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Having been detailed, to do a 24 hour guard duty on the Sunday before embarkation, I obtained a 36 hour pass on the Friday, to go home and say my good-byes, to Valerie, my parents and friends. It may sound silly now, but at that period, I wondered if it would be for the last time. The short leave passed ever so quickly, with neighbours and friends wishing me luck, but my mam’s face told it all, she had an expression similar to the day I started school. I put on a brave face throughout and laughed everything off, in the hope it offset any worrying for her. Valerie’s mother, had died just a few weeks previously and the last thing I wanted to do was to make her more upset. Not trying to make matters more upsetting, I only let Valerie come to see me off at the George Hotel bus stop, which is just up the road from Hastings Street. When two people love and care for each other and are being parted for a considerable length of time, it can be quite upsetting as the thousands of ex- servicemen and wives will verify. It was while walking down Hastings Street that Saturday evening, hand in hand with Valerie. I had a feeling my dad was watching me from the doorstep, so just before turning the corner of the street; I waved without turning round to see if he was there. I must have thought and felt like Jackie Williams, because he had done the same many years before. He was a lad in our street, who I remember when I was a young boy, watching him along with other neighbours leave the street en-route to Burma during World War Two, but sadly Jackie never returned. As my train sped a way from Barrow, I looked across the waters of Morecambe Bay at the twinkling lights of the Furness peninsular. My eyes and thoughts were transfixed until the light disappeared from view. I change trains at Carnforth, where I got a connection to Penrith; I then hitchhiked to Barnard Castle and Westwick camp. The journey seemed to pass very quickly, because of being wrapped up in personal thoughts. The next day while on guard duty, I wrote a letter to my mam and dad, thanking them both for all they had done for me over the years. They had sacrificed a great deal, not only for me, but also for my brother Frank and sister Jean also. I expressed this in my letter of my profound gratitude and if any two people in my life that deserved this recognition, it was my mam and dad Fred and Elsie Parkinson. All men and women, who have served in the forces over the many years, will never have appreciated their parents as much, if they had not been in the services. While on my rounds during the Sunday guard duty, the special train arrived at Humbleton station, bringing the rest of the battalion back to camp. I hardly heard a whisper, as each soldier, made his way to his particular billet. I knew how they felt, because twenty-four hours earlier on returning to the camp, I had felt the same. On the Tuesday evening, the Regiment was packed up ready to go. (A) And (S) companies in full kit, were jammed packed in the Naafi at Westwick Camp, until 2300 hours. Then in turn, each Company was given the order to board the waiting lorries. These lorries took us down to Barnard Castle railway station, where we boarded a special troop train, which was non-stop to Southampton Docks. Before the train set off from Barnard Castle, lads who had formed the rear party, which consisted of men waiting for demob and some others who had compassionate home posts, were on the train shaking hands and saying their farewells to their friends. Most were half pissed and showed quite a bit of emotion that goes with friendship and camaraderie. A very good friend of mine from schooldays, big Bert Bell, had to take a home posting, because of his father’s ill health and Bert came onto the train to wish me all the best and telling me to look after myself. I will never forget the way Bert said this, because it was spoken in absolute true sincerity and emotion. On a sad note, the day we left Westwick Camp, Lance Corporal Tom Brown’s dad died and he was sent home immediately. Tom was a Bolton lad and although not much older than myself, he had become a fatherly figure and friend to us all. I had personally, only known him for about four months, but during that time, I held Tom Brown in high esteem. There was one sure certainty over the next ten months; Tom Brown would be definitely missed by the platoon and indeed he was. The journey down to Southampton was quite an experience; the jokes and Mickey taking were hilarious. I was aware of an air of confidence in my fellow comrades, as though they wanted to get on with their tasks ahead. This in itself is very hard to explain, because you have to be in that situation to appreciate the feeling, but one thing was certain, I was proud to be in their company. Early morning on August the 31st 1960, the train pulled into Southampton Docks, alongside a white painted ship, that had a broad blue line in the middle of the hull, that ram from forward to aft of the ship. The troopship was named Devonshire and had been built before the Second World War. The ship over its many years of service had transported British servicemen to the far off corners of the World. While lined up on the dockside, we were each designated an accommodation deck on the ship, my area of accommodation, was three decks down, each deck had numerous bunks of three, that took in nearly all the battalion with ease, I personally was on a bottom bunk of three. The ship had been many times geared