Anecdotes by John A Silkstone

[John A Silkstone]

Each monday I will post a little more of my Army anecdotes Hope you enjoy them and they bring back a few memories

THE FIRST DAY.

I had to report to the Royal Artillery Basic Training Camp on the 5th day of November 1956. Like Superman, I was going to fight for Justice, Truth and Humanity. On arrival at Oswestry, this delusion was to be quickly dispelled.

My father being dead, my mother waved me off at Bolton railway station. Like all good mothers she’d packed a Thermos Flask of tea and enough jam butties to feed the Army. As I boarded the train she stuffed into my pocket a 10 bob note (50p). Which I knew she could ill afford.
“That’s to buy writing paper and envelopes,” she told me “don’t forget to write and let me know that you have arrived safe and sound.”

Arriving at Oswestry railway station, I was met by a man displaying a single white stripe on the sleeve of his uniform, and holding a clipboard.
“Name?” he said.
“John Alfred Silkstone.” I replied.
“Dear Mister Silkstone,” he said in a quiet and pleasant voice while he ticked off my name on a list, “when you address me, or anyone else, please call them by their rank.” He pointed to the chevron on his sleeve, “One chevron stands for lance bombardier, two for bombardier, and three for sergeant. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I said.
“Yes what?” he inquired.
“Yes lance bombardier.”
“Right then, collect your baggage and board that three ton lorry over there.” He pointed with his pen to a vehicle in the station car park

At seventeen this was my first time away from home and I was very excited. In the vehicle sat a number of men, and following me were still more. I clambered into the back of the truck and introduced myself to a chap who already sat on the bench. He informed me that his name was Bob Gooch. On the drive to camp we talked about how nice and friendly the lance bombardier was.

JECKYLL AND HYDE.

On arrival at camp we stopped outside the guardroom. Jumping out of the vehicle we milled around its rear end. The lance bombardier from the station rounded the back of the three-ton vehicle, and in a voice that could shatter windowpanes at 50 paces; he terrified us into three ranks. He introduced himself as lance bombardier Jeckyll, and began once more to read out our names from the clipboard, ticking each one as we answered back. “Here lance bombardier.”

Finishing the roll call he asked, “Any questions?”
Before anyone could open his mouth, he answered
“No! Good. I like intelligent people.”

Performing a smart about turn he marched to the bottom of the guardroom steps and spoke to a bombardier who stood on the veranda. The bombardier looked down on us and in an even louder voice, shouted.
“Right then you horrible specimens of manhood, you’re in the army now. You’ve met Mr. Jeckyll; now meet Mr. Hyde, whom you will call bombardier, for that is the rank I hold. Right?”
A cacophony of murmurs came from our ranks.

Straight away the joining of the two NCOs for the reception committee of the new arrivals, indicated the Army sense of humour to me.

Bombardier Hyde shouted, “What’s that you said? When you speak to me, raise your voice so that the people at the other side of the camp can hear you. Do… you… understand?”
“Yes bombardier.” We shouted in unison.
Walking down the guardroom steps he selected a man in the front rank. He stood in front of him and in a voice that I swear was now ten octaves higher; he gave the man a load of verbal abuse. Eventually we were marched off to a twenty-man billet, if marching was what it could be called.

[rotorwash]

I enjoy your turn of the phrase, Sir, very entertaining.

Rotorwash

[Eagledriver]

Whooo, sounds just like reception station at Fort Benning.

[John A Silkstone]

THE BILLET.

The billet was one of eight dormitories that formed part of a building called a spider. The ablution block occupying the central body. Lance Bombardier Jeckyll informed us that when he shouted ‘go’, he wanted us to move off at the double. “find a bed, drop your bag on it, then fall in again outside…Go.”

Having received some tips from my brother James, who had done his National Service. “Inspections,” he informed me “start from the left and work round the room clockwise. The first three or four beds always receive a rollicking. The middle beds tend to be let off and the last three or four get a real rollicking, no matter how good their kit is.” Taking his advice I selected a bed in the middle of the left-hand row of beds.

