CONSCRIPTION (OR NATIONAL SERVICE) IN BRITAIN

(BY ONE WHO SERVED)

The thought of doing two whole years in “the Forces” was never far away from the minds of adolescents in the fifties. Two years! It seemed like a lifetime. The only way of escaping it was  by failing the medical. You could put off the evil day by being granted “deferment” say if you did not want to interrupt  your studies. Call  up was for all young males over the age of 18, so if you wished to continue your studies at university or in some other type of higher Education  you didn`t start till you were 21 or so. Many “wheezes” were tried to fool the medical board and some actually succeeded.  One of my “mates” who was as far as we knew  sound in wind and limb, a faster runner than I was and I used to play on the wing in rugger.! He managed to convince the doctors he had flat feet. Highly unlikely my mates and I thought – but many “escaped” this way. 0thers developed ailments we never knew they had. The medical however was very thorough, as we   appeared in the nude in semi public. We had heard about coughing being part of the examination, but until then didn't believe it. There were categories of “passing”, top one being A1 down to failure for the lucky ones , something like grade C. I was AI despite my wearing glasses, which did not seem to matter. (The apocryphal story did the rounds: Doctor: can you see that wall? Conscript: yes. Doctor: your eyes are all right, then. ). I therefore awaited the fateful communication confirming I was fit for service. I was then 21, having deferred my call-up to pursue a degree course. In the fullness of time, I was told to report to a barracks in Halifax, Yorks for initial training. 

So in September. 1953, I presented myself at the age of 21, at the afore-mentioned establishment to begin what I and many like me regarded  as an unwarranted intrusion into our life, when all we wanted was to take the next step in our careers. We knew of course we had to do for the sake of the country, but the sooner it was over, we felt,  the better. As soon as I crossed into the courtyard, under the arch, I realised life would never be the same again. Harsh voices ordered us about , told us what to do, where to go. The first thing was to get changed out of our “civvies” and into “service” dress – a uniform.  This procedure was very hit and miss. The soldiers behind the counter eyed us up quickly and thrust into our arms a complete “kit” which seemed about the right size. There was no actual measuring; not even to try and get the correct  leg length; if the length was too long you had to get it shortened; if too short you were in trouble until a “compassionate” NCO (non-commissioned officer, a corporal or sergeant) took pity on you and undertook to do something about it.). If the top (called a “blouse”) did not fit,  you did your best with it or persisted until someone gave you another one. Footwear was somewhat more accurate. We did not know how to wear our berets, and some strange sights were to be seen, until corrected. The second thing we faced was the camp barber who give us a very short back and sides, whether it was needed or not. Civvy street seemed a long way away at this moment! I was in the army, and did I know it! A lot of miscellaneous kit (or “clobber” as we called it ) was then given us, all to last the two years, such as darning gear to mend  socks . Lastly we were given our mess tins (to eat out of in the canteen)  with dire threats about keeping them scrupulously clean It was all very much a new regime we would have to get used to; unfamiliar clothes, bullying NCOs, ruling by the clock, and perhaps the greatest shock of them all, the ubiquitous swearing and  constant  use of the f word, offensive to boys straight (in many cases) from polite schools or other educational establishments. 

The new regime certainly started with a bang—literally as the barrack room nco woke us up by hammering on the floor, at 6.o`clock in the morning. Then we had to wash, dress, have breakfast, make our beds, put everything out for inspection, generally tidy up and make everything ship-shape and bristol fashion . Then we had to “Stand by your beds” and be minutely inspected. After this,  we rushed out on parade in the barrack square – all by 8.am . We felt exhausted before the day had begun! Before enumerating the events of the day, a word on procedures so far would be opportune. Bed sheets and blankets had to be meticulously folded to form a rectangular shape with all items able to be seen . This involved VERY careful folding- an art in itself. All paraphenalia, mess tins, knives and forks, etc had to be displayed symmetrically on the bed, so that everything could be seen by the  Orderly Sergeant, as he was called. The OS walked slowly up and down the barracks. flanked by his minions, the NCOs. If anything could be found fault with, it was: a trace of dust on a mess tin, a boot that in the eyes of the OS was not up to standard – anything to show authority on the part of the inspecting triumvirate and to belittle the impotent squaddie.. There were many incidents but one particularly sticks in my mind, happening as it did to the most fervent and meticulous recruit in the squad.. One morning the OS examined A`s (shall we call him) gear and pointed out raucorously, “There`s shit on your mess tins” : it would have been in reality a speck of dust. (“Shit” was the word used universally in the army to mean “dirt”). The incongruity of it all amused me so much that I could not control my mirth, unfortunately. The OS spun round and asked me in stentorian tones “And what are you laughing at?” Luckily I must have made the right noises as nothing was made further of the incident. One other thing shocked us new, innocent boys, when the Sergeant instructing  us how to make our beds properly, shouted that we had to get up dead on 6.am, and rise immediately from our “wa…..ing pits” as the term was, a euphemism for “beds”. We spent only two weeks at Halifax before we were moved on to a new proving  ground at York – why we never knew. Anyway it was a very good introduction to army life, introducing us to the basics in more ways than  one 

