National Service was first introduced to Great Britain in 1916 to bolster the perpetually decreasing ranks on the Western Front – cannon fodder, as well we know. It was scrapped in 1920 and re-introduced in 1939 when we faced the might of Nazi Germany. In 1957, Harold Macmillan announced National Service was to be scrapped and the last conscripts were called up early in 1960.
I was assigned to the Royal Signals Corps for my two-year stint and sent to Catterick Camp in North Yorkshire for my basic training. National Service was a bit like the internet, in as much as it scooped up and displayed the very best and worst. There were some terrific and talented young lads from all walks of life in the army due to National Service, but there were also the toe-rags, rogues, nutcases, villains and gangsters. The army, of course, has no prejudice. We all received the same treatment. You can imagine.
In terms of history and tradition the Royal Signals Corps is a relatively young regiment. As I learned during my first week, the Royal Signals began life in 1920 as the ‘C’ Telegraph troop of the Royal Engineers, whose principal role was to provide visual and telegraph signalling and communications in the battlefield and, in time, to wherever the British army found itself throughout the world.
In my first few weeks with the Royal Signals I saw rookie recruits change irrevocably. One young guy, whose self-advertised claim to fame was that he was the ‘hardest bloke in Bradford’, went to pieces like a clay pigeon. Another who back-answered and refused to carry out orders from a drill sergeant was frogmarched off to the glasshouse. When he came out two weeks later I saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, looking like a piece of driftwood carved by Barbara Hepworth to look like a man. The often-shouted mantra was, ‘We’ll make a man of you, lad,’ and with many they did – with some, however, they only succeeded in creating a monster, and with others, simply shadows.
One day a sergeant major with a beer-barrel chest came into our barracks and marched purposefully towards the end of the room where I was seated on my bed. When he reached me he stopped so I jumped to my feet and saluted. He returned the salute. After which we looked at each other for a second that to me seemed long enough for an oak tree to grow to maturity. He took an intake of breath that almost hurt my eardrums and asked me to confirm my name and number, which I did without managing to squeak. The sergeant major told me I was to be assigned to a six-month course to learn Morse Code as I had ‘displayed initiative and intelligence’. His next words were not so much an order as a majestic chorale to my ears. I was told there was to be a football match between the Royal Signals and another regiment and that I was to play in goal for the Signals. With that, I was told to pack my kitbag and follow him, which I did, at a pace marginally slower than if we were both competing in the one hundred metres.
My six months with the Morse communication boys was far different to my basic training. Although the army treated everyone the same during basic training, after they had assessed your worth you were assigned to duties they felt were in keeping with your intellect and capabilities. There were no toe-rags, nutters or gangsters among the Morse boys; on the contrary, many were former top secondary modern, technical or grammar school boys.
During 1955–56, my army leave coincided with weekends, which allowed me to not only get home to my family and Brenda, but also to play for Sheffield United. I played some five matches for the reserves and, to my delight, new manager Joe Mercer selected me four times for the first team. They were not the best of games: I felt I was trying to prevent water from draining through a sieve. Sheffield United had a glum season, finishing rock bottom of Division One behind Huddersfield Town, who joined us in relegation by virtue of having a slightly inferior goal difference to Aston Villa, both teams having finished on 35 points. Relegation in his first season was an ignominious start to Joe Mercer’s managerial career, though many had seen it coming. Undaunted, Joe set about dismantling one Sheffield United team and building another, although still without me for a while.
After communications with the Royal Signals, I spent most of my second and final year of National Service as a regimental policeman, much of it on guard duty, in the guardroom or ‘glasshouse’ as the military jails were known. This, of course, brought me back into contact with the rogues, the rabid and the gangsters, all those who couldn’t cope with being given orders or the discipline of army life. Though my role was passive, for whatever reason, some of the inmates directed their resentment my way and threatened to get even with me when their National Service was over.
I can recall a particularly mean-looking Scouser saying to me, ‘I know you play for Sheffield United. Just wait till you come to Liverpool. See what I’ll do to you.’ Neither he nor anybody else who issued threats ever did carry them out.
I learned much in the army: one of the things I learned was, if you were good at sport, you were called upon to play as much of your particular sport as you would be if you were a full-time professional. I kept goal for the Royal Signals Regimental team, which included my Sheffield United teammate Graham Shaw, Area Command and the Army. The Army team played against not only the Navy and Royal Air Force, but also English, Scottish and Irish FA Representative teams, England ‘B’ and a Football League Representative XI. These latter games drew very healthy attendances: as the Army team we played and beat Rangers before an Ibrox crowd of over 48,000; there were over 34,000 at St James’s Park for an Army v FA XI match, whilst a healthy 19,500 turned up for a game against the Navy at Ipswich Town.
With due respect, you can’t imagine the Army Representative football team commanding such attendances these days but, at a time of National Service, people would flock to see the Army, Navy or RAF play as their teams included some of the very best young footballers in Great Britain, and for the good citizens of, say, Carlisle, this was the only way they could see Duncan Edwards or Bobby Charlton in the flesh.
I also travelled to Continental Europe for the first time courtesy of the Army football team. We played a match against a French FA XI at the ground of Racing Paris FC before setting off on a tour that took us to Holland where we beat Sparta Rotterdam, Belgium and Germany. Whilst in Germany, we played Cologne and, to my utter delight, Hertha Berlin in the Olympic Stadium. I couldn’t get over the fact I had played football in the very same stadium in which the famous Jesse Owens had created Olympic history and in so doing courted the wrath of the Nazi hierarchy, including Hitler himself.
As young as we were, the Army team would, I am sure, have held its own in the First Division. My teammates included the great Duncan Edwards, Bobby Charlton, Eddie Coleman (all Manchester United), Jimmy Armfield (Blackpool, who is still to be heard on BBC Radio 5 Live), Stan Anderson (Sunderland, the only player to have captained all three major North East clubs), Phil Woosnam (West Ham United, who was to play a major role in establishing football in the USA), Dave Mackay (then of Hearts and later Spurs and Derby County), Maurice Setters (then of Exeter City, later his clubs were to include West Bromwich Albion and Manchester United), Dave Dunmore (Arsenal), Trevor Smith (Birmingham City) and my Sheffield United teammate, Graham Shaw.
One game that particularly stands out in the memory was a 3–1 victory against an FA XI at St James’s Park. Over 44,000 were present to see us beat a team that included Colin McDonald (Burnley), Peter Sillett (Chelsea), Ronnie Clayton (Blackburn Rovers), Vic Keeble (Newcastle United), Don Revie (Manchester City), Denis Wilshaw (Wolves) and Jimmy Murray (Wolves). I felt I played particularly well that night, executing a number of saves when the scoreline was 2–1 before Bobby Charlton put the game out of the reach of the FA XI. England manager Walter Winterbottom and his FA Selection Committee members seemingly also felt I had played well, because in late September 1956 I received a letter that couldn’t have surprised me more if it had contained a cheque for