THE QUARTERMASTER’S STORE

Formed up in three ranks outside the billet, we turned left and marched to the clothing stores (QM dept.). The first thing issued to you is your eight-figure army number.
“Your number soldier is 23494015, don’t forget it.”
“Yes Sir.” I answered.
“Sir!” says he, “I’ll give you sir! These are chevrons on my arms, not pips on my shoulder. See that building down there?” I followed his pointing finger. “Double down there and read the notice on the door, then double back and tell me what it says.”
“Yes Sergeant” I called, as I set off running. I’d gone about fifty yards when he called me back.
“Did I give you permission to go?”
“No sergeant.”
“Right then off you go. Now.”
Before I could move he said. ‘What are you still standing here for? You should be there by now.”
Upon my return I called out “The notice says NAAFI Closed Serg.“
Cutting me off in mid sentence, he said, “Do you know what NAAFI means?”
“Yes sergeant” I said, and thanked our Jim once more for his information. “It means Navy, Army, Air Forces Institute, sergeant.”
“Clever little bastard are we? I’ll soon knock that out of you. Now get fell in.”

THE INNER SANCTUM.

Entering the QM’s department for the first time, I stood in awe at the length of the counter. It must have been seventy-five feet long or more. At regular intervals along the counter were small amounts of clothing and kit. I was told to stand at the end of the counter with my arms outstretched. At the first station, placed upon my outstretched arms were the following items: One mattress cover, four blankets, two sheets, two pillows, two pillowslips, and a bedspread. Moving sideways I would progress down the counter and at each station, another pile of items was placed on top of the growing mountain of kit. Reaching the end of the counter I was told “Sign this Army Form 1157 for your new issue of kit”. The only way I could perform the task was to put down the five-foot pile of kit I was carrying. After signing the form, I retrieved my kit and staggered off to my billet crab like, for that was the only way I could see where I was going.

POSSESSION IS 9/10 OF THE LAW.

I learned very quickly, that if it weren’t nailed down, it would soon disappear. To alleviate this problem, you were advised to purchase a padlock from the NAAFI. The locks came in ten different key types, so in a room of twenty at least one other lock would have a key that fitted yours. This didn’t matter, as it appeared that you had attempted to secure your kit. Should you lose an item of kit, the first essential thing to do, was to keep quiet about it. If it came to light that you had lost kit, then you have to replace it. This became very expensive, for not only did you have to pay for the item that you lost, you also had to pay for the new item issued, plus you could also be charged for tempting your companions to steal.

Surplus kit or ‘Buckshee.’ Became a way of life and it was not long before you started collecting like a Magpie.
“Have you a spare set of brasses?” he said.
“Yes.” I replied.
“How much?” he said.
“A pint in the NAAFI.” I replied “Okay.” He said.
Always make sure that you have the pint in your hand, before the exchange takes place. Once bitten, twice shy. I once parted with the goods and didn’t get paid.

MEALS.

For all meals, we paraded outside our billet with our gobbling instruments; Knife, Fork, Spoon. (KFS) and china pint mug. Placing said items in your left hand behind your back, you were marched to the cookhouse at the double. Being the new intake, you joined the back of a queue of 500 others waiting in line for their evening meal. After 30 minutes you nearly reach the serving hatch. The final hurdle was the duty sergeant who checked your KFS and mug for cleanliness and made sure your hands were spotlessly clean. “From next Monday,” he informed us “you will be asked questions on Regimental Battle Honours and Victoria Cross recipients. If you don’t give the right answer, then off to the back of the queue you go.” On arrival at the serving hatch the best choices had now gone, so you were left with a choice of Brown Stew and Dumpling, or Dumpling with Brown Stew, One spoonful of potato plus soggy cabbage and carrots. Sweet was either spotted dick and custard or Tapioca pudding. It was then a mad dash to the tables to lay claim to the eight portions of butter and jam laid out on each table. Applying the first come first served principle. The technique was to use your fork as a stabbing implement to prevent others getting there before you, while at the same time you scoop up as much butter and jam as you could with your knife. The food was hot and edible, but the tea was alleged to contain bromide, but whatever it was, it didn’t work, plus necessity drove us to drink it anyway. The last fifteen recruits in the dining hall got the task of cleaning it ready for breakfast, so no one hung around waiting for the meal to digest.

