was our usual habit of
purchasing our individual bottles of liquor well before New Year’s Eve.
These drinks were not intended for immediate home consumption but
were essential to be carried on the traditional old Scottish custom of ‘First
Footing’ excursions which took place after 12 o’clock midnight.
First Footing literally means the first foot to step over and enter the
threshold of a neighbouring house after midnight on Old Year’s night. The
neighbour would visiting the house bearing good wishes for the coming
New Year. Old Year’s Night usually started off gently with an evening
ritual which was to attend a local dance or pub where we could take a
wee refreshment before midnight, the idea was to have a wee drink but
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not too much at that point before midnight. There was a long night ahead
and it was considered bad form to be taken suddenly drunk before
midnight. The pubs closed at 10 p.m., the dance halls shut down early
about 11 p.m. which would give everyone the chance to get home before
12 p.m. In my case, I would probably observe midnight at home when
the bells rang. My mother would have her annual small sherry, I would sip
a small beer, our radio would launch, ’A guid New Year tae yin and ’a, I
would wish my mother all the best before she toddled off to bed with a
rosy glow from the small sherry. I would then heave on my bulky duffle
coat, heavier now with the additional weight of an unopened whisky bottle
in one pocket and a bottle of sherry in the other. The whisky was
important for ‘first footing’ a friend’s house, it was a good omen wish to
the friend’s home and substituted for food. By taking it to a friend’s house
it meant there would be plenty to eat during the coming year. I would
also take a small piece of coal in my pocket which I would place on the
open fire in the house. This ensured enough heat would be enjoyed
throughout the year. The fireplaces were always cleaned of dead ashes
before 12 p.m., the fireplace was then freshly relit after midnight and
ready to receive my small piece of coal which would then be added to the
new fire, ensuring a good blaze to accompany the festivities during the
night and also providing a blessing to provide heat to the house for the
entire new year.
It was considered lucky if the first footer was, male, dark haired with blue
eyes, I was therefore always a popular first footer on ’Auld Years Night’.
First Foot literally means the first foot over the thresh hold after midnight
on that special night.
I would then pour drinks of my whisky for the men, offering sherry to the
ladies as was the custom at the time, I guess customs have changed
since then, I imagine the modern ladies would baulk at being just offered
sherry these days.
It now being safely after midnight, the festivities could begin, the music
was cranked up, a wee bit of dancing would start. It was probably cold
and dark outside but inside it was warm and so the fun started.
There is no polite ’warming up’ atmosphere at Scottish Hogmanay parties.
The Scots dislike waste so there is no time wasting involved, everybody is
ready to go as soon as the magic chime of 12 midnight sounds. The front
door gets very busy then as friends compete to be first footers having
brought in the New Year at their own homes, then, just like me, they
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dress warmly and then head out to visit, all armed, like myself, with full
bottles in their pockets.
I did hear of one guy, heavily laden with his first footing bottles who
ventured out one very cold and frosty New Year’s night. He had a small,
flask sized bottle with him as well as his usual supply. In between house
visits, he would frequently stop to fortify himself with wee tots from the
flask bottle which he then replaced in his hip pocket.
This arrangement was working well till he slipped on an icy patch both
feet went flying depositing him straight onto his arse. He stood up again,
feeling the arse region where kept his flask bottle, it was now damp, ”Oh
God, I hope that’s blood”, he said hopefully. Such is the calibre of our,
traditional, determined, Scottish revelers.
We always had a plan at Hogmanay, sometimes the plans went well,
sometimes they went all to hell, it is always that kind of night but never
boring.
The plan one year was a fairly simple one. We would all meet up after
midnight to bring in the New Year at McEwan’s house, take a few, wee
refreshments of course, then head as a group for Dan Stevensons house
then on to Charlie Anderson’s and join in the party there for the rest of
the evening.
Always known as ’Mr.Let’s Get Organised’, I reckoned it was about time to
leave McEwan’s house when Andrew Sinton noticed the lawn mower which
was kept for some reason behind the front door. Sinton was feeling no
pain and always ready for a wee laugh. He grabbed the old, manual style
mower, hauled it upstairs then made a grand entrance into our party
room where he proceeded to mow the carpet. Luckily, Mrs.McEwan had
just embarked on her favourite song, ’We’ll gather lilacs, in the spring
again’, which she firmly believed was one of our favourites also, she had
not yet noticed the arrival of her lawn mower, now being used to trim the
edge of her living room carpet. By this time Mrs.McEwan had taken a few
wee refreshments herself, was in a maudlin, sentimental mood, sitting
comfortably in her favourite fireside chair staring into the glowing embers
of the fire. She suddenly decided to ’oblige the company’, then launched,
without any warning, into a quavering version of a song which had been
popular during the war time, “Weeeel gather liilacs in the sprriing again”.
This was fine, she knew all of the words of the song which was a plus in
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our crowd, however, she was not earning any Brownie points by singing
about half a tone out of tune, it was bloody awful!
Having been well brought up, our merry little crowd waited respectfully, if
uncomfortably, till Mrs.McEwan finally ground her way to the end of her
favourite song, then - we were OFFSKI !
The next house to first foot was Danny Stevenson’s house, his father,
Auld Danny (probably only in his forties at the time), was back home on
leave from India where he was works manager with a papermaking
company. Auld Danny opened the door for us, I was propelled forward as
favourite first footer, went through the familiar ritual to assure good luck
to the family, was welcomed, warmly into the house where Auld Dan
produced a fresh, unopened bottle of whisky in greeting. In those days,
most whisky bottles still used real cork bottle stoppers, Dan twisted the
cork from the bottle, ritually raised the cork, sniffed it approvingly it then
threw it into the open fire, “We won’t be needing that again”, he
remarked, starting to pour our drinks into the waiting and ready glasses.
Young Danny’s old granny was sitting in her chair next to the fire in the
old Scottish tradition, in the same traditional vein she started, unasked,
to sing an old Scottish song, apparently known only to herself. As far as I
recall the chorus was, ”Here’s to good old whisky, drink it down, drink it
down. Here’s to good old whisky, it’s the stuff that makes you frisky,
drink it down, drink it down, drink it down”. She delivered this in a high,
quavery eighty odd year old voice, then downed her own whisky in one
swallow to cheers from the obliged company. Paying our dues to granny
in the old Scottish custom we also swallowed our whisky as salute to
granny.
Auld Danny settled in the comfy chair at the opposite side of the fire, he
was a popular, if only an occasional visitor, when he managed to get back
from India, a great raconteur of humorous tales, well worth listening to.
After a while, someone noticed a high pitched whine interfering with Auld
Dan’s storytelling, the TV had the volume turned down when we first
arrived but was not completely switched off and it was blamed for the
whining noise. Somebody turned the TV. off but the odd, whining noise
did not cease. It was a strange, high pitched whine, not really noticeable
when we were all babbling but it was a really eerie noise when we all
stopped talking, leading to much head scratching, people looking
everywhere for the source.
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I happened to be standing right next to old granny’s chair, the faint sound
seemed to be strongest right there and I managed to solve the mystery
at last. Under the influence of her last whisky which went down after the
final, ‘Drink it down’, chorus, granny had fallen fast asleep, her head
resting on the chair back. Her action must have activated her hearing aid
which was attached to her ear. This action somehow cranked the sound
volume button up but Granny was not at home to hear it.
We all had another whisky in the old, traditional Scottish fashion to
acknowledge the successful solving of the great whining mystery, then we
bundled up to face the cold night again as we still had to get to Charlie
Andersons for the party.
We were made welcome at the Andersons, Charlie played piano (he still
does), music was in full swing and Dave Ewart was on the fiddle, he came
from a long line of fiddlers, everyone having a good time. Charlie had
decorated the room for the occasion, had even gone to the trouble of
buying a real Christmas tree the previous week which was still a nice
touch for the New Year festivity which at that time was then more actively
celebrated than Christmas in Scotland. I noticed he had encountered a
problem with an electric connection to light the tree. Bear in mind this
was still the days when probably only one electric power point was
installed per room. It had probably been decided by the house designers
that one power outlet per room would be plenty, they had not anticipated
the sudden increase in available appliances now coming onto the domestic
market in the late fifties.
Charlie’s one outlet was fully occupied with the new record player which
had recently appeared plus a couple of nice table lights adding a welcome
glow to the room, these appliances filled the available plug inlets. He had
solved the shortage problem posed by the new lights for the Christmas
tree by removing the bulb from the ceiling light then plugging in an
adaptor to the hanging light cable, he had looped the wire across the
ceiling to reach the tree which was positioned in the corner. The electrical
contact for the Christmas lights had, of course, been hurriedly made by
Charlie himself and was dangling precariously in one big loop which now
hung across the ceiling to contact directly with top of the new tree. It
caused no problem for our revelers, none of us was as tall as six feet so
nobody had the slightest chance of getting entangled with the overhead
wire.
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The music was blaring away, an accordion player had joined us, playing
Scottish dance music, Charlie accompanying him on piano, the open fire
was roaring up the chimney. One of the guys had handed out small cigars
which he had received as a present, soon most of the guys were trying
out this novel cigar idea, puffing away almost as fiercely as the fire. Being
a nonsmoker I decided to nip outside for a breath of fresh air and
wandered up to the front gate when I heard the skirling sound of the
pipes coming out of the cold, dark, night. As the piper approached I
recognised him, it was my old friend Tigue, a rather odd nickname,
derived from his habit of saying, “I’m fatigued“, on the odd occasions
when he was suddenly taken drunk. I thought I could also see a couple of
his friends straggling along behind him, I opened the front gate, waving
them inside so Tigue swerved through the gate to enter the house in
great style, pipes still playing, kilt swirling in the old Scottish manner,
drunk as a lord. His friends automatically followed him through the door
but they had now been joined by other weaving followers, making a small
crowd. I had not at first noticed this addition in the dark but it was now
too late to do anything about the situation.
I followed them inside just in time to see Tigue march into the room
playing the pipes to a very enthusiastic audience, all clapping and
cheering the new arrivals until the drones of the bagpipes became
entangled in the overhead cable powering the Christmas tree lights.
Tigue continued marching onwards in grand style, totally oblivious to the
impending disaster. He was quite deaf to warning cries which went
unheard owing to the bagpipes noise, he carried on, the entangled wire
became taught, the tree toppled from its container to follow the piper,
now firmly attached to him. It was quite a spectacular show with the
Christmas lights flashing off and on behind him till the ceiling socket gave
up its struggle, becoming sharply disconnected from the electrical
connection. The power supply shorted out plunging the room into
darkness, the fire still burned brightly giving the only light left in the room
to illuminate the chaos in the old Scottish manner.
There was general mayhem in the darkened room, all the girls were
screaming, some had been inappropriately touched, others were
screaming because they had not yet been touched at all. The pipes finally
squealed to a halt when Tigue fell over a chair, there he settled gratefully
to take a break from blowing the bloody pipes. The accordion player
started up again, probably to reassure everybody that all was well, he
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could not read music anyway so the loss of light made no difference to
him.
With the aid of a flashlight, Charlie managed to get the power connected
again. After a bit more fumbling and some more squealing, Charlie
disentangled the cable from the drones of the bagpipes, this generated a
bit more squealing but this time from the dying bagpipes. Charlie also had
the presence of mind to locate a glass in the dark, fill it with whisky then
press it into Tigue’s grateful hand by firelight where Tigue was
transformed from entertainer to entertained in one quick movement. Light
and peace were now restored and so to a certain extent was Tigue.
Charlie sat down again at the piano to join the accordion player who had
carried on all by himself throughout the confusion.
The late Scottish dawn plus general exhaustion eventually brought our
Hogmanay celebrations to an end. The consensus of opinions seemed to
agree it had been a good night, if perhaps just a wee bit on the quiet side
this year.
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HOGMANAY 1956/57. BATU PAHAT, JOHORE, MALAYA.
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It’s now Hogmanay 1956/7 in darkest Malaya. It’s only dark because we
are celebrating the bringing in of the New Year some time after
12p.m.,with a much depleted Piper section of our Pipes and Drums’, we
could only muster seven pipers that night.
The reason for the shortage of pipers is because we had sent two pipers
to each of our four rifle companies to help the guys celebrate New Year as
the regiment had been prudently relieved from duties for that special
Scottish day. Each company was scattered somewhere over the state of
Johore, reducing the number of available pipers left to play at the
Hogmanay celebrations at H.Q. company.
I don’t recall much happening at Christmas but we had now reached the
important date for the Scottish nation, yes folks, it’s our National Holiday
of Hogmanay, or New Year to my foreign readers.