Once at York the “square bashing “, or military training, “basic training”.began in earnest. This consisted of drill and more drill, learning how to march that is; arms drill (with rifles etc) , parades and inspections, runs and marches in the barracks and out of it “Schemes” i.e. excursions into the surrounding country, (often by army lorry) and finding the way back. (on foot) One actually enjoyable event was practising (out of doors) on the rifle range nearby. We learned how to throw grenades (dummy ones of course) and several times we would have blown ourselves up by mishandling. We devoted much time to stripping machine guns and otherwise learning the intricacies of armaments. We were  especially it seemed to me forced to do bayonet practice using sand filled sacks as bodies which itself was quite exhilarating but for the constant exhortations of the NCOs to “scream” as we charged. This we found hard to do in the mock situation. Much exasperation was exhibited by the OS at our puny efforts. We were destined to be the “gun fodder” of any future conflict; we were the infantry and therefore given appropriate  training. Guard duty was another onerous task, necessitating staying awake all night and watching for intruders who never came. I suppose in these early days we wore the cap badge of the corps whose HQ we were using to be taught soldiering. We were of course a very mixed bag of recruits, having differing aspirations, coming from very different backgrounds and educational attainments. A few of us who had been to university, wanted to go into the RAEC _ the Royal Army Education Corps.

But most of all , predominant by a mile, was the “BULL”. Most people have heard of this or witnessed it in the tv programmes on soldiering. It was the thing we hated most and spent the longest time on.  Boots had to be shining, “Spit and polish” was a daily reality. The leather of boots had to be ironed smooth first , followed by hours of polishing.! All brass wear had to be scrupulously clean and shining, especially cap badges which were very noticeable. Belts and gaiters had to have a fresh coast of “blanco” on them every day to keep them pristine. Blanco was a sort of gray-green paste which had to be applied wet and allowed to dry. Not the slightest smudge was permitted. Usually we “bulled” into the small hours of each morning to achieve the desired effect Uniforms were not the only thing that had to be “bulled”. Saturday mornings were given over to a rigorous cleaning of the barrack, especially the floors. The latrines had to be cleaned as well. It was not only floors though that demanded attention. Walls also had to be closely inspected to look for any cobwebs. In fact everything that did not move by its own volition. Polish was in great demand I recall, and nearby barracks were suspected if “our” polish had gone missing. After our efforts, the OS and Duty Officer came round to see if we had done a good job. Needless to say, there was always something to criticise.  However, as an escape from chores, we looked forward eagerly to “48 “ or “72” hr “Passes” when we could escape the soul destroying monotony of  basic training and hitch hike our way home at weekends. Hitch-hikeing in those days was very different from now. All motorists knew that NS men wanted to get home and they were prepared to help at the drop of a hat..or jerk of a thumb. The system saved a lot of money, as even allowing for inflation the wage of a private then was not much - only about £2 - £3 a week. Motorists are not so willing to help hitch-hikers now….there have been too many nasty incidents in recent decades. Rail travel was resorted to only in special cases or when we felt “flushed” – which was almost never. 

The food provided was in my estimation good although there was often not enough of it for hard-working and hence very hungry men. I set up a personal record for eating after one particularly strenuous day. We often “filled up” with bread and jam after the meal:  this day I managed 13 slices – a record I never have been anywhere near since…(Gives you some idea how ravenous we got!) If this was not enough there was always the NAFFI as it was called, the cafeteria open all hours and until late in the evening. The usual order would be known today as the all-day breakfast, but more like a mixed grill. This was usually ordered about 10.30 p.m.   And you did not have to use your mess tins!  Crockery and cutlery were provided in the NAFFI.   In the cookhouse, tea was provided in an urn from which you filled your mug – as long as the urn did not run dry. Personal gear, mess tins, knife and fork were washed in a vast steaming cauldron or tank of hot water, so you quickly acquired a technique for doing this without scalding your fingers. Nobody lost their “irons” as the eating implements were called. Unlike equipment which was often “lost”; could be anything, from a pillow or blanket, to a barrack room yard brush or tin of polish. If this happened to you, you stole someone else`s and this unfortunate would be “bollocked” (the usual term for a strict telling-off) by an NCO. This manoeuvre  was of course, never acknowledged as a common practice. As one “old” recruit said, “No stuff ever gets stolen here;  it just gets moved around”,  As good an excuse as any for a nefarious activity. .  .