Johnson complained he hadn’t enough to eat. He was instantly marched to the servery by the Duty Officer, who bellowed for all to hear. “Catering Sergeant, this man complains that he hasn’t enough food on his plate. Give…him…more”
The Sergeant then shouts to the servery lads. “Feed that man.”
Johnson returned to the table with his plate overflowing. Standing over him the officer said. “Leave one morsel of food on your plate, and I’ll have you on a charge for wasting other men’s rations.”
No one complained again.

‘GOODNIGHT, SLEEP TIGHT’.

First night in camp consisted of work, work and more work. Bombardier Hyde informed us, that we were free to pursue our own interest until 18:00 hours. At the allotted time, he appeared with a trained soldier (TS). The TS carried a box of metal alphabet punching stamps, plus a box of rubber stamping kit. He then instructed us in the art of marking your kit with your army number. Clothes were marked with permanent black ink. Hard items like mess tins were stamped with the metal punches. There were only six rubber stamps and two metal punches. So as not to lose time, eight men were set to marking, six given tasks like making beds and kit sorting. While the final six were allowed to go to the NAAFI for half an hour to purchase the following items; Kiwi Black Boot polish, Brasso cleaner, Yellow Dusters, Blanco for webbing and a padlock as mentioned earlier. If you had no money, these purchases would be placed on an account and the cost removed from your first weeks pay. On returning to the billet the next batch went to the NAAFI.

:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:

[Bombardier]

Buckshee

LOL I have not heard that term used in a long long time :mrgreen:

Keep em coming buddy, its good reading :P

[John A Silkstone]

To all visitors to this or any other site, would you mind dropping a line about what you see or read? I notice that this site has been visited 76 times but only three visitors have responded. Surely it doesn’t take long to respond. A one-word answer will suffice i.e. Rubbish, good, or even two words, very good. Even Zofo has had 32 visitors, yet I’m the only one to leave a reply. Please let us know what you think. Silky

[tosh66]

Nothing changes, even thirty years later twas as I remember it. I think they must have transported traditions to Woolwich.

[Zofo]

The barracks layout was different (and we had a defunct blanco room) but the set up's the same from the stores to the cookhouse!!
A good read!

[Frisco-Kid]

A good read, guys. Except for a few variations, pretty much the same army to army, country to country.

[John A Silkstone]

Thanks chaps it’s good to read your comments. Tosh66, Woolwich will be coming up soon but I was not at the HQ. I was posted to 20 Field Artillery, the barracks where just across the road from the rear entrance to HQ. I been thinking of taking a trip back to Woolwich to visit the Rotunda Artillery Museum, it’s over 45 years since I was last there. Should I go I will take some photos of some of the old weapons of yesteryear and place them on site :lol:

Zofo, thanks for your input. I enjoyed reading your site too. Any more stories to tell? ;)

Frisco – Kid, With Tongue in cheek he asked, “You’re not related to the Cisco Kid, a cowboy I watched on the silver screen over 55 years ago? Yes I suppose training camps are the same the world over. Their main aim is to remould the clay while still soft the bake it into the type of man they want you to be; fit, strong, and cool in tight situations. sal;

[Bombardier]

hey buddy, I dont think the Rotunda museum is there now, I believe it has been replaced by the much newer and modernised FIRE POWER museum. A good place to vist though, if you look in our links page there is a link to the Fire Power museum. :mrgreen:

[John A Silkstone]

Pity about the Rotunda, it was a lovely old wooden building; obvious from the name it was round in structure. They had mortars there going back to the 15 th and 16 th centuries. The shells were round in structure with three eyes at the top so that the shell could be hoisted up and into the barrel. There size was equivalent to the size of a car wheel today. On my visit there, I also saw a WW I Rifle with a cut away section. A bullet had gone down the barrel of the rifle, splitting the end and impacting the outgoing bullet lodging them fused together in the barrel. A small placard stated that the British Soldier suffered a broken collarbone and shoulder blade as well as extensive bruising to the face and upper body. When you think of it, one inch to the left and he would have been dead.