The army had very thoughtfully withdrawn the regiment from active
service for New Year celebrations and we had sent pipers to each of our
rifle companies to assist in bringing in Hogmanay in the old, traditional
Scottish fashion, the wet canteens would be operating till the bartenders
fell down, also in the old traditional Scottish fashion.
Our commanding officer had also thoughtfully appointed the fat, Irish
Quartermaster (you may remember him from my disastrous guard
mounting photo) as Guard Commander in charge of our small Regimental
lock up jail located at our H.Q. Company centre. The jail at H.Q. company
site contained four of our regimental bad boys who were serving a few
weeks of regimental punishment dished out by our commanding officer
for minor offences like insubordination, AWOL etc. as these did not qualify
for the more severe army punishment in the regular army glasshouse.
The C.O. reasoned the appointment of an Irish guy to be in charge of the
prisoners over the Hogmanay period would probably be preferable to any
of the Scottish NCOs‘. Our C.O. probably reckoned the Scottish NCOs’
might be tempted to have a wee drink to celebrate Hogmanay as was the
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old traditional Scottish custom, perhaps forgetting to keep a watchful eye
on the incarcerated detainees.
Unfortunately, that careful thinking on the part of our C.O went all to hell,
as they say. The Irish guy proceeded to join early in with the Scottish
celebrations in the old traditional fashion. His joining in with tradition led
directly to his achieving a wonderful evening of heavy drinking which was
soon followed by an equally wonderful night of heavy, drunken sleeping.
It was around that time when one of the prisoners reached through the
wire in our home made stockade, grabbed an unpopular guard by the
throat and extracted the jail house keys to freedom for the night.
Alec Hanratty, my newly found friend from time spent guarding one of our
camps in Johore during the riots in Singapore, had been one of the
temporary detainees serving a few weeks detention for his usual AWOL
offence. Alec never seemed to get the message, he would go, ‘Absent
Without Leave’ from his rifle company camp without planning his escape
any further. He really had no place to go for there was nothing but jungle
for miles around and even then there was nothing else but even more
miles of jungle etc. He had been found wandering along a lonely road
through the jungle and brought to our H.Q. to be handed over to our
regimental sergeant where he was placed securely in our jail. No sooner
was he incarcerated in jail than he was suddenly released again when the
Irish Quartermaster became suddenly drunk and a prisoner stole the keys
to release everybody.
Alec soon made use of his temporary freedom, he realised it was almost
midnight when official New Year celebrations were due to begin. He
managed to locate Batu Pahat where he purchased a supply of bottled
beer then quickly made a beeline to share some New Year drinks with me.
How could I refuse such hospitality?
Actually, I did not refuse and have a photo to prove it. If you look
carefully at the photo of the Pipes and Drums above, you will see a small
inset picture of me just below the main picture, the inset picture shows
me neglecting my drumming duties in the drum section and, instead,
visiting with Alec.
I had also been doing a wee bit of drinking and was well into the mood by
the time Alec located me. I was obviously so much in the mood that I had
stopped playing and turned to give both Alec and his welcome beer bottle
gift my full attention, as you can see from the small, highlighted extract
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beneath the full photo. I have no idea what the punishment would be for
that act of insubordination but I was well past caring by that time, I was
located at the rear of the entertainment and fairly much out of sight. It’s
Hogmanay, we’re Scottish, nae bother!
Things got a wee bit hazy after that although I do remember playing at
the Sergeants Mess for a while until a sober sergeant relieved all of us of
our instruments, then locked them away safely. Perhaps he should have
locked us all away safely with the instruments but we were allowed to run
free for a few more hours till we fell into oblivion then slept it off to sober
up.
Lee Bailey and me, close to the point of no return. My tartan troosers are
already starting to concertina at the bottom, always a sure sign of my
having taken strong drink as ‘refreshment’.
It all ended in the old traditional blootered fashion. The last thing I can
remember from that night was having an argument under the stars with
some guy about music. He must have said something daft about some
subject which I can’t remember. The only part I do remember was telling
him he was a stupid bastard and I gave him a shove to make my point.
Unfortunately, for him, we were standing near one of the deep monsoon
drains which ran through the camp. My shove propelled him backwards
for a couple of steps till he disappeared down into the deep drain. The
lucky part for him it was not the monsoon season so the drain was
completely dry. Unfortunately, and this is the unlucky part for him, he
was not completely dry himself, as the saying goes, so he went to sleep
lying on his back in the empty drain. He looked quite comfortable down
there, I decided it was time for a wee rest also but, rather than join him
in the drain, I made it back to my own bed to sleep it off.
New Year’s Day was the time for a drunken football game, Officers versus
Sergeants.
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Note the sun shade umbrellas.
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The football game was a hoot, referee blowing his whistle often because
he liked the sound of it! Quite a few of the players should have been sent
off by the referee for trying to make a failed fashion statement.
A bunch of us were gathered on a grassy slope beside a deep monsoon
drain watching the ‘game’. Wee Charlie McWhirter, our hero of the great
pig shoot, suddenly taken seriously drunk, laughed so hard at the antics
of the tipsy players that he tumbled helplessly into the deep but dry
monsoon drain, completely pissed and unable to extricate himself.
However, help was at hand, although the other onlookers had also been
suddenly taken seriously drunk as well and the help turned into a
rambling discussion regarding the best way to extricate Charlie from the
big drain.On reflection, it seemed the best method was for one of us to
descend into the drain then assist Charlie to climb out. This idea was put
on hold after a couple of the rescuers had also tumbled into the drain
beside Charlie but were unable to help him owing to their own alcohol
induced condition, so now there were three!. These two slightly pissed
and failed rescuers decided to seek further assistance and both of them
staggered away in two opposite directions along the monsoon drain trying
to solve the now, even bigger, rescue problem, leaving Charlie to his own
devices. I see he had removed one of his boots in picture #2. Exactly why
he considered this act to be of any help in the rescue operation was not
made clear to me. I was fortunate to have my camera with me and have
inserted the pictures of the hilarious happening of Charlie’s abrupt
descent, including the brave attempts to rescue him. Monsoon drains
must have had a strange attraction for us that day, I blamed the bad
fairies!
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Wee Charlie, taken seriously drunk and suffering from a bad haircut,
tumbles into large monsoon drain.
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Help is at hand. Charlie removes right boot to aid with help effort.
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First attempt having failed in spite of heroic boot removal.
Plan ‘B’ swings into action. Wee Charlie, full of resolve, determination and
whisky, replaces right boot and tries again.
Eeky Blyth, also suffering from the bad haircut epidemic and about to
complicate the situation by loosing his pants, offers help.
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Second rescue attempt failed. Wee Charlie falls down again to admit
defeat, muttering,’ Aw fuck ’.
So much for the Scottish fairy tale of Bruce and the spider.
Charlie is abandoned to a death worse than fate by Eeky Blythe, his would
be rescuer. Even worse, SHOCK HORROR, Eeky Blythe is about to join the
shambles by abandoning his badly fitting pants.
Why should Britain tremble?
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THE ACTUAL POINT OF NO RETURN
The real point of no return came for me just after my twentieth birthday
on February 10th 1957.
My two years National Service was now nearing the end, however, my
happy little band of brothers still had to make the long journey home to
the U.K. to end our service. The initial journey to Singapore from Belfast
had taken us four weeks on the troopship Dunera this time our trip back
would be six weeks on board the saucy mv. Devonshire. The blocking of
the Suez Canal incident by the Egyptian President, Colonel Nasser, meant
we would have to sail for home by a different route.
This resulted in an alteration to the direction we would have to take to
reach the U.K. Forcing us to trail along via Colombo, Mauritius, Cape
Town and Dakar in Senegal on the west coast of Africa, how awful could
this be? From sunny Africa we would progress to sunless Southampton in
England and cold reality accompanied by bloody cold British April
weather. Oh dear, unpredictable civilian life loomed ahead. Our paternal
government dictated that former employers must keep our jobs open for
a period of time after we returned but some of us had changed quite a
lot, what would happen next?
Our little mixed bag of amateur soldiers gathered together at H.Q.
Company in Batu Pahat for a couple of days before being loaded onto
Bedford army trucks for transport to Singapore docks.
It was great to be with my old friends again, we had all been located with
different rifle companies scattered across Johore State for most of the
time but now we would make the final journey home. Together again like
it used to be when we first met at Berwick on Tweed back in early 1955
which seemed to have been years ago. Actually, it had been years ago,
some of us had matured a bit, some seemed to be just the same. There
were quite a few thoughtful faces to be seen as we wondered about how
we would fit into civilian life again.
The guys were all allocated army tents for their brief stay at H.Q.
company, Ray immediately located me at our wee, wooden hut for the
Pipes and Drums, he was the same old, daft Big Ray but seemed to be a
bit more mature now, probably due to almost two years active jungle
patrol service. Robbie soon surfaced there as well although he had
acquired another dimension having been shot in the chest a few months
ago and had been rushed to hospital with a collapsed lung. I also rushed
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to Kluang Military Hospital as soon as I heard the news of the shooting
where I found him pale and a wee bit wan though recovering his old
Glasgow street wise composure again.
We sat and swapped tall stories with each other for that first night, bit
daft really, we were about to be situated very close together for six
weeks, crowded onto a troopship with all the time in the world for
yarning. There was a difference this time, we were all going home.
I can remember very clearly the early morning of our departure from the
regiment. For the first time since joining I was to be separated from the
Pipes and Drums, this time was to be a very evocative experience for me.
It was almost like being wrenched from a family. I was used to being able
to ask for advice from Corporal Dan Grant about life in general, swapping
stories with pipers ’Bunny’ Campbell and Jock Winton. My friend Piper
John Scott was the only other National Service guy in the Pipes and
Drums, he was leaving also as we were both in the same conscript draft
during training. We were now both wearing white tape on our puttees
which marked us out as members of the Pipes and Drums, all seems a bit
silly now.
Early o’clock in the morning all the departing National Service guys were
herded onto the trucks, swearing and farting as usual. Complete silence
fell as the Pipes and Drums marched silently towards us, all wearing full
parade kit of white jackets, kilt, spats and shiny black brogues. They
came to a smart halt just beside the trucks. Drum Major Tom Black gave
the command,”By the centre, Quick March” the drums rolled then the
whole pipes and drums broke into, ’Hey Johnie Cope, are ye wakin’ yet,
and are your drums still beatin’ yet?’ The whole outfit had turned out to
play, ’The Long Reveille‘, just for us.
It’s a big compliment, not performed for just anybody. I now knew how
the Fiji Regiment must have felt when the Pipes and Drums played for
them as their ship slipped out of Singapore docks, heading for home after
their period of service in Malaya.
I hoped none of the other guys would notice a wee tear in my eye but I
certainly noticed the same thing with Piper John Scott as the evocative
sound of the Pipes and Drums faded away behind us. The trucks gathered
speed as we hit the road through Johore State, Malaya in the direction of
Singapore Island and, eventually, home.
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‘OH, WERE GOIN’ DOWN THE TRACK
AND WE’LL NEVER COME BACK,
SERGEANT HARRIGAN
IS OUR LEADER.
OH, WE KNOW HE’S TRUE,
BUT HE HISNAE GOT A CLUE.
AWAY, DOWN IN THE GREEN HELL
YES, THE GREEN HELL.
‘NOW MY STORY MUST END
FOR I’VE THINGS TO ATTEND,
LIKE PACKING MY KIT
FOR BLIGHTY.
TO SINGAPORE,
SEE MALAYA NO MORE,
AWAY, DOWN IN THE GREEN HELL
YES, THE GREEN HELL.’
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Troopship Dunera bound for home 1957
It was necessary to take ‘the long way round’ journey because the Suez
Canal had been blocked by Egypt’s President Nasser.This was caused by a
dispute between the President and the countries of Great Britain and
France. The Egyptian President decided to have a good pout then he
scuttled some ships in the canal thus blocking our usual way home. This
action effectively closed the Suez ship canal making it quite impossible for
any other ships to penetrate. War was quickly declared on Egypt by both
France and the U.K., the old colonial days were not quite dead yet. ’Send
in the gunboats captain’!
The only way for us to reach Europe from the far east was to sail to Cape
Town in South Africa, round the cape, then travel up the west side of
Africa to reach home. This situation was finally resolved when the USA
gave both France and the U.K. a bit of a ‘ticking off’ for getting involved in
the now unfashionable way of dealing with international problems. Both
countries backed off with heads bowed, it was now made very clear that
the US was now calling the shots. The old gunboat approach used in the
old British Empire days was coming apart at the seams just as we had
noticed during our stay in the Far East. This was the nineteen fifties,
‘times they were a changing‘.