up for this type of evacuation and to the credit of the ship’s crew, all boarding etc. went smoothly. Each deck was divide up into many quarters and each of these quarters had their own showers and toilets etc, believe me, they had and were very clean. All U. K. equipment was stored away in our large kit bags, for the duration of our overseas duties. The only clothing worn on ship, were our physically training shorts, vests, trainers and berets, the berets were only worn on musters and lifeboat drill. Various army detachments joined the ship during the course of the day, prior to sailing for the Cameroons. They came from the R.A. S. C. R. A. M. C. R. A. D. C. R. E. M. E. R.E, and the Royal Signals. The battalion with these men was now about one thousand strong. On the dockside while the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment played, the gangway went up and the ship started to move away, I think you could have heard a pin drop as the last rope dropped away from its Ballard. The laughing and joking stopped for a minute or two as the ship made distance from the quayside and like it or like it not; we were on our way to West Africa, which incidentally was 3000 miles from England. The weather was beautiful and it seemed no time at all, before the ship was steaming passed the Isle of Wight. The Island, looked lovely shrouded in a slight haze and I thought to myself, one day in better times I will make a visit, but I never have to this day. I, along with many others, watched the English coast slowly disappear from view; each lost in his own personal thoughts. I make no bones about it, I love my country and all it stands for and it really riles me when I hear people say “They are ashamed to be British.” All troops were mustered, within two hours of leaving England, for lifeboat drill and fatigue duties. When the fatigue duties were assigned, I could not believe my luck, because I wasn’t picked out to do any! The fatigues were mainly deck cleaning and kitchen duties. The deck cleaning squads had to make each of the deck living quarters absolutely spotless and any kit slovenly left on a man’s personal bed-space, was thrown overboard. Consequently after the first inspection, I assure you, nothing was left lying around and when the decks were clean to our Sergeants approval, they were then inspected by a Royal Air Force Senior Warrant Officer. It is so imperative, that when you have quite a few men living in close proximity quarters to each other, cleanliness and hygiene are paramount. The kitchen fatigues was the cleaning of all the stainless steel trays that everyone ate off, plus utensils etc. This duty was done on three shifts and it was one awful of a job, sweat simply poured of everyone concerned. So at each morning muster, when the Orderly Sergeant shouted. “Those who are not on duty fall out.” I literally did just that, as an old soldier will tell you. “Never volunteer for anything!” Having escaped duties, I only had to keep my personal bed space and equipment tidy. I made up my mind to enjoy my time on the ship and believe me I did. Once one got use to the engine vibrations it became plain sailing. Every day, the ship’s speed and distance it had traveled over twenty-four hours, was recorded on a notice board and I always checked this out every day without fail, to further my interest. The journey over the notorious Bay of Biscay; was relatively calm and the more South the ship went, the sea became much more blue. The stars at night were breathtaking and to witness this beauty, in such a vast Ocean, can only be described, as a bonus in life. The Chinese crew of the Devonshire, made themselves extra money by doingour laundry, they were named dhobi men, because for long periods of the evening, they would be shouting on the decks. “Dhobi, dhobi, anyone want dhobi.” It didn’t take long before everyone would join in the chorus; it was so funny, seeing was believing. For two shillings (10P) these dhobi men would wash and iron, quite a bundle and the finished product, was done to a high degree. After being at sea just over a week, which seemed to pass very quickly, the ship docked at Dakar, the capital of Senegal, West Africa. The purpose of the Devonshire going into Dakar, was to top up the water supplies, which had got a little low, because of the manpower aboard the ship. There was no chance of getting off the ship, because of some form of coup that was happening, during the time of our being in the docks. We could here gunfire, and also from a distance, we witnessed parachutists dropping on the far side of the City, but it was never fully explained by our superiors, what was going on. The Senegalese on the dockside; were as black as the ace of spades and while someone was buying their cheap trinkets, they couldn’t give a dam about the coup. With no personnel allowed off the ship, the majority of lads, myself included, idled their time away, by dropping water filled paper bombs, on our trinket selling African brothers. Once the ship had filled up with the water and fresh fruit, we set out on the early evening tide. A passenger ship was at anchor some sixty yards from the Devonshire. I wish I knew the name of that ship, because as our ship slowly departed from the Dakar harbour, a group of lads started to sing “ Now is the hour,” this then started other soldiers singing and so on and so on. The passenger ship was lit up like Blackpool and its decks started to crowd with onlookers, all very quietly listening to the singing, as our ship went further