[rotorwash]

Two bullets trying to use the same barrel! I have never heard of that before. I once read of a Marine sniper who was looking through his scope and found himself looking into the eye of an NVA sniper who was looking through his. I think the same thing happened to a Russian sniper who obviously shot first.

Good story, but I have to stop to think through some of your abreviations and slang. Suppose you have the same problem with mine.

RW

[Frisco-Kid]

JOHN: CISCO KID?!? You guys got him on Brit TV? Yeah, I remember watching him and Poncho when I was a kid.

'Frisco Kid was my nickname for most of the time in the Army. It started out as just "'Frisco", because of my hometown, in AIT [Advanced Individual Training; Advanced Infantry Training for me] at Ft. Gordon, GA [Georgia]. Didn't take long for somebody to turn it into "'Frisco Kid", as in "Cisco Kid". It just stuck.

It was very common for guys to be known by nicknames, instead of their real ones. It wasn't uncommon to go through a full tour with a guy, and never know his name. Especially his first name. If you did know him by just his real name, unless he was a friend, it was his last name.

These nicknames were almost always given by someone else. They were usually based on from where you were from; a variation of your last name; or something personal about you. Almost all guys from California were called "Hollywood" at one time or another by somebody. Same with Native Americans being called "Chief", and alot of Pacific Islanders being called "Pineapple". A few that I recall are: "Beetle", based on his last name; "Coz", because of his last name; "Snake", after he grabbed a cobra by it's tail before he knew it was a cobra :mrgreen: ; "Capone", a guy from NYC always talking about his "Mob" connections; "Country", from somewhere in the Smokey Mountains-had the slowest southern drawl that I ever heard; "Big Red", because of his size and the color of his hair-he had a handle bar moustache that you could see as he walked away from you; "Polack", a Polish guy from Cicero, Chicago-you better say it with a smile, this was a truly dangerous man and one of my best friends [luckily]. "Sugar Bear", a big black dude-I have no idea how he got the name. There's more I can't recall at the moment.

What about you Brits? Did you give nicknames that stuck to each other? What about you soldiers from other countries? Let's hear some of them.

[Bombardier]

I didnt have a nickname in the army, but when I left and began civi employment one of the lads decided I was going to be called frank, my surname is warren, so Frank Warren the boxing manager, box;

[John A Silkstone]

With a name like Silkstone I was soon called Flintstone and from Flintstone to Fred. viki; So many people called my Fred that I answered to it all the time. After three years of knowing each other, the girlfriend and I decided to marry, so I thought it was time to be introduced to her family. She introduced me to her father as Fred and I said “Actually love my name is John. That was the first time she’d knew out my real name. While serving in Germany, we went on exercise to Denmark. One day I was sea fishing from a pier when I looked up and saw this large wave nearly thirty feet high approaching. I knew I couldn’t outrun it, and so I unzipped my combat jacket, placed it round a stanchion and zipped it up again. The wave passed over and wet me through to the skin. I must admit it was a scare episode. By the time I got back to camp I’d dried out. When I went to take a shower, the red T-shirt and underpants had run and the whole of my body from the neck down was dyed red. It took about three weeks before I was back to normal. From then on my name was Pinkie. :oops: These days nearly everyone calls me Silky. :D :D :D

[Drone_pilot]

During my time i was always called andy on account of my Christian name (Anderson), a lot of nicknames are associated with second/christian names

Clark (nobby)
White (chalky)
Smith (smudge)

and others that i can't remember.

[John A Silkstone]

There are regional nicknames as well

Birmingham (Brumy)
Scotland (Jock)
Wales (Taffy or Boy oh)
Durham (Geordie)
Somerset (Warzzel)
Liverpool (Scouse)

Just to name a few.

[John A Silkstone]

When I started this page I started at the beginning of my anecdotes and missed the first three pages of introduction out, so here they are

“You two! Fall in three ranks”
Or
“Who! Me Sir, No Sir, Not I Sir!”

Anecdotes for posterity of

It should never happen to a soldier.

From the official ‘John Alfred Silkstone’ collection

On condition that:

1. It is understood that the 30 year limit on the Official Secrets Act, though now expired won’t prevent me having a fair trial in the Tower of London, and that I will be granted legal aid.

