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Suddenly awakened by the sound of heavy feet and shouting, the reality of where I was quickly dawned on me. A corporal came charging into the room yelling and cursing, “ Come on you lazy bastards get out of bed, get washed and shaved!” Each jumping out of our beds as one, we followed the rest of the recruits down to the wash place, or should I use the military name of ablutions. The ablutions were situated behind the barrack block and with it being February, the temperature was very cold, especially at 6.am. The water to shave and wash was also freezing, but nevertheless it had and was done. Returning to the barrack room as fast as we could, to get changed and warmed up before breakfast. Still not knowing what to do, we anxiously waited in the barrack room until about 8.30 am; when a Sergeant entered the room, followed by three corporals. He introduced himself as Sergeant Brown and that he was the drill instructor for Mons platoon and his assistant instructors were Corporal Macilvenny and Lance Corporals Watt and Stringer. The two lance Corporals were assigned to billet in one of the rooms in G passage for the duration of our training. Sergeant Brown gave the platoon his hopes and expectancies, during the forthcoming ten week square bashing (drilling). While he spoke, one could not help but notice the scar on his upper lip, and strangely enough my eyes seemed to be glued to the scar. He informed us that between now and Monday, when the training begins in earnest, and everyone’s issued kit, had to be made ready and in perfect order. He also stressed LCpls. Watt and Stringer would assist in achieving this. I must admit LCpls Watt and Stringer were really two good lads, who most certainly went out of their way, in helping all recruits to make their kit presentable. How to bull boots, blanco belts and webbing, to clean one’s brasses without showing stains on webbing. We practiced for hours trying to do bed packs; because the bed packs had to be ready each morning for inspection. They consisted of a blanket either side of two sheets, all enveloped by another blanket and the finished product had to be completely square. The pack was then laid on top of a blanket that had been tucked into the bed with hospital corners. All equipment had to be set in a certain way to meet military demands; there was absolutely no room for sloppiness. That was the beginning and as you must be aware, the finished product takes one hell of a lot to perfect. I count myself lucky when it came to ironing, as my late Uncle George from Leeds, had been a presser in a tailors shop. With him being a former regular soldier, he took time a few months earlier while on a visit to our house, to teach me the correct way to iron trousers and shirts etc. It certainly paid off what he taught me, because along with many others I would have struggled. Crowding round the fireplace swapping tales, we each bulled our boots, completely oblivious to the strong aroma of burning boot polish. To bull boots one had to smother the boots with Kiwi black polish, then with an heated spoon flatten the little knobs that cover the boots, until they were quite smooth. This was more concentrated on the toe and heel caps. Using a duster with more polish and water, you forever did a circular movement on the boots. Many hours later of real painstaking effort and sore fingers, a shine begins to show on the boots. That shine becomes a gloss and the finished product, as ex-servicemen will tell you, is truly remarkable. In fact everything taught, which had been alien to us all before, was indeed remarkable. The lockers by the side that each recruit were allocated, were about six foot, six inches high by three feet wide. The inside of the locker was arranged into sections and shelves at various heights. One section was for physical training equipment and towels, another section for shirts and socks. One particular section set on a small hold all, we set up a knife, fork, and spoon, lather brush, toothbrush, button stick, and button Brush and an open razor with blade, behind these on a yellow duster was our spotlessly clean mess tins along with a pot mug. These utensils had to be in the order I have wrote, because if they were not, they ended up being mixed up and made to do again. The space in the lockers was plentiful, with ample room to take our tunics and great coat, any thing you did not want to be seen, was hidden down the great coat sleeves. On top of the lockers immaculately square were our packs, gaiters and tin helmets. If equipment did not come up to scratch, or to the NCOs approval, it would be knocked onto the floor and made presentable to their satisfaction. This occurred on a regular basis, during training at Fulwood Barracks, so if at all possible, getting it right first time is what one strove for. Nobody got away with anything that was not up to military standards and definitely the hardest man to please in my eyes was Corporal Macilvenny. A mean no nonsense type of man; but undoubtedly always immaculately turned out, he set by example and like it or like it not, we had to follow that example. A number of lads in the platoon came from Kendal and they all palled up together. I called them mint cakes, but