News flash from home, ’Supplies of Bananas are now quite plentiful’ since
wartime rationing restrictions were lifted in 1952. Poor old Britain, the
war had finished in 1945 but imports of fruit and other ‘luxury’ items were
still scarce. ‘Hurry home lads bananas are available‘. The first real banana
I saw was in 1946. None of my group of kids had ever seen imported fruit
during the war. Food imports were mainly restricted to foods considered
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to be basic necessities. We had all seen pictures of bananas and knew
what they actually looked like. This banana was a dehydrated one which
was heated and placed on a plate all by lonely self for my delight. My big
treat on a plate looked more like a piece of brown dog shit to me, never
really acquired a desire for any exotic foreign fruit after that.
HOMEWARD BOUND
Happily for us, the long trip home over the sun kissed oceans took a total
of six weeks of comparatively lazy cruising. The sun kissing did not apply
to the English Channel of course it was raining when we reached there.
Our merry band of, soon to be ex conscript soldiers, had to resign
ourselves to daily sunbathing sessions, reading and making the occasional
visits to far flung places. It was hell there buddy! I was soon to have the
novel experience of playing in a different kind of band in the evenings
plus carefree socialising with young ladies it was hell I tell you!
Some of the motley crew on board the Dunera. My mates, Big Ray and
Robbie on the left. Most of them seem to be smoking healthy, free issue
fags.
We had soon slipped cable on the Dunera (it’s started again, have you
noticed the speed with which I switch from landlubber talk into the
language of the salty, old, seadog?). We were now heading west, saying
goodbye to the South China Sea. We were entering the vast Indian Ocean
and Colombo next stop. The atmosphere on board was very different from
our previous seagoing trip, we had sailed with our regiment then, now we
were just a small detachment, afloat amongst groups of other returning
army and air force personnel. We had none of the previous regimental
bullshit. There were no daily duties, physical exercises or even parades.
The atmosphere was very casual, it seemed as if, not only us, but the
whole shipload including the actual ship, was nearing the end of service.
Discipline was visibly relaxed, what the hell were we to do for the next six
weeks?
I had decided to join the, ’Let’s lie on the deck to work on our tans’,
brigade. After all, we were, with very few exceptions, all single men
average age now twenty years old and more than slightly randy. We had
all had two years of civilian life taken away from us. It made a lot of
sense for me to develop a deep, salty sea dog suntan while on board. We
had really got nothing much else to do. We were due to return to the U.K.
around the first week in April, at that time the locals would be emerging,
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pasty white, from winter. We, on the other hand, would hopefully look like
sun bronzed world travellers, this, combined with our bullshit army
service stories, would probably knock any male competition into a cocked
hat, whatever a cocked hat is.
Every morning after breakfast, we would hang around till the sailor boys
had finished their daily deck scouring duties, leaving the wooden deck
gleaming. We, clad only in shorts and plimsolls, bearing only our green,
army towels underarm, would amble onto the nice, virgin deck to mess it
up completely with sweat as we relaxed in row after, untidy row, of
assorted soldiery, slowly baking our way under the hot, foreign sun, into a
possible skin cancerous early grave. This was 1957, we were twenty what
the hell did we know?
We were really under the impression that the guys left in the U.K. while
we were away, were all having a great time. We imagined them going
regularly to dances, meeting and dating girls, taking girls to the cinema
and all that sort of stuff. Nothing of this type of life had been available to
us for the past two years. Sure, when we were briefly stationed in
Singapore, we had access to dancing of a sort. If you could classify
visiting the Happy World, buying a handful of tickets from the kiosk then
handing the requested value of tickets to your chosen Taxi Dancer who
would be your temporary dance partner to the weird swing music
provided by the keen but dismally amateur band of local Chinese
musicians.
When the purchased dance number finished, the girl would abruptly turn
round and leave you to rejoin the groups of other, uninterested Taxi
Dancers. You could then either hand more tickets to her and she would
partner you briefly again for the next dance, or you could approach the
kiosk once more to purchase some fresh tickets and start the imaginary
relationship all over again. The wicked, naughty, excited, feeling
generated by this exercise soon palled as your limited dancing time cash
supply dwindled. Towards the end of the evening it was often possible to
take the girl home after she had fulfilled her allocated taxi dance
obligation, she would then fulfill a different kind of obligation to you.
THE BALLROOM DANCER I did know one English guy who thought he
had cracked the system. Not for him was the common, earthy, soldierly
way to see girls, no Taxi Dancer shit for him.
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This was 1955, in those days, ballroom dancing was still relatively popular
as I have mentioned earlier. The larger towns in Britain all seemed to
have a ’Victor Sylvester Dance Studio’ where ballroom dancing was
taught. I remember seeing one in Edinburgh and understood they were all
the rage in other cities, this guy had even found one in Singapore.
I mentioned this guy was an Englishman, he had even signed on the
dotted line to be a regular soldier in a Scottish Regiment. Joining as a
‘regular’ entitled him to apply to enlist in any military service of his
choosing, he chose our regiment. He was a nice guy but stood out among
the rest of us like a sore thumb. He eventually told me his older brother
had served with this regiment during the war, hence his desire to join the
KOSB. He was also training for the signal platoon so I got used to seeing
him during the early days stationed in Singapore. I often saw him getting
ready for his weekly trip to the dance studio, all clean and shining,
glasses gleaming, wearing a nice shirt and tie. Come Thursday pay day he
was always keen and ready to catch the bus to Singapore, learn to
ballroom dance and meet nice girls. I have even found a picture of him,
just like I said, all clean and shining, there are several of us in this studio
picture, I shall let him remain anonymous.
Here we are during the early days on Singapore, spot the loony.
A few weeks after his probing into the ballroom dancing caper, our knight
in shining armour had to fall out after daily muster parade one morning.
He had another appointment, this time with the Medical Officer where his
suspicions were confirmed, the V.D. test was positive. He had caught a
packet!
He was not with us on this last trip to Singapore to board the troop ship
bound for home. He was a regular soldier serving a three year term for
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which he had signed when he enlisted. This enable him to choose our
regiment, unlike the rest of us serving two years of National Service, he
still had a further year to complete before returning home to civilian life.
We left him, still in the signal platoon in the jungle, not anywhere near a
Victor Sylvester Dance Studio now, although, I think he had enjoyed
enough of that sort of caper by then.
I AUDITION FOR THE BAND
The following evening I was leaning on the ship’s rail at the sharp end of
the ship, my usual pastime, enjoying the solitude, hearing the murmur of
the ship’s engines above the swishing sound of the Indian Ocean, no
street lights to interfere with my stargazing.
“Where are ye, ya wee ballocks”? The voice cut through the darkness,
shattering my romantic dreaming. It was Big Ray, trying to locate me in
the romantic darkness. “Have you seen the notice on the daily order
board”? I had to admit reading the daily order board was not a great
priority for me now. I was beginning to be ’demob happy’, this was our
expression for the state of mind which seemed to kick in around this time
in National Service when the end of our army service was looming ahead.
Ray hauled me off to read the notice on the daily orders board. It seemed
the powers that be were seeking musicians to form a dance band to
entertain the shipmates. Interested personnel to report to a certain Air
Force sergeant for details, no extra payment to be expected for services
rendered.
It had probably not occurred to the Air Force sergeant when he posted
the notice, there were no dance partners for the hundreds of sex starved
military guys milling around on board with nothing to do. Why the daft
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sergeant would advertise for dance band musicians was beyond me,
where would the female dancers be found to provide a dancing audience?
I was overlooking the fact that there were plenty officer class guys on
board where the women passengers were situated. This was in the ‘out of
bounds’ area for the rest of us where the officers could take their pick of
any young nurses and some returning Women’s Air Force females on
board.
The response from our shipmates was meager. Apart from the Air Force
sergeant who claimed to be able to play the alto sax, there was Ray
professing to be a string bass aficionado, there was also a piano player on
his way back to London, and me.
“Where do you fit into the music business”? I hear you cry. I had once
confided to Ray my secret ambition to be a jazz drummer, my only
qualifying talent for satisfying this dream so far was my position as a
snare drummer/bugler with the pipes and drums. My enthusiastic support
for jazz music was hardly experience to qualify me as a jazz drummer.
Ray had supplied further enthusiasm by brushing aside my misgivings re
ability to play jazz, saying that I could obviously use drumsticks, the rest
would just come naturally. Ray had this wonderful, ‘can do’ attitude which
seemed to have missed me as I may have mentioned in an earlier
chapter.
Hope springs eternal, they say. What Hope did not mention, there was
one more volunteer for the position of dance band drummer. My rising
hopes were immediately dashed. It was rumoured this other guy said he
was not only very good, he also claimed to have had experience of
playing professionally with a London band.
This seemingly fantastic applicant, reported to be an ex professional
musician, had only one slight problem. He was unable to apply in person
for the position as he was currently incarcerated in what we called, ’The
sharp end’. This was naval slang for the lock up prison aboard ship, which
was situated way out above the sea in the bows of the ship, hence, the
sharp end. Information regarding his reason for being incarcerated in the
sharp end was not forthcoming but it was enough for his application to be
crumpled up and placed in the round file. I was back in the band with a
shout!
I was to be the drummer, Ray, the bass player. A guy from London, the
pianist, the alto sax player was, of course, the Air Force sergeant, chosen
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by himself. He was, after all, in charge of forming the band. He also
owned his own alto sax! I am sure he appointed himself to be in charge
so he could be in charge of the band, if you know what I mean. Quick
thinking on his part, this chap should go far, probably running Imperial
Chemical Industries by now. I could imagine the situations vacant column
in the newspaper. ’Sharp lad wanted, good prospects, no alto sax playing
necessary, good pension scheme available’.
We still had a few obstacles to overcome before the band could get
started. The organising sergeant showed surprise when he learned Ray
did not seem to have brought his large string bass on board ship. The
answer to this was simple, Ray did not possess a large, string bass, or
even a small one this problem had not surfaced before. If it came to
proof, neither Ray, the piano player, or myself, had any way to prove we
could play at all, no instruments were on show except for the sergeant’s
alto sax and we were beginning to have doubts about his ability on that
score. Why Ray should not require a string bass during his jungle
soldiering had never come up before now.
Ray took care of this new problem in his own, very direct, way.
We had both heard about the new craze in the U.K. called skiffle music,
where amateur musicians created a kind of basic jazzy/folksie music
played by someone strumming a cheap guitar. Another player supplying
percussion on an old fashioned domestic laundry scrubbing wash board, a
steady, pulsing bass rhythm being generated from a kind of Heath
Robinson affair consisting of a broom handle, a strong piece of twine and
an empty tea chest.
The idea was to attach the string to one end of the broom handle then
attach the twine through a small hole bored in the tea chest, when the
twine was stretched twixt wooden broom handle and tea chest, a strong,
vibrating, booming noise was obtained from the tea chest, by plucking the
string in time to the music.
The assembled group could then sing numbers such as The Rock Island
Line, in unison, accompanying themselves with a crude but cheap and
effective, driving rhythm.
The ever inventive Ray quickly established where the cooking took place
on the ship, had a word with one of the cooks, returning with an empty
tea chest, plus a wooden broom handle and ball of strong twine, we were
in business. Ray was definitely a guy to have around in a tight spot. The
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amazing thing was, he could actually make the resulting contraption
sound remarkably like a bass!
I was taken into the bowels of the ship to inspect, ’the drum kit’. Poor
thing, it had seen better days, but not recently. The ’kit’ consisted of a
battered snare drum, an elderly and unfashionable bass drum with foot
pedal, a high hat stand and cymbals which needed urgent attention and
one, very old, ride cymbal which could be attached to the bass drum.
There was also a set of ’skulls’. I remembered last seeing a set like this
being used by a ’drummer’ at our Boy Scout dance which seemed like
many years ago. That was when I won that bloody awful necktie at the
spot dance which was rigged in my favour. This is the same tie as the one
I am unfortunately wearing in the ‘new recruits’ picture featured at the
beginning of this story.
It seemed all a drummer had to do in those days was to employ a heavy,
steady, beat with the right foot on the bass drum pedal, not much else
was expected in the way of drumsticks or wire brushes. The drummer
who accompanied the lonely accordian player at the Scout Dances would
occasionally tap these, assorted, wooden skulls, which generated a kind
of plonking noise just like the noise from horse’s hooves. I imagine it
made the same sort of sound which would be achieved by striking empty
coconut shells. He would hit the skulls with vigour and a fair amount of
rhythm during any of the assorted accordian tunes and rhythms without,
as far as I could see, any particular reason or plan. Perhaps I had missed
something.
