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Having served my apprenticeship as a fitter and reached the age of twenty- one, the time for being called up had arrived. I received a letter from the Ministry of Defence, informing me that I had to go for a x-ray at Penwortham Army medical centre, near Preston. I, along with a few companions known to me through my apprenticeship made it a good day out with nothing taken too seriously. Before setting off home, my fellow companions and I went into Preston for a few drinks, all somewhat in a jovial mood. It was about three weeks later that I received another letter at 34 Hastings Street, informing me that again I had to report to Penwortham, for a full medical. This was the crunch, if you passed the medical in grades 1,2 or 3; you were in the forces. This time my travelling companions along with myself, were more serious and certainly apprehensive about the outcome of the medical. The medical itself was very thorough and usually ninety nine per cent of young men taking this medical are mostly approaching their prime in life. Even so there were the odd ones trying to pull the wool over the Medical Boards eyes, but unsuccessfully for most. They had heard the same excuses, of why a person should not be called up for their national service thousands of times before. Obviously, there have been quite number of individuals over the years, who have faked problems and succeeded in failing their medical. I know there are a lot of genuine cases of medical deficiencies, but if a person is not in that category, one has to stand up and be counted among men, with ones head held high. Having had my medical and taken an aptitude test, I was ushered into an office, where seated at a desk was an R.A.F, Flight sergeant. He said that having passed my medical (A1) and easily getting through the aptitude test, that on behalf of the R.A.F. he offered me the opportunity do my two years National Service in the Royal Air Force. I felt quite pleased with myself really, until I asked him if I could carry on with my trade, while in the Air Force. He said this would only be possible if I signed on for three years or more. Since I wanted to continue my trade, but not willing to sign on for three years in order to do this. I told the Recruiting Sergeant that my main choice now would have to be the R.E.M.E. or the Royal Engineers, he shook my hand and wished me well for the future. On the way home from the medical, the lads who had journeyed with me to Penwortham, were unusually quietly, absorbed in their own thoughts, because they and I knew, the next letter from the M.O.D. would be their calling up papers. At that particular time, calling up papers came on a Thursday and all the letters in our household were put on the mantelpiece. As the weeks went by, on entering the house on a Thursday, my head would swivel round in the direction of the mantlepiece, always with a feeling of elation when there was no post for me. On the 21st of January 1960 I arrived home from work and probably because it was a Wednesday,for the first time I didn’t glance at the mantlepiece. Looking at my mam, who was unusually quiet, I saw her pointing towards the dreaded brown envelope. It was a strange feeling seeing the letter, more like a shock wave, but at least and definitely at last, the waiting was over. The letter read, “ I am sorry to inform you that it is not possible to meet your wishes. Instead you are to report to Fulwood Barracks, Preston, on the 4th of February 1960, where you will join the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment.” It took me by surprise as having turned down the R A F in order to keep on doing my trade, but what did they do, they put me in the bloody infantry. At the time I could have put down a number of Corps to join and I say with all honesty, the infantry would not have been in the first ten choices. Nevertheless I accepted and had to obey these orders without question. I am quite sure the countless thousands of lads who were called up for national service, will remember the arrival of the dreaded brown envelope. The first thing I did on receipt of the letter, was to give my employer Vickers Ltd. a weeks notice and at the same time take a week’s holiday. I endured quite a lot of Mickey taking that last week at work, which I took in good part. The many thousands before me had to endure the same treatment and I was certainly no exception. On the last day at work I visited the different workshops, where I had learned my apprenticeship, to Shake hands with the older tradesmen, who had helped me so much over the years and as usual getting the odd bit of advice from their days in the services? On leaving the Submarine dock workshop for the last time, everybody stopped what he or she were doing and cheered me out of the workshop. I couldn’t reach the door quick enough, whether it was the last act of Mickey taking I will never know, but it certainly brought a lump to my throat. It is strange really, that one can never get out of his place of work quick enough at home time, but when it happens permanently it becomes a void in ones life. Nevertheless I can say with all honesty that I was prepared both physically and mentally for what lay ahead. This can only be put down, to the knowledge throughout my upbringing that it had to be done and with this in mind, I was going to give it my best come what might. Unlike the present day, this was all the part and parcel of every day events when someone entered the forces. Most families had the same experiences of having a son serving or having served their two years National