their real names are Derek Hornby, Warner and Wilkinson, all three lads were friendly and like the rest of the platoon, very easy to get on with. I knew Derek Hornby by sight prior to joining the army, because I had played against him while playing for Vickers against Kendal at rugby union. Warner was an amusing lad, he always slept in a sleeping bag, so as not to disturb his made up bed pack, which was inspected every morning. Some old sweat must have told him to do this, because it seemed to work out okay for Warner, but in most cases, once you learned to do bed packs correctly, it became no problem. The berets, which had looked like long playing records when first worn, were shrunk. This was achieved by immersing the beret in hot and cold water, then shaping the beret to your head; we were at last looking a bit more like a soldier should The Liverpool lad in our room was named Mick Maher, with his dark hair and handsome looks; he was one hell of a shrewd individual with a typical Liverpool wit. Everything Mick did was of high standard, whether it was bulling, drilling or sports. It seemed as though he had done it all before, because nothing ever worried him. There was no doubt that Mick was tough and to his credit he only asserted that toughness once, and that was to put a disruptive back squaddie in his place. This squaddie had been a nuisance in his previous platoon and because of his laziness, he had been put in a platoon that had started in the army, a month after him, which unfortunately for us, was Mons platoon.He thought he would get away with is antics in our platoon, but he did not reckon on the likes of Mick Maher and in no time at all, the problem was soon solved. Mick always said to me, he was going to work his ticket out of the army and many months later, after we joined the battalion at Barnard Castle, Mick disappeared off the scene. I can only assume, he had worked his ticket out of the army; just the way he said he would. The two Lancaster lads were named Les Sallis and Jim Pearson; both were quiet easygoing types, who were always very amiable. Les Sallis had a good sense of humour, very similar to my own and therefore we had quite a few good laughs together at each other’s expense, especially if either one of us got a good rollicking of the NCOs. The lad from Moss Side, Manchester was named Jim Prince, a freckled face lad with ginger hair, who always had a cheeky look on his face and indeed that summed him up. Jim was a very popular man in the platoon, who never seemed to take anything too serious or should I write, he gave me that impression. I must admit though, he always brightened the place up when he was around and I was certainly quite pleased he was in our room. The last I mention in our room in G passage, was Eric Shaw, a very confident lad whose hometown was Ashton under Lyne. He was about eighteen-month younger than myself, and he became my best mate during our ten weeks training, he married young and had a son aged about seventeen months of which he was very proud. Eric, although facially he never showed it, must have found it very hard being parted from his wife and son, as certainly many others before him had over the years, but to his credit he took it like a man. Similar to all national servicemen, we were always skint, what money we had left over from the normal paying out, was clubbed together to buy toast and tea at the naafi. The pay at the time for National Servicemen was one pound ten shillings per week (150 pence), so it did not give one much to maneuver after normal expenditure. To be in this predicament, as so many have known, one finds true friends, and Eric Shaw was indeed a true friend. My fellow room mates in room 5, G passage, Mons platoon, will be remembered always for sharing with me, the ups and downs during those first ten weeks of army training, with absolute honesty and humour of the highest quality. Without each other to lean on, life would have been quite difficult and strangely as I write this. I cannot recall any of my fellow roommates ever being in the dumps, because each one took their new chapter in life like a man, as indeed they were.
Each soldier not only had his own immediate area to keep spotless, but was also allotted a cleaning job in his own barrack room. This could be one of many jobs, such as cleaning the fireplace, toilet, the landing, the barrack room floor or the windows. Everything not only had to be clean, it had to be shining and if it wasn’t, everyone in that particular room was in big trouble. All went about their extra tasks very diligently, helping each other out when needed, and the last thing we wanted was any hassle, because a job wasn’t done properly. The NCOs would not let you off if the tasks were not up to their standards; one got a goodrollicking and made to do it twice as good. The drill instructors can not be fooled; they knew all the tricks and cons of the trade because they could find dust any time they desired. True to his word, Sergeant Brown arrived early on the Monday morning and lined the entire platoon up outside, on the edge of the Barrack Square. Over the weekend, each recruit had been given his own personal army number and told it was imperative not to forget it. The first thing Sgt.Brown did, was