Oh, for the good old days when most local drummers only needed to turn
up in time and bring their own drum kit, this appeared to be the only
qualifying talent required to play for dancing. Proof of any technical ability
was seemingly not all that essential. Actually just owning a drum kit was
the main thing in those days.
Band leaders back then really liked the head of the bass drum to be hand
painted to display both the leaders name and the band’s title in bold
lettering. This was very important, correct spelling or tasteful choice of
colours, less so. Inclusion of the leaders name on the drummers’ bass
drum practically ensured regular employment in the dance band.
Ray helped me to carry the old drum kit from the depths of the ship to lay
it before the sergeant for comment. He obviously had no clue or great
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expectations about drumming or, as I was soon to find out, any other
kind of music or instruments.
I got the strong impression our ’sax player’ had probably expected a
stronger response to his advertisement for dance band musicians. This
would have enabled him to organise things in a style to suit him. This
should enable him do lots of moving around while the other guys did all
the playing, leaving him to possibly do a bit of conducting as he must
have seen band leaders doing in Holywood movies. Better still, he could
be better employed fetching cups of tea for the other guys who were
doing all the playing. Our little, motley, band of musical brothers, was
obviously not what he had in mind.
And then, there were three. The piano player from London, Ray, with his
bass contraption, and me!
NO ENTRY FOR OTHER RANKS BEYOND THIS POINT
The non- playing air force sergeant led the way to the previously
forbidden ‘NO ENTRY’ area to inspect the piano. It was located in the area
of the ship reserved for officers, married quarters and some young
women, probably the nursing types that Ray and I used to letch after at
the jazz club in the Air Force camp in Singapore, prior to losing my
virginity in that naughty city at the insistence of the bold Ray.
The females on board this ship were strictly off limits to the likes of us
common soldiers. There was an imaginary line about half way along the
deck where the upper structure started, this was a ’NO ENTRY’ area for
the lower classes after this point. We never even saw any women at all,
unless you went on deck, climbed up the ship’s rail, then clung perilously
onto the top rail, stretching unwisely out over the Indian Ocean to turn
your body by twisting into a strange shape then to peer sideways along
the ship. Then, you might, just might, on a clear day, if the wind was in
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the right direction and if there was an ‘R’ in the month, catch a fleeting
glimpse of the female form on the forbidden deck of the ship, casually
tossing her empty beer bottle into the sea.
With this in mind, we entered the forbidden area. This was my first
experience of being able to freely visit previously out of bounds areas and
functions, not only allowing us entry, but actually welcoming such an
action.
This new, unusual sophisticated awareness was entirely new and strange
to wee Andy from the country. It was all due to my entry into the magic
and previously exclusive society of privileged musicians. Since then, I
have once played in a minstrels gallery where we provided background
music to a very exclusive, political dinner gathering. Also played at some
very private, high society, Hunt Balls and various, very select High
Society events. I even played once at the Coal Miners Social Institute,
Whitburn, West Lothian, Scotland at a Saturday night dance, without
much melee breaking out. These were all very wonderful occasions, but
that is another story for later.
We were led to the Officers Mess bar where we found the magic piano.
Our hopes were pinned on this instrument and its player. We would be
sunk if both he and the piano were going to follow our initial disappointing
band experience, all would be lost and we would descend into obscurity
again.
Our potential piano player was originally from London(his name was Jim)
sat at the slightly battered instrument, ran his fingers experimentally over
the keys, nodded his head in approval, settled his arse into a more
comfortable position, then rocked us into a great boogie number which
had Ray and I snapping our fingers and clapping with enthusiastic delight.
Our non- playing sergeant was totally unaffected by this piano fireworks
display. No finger clicking from this guy. Unmoved, he produced his
clipboard then proceeded to check various potential dates with the mess
waiter behind the bar, as if to prove that he was definitely not one of us
rough types. He completely missed the wonderful opportunity to purchase
some alcoholic refreshment at the bar for the rest us. He had not earned
many musical points from us so far but now he plummeted right down to
zero. What a prize prick!
We were to be allowed to practice right there in the mess, Ray and I went
off to collect our ’instruments‘. The sergeant fetched his alto sax which he
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carefully positioned on its little stand right at the front of the ’band’ where
it remained, untouched. The rest of us had a quick meeting to decide
what to do with him but quickly agreed to leave things as they were, after
all, apart from his nice clip board, he did have an alto sax which would
lend a wee bit of authenticity to our claim to be some kind of a band,
even if it just sat there, unplayed, on its wee shiny stand during our
performance.
Rehearsal was a bit superfluous for us really. Jim the pianist was
absolutely fantastic, although he did not read a note of music. This was
fine with us as the only sheet of music we could find when we lifted up
the hinged seat on the piano stool, was a dog eared copy of the music
for,’ The Laughing Policeman ’, with full chorus. Not much of a repertoire
for us so we replaced it reverently back into its dusty grave, positioned
rather dangerously underneath our piano player’s unpredictable arse.
Jim either just ploughed away as different numbers came into his head or
responded quickly to shouted suggestions from us. Ray soon got the hang
of his improvised bass and I did mysterious things with the old, basic
drum kit, it all seemed to gell somehow. This was just as well, we now
discovered, our busy, organising, non-playing, sergeant had agreed for us
to play for dancing at a party in the Officers Mess the following evening.
He just had not got a clue and to be fair, neither did we, we just agreed
to have a go to see what would happen on the night, we had nothing
much to lose anyway.
BIG PARTY NIGHT
Musicians have an old saying at rehearsals.’It will be alright, on the night’.
The music gods must have heard us rehearse and decided we needed
help. There was a good party type crowd present when we arrived,
dressed in old olive green shorts with matching wrinkled army shirts, set
off by rather scruffy plimsolls, and the band didn’t look much better
either.
After a few days at sea I imagine the other passengers on board ship
were starting, like us, to feel a bit bored, the novelty of travelling by sea
was wearing off already, even gazing at the fantastic flying fish on display
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as they skipped across the Indian ocean were probably losing their charm
by now.
The crowd were ready for something new, they looked as if they had been
rehearsing for the party already, partaking in quite a few wee
refreshments from the bar by the look of them. We were more than a
little inclined to help their night along with a few refreshments ourselves
but we were private soldiers, this was an officers bar, what to do?
Ray had the bright idea to make the sergeant fetch some drinks, if the
sergeant approached the officers bar in a confident manner to order some
drinks for us, he might just get away with it.
I had my doubts about this plan, our sergeant was already sitting in front
of ’his’, band, apparently preparing to play by blowing experimentally into
his alto sax from which came a faint sound something like, ’a coo, farting
up a close‘ was the expression which came, uncharitably, into my mind.
Ray, Jim and I had a quick, few words before launching straight into a
crazy, ambitious, (for Ray and me), boogie number featuring Jim
attacking the keyboards. He was a godsend, plus he seemed able to do
most of the work, the bored crowd suddenly came alive, they had been
hoping to move the boredom a bit to the left to enable them have at least
a reasonable evening for a change. They had not bargained for a crazy
English boogie music piano player backed by two, very enthusiastic
Scottish guys who were, it appeared, away with the fairies and certainly
not quite right in the head.
The crowd went wild as the refreshments had started to take effect as
well. One or two couples, not quite sure if this was either a quickstep or
perhaps a foxtrot, tried to adopt a conventional ballroom dance posture,
looking quite puzzled but really willing to enjoy themselves, come what
may.
Others attempted to jive but, never having actually experienced dancing
to anything like this, remember, it was early 1957. They just jumped up
and down in time to the music in good, old Anglo Saxon style, they were
having fun for the first time in their hide bound, military dominated, life.
Jim’s wild, piano music had done the trick. The entire crowd were
attempting to dance on the now too small area allocated for this exercise.
Everybody in the place was having a go, lots of them had now broken the
unmarked boundary reserved for very reserved dancing. Rules and
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standards were being broken, some broken forever. I had actually never
seen this type of thing happen before.
Bear in mind, I had been wheeched away from what was basically, a
small town/rural background. I had been rushed straight into the
restricted and strange army life, spent mostly in the jungles of another
rural country called Malaya. My adventures into what passed for real,
adult life during my brief, initial visits to Singapore were one thing. This
was an entirely different thing I was actually witnessing. It was something
I had never seen before, something quite new to me. It was more than
just witnessing for I was actually part of it myself.
After a long second world war followed by years of rationing, clothes
coupons, no street lights, not much fun and other restrictions. Britain was
broke, it was 1954 before meat rationing finally stopped, the year before
I was called up for National Service.
I was seeing British people starting to throw off some of their inhibitions
to have a good time. My own memories of the wartime and following
years into the fifties are not remembered in colour but in greyscale.
I was now able to see colour and feel a new kind of excitement which was
all new to me, I was actually involved with this exciting music, I was part
of it, I belonged, I liked it.
I also liked my first drink in the officer’s mess. This was somewhere which
would have been out of bounds for me. I was now one of the chosen
people, at least I thought I was. Imagine me in the officer’s mess, this
was all new, heady stuff for wee Andy.
One of the crowd was a grateful and slightly pissed, army captain with his
roving eye on an attractive, young nurse, she was another passenger also
bound for home. Funnily enough, this was the same captain who was in
the bar when we arrived to set up our gear, such as it was. He had
advised us just to play nice, quiet, background music and maintain a low
profile. Before he turned away to approach the bar, he admonished us to
behave ourselves. Looking rather grim he reminded us that this was the
Officers Mess and some decorum was required. We should not, under any
circumstances never, ever start playing that dreadful new music called,
“The rock and the roll“, (his words).
We really had no programme in mind at this stage, never having
rehearsed any music at all apart from hearing Jim play the piano for a few
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minutes when we first met. If Ray and I had planned anything musical at
all, it was to follow Jim’s lead to see where it took us. We would just have
to try and keep up with him.
We were surrounded by a very appreciative crowd as soon as we finished
our first frantic number. It was then I saw the rather stern captain who
had advised us how to play. He was now shouldering his way through the
crowd heading straight for us. “Oh shit” I thought, “we are for it now”.
“Well done lads”, he was shouting as he got closer, ‘Well done’. It seemed
the straight laced Dr Jeckel had been pushed aside at the bar allowing Mr
Hide to come gibbering out to play. Now he wanted to know what we
would like to drink. He was all smiles now and ready to have a good time,
by coincidence, so were we.
He had really enjoyed our new kind of approach to music. He went to the
bar, ordered four beers and had the barman bring them over to us with
instructions to keep us supplied for the entire evening. This nice,
moderately pissed man was blissfully unaware that Jim. Ray and myself
were now mature, world travellers, each aged all of twenty years, been
round the block a few times, ye know.
We had noted the four drinks being poured. Our new benefactor, the
drinks provider, had obviously included the sergeant. He, after a few
tuneless, tootles on his sax before we started, had picked up his clipboard
in alarm seemingly startled by Jim’s furious piano pounding. He fled
rapidly through the crowd making seemingly urgent notes on the clip
board and remained loose till we eventually took a break. At this point he
returned to lean on the piano, sipping his free drink, posing as one of the
band.
The previously mentioned world travelling musicians, continued to order
four, free, drinks from the bar for the rest of the evening. However, we
mature musician types had now switched from beer to cocktails, more
suiting to our new musical life style really. Actually ordering our drinks
from the officers mess bar was no problem now for the worldly musical
chaps. I had thoughtfully tipped the bartender when he delivered our first
drinks from our friendly, half pissed, Captain.
The tipping exercise was totally foreign to us but I had observed this
tipping habit on any American movies I saw in the fifties. The English
mess bartender was equally but pleasantly surprised with the unexpected
tip which I placed on his tray with what I thought was a sophisticated,
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worldly manner, so ordering our drinks was no problem for the rest of the
evening. I imagine the bartender was as surprised by the unexpected tip
as I was myself because I had got carried away with the whole thing and
probably tipped too much, I can only imagine the tipping habit had not
caught on in the officers mess. The new custom was really appreciated by
the bartender who made sure we were quickly supplied with more booze
for the rest of the evening.