and further away. I am sure whoever they were and to what part of the World they were from, the scene must surely have been a moving and lasting impression, on each one of them. It certainly was with me. One day out of Dakar, an order was given, that from now until we reached our destination, there would be no more showers with fresh water. This came about, because of the poor quality of water taken onboard the ship at Dakar, special soap was issued for getting washed etc in the salt water. It was never the same, because it never cleaned you the same as fresh water as anyone who as washed in it knows. I enjoyed the competitions of firing at balloons from the stern of the ship, but I never volunteered to take part in the deck hockey competitions, I just left that for the nutters in our regiment and the Corps. So while they were all knocking hell out of each other at deck hockey, I would be watching with total fascination, the flying fish and dolphins racing along the side of the ship. Truly memorable in such a vast ocean where the wake of the ship, seemed a dazzling white, against the blue water of the Atlantic. This life of leisure came to an abrupt halt one morning at muster parade. The Orderly Sergeant; asked what my fatigue was, the feeble excuse I gave was quickly rejected and within half an hour, I was in the galley cleaning the trays. The regiment was then two days out from the Cameroons and I could not complain, for I had done well. The next few days I sweated like I have never done before or since, if you can imagine cleaning dishes in a sauna room, you would be very near the mark. One morning, a buzz went round the ship that land had been sighted on the horizon and sadly this meant our voyage was coming to an end. The coast of the Cameroons loomed nearer and nearer, until we dropped anchor in a primitive harbour off Victoria. The tree laden mountainous terrain looked awesome, with some so high they were shrouded in mist. All the troops on the deck just stood quietly and stared, my own thoughts were,“ God where the hell have they brought us?” Thankfully I only did four days in the galley, two days at sea and two days while at anchor in the Victoria harbour. The Sergeants had a farewell dinner onboard ship and while this dinner was taking place, with the ship being painted white it attracted many species of flies. Myself along with a few others, were detailed to counteract this invasion of flies and in doing so, we were each given fly sprays. Everything that moved was sprayed and it wasn’t until I gave a massive spray by this porthole, that I realised it was open and my spray went over the Sergeants dinner table. I just ran as fast as my legs could carry me, with a loud commotion echoing in my ears, needless to say, I kept out of sight for the rest of the evening Disembarkation from the ship was done in barges, owing to the non-existing docking facilities. The first to leave the ship on these barges, were (A) and (C) Company. The next day (S) Company, which was minedisembarked and the following day (B) and (HQ) company. This came about, because the regiment was being split up into three areas. The (A) and (S) Companies at Bamenda in the North of the Cameroons,while (C) and (HQ) Companies will be stationed at Buea, in the South and not quite half way between Bamenda and Buea was Kumba, where (B) Company will be stationed. All personnel had changed into their tropical kit of lightweight olive green uniforms (Ogs). With full kit and carrying weapons our Company left the MV Devonshire on September 14th 1960. On landing at the quayside of Victoria, the company boarded the three-ton lorries for the 300-mile journey to Bamenda. It did not take long before the convoy reached the outskirts of Victoria and here the tarmac on the road ended. With it being the last few months of the rainy season, it was not long before trucks were being bogged down in the mud. When a truck got stuck which happened often, other trucks and manpower pulled them free. It was quite obvious the journey would take longer than anticipated, because the rain literally came down in buckets. I never comprehended fully, about rainy seasons, until being in the Cameroons. This country is three degrees north of the Equator and one of the wettest places in the world. The local population cheered every village the convoy went passed through. It gave one quite a buzz to be welcomed like this and made one feel like a conquering hero of years gone by. There had been no British soldiers in the Cameroons, since the First World War and so this was quite an occasion for the inhabitants and they certainly made the most of it. The convoy, because of the conditions, took 5 hours to travel the 80 miles to Kumba. It was at Kumba, where for two days the Company we were billeted in long aluminum corrugated huts. The advance party of the Royal Engineers had erected the aluminum huts, and it would house (B) Company when they arrive in two days time. I personally did not envy them, as it was in the middle of a forest come jungle clearing in a very warm clammy spot. During the two days (S) Company was at Kumba, I do not think it stopped raining once. Everyone was thankful we had been issued with mosquito nets, it was the first time we used and it certainly wasn’t going to be the last. In this part of the Cameroons, the mosquito net was a most vital part of ones equipment and when in use at night it gave one a sense of privacy and security. During the day a swimming party was organised for you, you and you, there