to ask members of the platoon their army number and for the record, my number was 23763356 Pte Parkinson. What a task lay before Sgt. Brown, he must have had a heart like a lion, because we of course didn’t know our arse from our elbows, but along with his assistant NCOs, he set about making us into soldiers. The hard work of marching, coming to attention and learning how to salute, were the main priorities at first, everything was done by numbers, like 2,3 up 2,3 down and so on, it is done this way in the British army to perfect timing in movements. The names we were called were quite unbelievable and most surely have been handed down through the year. The laughs we had in the barrack room later at each other’s expense were hilarious and it certainly bonded us more together. If anyone was struggling with his kit cleaning or having trouble grasping drill movements, they would be helped out or shown by his new found friends, it would be done in our own time between our own tasks; once grasped never to be forgotten. As I wrote earlier, Robinson, who was a decent chap, had struggled from day one and to our Sergeant and NCOs credit, they knew this and he was soon taken off the training course and transferred to the Pioneer Corps. It was certainly the best move for Robinson, because it could have only got worse for him, I am only sorry that I have forgot Robinson’s Christian name, but in any case, I hope everything worked out okay for him. As the weeks went by, from everyone bumping into each other and swinging both arms together, we started to get the drilling movements right. The insides of both boot heels were dented, because of the constant coming to attention. I was a bit round shouldered before entering the army, but with having to stand so upright and square my round shoulders had gone, but not without some aching may I add. We did rifle drill, bayonet practice shooting on the ranges, studying, then throwing live hand grenades. All were taught weaponry with rifle, sub and light machine gun; all these weapons had to be stripped down and put together until one could do it blindfold. The physical training was done twice a day, whether it was in the gymnasium or on the assault course and it was always done at the double. Minutes only were allowed to change into kit required for the various stages of training activities during the day. I was quite fit, before entering the army, thanks to my playing of rugby, but I can honestly say not that fit. Lads who had never done much activity before, to their surprise were finding levels of fitness never experienced in their lives. I just remembered what my dad told me. “Don’t be first and don’t be last,” these words I carried out to the full, not only during my army time, but the rest of my life also. One has to understand that if you are first for everything, you are looked on as a clever bastard and if you are last for everything, you are then looked on a lazy bastard, so both bastards got the extra fatigues to do. As you the reader must now realise, there is only one winner and that is the army. The two Lance Corporals, Watt and Stringer were a big help to the platoon throughout training. If things went wrong, which they most certainly did, then we could expect and got a good telling off. Looking back on hindsight, we probably deserved what we got, for not listening correctly to what was being instructed. Now Corporal Macilvenny was a different kettle of fish, he was a mean type of man who never wanted to be friendly and I can say with true honesty, none of the platoon liked him very much. He was the bad guy and the two Lance Corporals were the good guys; again, I am sure it was all a gimmick, because this is how the army works. He was a regular soldier and made it quite clear from the outset, that he didn’t like National Servicemen. Whatever we thought about Corporal Macilvenny personally, nothing could be taken from him regarding his smartness and drilling, which was first class in every way. He would jump on all mistakes, of which ours were plentiful, from a great height. His favourite expression to the platoon was, “You lot are only in the army for two years, so get in get out and get away.” I loved shooting before going into the army, by being a member of the Vickers rifle section, where we shot against other local teams. So it was down my alley, when firing live ammunition on the ranges, at Altcar near Southport. After many visits to the ranges, on the final tests, I became a marksman on the S.L.R (rifle) and the L.M.G. (Light Machine Gun). I was disappointed that I only obtained a first class score on the Sub Machine Gun, but this was my own fault, because of the close proximity of the targets, my first burst of fire, was aimed at someone else’s target. Each and everyone had to make sure his rifle was in a perfect condition, this rule was very strict, along with stringent rules about live and used spent cartridges. Obviously as you read, there was no room for carelessness when dealing with live ammunition and this was imprinted in everyone’s mind throughout. The food brought out to the ranges, from the cookhouse at Fulwood barracks, was always stew, I couldn’t understand then and still do not understand now, how the Cooks could make such horrible