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I really enjoyed my week’s leave being home with Valerie and my friend Val Cumberbatch and his girlfriend Hilda Duffy. It was just like old times again, but all good things come to an end, because I was in the army now. On returning to Fulwood Barracks the Sunday night, prior to joining the battalion. I went to my former room in G passage and was quite taken aback, the room was fully occupied by new recruits. Apparently it had been arranged for us to spend the night in the Cavalry block at Fulwood, which we found to be far superior than the rooms in G passage. Next morning along with the former lads from Arroyo platoon, we assembled with full kit and were shepherded on to double decked buses, that were to take us down to the railway station in Preston en- route to Barnard Castle. All the time we were waiting on the buses, a sergeant from another regiment, kept shouting that we were plough- boys and to get off his square. Even as the bus was leaving, he chased after it waving his stick still shouting “You plough- boys!” It is a pity I did not have a camera with me, to record the actions of an outright idiot. Via Penrith we arrived at Barnard Castle and were transported by lorry to Humbleton Camp. If anyone could drive, they were put in the Motor Transport section, but the majority including myself, were put in (C) Company. I along with Geoff Stubbs, Jim Prince and Eric Shaw were all in the same billet. All the billets on the camp were made of brick and probably were built during the Second World War. Charlie Company (C) was a rifle company and we were put in various platoons, then into sections, each section was seven men including an NCO. The Bowes Moor area is very close to Barnard Castle and it was on the moors where the regiment did all their battle training, commonly known in the army as schemes. There certainly wasn’t as much bull as Fulwood, but the NCO’s were certainly very keen on weapon training and route marches. Our kit still had to be in good clean order and believe, me after some of the schemes, the kit took quite a bit of getting clean. The older soldiers, with there laid back approach and the efficient way they performed when on schemes, were most helpful to us, the new green as grass editions, to the regiment. Soldiering days were just beginning and it was up to the NCOs to achieve the finished product. Route marches are very common in the Infantry and twenty miles or so is just a stroll for some of the older soldiers. The maneuvers or schemes as they were commonly known were plentiful and again this was done mostly on Bowes Moor, for a couple of days at a time. With a full pack, rifle and bayonet, platoons with their various sections. Alternately would attack and defend given positions on map references. The art of field craft and learning the ins and outs of this type of action was taught most diligently. In a defensive position at night, each man had to dig a hole the length of his body by fifteen inches deep, then line the hole with your rainproof coat, which was called a poncho. This hole in the ground, would then be your personal position, until told to move. The Corporals in charge of the sections, with skill, craftily laid trip wires around the defensive positions, each man had two, two hour guards duty during the night. It is always cold on the moors at night, especially in the late and early months of the year, but it was also interesting. While doing ones stint on guard duty, we used a two-inch mortar in sending up flares, that turned the surrounding area into daylight. I never thought at the time, that what was being taught by the NCOs and older soldiers, would hold me ingood stead a few months later. Once on a day scheme while moving alongside a small wood, some clown using the two- inch mortar, hadn’t noticed, that instead of firing smoke bombs. He was unknowingly firing small explosives into our ranks and the faster we ran, the more the mortar bombs seemed to be following. How no one was killed that day is beyond my comprehension, some of the older soldiers who had seen action in Korea just laughed it off as though they had been on a Sunday school outing. I must say they were, as cool as cucumbers and it gave one a certain amount of lift to be in their company. The food at Humbleton Camp was a lot better than what was dished up at Fulwood Barracks, but again it could have been better. These were early days in the army and after being spoilt all ones life by their mothers cooking, lads including myself were still a bit choosy, but like everyone else, this attitude of being choosy soon changes! The dish I enjoyed most was the steam pudding and custard, because if one was hungry there was always plenty of that at meal times and believe me it was good. The battalion at the time owing to the amalgamation of the Kings Own and Border Regiments had the battalion housed