Service. So one did not have or wanted to have, any special privileges shown to them, only what was offered was the never-ending advice. I would have needed a Logbook for all the advice I was given, people mean well, but most of the advice obviously meant well, went in one ear and out of the other. My only concern was my girl friend Valerie, who I had been going out with for about eighteen months at the time and I knew that not only for me, it would definitely be awkward days ahead for her, during the next two years. Valerie was just eighteen years old at the time and it was a lot to expect of one so young, that she should wait two years of her life for me, in years where life takes off. This can only be described in the strongest terms and I can only take my hat off to Valerie, for being so faithful and strong, during those years so long ago and will be remembered always. We both met in June 1958; I was twenty years of age and like most lads of that age group, mad as a hatter. The gang I knocked around with was my brother Frank, Val Cumberbatch, Brian Dixon, Ivor Pearson and George Sully. Normally on a Saturday night after a few drinks in the Big Cav in Dalton Road, we went on to the Rink dance hall down the Strand. It was by far the best dance hall in our part of the country and the music was second to none, played by the unforgettable Music Masters Band. This particular Saturday, because the Rink was full, we all ended up at the other dance hall in Barrow, which was situated in the public hall. I had not been in the dance very long, when a very elegant girl took my eye, she was reasonably tall, good looking with long brown hair that had a curl just below each ear. When the opportunity came, I moved in quite fast and asked her to dance. I couldn’t help but notice what lovely eyes she had, so big and clear, she introduced herself as Valerie Winn. I was so enthralled by her and because of her many admirers, I made sure for the rest of the evening I did not leave her side. I eventually took her home, which lucky for me was on Walney Island, this was the beginning of our courtship. I had taken girls home before, but this was altogether so different. I was so pleased Valerie was my girlfriend, because I fell in love the moment I looked into her beautiful eyes. Courtship can be quite rocky as everyone knows and we were no different from anyone else, but the main thing we got on together and enjoyed each other’s company. If mistakes were made and probably did, the clock can not be turned back, because life has to go on. As I wrote earlier, Valerie’s love and loyalty during my National Service days was truly magnificent and no other words can express or describe, my feelings of love and total admiration towards her. My mam didn’t like to see me going into the army; because after all I was her youngest child and she always looked after me in that way has mothers naturally do. When my brother Frank did his National Service in the Royal Army Medical Corps, he was only eighteen years old and was first sent to Egypt and then on to Cyprus. The Cyprus posting in the fifties was very dangerous, not the holiday Isle of the present day. It was a place where British servicemen were being killed every week, so one can imagine the worry my mam went through during my brother Franks two years in the army. Now it was my turn to go in the army and once again my mam was concerned. I told her not to worry, as I was a lot older at twenty-one years of age and much more streetwise than when Frank did his service. I only hoped it helped her not to worry too much, but as all the many millions of past and present servicemen are aware, a mother is a mother and you are one of her flock. My mother was named Elsie and was born and bred in the tough Easy Road area of Leeds. A very kind woman with a strong Yorkshire wit, which gave me and my brother Frank and sister Jean a very happy childhood. The sense of humour I have today came from the woman I am proud to say was my mother. My dad was named Fred, a Barrow Island lad, who had a very laid back approach to life, he was too young for the First World War and too old for the second. He was a grand chap, very much respected by many and it was while on holiday at Blackpool as a young man, he met my mam and their romance took off from there. For my part I could not have wished for better parents and for this I will be forever grateful. The day for entering the army, I must admit was not a day I was looking forward to. Unlike the day when I started infant school, because this was a day I did eagerly await. The war was in its fourth year and all the uncertainty and shortages that went with it, but nevertheless my schooldays had arrived and I was quite excited at the prospect to say the least. The day I had so eagerly awaited to start school was about to happen. It came just after my fifth birthday in April 1943. Having so often watched my brother and sister set off to school, forever wanting to go with them, and now I had got my wish. As usual my mam arose early to light the fire and prepare breakfast, this always caused a big scramble to get downstairs when the fire was lit, each pushing and shoving to get the warmest positions. In no time at all we were all gleaming like new pins, having been dressed washed and had breakfast. It felt so exciting listening to Frank and Jean chatting with bubbling enthusiasm about their school friends and teachers. I would always listen with awe at their tales and now in future I could tell them mine. My mam looked really nice that morning, as she grasped my hand with gentle firmness that only mothers can do. “ Right our AL, let’s be getting you to school.” These words by my mam, I had waited to hear for so long. Ocean Road school was about half a mile from where we lived in Hastings Street. All four of us left the house holding hands, but it didn’t take long before my sister Jean broke away skipping in front of us, quickly followed by my brother Frank, who must have kicked every stone he could see, on that half mile journey to Ocean Road school. Walking through the school gates for the first time, I was met by a crescendo of noise. Children of all shapes and sizes were running, laughing, shouting, all at the same time. I had never heard anything like this ever before, it was so exciting. Our Jean and Frank soon disappeared into the noisy throng, with mam shouting loudly after them, “ Jean! Keep an eye on our AL.” I was still holding my mother’s hand as we watched then followed the last of the children into the school. There were six other children with their mothers and we were all shepherded down a long smelly passage until we stopped outside a square glass paneled door. One boy I remember was crying and didn’t want to leave his mother, while the rest of us just looked sheepishly at each other. I heard a woman’s voice asking for quiet and in seconds the door opened. I felt my mams hand leave mine and at the same time feeling a gentle touch on my head, as the woman at the door introduced herself as Mrs. Roberts. She was a tall woman, wearing a flowery coloured smock; prominent on her face were a pair of dark horn-rimmed spectacles. I did not know her age, but she was certainly older than my mam. After a few words to our mothers, along with my fellow new starts we were ushered into the classroom and the door was shut. All eyes in the class were glued on the six of us as we were shown to our desks, mine was at the front and hearing my name called on the register, just filled me with excitement, at long last I was at school. I could not have been in the classroom more than ten minutes, when I became aware of a distraction at the rear of the room. Mrs. Roberts glanced up, pushing her chair back at the same time and with speed she quickly strode past me. On hearing a squeal, I turned round to see Mrs. Roberts holding by the scruff of the neck, a boy with fair curly hair. With anger written all over her face, she frog marched the spectacled wearing boy to the front of the class. Pulling her chair to no more than three feet to where I was sat, she put the boy, who I found out later was named Dawson, over her knees. Angrily with considerable force she pulled Dawson; s pants down exposing his bare backside. Shocked and bewildered, I watched as she proceeded to hit his bare behind with the flat of her hand, showing no mercy whatsoever. Poor Dawson; screamed louder and louder, as red hand marks appeared on his buttocks, I looked over towards the glass-paneled door, where minutes before I had so innocently entered, searching for my mams face, to take me back home. The screaming seemed to last ages, but it was probably over in minutes, I don’t know about anyone else, but I personally was terrified. Finally she stopped and pushed the weeping Dawson into a corner of the room, my hopes and dreams of school were completely shattered in minutes. The rest of the day I was completely petrified that it would happen to me and it makes me cringe now just thinking about it. Home time could not come quickly enough for me, all I wanted to do was to get out of the classroom and be home with my mam. I never mentioned this episode to either of my parents; why I don’t know! It was stupid of me really, because I have had it bottled up in my mind all these years. In fact now I find it all a bit moving; knowing it must have been quite traumatic experience for five-year-old children to witness. Thankfully I had only one term in the infant or baby class has it was known. I also can not recall taking part in any class activities during that term, because I felt frightened every time Mrs. Roberts came near me. Thankfully, the summer holidays came and that was the end of my time in her class. How people like her can call themselves teachers and to be in charge of the infant class, is beyond my comprehension. Discipline yes, but what happened to Dawson, on my eagerly awaited day at school, was shear unwarranted cruelty. I have no doubt somewhere along the line, there would be some former pupils who would have liked Mrs. Roberts, but as you have read, I am certainly not on that list and I am quite sure Dawson wasn’t. I can honestly say I never liked being at school, either at junior or senior level, obviously this can only be put down to that April day in 1943. One can not visualize that kind of cruelty happening in this present day, and for the sake of the children of today, I sincerely hope it does not. Life is too short to have it shattered at the starting gate. A friend of mine named Peter Foster once said to me. “ We are only here for a handshake in life, so make the best of it.” How right you was Peter? So one can imagine I have never eagerly awaited anything much since and going into the army was certainly no exception. but nevertheless there was no way I was going to miss this new episode in my life. I had arranged to meet Geoff Stubbs, a former classmate of mine, who had also been called up to join the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment at Barrow railway station 1pm Thursday the 4th of February. I had known Geoff for quite a number of years at senior school and always found him to be both a quiet and amiable lad |
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