Bramley was also civilized: an expanse of lawn separated the huts – single-storey cement-rendered buildings providing fairly spacious accommodation for twenty men. All that summer the scent of newly mown grass wafted in through the open windows.
Weekends away nearly always took in the delights of London. Occasionally, though, I would return to Salisbury and visit friends. Nearing the end of my time at Bramley, I made such a journey and found myself in the company of another visitor. Her name was Daphne. Two years later she was to become my wife.
I was now a member of a genuine squad, one of a group of thirty or so trainees from throughout the UK. However, it didn’t take long to discover that though the classroom was in the hands of professionals who wished only to teach their skills, the parade ground was in the charge of the same moulders of men I had had to endure at Badajos. Although the majority of the intake’s time was spent in the classrooms or ammunition repair workshops, the Company Sergeant Major daily exerted his baleful presence at the morning muster parade preceding our march to the classrooms. Presumably the point of this was to remind us that we were soldiers first and foremost. Morning parade was very much an inconvenient observance of ceremony and tradition while our heads were full of thoughts about the day’s studies and the practical work to come.
There were times, however, when some fun was called for, and Hewitt seemed the ideal target. His high intellect was exceeded only by his pomposity. Looking at Hewitt, you saw someone aged eighteen going on eighty.
Being a person of regular habits and a likely future major general, Hewitt’s evening schedule unfolded with military precision. First he carefully folded his copy of The Times. Then he carried it with him to the latrine block. Then he entered the cubicle and closed the door. It was always the same procedure and it was always the same cubicle.
I don’t know who had the original idea of bringing some excitement to Hewitt’s dull life. A few moments before Hewitt arrived at his cubicle, a small pyrotechnic charge was concealed behind the overhead water cistern. By applying to the task all that we had so far learned at Bramley, a firing system was conceived whereby the pulling of the chain would cause the charge to go off.
Hewitt arrived and as soon as his door closed myself and others in the plot crept into the adjoining cubicles and waited. Eventually Hewitt ceased his perusal of the Stock Market report and pulled the chain.
The noise of the blast racketed around the block. I leapt up and grabbed the top of the partition, conscious not only of the rolling echoes of the explosion but also the inexplicable sound of a river rushing at full bore. Blown clear of its wallmountings, the cistern was nodding up and down on its pipe while its contents emptied over the trouserless victim and his copy of The Times.
Urgent repairwork was now called for, but try as we might, nothing in the Bramley syllabus had prepared us for the task of mending lavatories which have sustained direct hits. Stoppages of pay for ‘Barracks Room Damage’ were particularly severe that week.
My first trip abroad: special troop train from London to Harwich, ferry to the Hook of Holland, then British military train eastwards across the Continent. It was December 1950. I had come second in my course at Bramley and was now on my first overseas posting, to No. 1 Ammunition Inspectorate, Headquarters British Army of the Rhine (BAOR), Bad Oeynhausen, West Germany.
Bad Oeynhausen was a spa town of stylish architecture with an atmosphere of discreet wealth. It seemed at first sight a place out of time, genteel, serene, a vision of the Europe of a different age. The hotels and many of the private houses had been requisitioned by the army to house BAOR HQ. The Ordnance Directorate, to which I was posted, was in one such former hotel, a place of high-ceilinged rooms and gilded lobby. Half a mile away my family had a requisitioned four-bedroomed house; I was given permission to live with them. With Christmas 1950 only a few days away it was a perfect time and a perfect place for a reunion.
Major Phil Froude and Warrant Officer First Class Sam Birt were highly experienced ammunition-trained officers and close friends. Phil was tall, medium build and in his mid forties. Ten years younger, Sam was avuncular in bearing and attitude, round, jolly, a cricketing fan who was much sought after as an umpire. He could do The Times crossword in his head and is the only person I’ve ever met who regularly completed the awesome Sunday Times Ximenes crossword.
As I settled into life in postwar Germany my perceptions of the army began to change. Here there was none of the crass stupidity which had seemed to be ingrained in military life. Instead there was a quiet professionalism. I was a part of this – watching, learning, being guided in the craft of the explosives man: conventional munitions disposal (CMD), unit ammunition inspection work, assisting with demolitions. I had a smart new uniform, with my AE’s badge proudly worn on the right forearm sleeve. Although I was the most junior AE in the whole of BAOR, neither Phil nor Sam ever treated me as anything other than a colleague to be welcomed and shown consideration.
Despite their great experience and seniority, Phil and Sam were not without their sense of fun. One day shortly before Christmas, the Major called me into his office and announced, ‘Mr Birt has rung up with some story about his gooseberries being tied up with detonating cord. He suggested I might like to go round and have a look and bring you along with me. It sounds suspiciously like an excuse for a Christmas drink.’
Later that afternoon we stood at the bottom of Sam’s back garden, glasses of beer in hand, contemplating his gooseberries. Much to my surprise, Sam had not been joking – the bushes really were tied up with detonating cord. The cord, which looks similar to plastic-covered washing-line, had obviously been in place for several years and was now hopelessly entangled with the overgrown bushes. This, however, was no problem since, in itself, the cord is safe to handle. It is only when set off by a detonator that it explodes with frightening force and speed, about 9,000 yards a second.
Having proudly shown us the gooseberry bushes, Sam seemed content to let matters rest. Not so Phil. He finished his beer and said, ‘Right, young Gurney. We can’t leave Mr Birt’s garden in such a dangerous condition. Get me the demolition kit.’
I watched in amazement as he connected up new detonating cord to the old and taped a detonator to it. I carried the demolition box back to the house where Sam was watching.
‘Is he really going to blow up your gooseberries, sir?’ I asked. Before Sam could answer, a searing flash and a gout of flame ensued and the bushes went up in smoke. The acrid fog danced and swirled; charred pieces of twig cracked and blazed all around.
Phil looked pleased. Sam looked baffled and turned to Phil. ‘What,’ he demanded, ‘have you done to my gooseberries?’
I was still thinking about this strange episode the following week when Sam materialized at my side. ‘Our Leader hath been on. Seems there’s a problem with his garden now.’
‘Gooseberries?’
‘No. Not gooseberries. A Panzerfaust.’
‘You’re kidding, sir.’
‘I kid you not.’ Sam shook his head. ‘I dunno, who’d be a gardener in Germany, eh?’
We arrived at the Major’s quarters and made our way past lawn, shrubbery and greenhouse. The Panzerfaust lay a short distance away, half exposed in the frost-veined earth.
A shoulder-fired anti-tank weapon, produced near the end of the Second World War when German resources were diminishing and German desperation was increasing, the bomb was devoid of such luxuries as foolproof safety mechanisms. The mechanism it did have was basic: you could arm the thing merely by dropping it a yard or so on to a hard surface. The Panzerfaust contained 3 pounds of explosive; once armed, it was extremely sensitive and therefore extremely dangerous.
Sam and Phil briefly conferred. Neither of them stayed too close to the bomb. The Panzerfaust was not to be trifled with – and, in this case, certainly not to be moved. That left only one alternative: Sam would have to blow it up.
The earth erupted like a mini volcano, dirt and smoke and debris soaring skywards on a crest of bright flame. The aftershock pummelled; noise blasted