food. It was the most foul tasting food I have had the misfortune to taste, and I am sure ex- servicemen from Fulwood barracks will know what I mean by that statement. The platoon officer, was Second Lieutenant Osborne, a former public schoolboy, educated at St Bees College in Cumbria, he was early at the end of his two years national service, in which he had taken a short commission. I can only describe him as a grand chap worthy of the respect shown us, not once did he belittle any of the platoon. Although very helpful and constructive and also being the officer commanding Mons platoon, Sergeant Brown was definitely the main man, as I will shortly explain. Each of the of the rooms in G passage housed the recruits of Mons platoon, which was about thirty two men in all. Now besides doing your own fatigues, each room took it in turn to clean the lavatory that was situated in the passage. This toilet was only used for emergencies, because of the entire platoon wanting to keep it immaculate, for the very thorough morning inspection and because of this everyone used the ancient toilets at the back of the building. One evening, a lad named Ballantine from the room across the landing, was designated the job of cleaning the toilets. We were well into training and knew the score for any misdemeanors. Ballantine was a nervous type of lad and quite rightly didn’t want any undue hassle, the toilets were a credit to him, because they were absolutely spotless and we all congratulated him for diligence.One morning while doing our final polishing before the barrack room inspection, we heard quite a commotion coming from the toilet area and a voice above the rest shouting, “ I’m not going to do it! I’m not going to do it!” Recognising the voice of Ballantine, I entered the toilet and could not believe my eyes, there stood in the middle of the toilet was a totally devastated Ballantine. The four walls were splattered in shit; we along with Ballantine did not know what to do, because we were all in this together. Some filthy bastard, had sneaked into our passage at night while we were all asleep and having put human shit into a stocking, proceeded to smash it round our toilet walls. One can only use ones imagination to visualise themess, smell and upset it caused. The now very nervous Ballantine, was still muttering “ I’m not going to do it,” when Sergeant Brown appeared on the scene. He took one look inside the toilet, and then went completely berserk shouting and cursing we had let him down; he chased everyone in the platoon outside the building. Fuming at the gills, he double marched us up and down the parade ground in what seemed an eternity. My feet felt like the meat in a corn beef tin, when thankfully, Sergeant Brown marched our now completely knackered platoon, which by now resembled more like whipped dogs, back to G passage. The entire platoon, although innocent, were held responsible for the mess. The culprits were never caught, but you the reader can be assured, the toilet was double cleaned, in what can only be termed a very smelly job! Sergeant Brown must have known, no one in Mons platoon would have done this filthy act to ourselves, because he never mentioned it again. As for Mons platoon, we were certainly not going to remind him that was for sure. The food in my opinion at Fulwood Barracks was terrible and I am sure this view, was shared by everyone, who had the misfortune to eat what was served up. Do not get me wrong by that statement, the army, buy in good food, but some of the cooks if they can be called that name, didn’t give a dam. While eating what would be served up, an officer would be going round the tables asking if the food was okay. One lad on my table said, “ There are a lot of black spots on the potatoes, sir.” The officer replied. “ They are edible, so bloody well eat them.” So one learns from the start, don’t complain, because they will not take the slightest bit of notice. The only food the cooks could make okay, was the sponge pudding and custard of which was plentiful and this is what filled you up, unless there were chips on the menu. One day every so often, each platoon had to do kitchen fatigues here all the skivvy jobs were given to you. The pans were sky high and the more you cleaned, the pile of pans got no lower. Believe me when you finished your stint, it seemed the pans were no lower than when you first went in. The hot plates had to be cleaned down with very warm water and caustic soda, believe me hands were very sore when this horrible job was complete. While on kitchen fatigues in the cookhouse, a Corporal who had ginger hair, came towhere we were all working and asked? “ Does any one know anything about machines?” I proudly stepped forward and said. “ I was a fitter in civilian life.” To the laughter to everyone around, he told me to go tothe back room and fit three sacks of carrots in the machine. I had been caught out by the Corporals favourite joke on recruits. If nothing else, I learned to work the machine and I also learned not to volunteerin the future! I visited the dentist twice or should I say told to go there twice. The Dental Surgeon was named Captain Henriques and he extracted five teeth in the two sessions. The pain I endured, was the worst ever encountered