Despite all,  we squaddies by and large took it in good part – we couldn`t do anything about it. We knew that discipline had to be inculcated, so that instant obedience followed orders. We were also buoyed up by the knowledge that our term was finite! We determined to make the best out of a bad job. We were not always philosophical however, especially when NCOs adopted what appeared to be an unwarranted belligerent attitude. I particularly remember one incident when an over diligent recruit had burnt a small hole  (when ironing) in his trouser leg and the Sergeant noticing this said loudly to the unfortunate: “You are a drip of the first water. What are you?” It would have been politic to have agreed, but the soldier in question refused to repeat the accusation. For a couple of seconds, things were fraught, but blew over. The squaddy stood his ground. In fact the NCOs we had were fair. They were NS men themselves (Corporals) and discharged their duty efficiently. The Regular Sergeant in charge of us was also fair and determined to make soldiers out of us – no easy task. The Officers were not so beloved by the intake. They tended to be arrogant and if anything, unfriendly, but no doubt they felt it was all part of a necessary aura of authority. The old story about hurting a soldier by standing on his hair is true; it does happen. NCO (behind a recruit): “Am I hurting you? I should be because I`m standing on your hair. GET YOUR HAIRCUT!” One day an NCO told me to get a haircut. I didn`t , Next day the self same NCO noticed my hair had not been shorn. “Didn`t I tell you to get your haircut?”  Me (lamely): “I forgot . Corporal.”  The reply came : “You don`t forget in the f…..ing army.” I lesson I never forgot.

Sometimes (rarely) we were “confined to barracks” for some misdemeanour: maybe the parade was not up to scratch or the barrack floor had not been cleaned properly (in the eyes of the OS) , or any number of things. This meant we could not go out in the evenings or week end leave was cancelled. The ultimate punishment was being put  on a “fizzer” (a Charge ) for some serious breach of rule (which rarely happened) – but it was a an ever present threat. Sometimes everything seemed to go wrong or was unduly pressurised. I recall one particular day when an unfortunate combination of circumstances occurred. We remembered it as “Black Monday”. We had several of these, but a feeling that we were all in the same boat, (for two years), kept our heads above water – sink or swim! Actually we felt quite proud marching through the town –when the NCOs decided we were sufficiently presentable.

When we had come to the end of our two months square bashing, we were asked for our preferences regarding the rest of our time. Many different Regiments  were mentioned of course, as boys from the north mainly opted for northern regiments, southerners for southern regiments and so on. Some of us  opted for Corps, and a handful of graduates  decided we wanted to join the RAEC (as mentioned earlier), as we hoped for a career eventually in teaching. In addition, there was the lure of a Sergeant`s three stripes on the arm , which meant a pay rise as well as enhanced authority. Accordingly we were sent to do Corps training at a camp in the south of England : a place we northerners had never heard  of! So we said goodbye to all our comrades whom we never saw again. I often think of them  

When we went to the barracks in the south of England for our Corps training we certainly were different from the selves of two months before! Apart from all the new skills we had acquired, we were beginning to have a nascent pride in being in the army and being potential defenders of our country. We had developed a new way of looking  at the world, more spacious, different from the insularity of the civilian life we had known . A feeling of camaraderie was beginning to develop, largely I suppose because we were all about to experience a testing time. A respect for authority and order, a general desire to be methodical and tidy had been inculcated.