The number of cocktails served remained at four but were now being
consumed by just the three of us. We had agreed to split the four drinks
on a democratic fashion. The drinks were awarded fairly on the basis of,
two for me and one each for you two. We swapped our turns for the extra
free drink in each round and also managed to maintain fairness in the
traditional, old, Scottish custom by carefully omitting the non-playing
sergeant from any more of the forthcoming, free, drinks. “Did ye think we
came up the river Clyde on a banana boat, fur Christ’s sake“?
The evening was a great success, the people loved us. Their attempted
conga dance would be talked about for days, our music went down really
well, as did a few of the tipsy dancers. This was the first time I had heard
the English expression, ‘Whoops’, which was used when a wobbly dancer
slid laughing helplessly to the floor. I had seen the word printed in comics
when the comic character fell flat on his arse but I had had not ever
heard it actually being said. There is a first time for everything as the
soldier said to the girl when he led her into the woods. Plans were laid for
repeat performances by the band to take place on a regular basis all the
way back to the U.K.
We finished the night tired, sweaty and happy. We were still on a high
which comes with having played music successfully and satisfied the
crowd, this was an entirely fresh, new and exciting feeling for me and I
liked it.
I recall a conversation about a couple of years later when the topic of
conversation turned from football to sex, probably my fault as I had little
interest in the football lark. Like all the other guys of my age group, sex
was very interesting and I managed to change the conversation direction
with little effort. The popular census of opinion was that sex was the most
wonderful, exciting and fulfilling experience to be had. However, this
collective opinion came from a bunch of young and relatively
inexperienced males. Their experience of sex had largely been collected
during various trips to see popular American movies.
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You have to bear in mind that American movies from our era were
forbidden to portray couples sharing the same bed, all the Hollywood
movies from that time showed separate beds for couples. Should the male
happen to sit on the edge of the female’s bed to have a conversation, his
feet must remain firmly on the floor, no hanky panky allowed. This all
sounds a bit daft now but the naughty swinging sixties lay in the future,
we had to put up with male feet firmly planted on floor. Unless, of course,
the male was a very athletic contortionist which opened the door to much
mind boggling in my case.
I was the only guy in our young gathering at that time who had any
experience in playing stimulating music to an appreciative audience. I
ventured my opinion, formed after my first musical experience on that
memorable night on board ship. I explained that playing sexy, suggestive
music propelled the player into, what was to me, a totally new
experience. When we eventually finished playing to the dancers that
evening I was experiencing a feeling of achievement, success,
contentment and a mentally satisfying state of mind which had formerly
been quite unknown to me, the only thing I could compare it to was sex.
As I write this, I have a disk playing on my machine, it is a recording of
Aaron Neville singing a very romantic number. A tenor sax player
contributes a short but very interpretive solo on one number which I can
identify with, it illustrated exactly what I mean. My companions during
that particular evening discussion which took place a couple of years later
after the pub had closed, listened patiently to my apparent ravings about
musical pleasures which they put down to the fact that we had all had
several pints that night.
There was a short pause after I had voiced my experiences about musical
and life experience stories. There was a bit of a silence, then they put
forward their briefly considered opinion of my offering. “What a load of
old, fucking bollocks“.
At the end of the musical evening on board ship, the three of us musical
types, each one of us somehow feeling satisfied and fulfilled. We slowly
wandered back to the deserted deck at the sharp end, under a night sky
which was overflowing with lights such as none of us had ever seen
before, no light pollution in the middle of the ocean.
There was no light pollution down below deck either where we were
usually incarcerated on this voyage. ‘Lights out’ below deck was timed for
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10 p.m. when only a very dim emergency light switched on automatically
for the rest of the night. Not one of the three of us wanted to bring the
evening to a close by going below so we lingered on deck under the
velvet night sky which floated with our ship above the Indian Ocean.
There was no sergeant either, we had left him, basking in a sea of
admiration from our slightly pissed audience, making arrangements for
future entertainment. At least he was useful for something.
We lent on the ships rail, unwilling to let the evening disappear, drinking
and talking on into the night about our music and some of the vivid, daft
scenes we had seen that night, listening to the ocean whispering old
secrets below us. This was the new and fascinating life for us.
Ray would probably still refer to me as, “Ya wee bollocks“. However, wee
bollocks had now added an entirely new dimension to his character, I had
tasted some new experience and it suited me. I now knew why some
successful footballers or entertainers felt different from the others. I now
had the feeling that I had been accepted into the magical group of
musicians.
I had no illusions about being a great drummer. I think I had already
decided against cultivating a big ego with a swollen head. When I became
really famous I would not desert my old pals by mixing with other trendy
celebrities and making the newspaper headlines. No, not me, I would still
remain Andy with a wee touch of the common man, still hanging with my
old friends from my Boy Scout days, dropping into the local pub when I
could find the time in my busy schedule for the occasional pint of beer
with my old mates.
I was sure I would still be able to keep to my straight and narrow
common path through life even when I would soon have to encounter
other rich and famous personalities in my new, professional position as a
much sought after musician.
In this new, busy, career in the music business I would, of course,
encounter other well known people. The really great drummer Buddy Rich
would have no need to show any concern for his drumming crown on
hearing Andy had played to an enthusiastic crowd of thirty people on
board the good ship, Dunera in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
Oh no, I would be no threat to Buddy, when our professional paths
crossed in the recording studio, we would both smile at each other as we
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passed one and another in an admiring, kind of musician buddy way. But
that was what it was all about, as far as I was concerned. After all, I had
just joined a rather special group of musical people.
One of the special group of people, I think it must have been Jim, let off a
loud, night shattering, discordant postern blast, said, “Fuck it” and threw
our now empty whisky bottle way into the also empty Indian Ocean.
And so we went to bed. Me, still always the romantic type, to sleep under
the stars, contemplating about the meaning of life and everything, drifting
off to sleep under the mysterious night sky, full of unexplained wonders.
The other two Philistines buggered off below to their bunks, into the
overcrowded region of common soldiers below deck with the
overpowering aroma of unromantic farts and sweaty socks.
SRI LANKA (CEYLON - AS WAS).
We dropped anchor in the docks at Sri Lanka the next morning, we were
allowed on shore for a fairly short visit of a few hours, this was fine by us
as we were beginning to walk with a bit of a roll again.
I had found Sri Lanka very intriguing on our outwards visit. Situated right
off the bottom tip of India, it contained what I imagined was as close as I
was going to get to Kipling’s India. It is a fascinating island, I guess it’s
not really like the India I imagined but I really took to it and made a
mental note to visit it properly as a civilian whenever the occasion rose,
some vague time in the future. Guess I had better hurry up as the future
seems to be shrinking a bit lately, still have not made it back to Sri Lanka
yet.
That brief day in Ceylon, we managed to make it to the Temple of the
Tooth though, saw the huge elephant there. We had a cup of tea
somewhere else and it was soon time to get back aboard, we had been
booked to play in the officers mess again in the evening, this time it was
a booking for a birthday celebration. I was looking forward to the
unaccustomed luxury of seeing some good looking women again.
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Great big elephant, very sacred, Temple of the Tooth, Ceylon.
I mentioned having a cup of tea in Colombo, for this was exactly what we
had. The only alcohol I had consumed for the best part of two years was
from the bottle of Scotch whisky I had purchased for the recent
Hogmanay celebrations back in Malaya, plus the enthusiastic consumption
of free cocktails in the officers mess a couple of nights ago. Having now
discovered cocktails in the officers mess, I was prepared to explore the
new drinking market further when we played at the birthday party in the
evening, provided our generous, slightly pissed, benefactor could afford to
keep them coming.
THE NIGHT TIME IS THE RIGHT TIME. It was evening when the
Dunera cast off to sail once again into the moonlit Indian Ocean. ’How
romantic to be having a party in the Officers Mess’, I thought, as I
watched a half naked hairy Scotsman in the next bunk cutting his toe
nails. I went to the heads to shower and get ready for our second night
entertaining the waiting birthday crowd.
Once again, there was a fairly well primed bunch waiting for us to start
playing and, once again, our, non playing band leader sergeant fled
clutching his clipboard to discuss important engagements with the mess
bar tender or anybody, just as we started to play. Just as well, really, he
could not fit in with us anyway.
There was a good selection of young, suntanned, good looking, women
there although I noticed they seemed to be attracted more to Jim on
piano than to either Ray or myself. After all, Jim was really the main
attraction, most of the girls approached him with praise for his playing
and requests for their favourite numbers.
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Jim was a bit of a rough diamond from the East End of London. He gave
the impression he was not really aware of being a hit with the girls which
probably added a bit more to his charm, perhaps they wanted a bit of
‘rough trade’, I really didn’t know exactly what that meant but I was
beginning to learn. At one point I overheard a girl ask Jim if he could play
the number called ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’. Jim, who could play
almost any tune, mumbled a rejection for this request. I swear I heard his
low reply, “No, but I can play, Pop goes the fuckin’ weasel“. Perhaps he
was employing the, ’rough trade’, approach with the girls, whatever it
was, it was certainly working for him.
It was about that time I realised I was not quite in the also ran category
myself. A good looking girl approaching Jim with a request appeared to
stumble slightly as she squeezed past me at the drums. Her fingers
brushed lightly over my bare, exposed thigh, I was wearing shorts as
usual, there was what I have to describe as a mild but wonderfully electric
shock which blazed all through my body. I had no idea that kind of thing
actually happened, assuming it was another piece of Hollywood crap I had
heard from somewhere.
The good looker appeared not to notice she had made contact with her
light, apparently casual, touch. She turned to apologise for her pretended
stumble, “Oh, sorry, just trying to make a request“, she smiled. I decided
to make a request of my own and asked her name, told you I was
learning. She gave me a big smile and said her name was Barbara, I
managed to stammer, “Andy“, before she continued towards the piano
player to make her musical request.
I could not believe it, I had scored, I knew I had definitely scored!! Here
was I, recently twenty years old and had scored for the very first time in
my life!! I must have appeared to be a real country clod, this kind of thing
had never happened to me. To be honest, I had never even had much
opportunity to try and score before. Up till now, my social life had mainly
consisted of membership of the Boy Scouts, hiking and camping activities,
the past two years of my young life being spent in Her Majesties’ army
isolated from contact with females, apart from the occasional brief visits
with Taxi dancers at the Happy World dance hall in steamy Singapore. For
most of my service I was stuck out in bum fuck rural Malaya. Neither of
the above type of activities presented any grooming or opportunity to
practise the art of scoring with women at all, I decided I just had to seize
the moment, as they say. “Fuck the Hollywood shite“. I thought, “I’ve just
scored and I like it, just watch me now! I just could not take my eyes off
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Barbara. She was with a crowd of other girls and did not seem to be
attached, although she was very attractive, sexy, and had no shortage of
eager men requesting her to dance. She was what could be described as
petite, whatever magic formula her small stature contained, she certainly
had it beautifully distributed all through her body. She had long, dark
hair, framing a lovely face with really sexy eyes. Her face had an elusive,
gorgeous, intelligent, look suggesting a great sense of humour with a
promise of some kind of elusive indication of good things to come. She
was wearing close fitting, white shorts enclosing what was the very best
looking, sexy, behind, I had ever seen. Yes, I have to admit it, I was well
smitten.
The well smitten effect was fully completed when the crowd surrounding
her started to laugh at something she said, they backed away from her
slightly, she glanced around her as if to ensure there was space. The next
minute her lovely body was performing a barefoot, perfect cartwheel
display across the floor. There was a brief pause then the crowd gave a
cheer and a great round of applause. She pushed her hands through her
hair, lifted her glass to acknowledge their praise and, as they say, that’s
all she wrote, I was a lost cause.
When I eventually came crashing back onto the real world, I was just
barely aware that our piano player Jim was giving us a count of four beats
in. This was to introduce his next musical offering which turned out to be
the much requested Conga dance. The closest I had ever come to Conga
rhythm was when I saw a Hollywood (bloody Hollywood again!) movie
starring Sonja Henie dancing the Conga while wearing what seemed to be
a full fruit basket on her head. This was a very colourful fashion
statement, but not a great deal of help for my start in my musical
education.