2 Ranby Psychiatric Hospital for the criminally insane will attribute the cause of my mental condition to time served in the Military Forces
3 The Tabloids won’t be leaking advanced copies sold to them by a clerk at Depot Headquarters.

4 A well known author will write a best seller out of my experiences and we will share the profits of book and film rights.

5. That my mates are only jesting when they say, “You’ll hear from my solicitors first thing in the morning.”

In telling, many details are left out or taken for granted. The tales themselves are honed on the storytellers’ stone to suit the audience.

Items or events are deleted or added to enhance the tale in its best light. In reality, after many recitations by others and myself. The truth is often a million miles away from the actual facts.

LIST OF MILITARY RANKS

GENERAL, Leaps over skyscrapers in a single bound. More powerful than an express train. Faster than a speeding bullet. Walks on water. Gives counsel to God.

COLONEL, Leaps lesser buildings in a single bound. More powerful than a shunting engine. As fast as a speeding bullet. Sometimes walk on water. Talks to God.

LIEUTENANT COLONEL, Leaps lesser buildings, given a good run up and a favourable wind. Has the same pushing power as a shunting engine. Can fire a gun, but not necessarily hit the target. Totters on water. Talks to God, occasionally.

MAJOR, Barely clears the height of a bivvy tent. Is often run over by a shunting engine. Can handle a gun and hit the target, but only at the edges. Swims well. Sometimes pleases God.

QUARTERMASTER, Provides the bricks for buildings. Places demands for various trains. Supplies both guns and bullets. Can do the dog paddle. Will supply God with crystal balls if necessary.

CAPTAIN, Collapses on bivvy tent when attempting to jump it. Recognises trains. Is never issued with live ammunition. Can float in a life jacket. Talks to brick walls.

LIEUTENANT, Runs into brick walls. Can use a train set. Owns his own cap gun. Sinks without swimming. Mutters to himself

2nd LIEUTENANT, Falls over doorstep when entering building. Says “Oooh, look at the choo choo.” Wets himself while playing with his water pistol. Can stand in the shallow end. Talks to plants.

REGIMENTAL SERGEANT MAJOR, Lift’s multi-story buildings and walks under them. Kicks all types of engines of their tracks. Catches bullets in his teeth. Freezes water at a single glance. Talks to no one.

HE IS GOD!

For our overseas friends, the Regimental Sergeant Major is the highest position a soldier can aspire to. It is not a rank, but to hold the title of RSM you have to hold the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1. It is often said the British army is run by the RSM and the members of the sergeants mess.

MY TIME IN THE ARMY

Endorsement has not been received or sought from the people mentioned in these anecdotes. I enjoyed my time in the army, which lasted from 1956 to 1981.

There were bad times and good times. I’m glad to say that the good outweighed the bad. The good times stay with you and thankfully, the bad fade into antiquity.

I have met many brave and outstanding people in my time, they performed their duty for Queen and Country in true military fashion. The surprising thing was, these outstanding men were the bane of the depot drill sergeant’s life. They had two left feet, couldn’t swing their arms and once dressed in uniform they resembled a sack of potatoes tied around the middle with string. One soon learnt that the old saying ‘Never judge a book by its cover’ couldn’t be better adapted.

ALEXANDER THE GREAT.

Alexander the Great was only 16 when in 340BC, he joined the Army and became ruler of Macedonia. He liquidated all his rivals, consolidated his political power in Greece, he then set out raping, plundering, and pillaging until he had conquered the whole of Asia Minor. He then put down a major riot in Egypt and returned home at the head of an Army of over two and a half million, just in time to celebrate his 20th birthday.

I was one year older than Alexander when I began my Army Career in the Royal Artillery. I transferred to the Medical Corps in 1962. The Royal Army Medical Corps is the butt of most jokes in the forces. Especially from the Regiments who think that to be a medic is to be a sissy. In battle situations when a man is injured, his voice will carry high above the noise of shot and shell. The word he shouts is, “MEDIC!” It is then realised that the medic is not such a sissy after all. To all medics, I say: “Keep your head down, look after yourself, and keep making those house calls on the field of battle.
Now to carry on with my anecdotes.