in two camps. The (B), (C) and (HQ) companies were billeted at Humbleton, while (A) and the Support Company, were at Westwick Camp, a distance of about a mile between them. Both these amalgamated regiments had won many battle honours and it seemed a bad subject to bring up in conversation, because former member of their battalions, thought their old regiment was the best. The glider on both shoulders, was a battle honour won in campaigns during the Second World War, by theBorder Regiment at Sicily and Arnhem. The shoulder badges were quite distinctive in green and yellow under the Regiment’s name, and because of what it meant and the price men paid, I was very honoured to wear it, as indeed were all the battalion. I had been at the battalion for a month when I received notice of a transfer to the Support (S) Company This of course meant splitting up from my mates, but I had no choice in the matter. One is only a number and an order is an order that has to be obeyed without question. I knew a few other lads from square bashing days at Fulwood, who had also got orders to join (S) Company, his name was Jim Stacey who came from Widnes and from that day on, Jim became a good friend of mine. We reported to (S) Company, at Westwick Camp and I was designated to the Anti-Tank platoon. A Company Sergeant Major loomed in the doorway and started to look me up and down. On replying to his request for my name, he told me tostand to attention when speaking to him. He was CSM Kershaw, an old sweat who had Second World War medals on his chest. I was always told and still think that way now, that one’s first impression is your worst. To put it mildly I thought he looked a right stickler for detail, and over the next sixteen months, my first impression, unfortunately was right. The Anti-Tank platoon consisted of an officer Lieutenant Everett–Heath, Sergeant Wakefield, Corporals Shaw and Rennie, Lance Corporals Brown, and Hughes, Also Privates Borland, Townson, Pratt and a R.E.M.E. Craftsman named Wheatbread. They all made me quite welcome and to a man were most helpful, Brian Townson never let anything get him down, whatsoever, he was always smiling, which can be a big help to others at times. They all told me, not to run foul of the screaming skull, a name they had christened CSM. Kershaw. There was no doubt, Westwick was better than Humbleton Camp and it could have been so much more, if the Company had a different Company Sergeant Major. Do not get me wrong, the army needs CSM’s, for that there is no doubt, but what the army doesn’t need, is nitpickers! The Support Company consisted of the Anti Tank, Machine Gun, Mortar and Pioneer platoons, but due to it being an expertise Company it was small in number and this was so noticeable when (S) Company had its turn to do guard duties. During a period of seven days, each private had to do two twelve-hour guards and two twenty four-hour guards and in between these, fatigues had to be performed at both camps. All kit worn for guard duty, had to be in immaculate condition, because if it wasn’t, it would be easily picked out and then you were on a charge, which meant more duties and worst of all, the wrath of CSM Kershaw. The Anti-Tank platoon, trained on the 120 mm Mobat, this is a field gun for destroying tanks. I had always been interested in guns and having worked on guns during my apprenticeship, I was quite pleased to be in the platoon. The other lads in the platoon had been in the army longer than me and therefore obviously knew what they were doing, while I just stood back and tried to take it all in. All actions and procedures had to be done to the book; errors were jumped on from a great height, because weapons are dangerous and must be treat with respect. We did schemes on the Warcop ranges, where I witnessed the awesome firepower of the weapon. Also exercises were arranged with the ParachuteRegiment, who were using a Wombat anti-tank gun, I certainly would not have liked to be in a tank when either of those weapons trained on me and god help anyone who was. I had been in the Anti-Tank platoon six weeks when all training was stopped. News was received that the regiment was being sent to the British Cameroons, a country that is situated South of Nigeria in West Africa. All cadres were ceased forthwith and the Support Company; was being made into a rifle company. For the next month as (S) Company was brought up to strength with manpower from the training depot and the priority was to whip the newly formed Company into shape. The route marches, schemes, battle and weapon training were stepped up, and personally I did not mind this, because I wanted to be in good shape and indeed I was. One day I was in a party of seven men, who had been picked out to be the enemy, for a company from the Parachute Regiment, who were doing military exercises on the nearby Bowes Moor. It was explained before we set out, that the