We eventually found ourselves at Bordon in Hampshire. Nobody at Bordon knew anything about us either, but I met the garrison adjutant, whom I’d known before, and he told me that I’d better go and choose some barracks to live in. I chose Martinique barracks, which were nearest the station, and went in there with my 200 men.
Some days later another 200 men arrived and these were put into other barrack rooms, which we took over. Later came another 200, and then some officers of various sorts and kinds. I think the first officers were probably old volunteers dating back to the previous century. There were certainly two ancient majors, and then more odd people turned up. There were those who’d been on jobs in various strange places, odd Indian army people who’d been on leave, and so on. What was interesting was the sort of men who arrived with each party. The first lot that I had taken down were a pretty rough crowd who, as I said, had more or less broken into Hamilton and joined up for food and jobs. The next lot were rather better. They’d had jobs and had given them up and joined the army. Then later a superior class came down. These were all very well dressed, with a couple of them carrying suitcases, and later on came an even smarter variety. Also a lot of ex-NCOs who were most useful. One thing about it was that with all these men to select from there was no difficulty in finding somebody for any kind of job such as cooks, clerks and people who did all kind of mending such as bootmakers. I also found as mess president a man who was one of the directors of the Savoy Hotel in London.
To start with, as I said, we were more or less camping. We had absolutely nothing in the way of uniform or equipment or anything else. In spite of that we started marching quite soon, as one of the first things to do was to get the men as fit as possible. I think that broomsticks, instead of rifles, were the first equipment that we learned to drill with. Then a certain amount of uniform started to arrive. This was all old full dress uniform from every kind of unit, and you’d get a most extraordinary selection on parade. You’d see a man for instance in a rifle tunic and tartan trews, wearing a straw hat, next to somebody else in a red coat and some civilian trousers. At all events the men were clothed – in a way. The next stage was khaki, and everybody got fitted out not so very long after. There were no khaki overcoats available, and so a supply of civilian coats were sent down. This distribution was most amusing as in those days people wore very heavy overcoats, and senior NCOs, sergeant-majors and so on all took the large heavy double-breasted kind with belts. Other junior NCOs had double-breasted ones without belts, whilst the rank and file had to make do with the single-breasted ones which were not so handsome.
I can’t remember how many hours training we put in per day, but the training syllabus came down from the War Office. We had to fit in so many hours on each subject for every company every week, and I had to make out a chart of the times and places of various kinds of training to ensure that we distributed it properly, as well as the training facilities such as ranges, assault courses, parade grounds and so on. These charts were always known by the company commanders as “my Chinese puzzles”. The first great occasion was when we got a complete battalion on parade, though strangely dressed, and took them out for a route-march as a battalion. [After some confusion about its correct title the battalion was by now officially designated 9th Scottish Rifles.]
We then moved to Bramshott, and it was a very proud day when we got the whole battalion on parade, fully armed and with a certain amount of transport, and we were able to march out of the barracks at Bordon as a real unit, led by our pipers. I’d started getting pipers very early in the proceedings and one of the first was boy Gibson from Dunblane, who was 14 years old and afterwards became sergeant-major in the regiment. He was a tough lad who insisted on playing a full set of pipes, although I’d offered to buy him a smaller set, and went out on all marches. He never fell out, but very nearly burst from the amount of food and buns that were given to him at every halt by the local inhabitants. He was a most popular person and an enormous help to the battalion. I think eventually we had six pipers and they really were quite good.
It must have been either January or February 1915, certainly when there’d been a lot of snow, that the division was inspected by Kitchener. We were all drawn up along miles of road at Frensham Ponds on a bitterly cold day. Kitchener was late for some reason, so we were standing about in the snow for over an hour. A good many men were falling out or down.
All this time we were training pretty hard, and there was not much time for amusement, but we were now and again able to get up to London at weekends, where we had some very cheerful parties indeed. Of course we were all very keen to get to France. I shall never forget the shock we’d had earlier after the news of the Battle of the Marne, and then the advance from the Marne to the Aisne. We were all terrified the war would be over before we could get into it.’
Leaving the 9th, the regiment’s first-formed K1 battalion, shortly before it crossed over to France, let us return to the first days of the war and look at one of the four Territorial battalions.
On 7 August there arrived at 261 West Princes Street, Glasgow, Headquarters of the 5th Scottish Rifles (created in 1908 out of the 1st Lanarkshire Rifle Volunteers), a very tall, rather irate subaltern who some years later was to become famous as the first Director-General of the BBC. Lieutenant J. C. Reith had been working for the firm of Pearson in London as an engineer on a big dock-building project, but there had been confusion over his mobilisation orders, which had been incorrectly telegraphed to him. The muddle was eventually sorted out, and he joined his company as described in his book Wearing Spurs2 published in 1966, although he had actually written the account many years earlier:
‘A Territorial battalion mobilised – On Active Service – a curious and interesting spectacle. We who had been amateurs had become professionals; what we had done in odd moments, voluntarily and in a sense unofficially, was now full-time, compulsory and very official. The authority of officer and NCO, in general the run of military law, had been observed almost on sufferance and on occasion; now they were mandatory and permanent. From being rather farcical, an officer’s job had suddenly become very serious; the play-hour had merged into life itself and turned solemn reality – all rather bewildering. Camp each year was mobilisation of a sort, but the period was limited to a fortnight, and we were not On Active Service. It was these words which made the circumstances and conditions and atmosphere radically different. Trivial faults became crimes; minor crimes became major ones. Officers commanding companies were instructed to impress upon their men the awful import of the term; to warn them of the penalties of disobedience or neglect of duty. My OC company was thoroughly in form to do so. The death sentence was frequently to be found in the rubric. “And you’re On Active Service now,” he would with portentous solemnity interpolate, and glare along the ranks. We had no doubt about it.
We were shortly “to proceed to the war station” which sounded interesting; and we were given identity discs: “Lieut J. C. W. Reith Pres 5th SR”. This, or rather what was implied, was something of a shock – the reference to one’s religious persuasion in particular; so early and so far from actual warfare to be presented with the credentials for burial and record. Moreover, but quite incidentally, Territorials were available for home defence only, and no one had said anything about foreign service, though I for one had no doubt we would go abroad. The company OC told me to wear the identity disc day and night, but that struck me as being premature. As a matter of fact it was not worn until May 1915 – and then only par cause de pous.
Where was this war station and whither had two or three of the officers and about a hundred of the men disappeared? I sought enlightenment of my OC, thinking we might be going to some vulnerable spot on the east coast; Falkirk, he told me. “Falkirk – what on earth for?” As to the others, it was secret; but he had no doubt they were “in the trenches”. I could not imagine what trenches there were in Scotland, nor why anyone should be living in them. His imagination was running away with him.
On Sunday morning, 9th, the Battalion paraded with its bands and marched down Great