The new regime however was not altogether different from our square bashing days. We still had some drill to do and the “bull” was ever present, but not quite so rigorous. The main thing was to learn about the Army Certificates which personnel had to acquire if they were to be promoted. The basic Certificate was the  Third Class one (to become a lance-corporal); the Second Class (for promotion to Corporal and Sergeant) and the First Class for those who wished to gain the senior non-commissioned ranks, namely, staff-sergeant , Warrant officer, class two or WO class one from whose ranks Regimental Sergeant Majors were drawn. We were initiated into the ramifications of map-reading (or orienteering as it would be known now)  and had (in many cases) to brush up on our basic maths, and read up about notable geographical  features and important historical events for the subject known as “General” – which we had to teach  - one of the “test” papers for the examinee. As “teachers” of course we had to know these things first ourselves! But the most important item by far was learning  how.  to teach. We were given manuals on the art, and bombarded with slogans, such as be “Fair, firm and friendly”. This was in  fact the watchword. We observed lessons given by our instructors,  RAEC sergeants or warrant officers.   We were told how to do lesson plans and draw up a detailed time-scale for the proposed lessons. We were given topics and had to act as teachers, the students being the rest of the group. Success varied. Some were it seemed born teachers ; some were not (among which I was) . We had to criticise the efforts of our fellows. This could be quite nerve-wracking if you were the one being criticised. I remember my first lesson – on the continental shelf and the abundance of fish therein. I prepared (I thought) thoroughly but lost my way in the exposition largely through nerves. About two thirds of the way through the RAEC RSM stopped me and used the word “fiasco” . I was of course humiliated and thought I would never achieve the standard. But I did learn from this and never repeated the “fiasco” again. It was a very trying time, but which stood me in good stead later in “Civvy Street”.  There were no written papers at the end of the “Course” =it was all strictly practical. Our instructors did their best by us and apart from a degree of sarcasm lived up to the watchword. One thing rankled with us somewhat though. I do not want to sound condescending, but we did have a sort of feeling that we were superior really being graduates and our mentors a bit rough and ready. However, they did know how to teach army personnel, in the limited field of endeavour embraced by the Army Certificates.

About half way through the two months we were given two stripes – as a sort of encouragement I suppose.. Eventually the time came when we had our three stripes:  fully=fledged sergeants. We could hardly wait to show then off in the town. We felt so proud. By this time it was about mid January. We each received our postings – to all parts of the UK.  Those of us who had friends or relatives in the south of England made preparations to visit and display the fruits of our hard labour. We swaggered onto railway stations, proud of the fact that we looked so young as sergeants. The euphoria wore off somewhat when the harsh reality of proper service about to begin, dawned.. I was lucky. I was posted to a part of the north of England near to my home town. I would be able to travel home every day!   

At the “new” camp I met the other (more senior) RAEC Sergeants. There were three of them in various stages of their service. We were all known  as “Schoolies” –the universal term for us Sergeant-Instructors. Our job was to organise classes from among the soldiers (mainly Privates and mainly national  servicemen, ). The work was not entirely internal, i.e. in the camp but involved going to small camps in the area, where soldiers in need of our services resided. Actually ,talking of residence  I should here make some mention of the accommodation provided for us. What was ok in the 1950s perhaps is not ok now. Then the universal barrack block housing dominated. Housing for regular married  soldiers was of an acceptable  nature, rows of terraced housing with miniscule gardens front and rear.For the unmarried or regular soldier there were blocks of terraced housing, one set of rooms cheek by jowl with another. As you were not expected to do any cooking or entertaining the accommodation consisted of  really one main living room and a bed room. It was very basic as I recall. Just outside the door was a “recreational “ area, i.e. you could walk about and in the winter months a large brazier was kept burning (by the soldiery)  in order to afford some heat. (There was of course no such thing as central heating.). One did not spend much time around the living quarters: it was boring and cold most of the time.

Smartness was required at all times of course, particularly now we were Sergeants , especially as models for others and to uphold the dignity of our new station. Teaching, therefore was the mainstay of our time, along with attending courses, taking parades, generally trying to look busy at slack times. Now we were senior NCOs we spent quite some time in the Sergeants Mess, eating and drinking and talking. Having three stripes meant we had authority which we needed in the classroom. There was never any insubordination or misdemeanour of any kind. . I recall we each had to “specialise” in some relevant branch of army education and mine was , as the term was then, the education of “backward men”. It really opened my eyes at the time to realise how widespread ignorance was generally and how much illiteracy there was among adult men. However, there was little “bull”, some sport to partake in,  and all in all it was quite a pleasant time, except for the getting up at the crack of dawn to make it at the camp by 8.am.! Of course it was all too good to last. A fateful day arrived when I was told that I was being posted overseas – to the Middle East; the Canal Zone to be specific. This was after I had been at the camp some five months : January to June, 1954.