at the many dentists I have visited and that is quite a few. I don’t think he was a credit to his profession, and I was not alone in this opinion, as quite a few lads suffered the same. One lad in particular named Brady, who was also in our platoon, had to have a few stitches in his mouth after a so called simple extraction! The ten weeks training finally came to an end and it was all down to our instructors, the drilling was spot on, the uniforms and berets etc fitted to perfection, in fact all equipment including the barrack rooms were bulled to perfection. A passing out party was arranged at a pub in Preston, where each and everyone got pissed until throwing out time. It will be in my memory always, when Lieutenant Osborne drunk his last pint and then threw his glass into the fireplace. The room went quiet for a few seconds, before we all followed suit. I don’t know who paid for it all, but I can tell you one thing it wasn’t Mons platoon. I can not remember how we got back to Fulwood barracks after the night out, but we made sure we were presentable at the barrack gatehouse, we would have been in trouble if we were not, that’s for sure. The provost Sergeant was a man named Aristodemo, one of the smartest men I ever encountered in the army, he was known to be very strict and it is surprising how one sobers up, when people like Aristodemo are about! The passing out parade was held on a Saturday morning in the middle of April 1960. Everyone made sure they were up earlier than usual reveille, all helping each other to look that little bit extra smart. All the practicing and training was over – it was now all down to the platoon. There was one or two lads who lived near to Preston and their relatives and girlfriends, came to witness the parade. Everyone of Mons platoon looked really immaculate and along with Arroyo platoon, we proudly marched behind the band onto the parade ground. It gave me a sense of pride, that I was British and even when I joined the battalion, marching behind a band always gave me that pride. We marched in slow and quick time, were brought to attention and performed rifle drill with fixed bayonets. It was soon over and we were back in the barrackroom on cloud nine. It gave our drill instructors and us complete satisfaction, knowing we had been made into soldiers, we know we weren’t the finished product, but it was a good start. The lads not only in myroom, but also in all the rooms of G passage, had built up a bond of friendship and camaraderie that would be with them for the rest of their lives. Not many recruits over the many years of national service think highly of their drill instructors, because they can give you a dog’s life if they desired. I can honestly say, that the Mons platoon drill instructor, Sergeant Brown, was totally first class. His understanding and professionalism, were a credit to the man he was. Only once did I personally feel the wrath of his tongue, this happened one morning before parade. I was standing in front of the platoon, copying Lance Corporal Stringers voice, when a loud shout boomed out, telling me to get in line. I must have jumped a foot and moved very quickly back in the ranks, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very fat old Sergeant standing in a doorway near to G passage. When Sergeant Brown appeared on the scene, The fat Sergeant screamed out. “Sergeant Brown, one of your men has been taking the Mickey out of you!” “Which one?” replied Sergeant Brown. With that, the fat Sergeant marched quickly over to where I was standing, pointing at me said. “That crow there!” I then proceeded to get one hell of a telling off, until my eardrums were ringing. Minutes later, when on the parade ground and still feeling the effects of the rollicking, Sergeant Brown came behind me and said. “Don’t let it worry you Parkinson, I had to make it look good.” That was Sergeant Brown all over, he was indeed a man. As for Corporal Macilvenny, he seemed to be quite satisfied with the platoon, as indeed he had played his part to the full and for once, I thought I saw a trace of a smile on his face, but then again it could have been wind! With the parade over, we shook hands with the Corporals and Sergeant Brown, who wished us all well for the future. The platoon presented them with tankards, for all the help they had given us, over the last ten weeks and that basically was it; I have never met or seen anyone of them since. It is just like a game of dominoes for the drill instructors, as one lot is knocked down, you pick up and build the next lot; they must have had hearts like lions. As for us we went on a week’s leave, before we were due to join our battalion, the 1st Kings Own Royal Border Regiment, at Barnard Castle. There and for the rest of my army days, I would be known as 23763356 Private Parkinson. One thing for sure, going down to Preston railway station after the parade, I definitely felt a spring in my step. Like many before me, I felt quite pleased with myself for having completed the army basic training. I knew perhaps for the first time in my life I had stood entirely on my own two feet and so had my new found friends, whom I had seen pass from what seemed boyhood into manhood.
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