It is at this point, just when the word ’four’ has been pronounced by the
leader to start the next number, that you realise you are out there, all by
yourself, in front of all these people who are now waiting for you to do
something on the first beat of the bar which is 1-2-3-4-NOW!! How I
wished I could be just like our, non-playing, alto sax player. Nobody
seemed to notice when he wandered off just as the count came in for the
first number. Some primal instinct came to my aid. My only available
material was the battered, elderly apology for a drum kit although I would
not have a much better chance at playing a conga rhythm if I had been
supplied with a modern drum kit. I recall a fleeting piece of advice
shooting very briefly across my mind it was my new, positive, self,
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advising my other, daft, self to, “Keep the heid”!! Thank goodness my old
very annoying habit of drumming my fingers to keep time with any
number I heard on the radio came to my rescue. I merely used my
drumsticks as extensions to my ever drumming fingers and discovered
that I was probably ambidextrous to a certain extent. This was just
enough to help me provide some kind of primitive Latin rhythm to drive
Jim’s piano dance tune out onto the improvised dance floor.I went right
back to a basic beat by disengaging the snare from my snare drum
turning it into a sort of tom tom instrument on which I played a repetitive
basic rhythm, accompanied by a steady beat supplied by my helpful right
foot on the poor old bass drum, (thanks Harry), my left foot was able to
join in with extra, offbeat clicks from the high hat as well.
On reflection, I think I was actually reproducing a very basic old blues
beat much favoured by Bo Diddley and not really suitable for a conga. But
the primitive rhythm seemed to kick off some hidden response in our
dancers. I realised at that moment that when people are seen rising off
their arses to move to the dance floor is a sure indication of a really good
band, you can forget all about pretty little trills on the trumpet or
whatever, an animal like primitive beat works every time and it bloody
well worked this time. Ray fell in with a pounding bass beat combined
with my daft idea of a Latin rhythm, our very primitive driving sound was
just what the dancers needed. They obviously loved it although their
dancing level was a bit primitive as well as the music. Inhibitions were
thrown aside, they were in the middle of the huge limitless Indian Ocean,
a few refreshment drinks had been taken, no nosy neighbours to spy on
them, Wheeeeee!
After playing the frantic Conga dance we decided a short break would be
in order, Jim, our star piano player, was immediately besieged by an
admiring crowd but now both Ray and I had other fish to fry. An
attractive blonde girl materialised magically beside Ray. I guess I had not
realised up till then but Ray had quite a bit of the ’hard man’ look about
him. I had seen him in action in the Union Jack Club on the night when
we had, ‘a wee bit of bother’ with the English soldiers but this was
different. His appearance obviously appealed to the blonde girl but
discouraged any possible male rivals. I certainly would not invite a clout
on the head from Ray, in any case, he was my mate, clouting activity
would just never arise between us. I guess I’ve always been lucky.
For my part, I was now prepared to expand on the friendly smile I had
from Barbara when I had managed to screw up the courage to tell her my
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name. Luckily, she turned away from her group of friends just as I was
heading towards her with absolutely no idea how to make my next move.
Shit, she was actually heading towards me. I must be in cloud cuckoo
land. “Yes ya daft wee bugger,” I thought as she smiled directly at me,
“she IS heading for me“.
We just hit it off immediately. I can’t describe that happy feeling which
happens at a time like this, it sure does not happen very often. The
Officers Mess was packed but the other people around us just disappeared
somehow, see, told you I could not explain it. I really had no time to
waste, we would have to start playing again very soon, already the happy
crowd was shouting encouragement towards us, it seemed they did not
want us to stop. In a situation like this I suddenly became aware of my
grannie, who was one of the Highland Scottish, Urquhart Clan, giving me
mental contact from God knows how or where. I could swear I heard
grannie clearly saying, “Cut a stick when you see it growing“.
Grannie’s words seemed to come to me loud and clear and I understood
for the first time exactly what her old Highland saying meant. I quickly
took her advice to ‘cut a stick‘, I think it is advice to seize an opportunity
when it comes along, it might not still be there when you pass this way
again. I stood very close to Barbara and received no rejection on her part,
quite the opposite in fact. I was willing to bet she must have been on the
same weird wavelength as me. This great feeling was exactly the same as
I had experienced with my girlfriend on that evening back at home during
my embarkation leave. Oh that memorable time way back in 1955. Don’t
know how to explain it, but it was sure happening to me with Barbara
now and I liked it.
Somehow, I managed to convey to her over the babble, that I would like
to see her after we stopped playing. Bugger me! She was smiling at me,
agreeing that would be a great idea, I could not get over it, I thought, as
I returned to the old drum kit, but I had actually done it, I had made real
contact with this girl and she seemed to be returning the feeling.
I had already achieved two things that evening. I had pushed myself
forward to start playing the old drums for the unknown Conga rhythm and
won. Now I had made positive contact with Barbara who had seemed to
me to have rather made the first move during that first evening by just
touching me with her fingers when she was moving forward to make a
request to Jim. It was a mystery to me how I had drawn on unknown
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reserves to make the next move to her, but I had and it worked, thank
goodness.
The rest of the playing evening went, as they say, in a bit of a blur. I
remember being thankful we were not reading music because my eyes
never left Barbara. I guess I must have seemed to be acting really daft
but my hormones were bouncing about like crazy and I just could not
take my eyes off her. She took every opportunity to give me interested
glances as she pretended to be listening to the conversation from her
adoring group of male admirers. They could jostle and try to upstage each
other but the way she kept smiling towards me told me I had nothing to
worry about, these guys had the rank and class clout but not one of them
possessed the magic musical clout which I now offered.
It is difficult to explain but, believe me the guy who has the musical clout
is irresistible to the ladies. I could see I had nothing to worry about, my
only problem would be when we finished playing, what would I do then?
Socialising with that crowd could be a big problem. As things turned out,
the guys crowded around Barbara were not really a problem at all. As
soon as the music ended that night Barbara made some kind of excuse to
her admirers then came over to visit with me, the classy way she did this
left the discreet message to the competition that they would be as well to
give up trying any more, Barbara had eyes only for me.
Seventh heaven probably best explains the area where I existed. The
problem I had been worried about did not actually exist. I was already in
the previously forbidden area so the biggest social step had already been
taken. The most attractive girl on board ship was the one talking to me,
the officers just had to accept that fact, they realised that to pull rank
now and order me out of their officers mess bar would not go down very
well at all, our music was very popular, not cricket you know.
I guess I had inadvertently crashed the class barrier, quite the wee,
working class trend setter. Unwittingly, I probably was a wee bit of a
trendsetter in 1957, the class system was still very much in evidence but
it was beginning to crack. It took other guys like me a few more years of
social mixing to crack the whole class system wide open.
It all seems to be a quaint, old fashioned system now, it still lingers on of
course in this traditional old country but we now seem to be able to live
and let live. The old class system is, of course, still around only the upper
strata seems to have changed somewhat. It used to be inhabited by
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upper class twits who dictated what was what. The well off celebrity twats
now seem to have moved into that lofty position and are busy braying
their Narcissistic twaddle not to, but at, each other or anybody else
unfortunate enough to be within their wide audio reaching distance.
Hearing one of these prats in full flood when they are thinking each
listener to their fake pearls of wisdom must be drinking in every word is
really from their own private illusion. I always remember an old friend of
mine saying, “They talk all day but say nothing“. Rant finished, carry on
reading.
Barbara and I managed to make our move when the dance finished, she
pretended to be helping me by moving parts of the old drum kit which
must have been a bit tired after my rhythmic experimenting during the
evening. Nobody really seemed to notice as we picked up a couple of
pieces of drum kit and appeared to be taking them away somewhere for
overnight storage. The only overnight activity involved was really
intended for me as I realised a marvelous opportunity had appeared
which would enable me to penetrate the usually forbidden area of the ship
reserved for officers, married couples and some nurses.
Most of the happy revelers were too pissed to notice what Barbara and I
were up to. The only eyes on us were the jealous ones on the faces of the
guys who had been hoping to get to Barbara all during the evening. I
reckoned it would be prudent for me to disappear a.s.a.p. before any of
these officer types decided to try to pull rank and spoil my evening. I
thought the wonderful word, ’Wheeech’, would best describe my best
move as I remembered the Great McBain’s magical antics during our basic
training and I quickly made both Barbara and I disappear.
We made it to Barbara’s cabin unnoticed and slipped inside. Thankfully,
she had a single cabin so we were quite undisturbed. There was an open
porthole in her cabin which was high above the waterline, we only had the
gentle sound from the vast Indian Ocean for company. The sea provided
its own wonderful romantic swishing sound for background. It even has a
rhythm of its own. Told you I was a romantic at heart.
With the Indian Ocean providing the sensuous backing somewhere below
us, Barbara and I together spent one of the most memorable nights I
have ever experienced. This was completely new to me, having a
wonderful woman displaying what seemed to me anyway the same
feelings as I had for her. Everything just gelled for us. This was fortunate
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as I do not remember much conversation taking place that night, who
needs talk?
When the dawn reluctantly started its magnificent display with the huge
sun slowly rising from the ocean to shine directly through our porthole,
Hollywood could not have arranged the lighting any better. There you go
you see, I was still convinced to retain at least some slight respect to the
daft old movie influences, this was about the only time it worked that way
for me.
I started to slide away from the beautifully naked and sleepy Barbara
when, without opening her lovely eyes, her arm rose to restrain my head
and bang went any idea of sneaking away unnoticed to make a discreet
exit from the, ’No Entry’, area. My eventual, but laid back, exit was made
later under the non-judgemental eyes of a couple of Lascar labourers
from the ship’s engine room engaged on the early morning naval ritual of
the daily sand washing of the wooden upper deck. Seeing these two very
black coloured Lascar guys made me think of a remark made once by the
mother of a friend when she noticed I was wearing a pair of light tan
coloured jeans which I thought rather stood out in the crowd I mixed with
at the time. I had sent off to a London menswear store for these rather
special jeans and was very much aware I seemed to be cutting a wee bit
of a dash in our conservative fashion district. She commented on my
recent fashion wear purchase, “Look at you“. She said disdainfully, “you
look just like wan ’o these Lascars off a boat in Leith, away and get
changed before your mother sees you“. She came originally from Leith
Port and would have seen the Lascars coming from the dock area to
stretch their very black sea legs when the ocean going ships tied up in
Leith docks for a couple of days.
WE CROSS THE EQUATOR.
AND YOU KNOW WHAT SAILORS ARE
The ship crossed the equator about this point. The old naval tradition
dictates that any sailors who have not previously crossed the equator
must endure the solemn rites and rituals when entering the domain of His
Royal Majesty, King Neptune.
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The new guys, called Pollywogs, must be initiated into the royal order by
learning of ’The Solemn Mysteries of the Ancient Order of the Deep’. It
was around this point we realised, ‘The New Boys’, did not refer to us
army types. The Pollywogs were the uninitiated crew members in the
Merchant Navy, no army types need apply.
Shit! This is beginning to read like a bloody travel guide. To be perfectly
honest, we were allowed to observe the ceremonies, but it looked a
perfect shambles to me, involving the already initiated sailor boys
throwing the Pollywogs into a makeshift paddling pool of water, lots of
shrieking, dressing up in grass skirts manufactured, I think, from combed
out ship’s rope. The skirts made me think of the old sailing ship, the
‘Endeavour‘, where the original crew would probably have first
encountered grass skirts on one of Captain Cooke’s visits to the
Polynesian Islands.
I have no idea how the sailor boys get their kicks, but some things are
better performed away from the rest of us, guess I am just a wee bit of a
prude. I actually found the so called, crossing the line ceremony, to be
totally incomprehensible, a wee bit embarrassing as well, all that business
of holding half naked boys down to give them a good soaping, so I moved
away from the scene of the action.
I was a bit more like worldly type now. I guess I was starting to feel the
effect of my own initiation into the grand order of musicians. It’s amazing
just what a touch of sexy fingers across a bare thigh can do. I moved
over to the starboard side of the ship, away from the madding crowd, to
stare out into the vastness of the Indian Ocean daydreaming about my
new interest in becoming a musician, preferring to watch the antics of the
flying fish rather than the soapy sailor boys. I must have been very full of
my own importance at the time, pompous wee prat!
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CAPETOWN, SOUTH AFRICA.
Piper John Scott, standing on left. The guy in the middle has his face
obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke from Tosh’s fag but I am pretty
sure he is Cher Smith from the Borders. McWilliams from Glasgow sitting
next to him, for some reason he is displaying a newspaper with scantily
clad lady on front page. I, of course, had no need for any photos of sexy
ladies. I had access to one of my own and was now able to see sexy
Barbara every time the band played the officers mess on board the good
ship Dunera.
I am seated on left. I still think I am the good looking one.
Before the ship reached Cape Town, a wireless message was received
from the City Council of Cape Town. The message was actually an open
invitation to all the ships passengers to a complimentary conducted coach
tour of the area. The site seeing tour of the countryside would include a
brief visit to the City before delivering the troops safely back to the ship
which would be moored at the docks. The coach was scheduled to arrive
back to the troop ship in time for the departure of our departure later that
evening to continue our journey to the U.K.