I was given some two weeks “embarkation leave” as was the custom,  during which we (others like me)  could do what we wanted and go where we pleased. With others who were unfortunately bound for the Middle East we were taken to some minor  airport from where we were to fly to Malta, first, then on to Cairo (or near). I recall landing in Egypt in the night time when the heat still was stifling. We wondered what we were coming to! But it was the height of summer – so perhaps we should have been expecting it. After the paper work was done we were taken to a transit camp made up of tents – the ventilation WAS  needed. Here we met some fellow soldiers and awaited events. In the morning we were sent (by army lorry) to our respective camps and dropped off at the gates. It was a Life Guards camp.   It felt like I hadn`t a friend in the world. However, an NCO approached and took me to the Mess  (WOs and Corporal of Horses` Mess as it was called.) It was so named because the Life Guards had no Sergeants, only “Corporals of Horse” distinguished by the fact they had a crown on the arm which in other regiments denotes a Staff Sergeant. So initially it was all rather confusing. I was to be their new Education Officer, and as such I was taken to the Education Centre, a building which stood on its own away from the tents of the “rank and file” as the ordinary soldiers were called. This was quite a substantial building, housing a sort of classroom, a library, the camp church, and of course a room (only one) for me, and an office. The only other substantial buildings were the HQ Office, the Mess where meals were served, socialising took place and drinks were consumed. On the periphery was the stoutly built workshop of the REME members., who had to service the many army vehicles On the site was also the NAFFI for the soldiers, also strongly built, and highly thought of by the squaddies. There was as well a sort of flimsily constructed “market” where the “wogs” as we called them, but would not do today I imagine. , sold all manner of things but mainly civilian type clothing. There were other buildings also,  but of a comparatively minor character (except for the “Dhobi” or laundry man/place as we called it. This as can be imagined was very important especially among  Life Guard soldiery. The horses did not do badly either, with spacious “accommodation” for them. All around were Forces camps, mainly army but some airforce. Cheek by jowl the camps were, separated by barbed wire. It was a sun , sea, sand and barbed wire environment. This was to be my new home till the end of my service which seemed aeons away, but in reality till mid September..

I remember vividly the first day I went to the Education Centre in mid summer. I got as close to the door as I could, which afforded some shelter  from the blazing sun, the like of which I had never known and couldn`t imagine. I sorted myself out and my belonging, donned my khaki drill, the summer uniform, and prepared for the coming weeks. There was no running water; for this I had to go across to the stables and fill my bucket. Shaving and washing in cold water every day was quite an experience. The “loos” as we now call them, were open latrines i.e. they had no doors, and were situated about 100 yards away from my abode. It was too hot to do any work in the afternoons so we finished at 1.0`clock every day except for the “winter” months of  December and January when it was cool enough to go back into battle dress and to have some heating via oil stoves.  In the afternoons in the rest of the year we always we down to the Great Bitter Lake to swim and sunbathe in the shade. Five minutes of direct Egyption sun  would make the skin blister and I saw several horrifying sights. I was very keen on tennis until I tried it in Egypt: it was just too hot, any time of the day. The only thing you could do was swimming and drinking. Unless you could ride a horse or drive a vehicle. Much of the time was spent trying to drive away the hordes of flies, “black bastards” as we called them: they drove you to distraction. (almost). Mornings were given to teaching those camp soldiers who had been recommended  by  their Company Wos or Officers. Nearly all wished to be promoted and as I said earlier they needed to pass an exam. Later on I was given the job of teaching First Class English to regular soldiers who wished for promotion to Warrant Officer. This was often in other Camps than my own. Walking to other camps was a feat on its own in that temperature. One thing that sticks in my mind regarding heat was the fact that even the iron of the beds (in the shade of course) was hot to the touch. I had to act as librarian as well as teach, as it was in my quarters. Another one of my duties was applying to businesses in the UK on behalf of regular soldiers  who were coming to the end of their army service . This was alluded to as “Resettlement” and some establishments ran courses for just such people. I spent quite a lot of time on this aspect.

Of course, coming into contact with many squaddies via the teaching meant that I got to know a fair proportion of them. Naturally, though, it was my fellow Sergeants (Corporals of Horse) that I got to know best. Attitudes (to me) differed as they would anywhere : some were friendly and helpful, though some were not. It was largely the animosity (if this is not too strong a word) felt, I suspected, throughout the army, by regular soldiers who had spent years climbing up the ranks, to upstarts like me, who in no time at all had been given three stripes. But we needed this authority to control and teach people who perhaps had been in the force a long time. Consequently, a few of my fellow Sergeants (shall we call them) were somewhat snide towards me , disliking among other things, my (superior) education , my propensity to drink soft drinks rather than alcohol, my inability to ride horses, my short-termism,  - no doubt  there  were  other things! I did not come into much contact with Officers, who would now be described as “old school”. One or two took part in the annual sports day  and swimming gala and I met them there. During my time there was a sort of reception by the Officers for the NCOs and this occasion was the only time I spoke to the CO. . You had to stand to attention and address him as “Colonel, Sir” even if only passing the time of day. There was absolutely no mingling between the Officers `Mess and the Sergeants` Mess. Anything that had to be done if it originated from the Officers, was passed down via the WOs i/c the Company. Not all the Life Guards Regiment was abroad. Some of the Companies remained in England, ready for their formal (and royal) duties.

