It was, the army later said, an accident. A despairing young soldier had not decided to end it all by throwing himself off the topmost balcony. He had fallen, that was all.
We slept fitfully, that first night. The next day we absorbed our new surroundings. Each barrack room housed thirty men, with a small bunk room – as at Parsons – for the permanent Staff Corporal. Beds were separated by about a yard. Communal washing and lavatory facilities were provided on each floor but, as the basins were devoid of plugs, ablutions were performed with difficulty. The shortage of plugs was matched by a shortage of lavatory doors. The lack of personal privacy worried us less than the army’s lack of organization: if they couldn’t organize some sink plugs and a few lavatory doors, then God help them if they had to organize another war.
Indeed it was daily growing more clear that the army couldn’t organize anything. On one occasion, after being instructed on how to form three parade ranks, our Training Battalion was told by an NCO that our resulting formation was ‘one behind the other twice’. Soon afterwards I and another soldier were given the order: ‘You two form three ranks and stand still while I go and ’ave a look for another one.’
Permanent staff NCOs tended to give orders with greater clarity, but they took about as much interest in us as a Ford assembly-line worker takes in the bits of motor car that pass before him. We had to be of the right shape, we had to fit, and we all had to move as one when slotted together. If you were bemused or bewildered there was no chance of asking, nor much point.
By now the squad had been broken up into various groups. Grouping depended on which army trade had been deemed appropriate for each individual. For some reason most of my intake had been categorized as storemen, so they moved into Salamanca, a neigbouring barracks. I was the only one to be selected as a likely ammunition examiner and thus, for the remainder of my stay at Badajos, I trained with four potential officers – individuals whom the army clearly believed to be of superior stock.
The drill sergeant stood with feet planted firmly apart, hands clenched behind his back and an expression of fury on his face. All around, the drumming of marching feet and the brisk echo of commands eddied on the air. Everywhere else, men were being turned into soldiers. Here though, we were being turned to stone by a sergeant with a basilisk stare.
Finally his anger found voice. ‘A dis-ah-star! An utter bleedin’ dis-ah-star! Call yourselves soldiers? You are not fit to be in the Army! You are not fit to wear the King’s uniform! You are a bigger bleedin’ shambles than Passchendaele, what are you?’
It seemed best to hope the question was rhetorical. If I had to say anything now, anything at all, the words would spill out on a tide of laughter. I kept my eyes on Sergeant Crabb. It meant I didn’t have to cope with the expressions on the faces of my companions: Henderson, Taylor, Williams and Clarkson.
Certainly it had been a shambles but that was hardly our fault. The problem was obvious. For company drill to take place, first you have to have a company: a company consists of three squads, and a squad consists of thirty men. Our squad, however, consisted of only four potential officers and one potential ammunition examiner. Quite how you get five men to simulate what happens when ninety men are on parade, how you school them in all the necessary manoeuvres, was beyond me.
But not to Sergeant Crabb. He had brought to the drill square five lengths of rope. One was issued to each of his five charges. He smiled in triumph as we gazed in bewilderment and even let pass unremarked Henderson’s question about the flute that was supposed to play while you did the Indian Rope Trick. I hadn’t said anything, inwardly debating whether this was to be some new form of torture or the Army’s idea of teaching us how to knit.
But no. The ropes, Sergeant Crabb said, were not ropes at all.
The ropes were soldiers.
Ah.
The ropes would take the place of the men what would ’ave been stood standin’ be’ind us ’ad there been anyone stood standin’ be’ind us.
Well, of course, Taylor whispered in my ear. Why hadn’t we thought of this before?
Then Sergeant Crabb interrupted: ‘You say something, Taylor?’
‘Yes, sir. I said, er, I said we’re learning the ropes, sir.’
After that, disaster was inevitable. With the ropes trailing back behind us, we endeavoured to perform steps and movements consistent with the robotic efficiency of a well-drilled parade. Unfortunately my rope tangled with Clarkson’s, Williams got his wrapped around Taylor’s legs and Henderson fell over his. Repeated attempts to restore order only made things worse; ropes snaked and zigzagged in all directions and mine finally developed such an affinity for Clarkson’s that they welded together in a knot. Had the ropes actually represented eighty-five men, half the parade would have been hospitalized and the other half charged with indecency.
Now we were being held responsible for the manifest impracticality of Sergeant Crabb’s theory. What, we wondered, would happen next?
We found out a couple of days later. Sergeant Crabb happened to mention our behaviour to a friend of his, a Guards regimental sergeant major who occasionally called into the RAOC Sergeants’ Mess for a lunchtime pint. Crabb’s friend offered to get us into shape. This was bad enough but worse was to come: the friend turned out to be none other than RSM Brittain, the most senior, most feared RSM of them all, a man whose reputation was known throughout the army and Civvy Street alike.
Brittain didn’t so much drill us as seek to test us to destruction. We doubled this way and that, jumped to every order, winced at the wound of his staccato commands. Within a short time we were gasping for breath and perspiring freely; by contrast, he stood ramrod straight, every inch a guardsman, uniform immaculate, his pace-stick grafted to his side.
He confronted Taylor. ‘You are sweating, soldier! Why are you sweating?’
‘It’s … it’s hot, sir.’
‘Hot? You call this hot? This isn’t hot. I’ve just come from a place where it is one hundred and five in the shade!’
Behind me Henderson muttered: ‘Centigrade or Fahrenheit?’ It was supposed to be a whisper. The RSM’s smile showed that it was not.
‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘we’d better do it all over again …’
By the time that afternoon ended I was half a stone lighter. But at least I knew I could cope with anything now.
When the six weeks of basic training were over I was sent to 28 Battalion Royal Army Ordnance Corps (RAOC) Bramley, School of Ammunition. The army was at last ready to let me get on with learning how to be an ammunition examiner.
Bramley village was a small and sleepy community midway between Basingstoke and Reading; the camp lay on the village outskirts. It was dominated by Central Ammunition Depot (CAD) Bramley, a complex which contained so great a stock of ammunition that it extended out from the camp over an area of several square miles.
Between the camp accommodation quarters and CAD was the School of Ammunition, where ammunition examiners were taught their craft. If I succeeded in my chosen vocation, my duties would encompass all technical matters concerning munitions and explosives held and used by the British army. This included the safe storage, inspection, maintenance and, where necessary, the modification and repair of munitions and explosives. Also included was the proofing, either by firing or chemical testing, as well as the investigation of accidents and malfunctions.
There was another important area of activity: with a few exceptions, the clearance of all stray munitions and the disposal of unserviceable stocks, either by breaking down, dumping at sea or destruction with explosives.
Bramley was a turning-point in my life. It opened up fresh vistas, it brought a new and wider understanding of the science and technology of munitions and explosives, and