The invitation was pretty well received by the shipmates. However, only a
few returning soldiers and airmen from other detachments took up the
offer. Most of our lot had had enough of being ordered around and moved
about, the coach trip was probably a good idea but most of us opted for
an unsupervised visit to Cape Town in casual style with our buddies.
It turned out later that the invitation from the Town Council really had a
hidden double purpose.I am pretty certain Cape Town Council were
hoping to attract a greater number of us from the army contingent aboard
ship to spend as much of our free time that day, travelling safely and
conviently well away from town on a sightseeing journey. I am also pretty
sure the actual visit to Cape Town city would be scheduled towards the
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end of the trip, a fairly short, supervised event. Probably a quick shufti for
about half an hour or so in downtown Cape Town then, herded back onto
the coaches to be delivered in an orderly manner right back to the ship.
I realised the Cape Town City Council must be a bit fed up playing host to
bunches of restless, rowdy and thirsty returning British soldiers
descending on the town. I guess they were probably fed up with the
unfamiliar antics of relaxing, home bound soldiers to the U.K. This was a
new experience for the gentle folks of Cape Town since the Suez Canal
was now blocked to traffic necessitating the U.K. bound ships to detour
and visit their fair city.
The troop ship was dry as far as our other ranks were concerned, we were
still being paid regularly but had really nowhere to spend the cash on
board. A visit to a big town with plenty bars was a big temptation to most
of our guys, footloose, fancy-free with cash to spend, we were away from
the regiment, very little discipline and due for release when we reached
home in a couple of weeks, the city was a great temptation. Suddenly
there must have been ship loads of thirsty soldiers bound for home,
looking for a distraction from the boring, alcohol free, six week journey
home on a big troop ship.
It may seem strange, but the small group I was with on the visit to Cape
Town that day was not really interested in hitting the bars in town nor
were we interested in joining the free coach tour party. We were perfectly
happy to spend the few hours allowed for the visit by doing just that,
visiting. We wandered around town, taking in the sights and sounds and
posing for a few photographs, making observations to each other about
what was happening around us. We were quite a happy small band of
brothers who had all started this adventure together, we felt easy with
each other’s company, making corny jokes, pointing out strange sights to
each other. We were relaxed, we were heading for home.
There was one sight among the traditional familiar British style city
buildings which stuck out like a sore thumb, making you realise this was
indeed a foreign country. On the solid, respectable, granite steps leading
up to the Town Hall we noticed a group of equally respectable looking,
white ladies who seemed to be parading on the city steps, carrying large
bill boards, hung on cords over their shoulders. When we got closer, we
could see they each displayed large notices printed in black on white
paper covered boards. They were holding a silent protest against the
government decision to hang quite a number of black prisoners who had
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committed various misdemeanours. The hangings were scheduled to be
carried out early next morning leaving no time for a last minute reprieve
as we used to see in the good old Hollywood movies.
There were no details regarding the types of crimes, no other details at
all. ’Driving while black’, was a possible but unlikely charge as very few
blacks would actually possess a vehicle in those days. They might have
stolen a loaf of bread or some other heinous offence. We had no idea
what the charge was, this was South Africa, a foreign and strange
country, the year was early 1957.
This sight caused a wee bit of gloom to spread over us for a while but it
soon dissipated as our good mood started to reassert itself when we got
farther away from the depressing placards. There were plenty of other
sights for us to see as we wandered away but I have never forgotten the
sight that morning in Cape Town, made a mental decision never, ever, to
visit that country again, I never did.
As the hot afternoon waned, we made our way back to the ship which was
moored close to the quay. We had been warned not to leave making our
return too late for we were due to set sail that evening.
Once aboard, we learned for the first time that some of our regiment had
been involved in ‘a wee bit of bother’ in town, where a running battle had
taken place with the Cape Town police. Apparently, some of our lot had
been hitting the local bars rather heavily, what a surprise. A wee bit of
bother had broken out in one of the bars and the police were called to
straighten things out.
It seemed the cops were expecting trouble from us. This might explain
the kind invitation for the coach tour which would have kept most of the
homeward bound soldiers safely away from the bars in the town centre till
it was time for the ship to leave the area. I guessed this was the real
reason for the free coach trip invite in the first place. The city cops must
have been a little peeved when they learned their little diversionary coach
trip ruse had largely failed and a fair amount of naughty Scottish soldiers
had managed to slip through the net to descend into the bars downtown
in the city.
The local cops hit the bar where the report had come from. ‘Hit’ was the
operative word for their over the top approach to a small problem,
probably some of the guys were singing songs in a bar which a lot of the
guys liked to do often.
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Their singing and strange accents may have caused some concern on the
part of the locals, this could probably have been dealt with easily if a
tactful approach had been used. It seemed that tact was not considered
necessary when dealing with boisterous Scots, the truncheons were
already drawn when the cops hit the bar and started laying about them at
the previously, non violent, visiting soldiers.
I may have mentioned that a fair proportion of our regiment were
conscripted from in and around the Glasgow area where hitting is usually
a popular pastime, especially when the pubs close early in the evening. It
is usual in any of the Scottish infantry regiments to have a fairly large
proportion of Glasgow born soldiers. I also mentioned previously that
historically the Glasgow population contained a healthy mixture of both
Highland and Lowland Scots plus a fair measure of Irish immigrant blood.
The result made a population mixture believing in the right to enjoy
freedom and also the right not to suffer fools gladly.
Once again, the heavily outnumbered soldiers responded vigorously to
this sort of treatment, just as they had a year ago when discriminated
against in the Union Jack Club in Singapore.Not only did they respond to
what they considered to be an entirely unprovoked assault but they were
also now a wee bit upset and bent on revenge. If the local cops thought
they could just break a few heads with their clubs then shoo the Scots
guys back to the ship with their tails between their legs, they were very,
very, mistaken.
These guys were young, fit, jungle soldiers just released from bloody
active service. They were not going to stand meekly to one side when
these colonial cops decided to play it hard. Our guys knew what a real
hard man was and proceeded to demonstrate this to the local cops in no
uncertain manner. Quite a few of these cops had their first and very
unforgettable, ’Glesga Kiss’ that afternoon in Cape Town.
The action spilled out from the original bar as the word spread around the
streets attracting other Scots guys to run forward from neighbouring bars
to even up the score a bit. This they did with a vengeance, these guys
would normally fight each other at the drop of a hat, even pick a fight as
their forefathers used to do years ago by dragging a coat on the ground
behind them hoping somebody would step on it, thus giving an excuse to
start a fight. Rough buggers? Sure, they were rough, but, THEY were OUR
rough buggers!
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This time, word had got around the cops had started the trouble, which,
in fact, was exactly what the stupid buggers had done. This was not only
unfair and unprovoked but it was also against our unwritten rules of, ’Who
dares to meddle with me?’ Might sound a bit barbaric and primitive but
these guys had seen that group of white ladies earlier that day protesting
about hanging some local black guys. Our guys probably felt a bit upset
about the hanging situation, none of our business really and ‘fun is fun
but keep your arse off the pillow’, as the saying goes. The guys probably
thought the hanging thing was a wee bit harsh and just could not help
making a kind of statement about unfair treatment from authority. They
had a reputation for being hard, a trait which they now demonstrated to
the local police with a vengeance. They showed the Cape Town cops what
was really meant by barbaric and primitive, they also showed these cops
a few fighting tricks they had never even heard of before.
Police reinforcements were hurriedly sent for when a running battle broke
out with the our small group of army guys which lasted all the way back
to the ship where the lads boarded safely having settled quite a few
scores on the way back.
There was even one much talked about occasion, which took place as a
Cape Town City Council operated double decker bus was passing along
the main street where the running conflict was happening. The bus
conductor saw the fighting from his vantage point on the open deck of the
rear platform on the bus. On recognising the scrapping soldiers were
Kings Own Scottish Borderers, he yelled, “Once a Borderer, Always a
Borderer“, then leapt off the still moving bus. He turned round just
enough to throw his official cap back onto the rear of the still mobile bus
deck before joining in the fighting on the side of our heavily outnumbered
guys.
I later heard the bus conductor was a recent immigrant to South Africa
from Leith, the sea port near Edinburgh, Scotland and had served on
active service with our regiment during the earlier Korean conflict. He
certainly must have had previous experience of being well outnumbered
in Korea when the regiment had held their ground stubbornly in spite of
almost being overrun by hordes of Chinese soldiers attacking them in
droves. That was the time when vicious hand to hand fighting was taking
place owing to our lads running out of ammunition in various places on
the front line and were reduced to using bayonets, pick handles, shovels
and anything else that came to hand, one story even mentions full beer
cans being thrown at the Chinese, serious stuff indeed.
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The Victoria Cross was earned by Private Bill Speakman of the KOSB that
day and several Military Medals were later awarded for bravery above and
beyond etc. during that battle.
Our Cape Town brawling braves received only bruising from the cops but
had a severe bollocking from a senior officer when they arrived back at
the ship. What happened to our gallant volunteer fighting bus conductor
from Leith is not recorded, it seems that common sense makes no sense
on occasions like that. He would surely lose his regular bus conducting job
after his compulsive joining in on our side. I certainly hope he managed
to survive in that strange country. Coming from Leith, I imagine he would
eventually be o.k.
Although small in number, there were too many of our guys arriving back
from the fight to be held prisoner aboard ship. A senior officer gave them
a verbal bollocking but they were then allowed to make it back to their
bunks and it was all hushed over. That was the official version. However,
when the ship reached Southampton a few days later, we were besieged
by newspaper reporters asking us for details about, ‘The Scottish Army
Riot in Cape Town’, which had hit the news headlines back in the U.K.
It was evening when the ship left Cape Town docks, the big engines on
the ship had started to throb and cables were being cast off. I, ever the
romantic, strolled along the deck in the dark to lean on the ships rail.
Everything around us was quiet and still, the only sound was coming from
our engines drumming from somewhere way below with the occasional
verbal naval instructions being issued.
It was then I heard the unmistakable sound of army booted feet running
urgently across the old cobbled surface of the quay.
It was too dark for me to see anything. It seemed like two pairs of army
boots were pounding closer and closer to the ship which was by now
purposefully sliding quietly away from shore. Suddenly the boots
screeched across the cobbles in a frantic effort to come to a halt and
avoid their owners falling into the sea. It was then a voice with a heavy
Glasgow accent broke the silence, “Aw, fuck it”, then all went quiet again.
The penny dropped. Two of my erstwhile army passengers on the ship
must have been celebrating the approach of home at some long shore bar
in Cape Town dock area but left their departure a bit too late to make it to
the ship in time for sailing.
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They would probably be picked up by the local police to be kept in jail
until the next homeward bound ship visited Cape Town, when they would
be transferred to the next ships’ jail to continue their delayed journey
home. I did not envy them their temporary stay in the local police jail for
I was aware of the kind of reception they would receive after the day’s
police activities in sunny Cape Town by the Sea.
My army mates
Cape Town 1957
Left to right; Johnny Scott, Robbie Robertson, McWilliams,
Dave Abernethy and my good mate Big Ray.
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BRIEF VISIT TO DAKAR, SENEGAL
We were allowed a few hours ashore for a brief visit to Dakar. In the
hurry to get ashore I managed to forget my camera, no pictures of this
visit.
Actually, my only picture of this short visit is a mental picture of one of
our guys which seems to have got stuck in my head. Private McCulloch
who had been transferred to us with some others from The Cameronians,
(Scottish Rifles), to help bring our numbers up to strength before we left
Northern Ireland. It seemed that McCulloch was suddenly attacked by
strong drink. My mates and I nearly fell over him as we turned a street
corner, he was seated on the ground, propped up against a low wall,
grinning drunkenly in our direction but seemingly incapable of intelligible,
or even any, speech. There was an empty red wine bottle rolling quietly
beside him in the morning breeze, we knew it had contained red wine
because that was the colour of the vomit surrounding him on the
pavement.
McCulloch had been with us in the Signal Platoon and I had never known
him to drink any alcohol at all. Possibly he was trying to make up for
previous abstinence by celebrating our pending arrival in Southampton
which was now only a few days sailing away from here.
I honestly did not relish the idea of trying to get him to his feet then tidy
him up, with what, how?? We would have had to cart him back to the ship
in time for departure, luckily, help was at hand as a group of his former
Cameronian mates came lurching round another corner, looking for him.