Actually I got to know best those soldiers , privates (in the REME) , Troopers (in the LG) and a few LG NCOs, who shared my enthusiasm for weight training and lifting. Some of these became firm friends; nearly  all were NS personnel who left the forces at intervals,  their service done. The Education Centre was where the weights were stored and where in the evenings we would train. This all came about because one day I was , I suppose, taking a short cut through the main part of the camp which consisted entirely of tents. I heard the sound of weights being lifted and made for the sound. I had been a keen user of weights for several years so was intrigued by the prospect of being able  possibly to continue my sport. In one of the tents were three or four soldiers trying in cramped surroundings to do weight lifting exercises. I explained my interest and joined in there and then. I suppose seeing a Schoolie lifting weights must have been quite a surprise: Schoolies were thought to be  weaklings by their very nature. ! It seemed in the circumstances only fitting that the training should be in “my” Centre, an activity that we kept up every day to the end of our service. I should explain that one of the trainers who was obviously very keen, had ordered the weights, but from where I never bothered to ask. I was just so pleased that I/we could continue with our lifting and training. We became such good friends that we had a few excursions to neighbouring districts, and went frequently to the local “pictures” – after training of course!

In fact, the local cinema was very popular, offering a window on the world we knew thousands of miles away. Although I must have seen many films in the Zone I can only remember two; they were “Seven Brides for  Seven Brothers” , a rumbustious musical still popular  (on DVD) and a horror film called “Them” about creatures transformed into giant figures due to nuclear activity which has been shown several times on the “Box”. After the “pictures” we usually went to the  NAFFI  for our “supper” or late night “snack” as we used to call it: being “snacky” was being hungry. Usually we hadn`t finished then, as we used to buy a couple of bars of chocolate and a couple of cakes to retire back into our accommodation with. We did some reading – a very popular magazine called “The Soldier”; I don`t know if it is still going. Alas. I did not keep any copies – they would have been very interesting now. (The choc bars were always floppy, due to the heat, but tastier for this, I thought)

Talking of the Naffi, it was in this premise I held the exams, so the normal trading had to be suspended for the day. Usually gear had to be borrowed from the larger RAEC Camp nearby. It was like being at school again ! The regime of routine camp life was however broken up by “Schemes” as they were called, excursions into the desert by army lorry in order to sample desert life On one of the Schemes we visited St. Katharine`s monastery the famous landmark in the Sinai. I personally loved the place and the general desert environment despite the great heat: an enthusiasm I have never lost. I recall sleeping on top of our army lorry, as it was comparatively cool up there  (there was a little breeze) and out of the way of the creepy-crawlies! I regretted having to come back to Camp. We did some map reading exercises, trying to pick out features in a difficult terrain. We were especially thankful for our water bottles and cans.

Excursions into the desert were not however the only officially sanctioned outings. A coupe of times we visited Cairo and thereby saw sights that I would probably never see again – at least I have never returned to Cairo. It was of course a most memorable day, seeing the Pyramids, Sphinx, the Cairo zoo, the mosque, the bazaar, museum, and  other notable  sights. The only thing which took the shine off the day somewhat, was the constant horde of Egyptian children asking for “Bakshish” (handouts) or selling lurid watches (which in most cases did not work) or “Dirty”  (their word) postcards. In fact, once outside a camp one was continually pestered by Arabs trying to sell something. Two incidents only stick in my mind (apart from seeing the sights): one was in the zoo when a keeper filled a large bucket with potatoes and literally threw then into the huge mouth of a hippo, who did not miss one of them! The other was in the bazaar when a crowd of us entered a sort of jeweller`s shop. Several engaged the owner in “conversation” while the rest helped themselves to various parcelled goodies dotted about the room. I never did find out  what exactly had been stolen!.The shopkeeper must have been devastated when he found out. On one other visit to a neighbouring town (Moascar, I think) we went into a café and there I saw the fattest man I have ever seen then and since. He must have been the owner. But I was surprised how quickly he moved when something untoward happened (what I can not remember).