must have been about fifteen “shanghaied” volunteers in all. We were driven through a forest for a while and then on foot, in torrential rain, we nervously followed a guide, until we came to a large lake. The bedraggled swimming party all congregated on a small jetty, each soaked to the skin and looking more like whipped dogs, surveyed the scene. The scene was very similar to the many Tarzan films I had watched at the Walney Island cinema years before, as a boy. If Tarzan had come swinging out of the trees, it would not have been out of place. In unison, we asked if there were any crocodiles in the lake and when the reply was no, everyone jumped into the lake. The water felt lovely and it soon warmed up our already wet bodies it were while I was splashing about, that I noticed Arnie Marquis come out of the forest clearing, wearing a pair of white silk swimming trunks. Arnie who was over six feet tall and of quite good build, cut a fine figure as he headed for the water. I thought to myself, hell Arnie’s going to burn the lake up, I shouted to him then I carried on swimming. Later a crowd started to assemble on the jetty and I noticed a lot of pulling and pushing going on. All of a sudden, a limp body appeared out of the water, wearing white swimming trunks. It was Arnie Marquis, and to all our relief, after some respiration and spluttering, he pulled round, but not without discomfort may I add. Apparently Arnie could not swim and was being shown how, by two of the lads in the party and for some unknown reason; they swam off for a second or two, leaving Arnie in deep water. Hence poor Arnie nearly drowned, in what would have been a complete tragedy. Later that night, whilst talking to Arnie, he said, “Do you know Alan, we’re all going to get something here sooner or later and that was mine.” How right he was! Next day, the convoy continued on its way in absolutely appalling weather and because these so called roads not use to this amount of heavy traffic, they soon became one mass of churned up mud. All the troop carrying transport, were slipping and sliding constantly and eventually one lorry turned onto its side, when it slid into a ditch, but luckily, although shook up a bit, no one got hurt. The area near to Mamfe was of flat terrain, but heavily forested and of course exceedingly clammy. With Mamfe being flat area of countryside, the Royal Engineers were building an airstrip and a small camp for the R.A.F personnel. The jungle area surrounding Mamfe had a musty smell of rotting vegetation, but after awhile one got use to it. At night, the crickets and frogs made one hell of a noise, it was quite unbelievable to hear, but again you got use to it. Also at night with it still being the rainy season, the flood ditches were illuminated by the light of fireflies, of which completely fascinated me, but when you caught some, they never lit up at all,all quite mysterious, but very interesting The journey from Kumba to Mamfe was 150 miles and had taken about eight hours, later this time taken, was obviously greatly reduced in the coming dry season. The Company stayed one night at Mamfe, where we slept on the concrete floor of a hut that had no beds and told the showers and NAAFI, were out of bounds to all army personnel. The R.A.F, were a miserable lot, who seemed to go out of there way to be awkward and unhelpful to the army. If the situation had been reversed, they would have not been treated in the same disdain; they had the best of everything and looked on the army as shit. I can say with all honesty, the army lads had more guts and general camaraderie than they could ever muster between them. The following day in pouring rain the convoy set off on the final leg of 90 miles to Bamenda. The further we went, the hills became more greater and hostile looking. With all the rain and mud and not being able to shower at Mamfe, each and everyone was very muddy and grubby indeed. All this made everyone a bit down in the gill, but throughout our despondency, the village people continued to cheer and smile with rows of gleaming white teeth. It took the convoy, seven hours to cover the 90 miles to Bamenda and it had now been four days since, we left the troopship Devonshire at Victoria harbour. Banana trees on the journey to Bamenda were in abundance, some on plantations others growing wild and if you bought any off the natives they were five for a penny. It brought back memories, to when a fruiterer’s son on Walney Island named Dougie Dale, brought a bunch of bananas to Vickerstown School. The war had just ended and no one in the school had ever seen any bananas at all. In the playground before lessons, Dougie with a large crowd gathered round him, greedily ate the whole bunch, without giving anyone a sniff, never mind a bite. Later that morning, Dougie was sick all over his desk, the smell was awful, but it was worth the stink for the laugh we had. In fact all the school in general laughed at Dougie’s expense for weeks. Do you know until Duggie Dale died in 1998 he owned a fruit shop on Walney Island! Passing through the mud hut village of Bamenda, the convoy zigzagged its way, up a large hill, which dominated the surrounding savanna type countryside. On the summit was Bamenda Camp and this was to be (A) and (S) Company’s main base camp, for the duration of the regiment’s stay in the Cameroons. I think everyone was pleased at the arrival, because of being hungry, shit up to the eyeballs and completely knackered.
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