previous week, the Paras had put a number of Guardsmen in hospital that was playing a similar role. On entering Bowes Moor, a Sergeant from the Parachute Regiment met us and directed us to a given point. For most of the day we never saw a soul and it was decided Lance Corporal Harbron and Private Pratt, to go and have a look over the surrounding hillside. As soon as they departed, the rest of us found a sheltered spot, for a snooze in the sun. No sooner had we settled down, when we heard a lot of shouting and there running down the side of a nearby hillside, was Harbron and Pratt being chased by about fifteen Paras, each carrying what looked like pick-axe handles. It was quite obvious the Paras were not going to play by the book and we in turn were not going to end up in hospital, like the guardsmen the previous week. In a matter of seconds we were in the vehicle, with engine running dragging the exhausted pair in the back and moving off at a fast pace. I don’t think Linford Christie would have caught Harbron and Pratt and a valuable lesson was learned, don’t get captured, especially by the Paras! Quite a few national servicemen were trying to get out of the army with various manufactured ailments and more so now, with the regiment going abroad. The army doctors are not stupid and are not easily conned,but there were two lads in my draft who did a big con. I was billeted with these two lads at Humbleton Camp and saw it all happen first a hand. One of the lads started to get a skin rash on his chest, arms and back, so every morning he joined the sick, lame and lazy on Sick Parade, to report to the Medical Officer. This went on for a number of weeks and the M.O. treated the problem quite rightly, as a common khaki rash. He supplied cream, to counteract the rash and he also gave the lad, a long sleeved type vest, to wear under his shirt at all times. The fact was, he never wore the vest or used the cream once, but instead, each night, he would put on his course khaki shirt and with a big smile on his face, would jump into bed and shout goodnight lads. Next morning of course when he reported sick, now wearing the long sleeved vest, he had one hell of a rash. The Medical Officer, who was known to be very fair with everyone, could not fully comprehend this and within a month, the lad in question was medically discharged. The other lad in our billet had sore feet, caused by the constant route marches etc and because of this he was excused boots and had to report on sick parade each morning. Every night, before getting into bed, this lad would put on his best boots. As all ex-servicemen are aware, one’s best boots are very stiff and rigid and because of the boots only being used on guard duties etc, they are not fully broken in. The lad’s feet next morning, looked as though they had come out of a corn-beef tin and this again baffled the Doctor and eventually the lad was medically discharged. I watched him leaving the Camp for the last time as he strode up the road, wearing his civilian clothes, with a definite spring in his step! There is no doubt, when mates get out of the army by demob or otherwise it becomes a real sickener, but as time passes by, one hardens up to the fact that your day will come also. All personnel before going abroad, had to be assessed for marksmanship on the shooting ranges. A qualified marksmen for a regular soldier only, meant more money in their weekly wage packet, while the national servicemen got nothing, but his £1:10 shillings per week. It was while doing my turn in the rifle Butts, this is the protected place, where the targets are lifted up on racks, so they can be fired at, that I came across a Private named O’ Donnell. He was a former S.A.S soldier and similar to most ex-S.A.S he kept himself in the background. The trouble was, his eyesight was going and he wouldn’t wear spectacles and so consequently, long after the company had finished their assessment firing, Private O’Donnell was still on the range trying to qualify. I don’t think he hit the target once, all the lads in the butts were getting a bit cheesed off, because it was now late in the afternoon, and he was still trying to qualify. We decided to do something about it, with a pencil we made about twenty holes in the bull area of the target, so that when he fired again, we would signal he was hitting the bull every time. When his firing ceased, O’Donnell, accompanied by his platoon officer, walked to the target for the count. The look on everyone’s face, when the officer counted twenty-four holes on the target, when only twenty shots had been fired. Making some feeble excuse that patches had fallen off other holes on the target, during the firing, the reason was reluctantly accepted and a surprised Private O’Donnell, became a marksman. Needless to say we all arrived back in camp in time for our evening meal.
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