The café incident reminds me of the food served in the Mess. It was in my estimation very good, and varied though we did start every  meal with melon , which we loved. Water was provided to drink. In the afternnons,tea was provided in large urns and we could fill up our cups as many times as we wished. As I recall , condensed milk was used which speaking personally I liked very much. We sat around in the shade, swapping tales and drinking tea. Just as I had set up a personal record for eating bread and jam , I set up another personal record one day for drinking cups of tea. As I recall, it was one more than the jam “butties”: about 13 or 14. I was thirsty that day. Needless to say I have never come any where near it since. There was a morning break also if you felt like patronising it. Most preferred not to bother But it was by no means all beer and skittles out there. There were occasional parades and spending time in bulling up uniforms, apart from our normal duties. But by and large we were conscious of being somewhat sidelined, with nothing of any consequence to do, just marking time and wishing (tacitly) we were back in the mainstream, back in England. We were out there (or I was!) at a quiet time after the overthrow of King Farook and before the Suez crisis  had arisen. Col. Nasser was a barely known name then. The Suez crisis  was in 1956/7 and I left in summer of 1955..  .  

            I mentioned earlier that I was in charge of the library, meaning that when people wanted to borrow a book I would issue it and make a note of the borrowing. Another duty connected with the library entailed going to the large Camp Library at Ismailia once a month to return “old/er” books and return with new/er ones. I had to be taken there by jeep by one of the soldiers who could drive – there weren`t many of them in those days. It was an interesting day out and enabled me to see a (largish) town and a large army Camp. Out there one saw the other part of the human race: namely females, who would be wives or daughters of regular soldiers. Needless to say our regime in the Suez Canal Zone  was summed up in the words: sun, sea, sand and barbed wire!  No female company, except in distant areas, where one never really went. There was other sport as I have mentioned and cricket.We had a few matches against other Camps – probably on a Sunday, our day off.. I did manage to get into the camp team, but for me it was too hot to shine; well, that is my excuse!.Our main sporting activity was ,as I have said, swimming but necessitated travel over what was euphemistically called the “Sweet Water Canal” which was a serious misnomer if anything was! This was a stretch of water in the area between the Camp and the lido. We literally had to hold our noses when going over it in the lorry. It was little better than an open sewer, although it had once been a very long time ago a fresh water stream. The Felaheen (local Arabs) used it for everything: washing, defecating, urinating. The stench was truly horrendous.

            The Christmas I was there the camp had a sort of festive event in the canteen Things got very jolly indeed. I was hit in the eye by a well aimed (or wayward0 apple which broke my glasses and injured my eye sufficiently for  me to be taken to the hospital for treatment. I recall I was there  about a week, recovering;  of course  no-one was apprehended. Nothing ever came of it. All I got on my return to  Camp (from the medics) was an element of sarcasm – being in the wrong place at the wrong time. etc.. Anyway, when I had recovered, a search was instituted of the “records” of the soldiers in the camp to see exactly what qualifications  individuals had, and those who had none or were minimal had to attend one of my courses : mainly Army Cert Third Class. This searching was arduous  and time-consuming and the powers that be actually recognised this and provided me with an intelligent assistant, a Corporal in the Life Guards. This person proved to be very helpful during  my last six or seven months at the Camp I have to say however that I always felt on my own in my work and in my Centre.

            Our sporting recreation as l have said was mainly weight training  (apart from swimming). It was the time when new methods of Olympic lifting were being developed i.e. the squat style of snatching and cleaning (which  might not mean a lot to non-weightlifters) , but I mention it as we devoted quite an amount of time (out of doors) trying to master it. We never succeeded. Of course there was no tv in those days – it was just coming in. So we listened a lot to the radio, and had “pop idols” which was also a new phenomenon then.  I recall we were very fond of such as Guy Mitchell, especially “There`s a pawn shop on the corner” (I think because it was somewhat nostalgic)  and a new and up and coming youngster named Elvis Presley. As I mentioned , we had our film favourites too. As I recall we all greatly admired the talents of one Diana Dors she was the current (British) pin-up.

            One establishment we had to visit regularly was the barbers , as it was universally called then, in order to keep our hair well shorn; in fact (sign of the times) I recall  I sported a “crew cut” while I was out there. I soon got rid of it on return to “civvy street”. though. There were  also the “churches” which could be patronised and which offered some social life, but very restricted in modern contexts. Most camps had one (Church) . As far as I recall, I never came across a padre my whole time. So life went on; a mix of military duties and recreation. Sometimes we were bored but most times we were not, There usually seemed to be something round the corner – pleasant …or unpleasant! I suppose we all (?) felt we were making some type of progress, educational or otherwise, and were by and large doing something that might stand us in good stead in the outside world. Above all. of course, was the knowledge that our service to the nation was finite , becoming shorter with each passing day. It is true that forces who longed for civvy street, do cross off the days to demob. I thought I would never do it – but I did,  for the last couple of months. Everybody did it, and spoke about its progress. What we really looked forward to was the mail which came to us from Blighty” as we called it. This was often from parents, but more often from girlfriends and wives in the UK. It was indeed the highlight of the day.. 