It appeared they too had all suddenly come over a bit faint from the
strong drink but at least they were still more or less upright. We made a
tactful withdrawal and quietly disappeared, leaving them to rescue
McCulloch.
My recollections of Dakar are pretty dim with the exception of the vivid
mental picture of a drunken McCulloch. We discovered, too late, we had
missed visiting a large ancient fortress where captured slaves used to be
kept till being taken by ship to the New World across the sea, God bless
them.
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Just like the Mauritius and Sri Lanka visits, we had very little time and no
knowledge of either area to make good use of our very brief visits.
Perhaps some other time.
LAST DANCE, GENTLEMEN PLEASE.
How time flies when you are enjoying yourself. We were now leaving
West Africa and would soon enter chilly climes heading for Southampton.
It was last time for us to play again and my chance to see Barbara,
probably for the last time as well.
Our ‘band leader’ RAF sergeant was really living the part of pop star
musician although the bugger had not played a single note, thank
goodness. His strong point was working with his clip board organising our
engagements. We were now one day out of Dakar and our last musical
thrash was due next evening. I suddenly realised it really would be my
last time to pretend that I was a musician too, no more fun playing
drums, even worse, no more playing with Barbara either.
This cold prospect poured over me to dilute my happy feelings about
returning home, what would I do about music and female company when
I returned to Scotland? Cold climate for certain and lack of both future
music and female company looked like being fairly certain as well. It was
all a bit of a bugger now, I really hit bottom that day, felt really
despondent until Big Ray suddenly appeared beside me where I was
leaning on the ship’s rail feeling blue.
He had just been talking with piano player Jim, as usual he was looking at
life from a completely opposite view point to mine. Of course, he had
come up with a plan for our future, “How about we get together again a
couple of days after we get home. I’ve just been talking with Jim, he
thinks we could do alright if we move to London and meet up with him
again. He reckons we could get plenty work down there playing the kind
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of stuff we are playing here, just need to rehearse a bit to tidy things up.
You could probably meet up with Barbara again, didn’t she say she came
from down south somewhere”?
As usual when Big Ray came on the scene, I started to cheer up
immediately. His London idea was heady stuff, I had only visited there
once for a few days when I was younger and felt like a wee bit of a hick.
This time it would be different, I would be a cool musician, able to take
life by the seat of the pants or something. “Yes, let’s do it“, I boasted,
already seeing the heading, London Daze floating before me, daft, wee
bollocks.
Next evening we headed eagerly towards the officers mess for our last gig
(see, I’m already using musical talk). We were early and it was a bit quiet
so we managed to unobtrusively buy a drink with the help from our
friendly bar steward, this was more like it. The three of us actually
discussed our future prospects in London town, all very exciting.
The usual crowd appeared in a rush, all looking forward to having a great
evening. Barbara actually entered in dramatic fashion by cart wheeling
through the entrance door to great applause. She was no fool and would
not have to buy her own drinks after that imaginative entrance.
We were also caught up in the whole thing and kicked off the music a bit
early which was our applause for Barbara’s great entrance. We would
make a great team in London.
We had already started when our ‘band leader’ made his entrance. No one
paid any attention to him, which peeved him not a little. “Sod him”, was
our general thought, we would soon be finished with him and other
authority figures like him. Fame and Freedom was beckoning.
The music went down really well as usual. I think we had to repeat our
now very popular version of the conga several times. We seemed to be
the only ones in the whole crowd who were getting a bit fed up playing it.
Can you detect a wee bit of blasé feeling creeping in here? Praise must
already have been giving us airs. Silly prats.
The whole evening went with a great big swing everybody had a really
great time. Our ’band leader’ even managed to regain face using, I
imagine, pure bullshit as all he did was pose in front of us when we were
sweating like pigs playing the good music. It only goes to prove that
Bullshit really DOES baffle brains!
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After the great night ended and we had played several ’one last time’
encores. Barbara and I managed to slip away in the usual sneaky fashion
for passion (bit corny but I could not resist it). She and I had a really
great time together, I told her about our plans for moving to London but
her response surprised me, it was all a bit vague. She went through all
the usual sayings like, “Great idea. You guys should do well“, but there
were no statements like, “Let’s get together when you come down to
London“.
It was then that the penny dropped, she was starting to sound just like
one of these guys who say, “We must get together sometime”, and you
know perfectly well that ’sometime’ will never happen. Luckily, I am not
as daft as I look, thank goodness, so I dropped this conversation to give
more attention to the matter in hand so to speak. The move to London
was not mentioned again.
To be fair, nothing else was mentioned much as we were just content to
be together for one last time. I had probably guessed correctly that she
already had some other guy waiting for her in the U.K. I had passed my
twentieth birthday a few weeks ago. I would adopt a new, cool world
traveler’s attitude to life in future, just bite the bullet and adopt Big Ray’s
casual approach to life from now on.
SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND.
A week or so had passed by the time we reached Southampton ’to meet
the press’ which was a surprise to us all. The press wanted to know all the
gory details about the Scottish ‘riot’ in Cape Town. It was no big deal for
us anyway and had been pushed to the back of our minds with the
business of arriving back home after such a long time. The reporters were
given short shrift as they say, we were too busy pushing them out of the
way to enable us to set our booted feet on British soil even if it was only
Southampton and raining.
We were soon shepherded off the ship to, much baaing again, to be
herded into a large shed and suffer the indignity of having to endure
questioning by the bloody customs officials who had set up a great
number of wooden folding tables, GS, 6 foot, times a bloody great deal.
This was where they took their official places to examine our imported
goods!! Imported goods? What an impertinence. It did not take long for
these officials to realise what a blunder had been made by some clod in
an office somewhere.
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We were heavily loaded with every piece of gear we owned or rather, the
British Army owned. Our army possessions were normal kit bag, sea
going kit bag, large back pack, and pouches, all stuffed with sweaty
socks, underwear and pieces of army issue clothing, some of which had
not seen the cold light of the U.K. day since having been packed away
almost two years ago when we had said goodbye to the ’auld country’.
Lots of our army U.K. issue clothing had fallen victim to the dreaded
green mould caused by undisturbed storage in the humid conditions in
Malaya for a couple of years. All this U.K. clothing had been in our regular
use kit bags, removed from storage abroad and stacked neatly below
decks on the ship to save us room on the voyage where we had our
essential gear and change of far eastern clothing for the journey in our
’sea going’ kitbags.
The bags containing our heavy U.K. uniforms had only been dug out of
the holds below the water line on the morning of our entering British
waters where we encountered a drop in temperature accompanied by
heavy rain, welcome home mates.
There was a then a frantic outburst, not only of heavy rain but also of
long stored and neglected British Army uniforms. Irons appeared from
somewhere, probably issued from the ship’s stores and lots more
outbursts of energy appeared as well as we struggled to knock our kit
back into some kind of shape. All our UK gear had to be made suitable for
experienced army heroes to wear when we disembarked in a few hours.
We all now had medal ribbons to be attached to our battle dress tunics.
All, that is, except for Alfie, who had somehow managed to lose his. He
reported it as having been stolen but managed to solve the problem by
lifting a replacement from somebody else.
The customs officials, wearing their important peaked hats, soon lost their
air of affected, important bullshit when faced by a crowd of hard and
unfriendly faces. We were all well pissed off. We had expected to be
marshaled accompanied by our vocal baaing of course, onto a waiting
train bound for London. We just could not believe all this customs
nonsense had been set up especially to greet our troopship. Luckily, the
customs men soon decided they had had enough of fumbling through our
dirty socks and mouldy underwear for non existent contraband and
started to wave us through.
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They managed to notice my wee camera though. It was examined closely
before they impounded it and took a note of my home address. It was
about two weeks later that I received an official letter from customs
demanding a few pounds duty to be paid before they would return my
camera, fine thanks from a grateful country! Next time they offered me a
free rifle and a passport to exotic places, I would tell them exactly where
they could stick it.
Memories of the next couple of days are almost completely blank. I recall
part of the train journey from Southampton to London where we enjoyed
a fine view of the seemingly interminable miles of welcoming, seedy, grey
looking washing, hanging on clothes lines in the grey rain, on full display
in the suburban back yards.
I had no idea the London area spread so far from the city, the suburbs
stretched dismally for miles before we actually reached a London train
station. What a bloody welcome sight these depressing lined of grey
washing made for the likes of us unsung, returning heroes proudly
sporting our lonely medal ribbon and sun tanned faces. The depressing
sight made me think of George Orwell’s description of his rail travel into
Wigan, Lancashire in his book, ‘Keep the Aspidistra Flying’.
After that, my only recollections are of John Scott and myself being
together as we walked through London streets to find the YMCA where we
had been issued with a warrant and instructed to spend the night before
boarding the Scottish train from Kings Cross station the following
morning. I imagine we all went in different directions as soon as we
reached Waverley station in Edinburgh where we split up to travel to our
different locations. The one thing I do remember was being grateful that I
had not been sent all alone on a bus from London to Edinburgh, separate
from all the others who travelled by train, just like the day I joined the
army, experiencing my first Army Daze, all these years ago.
I and several others were sent to the army depot only a few miles from
Edinburgh which housed what was then The Royal Scots regiment at
Glencorse barracks just a mile from my hometown of Penicuik to spend
our last few days of National Service.
I, however, had decided I had spent my last night sleeping on an army
cot. I climbed over the depot wall, caught a passing bus and was off for
home. On reaching our house, I pushed up the kitchen window to retrieve
the door key which was attached to a piece of string hanging on a nail
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inside the window. Security levels were a bit lower in those days. I was
inside the house when my mother came rushing back from the shops
having been alerted of my arrival by somebody who had recognised me
on the bus. I was standing in the living room, which now seemed a lot
smaller than it used to be, facing the door, as my mother burst in all
flustered and happy looking, she ran towards me, I took a couple of steps
towards her and we both came to an abrupt halt, inches from, but not
touching, each other.
Yes, the old Scottish reserve had kicked in for both of us, then, together
we kicked aside the old Scottish tradition and, for the first time in my life,
we both hugged and my mother sniffed through her tears, “Welcome
home“.
Well, that’s quite enough soft emotional shite from me. On a good day, I
could bring tears to a glass eye for Scotland.
HAME AGAIN
‘Sailin’ up the Clyde,
Sailin’ up the Clyde,
Back tae Bonnie Scotland
And yer ain fireside.
Oh, a lump comes in yer throat
And a tear ye cannie hide.
Back tae Bonnie Scotland
And yer ain fireside’.
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This old Scottish song would bring tears to a glass eye. Unfortunately, we
were not sailing up the river Clyde to Glasgow but were scheduled to dock
at Southampton in the South of England.
Here I am. Back home again after having travelled about the world
serving in Her Majesty’s Army.
The hut pictured here is situated beside the South Esk river. It lies
beneath the Pentland hills, the same ‘hills of home’ remembered
nostalgically by R.L. Stevenson, sick and isolated in Samoa.
The rustic hut is just below the ruined Branston Castle where another
Wishart on the run from the bad guys, took refuge many years ago. The
other Wishart was a Scottish Protestant of 16th century vintage. He was
being pursued by the naughty Catholics and hid for a while in what is now
the tumbledown ruin of Branston Castle. He was later captured, taken to
St Andrews in Fife. He was then burned at the stake to teach him a
lesson. I guess being called a martyr would not compensate him very
much after the fire.
I had decided to get away from the madding crowds for a week of solitude
before returning to take up my old job in the sales office at the local
paper mill company. “Solitude”? I hear you cry, “Who took the bloody
photo then“? It’s none of your bloody business anyway. However, if you
really need to know, I had a young lady come to visit, she helped me to
break the solitude a great deal.
This solitude thing is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Well, that’s the story of my two year’s National Service with The King’s
Own Scottish Borderers from 1955 to ‘57. We managed to cover quite a
bit of ground during that time and I even succeeded in growing up a wee
bit. It didn’t make me a bad person, as my Irish friend Kevin Mulvihill
would say. (I promised you would be in my book).
I will now make a sharp turn to the right, stamp my left foot to the
ground, giving a wee pause which is the Scottish infantry way to
announce this particular exercise has finished. I will then march smartly
away. What a load of sentimental old cobblers. It would bring tears to a
glass eye.
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Spending a week at our rustic boy scout hut refuge on the river South Esk
situated below the ruined Branston astle.
I am not sure if this is a book of memoirs with some photos or a photo
book with some text. Brought back a lot of memories though
That’s all folks!
“If I don’t see you through the week, I’ll see you through the windie”.
Andrew Wishart. Staffordshire, England. July 2011.
THE END
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