One of the less pleasant aspects of life  out there was (as I mentioned before) the “losing” of a companion, especially a weight training companion,  when his demob day loomed. When I went,  there were companions left behind. I never did find out what happened to all the weights and  bars remaining in the Education Centre. I could only hope the incoming Instructor would be interested or at least sympathetic to weight trainers hoping to continue. Also I never , maybe of course,  saw or heard from any of them again  I regret not keeping in touch. I often wonder what happened  to them  in later life.  

            Eventually the day came. I did all my final tasks and generally got ready. I should add that I had had an inventory taken some few days before to ascertain I had not nicked or otherwise mislaid anything. I simply waited in the Education Block (as I recall it was really called) for the jeep style vehicle to arrive and take me to the airport which was in one of the RAF camps in the Zone. I had said my good-byes to my training companions the previous day. I did not feel like going down to the Mess and saying good-bye again: I just thought I would slope off quietly. In any case, I didn`t suppose everyone would have known I was leaving. I  must admit there was a bit of a lump in my throat as I was driven by the Mess and out through the gates I would never see again.

I,  along with other soldiers,  got on the plane and left the Canal Zone and  Egypt for ever.It was a bumpy ride as far as I remember; the planes in those days were still a bit rudimentary - or at least those we squaddies used. We alighted at some airport in a town in the south of England, I had never heard of. We had to make our way to London for the formalities. We had to report to Goodge Street, one of the (even then) main underground stations. We were amazed to see there was a veritable village (or small town) deep below ground, beneath the rail. (I wonder if it is still extant) There were hundreds of army personnel.milling about, and tracts of sleeping quarters. A loudspeaker bellowed out continually directing people here and there, ordering movement to other places, other camps. Fortuitously I met up with someone who had done Corps training in the same group as I down in Essex. We decided to face the last day or days together. The next day we rose early as we knew we had to listen out for directions via the loudspeaker. There didn`r seem much to do except hang about, waiting . We were anxiously awaiting a call when a burly RSM (they were all massive in  my experience),  called out to us and roared in a mock solicitous voice: “And when would you two lads like your shaving water?” We realised instantly we had done something wrong. We explained our position, that we were about to be demobbed, and the RSM retorted that we did not have to hang about but should go at once on the next leg of our journey, which was to the RAEC depot at Beaconsfield (as it was then). So we set off, regretting the time we had wasted – but no-one had told us otherwise.

We began the journey to the Depot, to hand in all that really belonged to the army, the uniform particularly. Here we were to a limited extent debriefed and donned (as far as I recall) our civilian clothes. Our service had been discharged. We had many memories, some not so good, but mainly we thought of the benefits the service had brought us. We were beginning to put things in perspective and looking back (already!) at the opportunities afforded us to experience  a way of life that would probably never come our way again. We had met and mingled with all sorts and conditions of life, seen sights we probably would not see again, learn a discipline that would stand us in good stead for the rest of our lives; change us for ever. And this is probably also what National Service was intended to do. In the time honoured expression, it made men of us, transformed us from schoolboys and  callow students. The country , so soon after the war, needed a fighting force of able young men; this we realised: we were (part of ) it! Training and education were the means to this end. I had played my part in both. I left feeling quite proud of my service to the country but glad it was over. I wanted to get on with the next phase of my life  - to take the initial steps in my future career.

As my companion and I were both northern lads we travelled together to what seemed our  distant home county. At Liverpool  we went our separate ways to our homesteads in Lancashire. As I journeyed I thought briefly of all the colleagues I had known : those from basic training; those from the Education corps training, those from the ranks of the Life Guards, troopers, NCOs, Officers., even the Egyptian peasants themselves without whom the camp could not have functioned, who did all the very basic jobs. When we left the army, there was no well wishing or anything of this kind. We were simply told to more or less keep moving, as the saying is. This I have always thought  was a bit of a pity. But I hasten to add, it is not an abiding source of regret. It was all of a piece with the army. Looking back I see how valuable it all was, though we did not always appreciate it at the time. I`m glad I had the opportunity to do it.

My main regret at that time was not taking my leave formally of the Mess. I believed I had slipped away and no-one had noticed! Here today and gone tomorrow. I and my teaching might never have been. But I was wrong . About two weeks after I had left I received a mysterious package. It contained an engraved tankard, from the “WOS and Joes” Mess (as we alluded to it) in Egypt. With it was a touching message wishing me all the best and thanks for all I had done. It sits on my desk now, full of pens and pencils.

Another thing: I have never had so good an all-over tan as when I returned to Blighty, in September, 1955!!

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D