NAAFI.
The NAAFI was a civilian run Navy Army Air Force Institute. It was the only place that we could do our shopping, so prices weren’t competitive. The manager and general dogsbody was a Welshman called Mr. Jones. He was the first Welshman I’d met, and I instantly fell in love with the lilting Welsh language.
After the first night, only two men were allowed to go to the NAAFI on a rota basis. They would take with them a list of items for the other nine men on their side of the billet, while they carried on with cleaning the billet for the daily room inspection. At the NAAFI counter, the queue was short, but everyone in it wanted to buy out the complete store. The order went something like this; “14 cheese rolls. Two with red sauce, three with brown sauce, six with pickle and the rest plain. Two tins of Kiwi boot polish, four yellow dusters, one Blanco brush, one tube of toothpaste, one packet of razor blades, six three penny stamps, one packet of envelopes, one writing pad, two bottles of pop, one orange, one lemonade, and ten coat hangers. I would like to pay for two cheese rolls with red sauce, two yellow dusters, two three pence stamps and the bottle of orange, out of this ten bob note. Out of this half-a-crown (12.5p), I want to pay for one cheese roll with pickle, one yellow duster and two coat hangers, and so it went on.

TRAINED SOLDIER.

Each billet had a trained soldier. To distinguish him from the new recruits, he wore a red armband; with the words ‘TRAINED SOLDIER’ standing out in polished brass. He was responsible for the squad, as we were now called, being at the right place, at the right time, in the right order of dress, carrying the correct kit and in the right frame of mind to perform our duty. The trained soldier had his own private room at the end of the billet, its confinements was immaculate and reflected the epitome of health hygiene and bullshit.

There was a little ritual we had to perform every time we entered or left the billet. It went something like this. Standing on a bedside mat outside the trained soldiers room. Stamping your feet loudly to draw attention to yourself, you shouted.
“LEAVE TO FALL OUT TRAINED SOLDIER PLEASE?”
The reply varied anywhere between, “Yes.” And “F**K OFF.” It was the reverse to get back in
“LEAVE TO FALL IN TRAINED SOLDIER, PLEASE?”
Gunner Fox was the trained soldier in our billet and he liked to listen to the ‘Archers’ on the radio from 19.00 - 19.30 hours. At this time the room would be empty to reduce the noise level, so we assembled in the ablutions to clean our kit or have a shower.

:D :D :D

[Zofo]

John, these anecdotes are interesting in that they show parts of an army life that I never saw - the "Trained Soldier" fascinates me. How did one get to be this bloke? Was he top dog in basic training and got offered the job? How did he mix in with the depot DS?

The NAAFI story was bang on though! I've done the ordering for a troop before now, especially prior to Sgt Major's inspection! I think to save the lady behind the counter from trying to box my ears (she was a formidable woman) I just shovelled change at her until she snapped at me to stop! Good stuff, I look forward to reading more!

[John A Silkstone]

Hi Zafo, the Trained Soldier was a one striper and was part of the depot staff. As stated, it was his job to look after all recruits through basic training. National Service (NS) was still going at the time, though our squad was all regulars and had volunteered to come into the forces. If he ever received a bollocking for something someone had not done. Their life was not worth living for the next few days. All in all, he would act like a mother to the lads. Many of them had not been away from home before and cried themselves to sleep at night. More so the NS soldiers who didn’t want to be there and hated being in the army.

The amazing thing is, these same NS men are the ones that sit in pubs today and say, “Bring back National Service, that will teach these young tearaways a lesson!”
sal; sal; sal;

[Zofo]

My Dad missed NS by a few months but I have met a large variety who did do the service, some liked it the vast majority didn't. I didn't know anything about this soldier - very interesting and I know I wouldn't like to be on the receiving end of his sort of justice!

Who in their right minds would want NS back again!!

[Bombardier]

The amazing thing is, these same NS men are the ones that sit in pubs today and say, “Bring back National Service, that will teach these young tearaways a lesson!”

Oh the irony!! :?

[John A Silkstone]

Zafo, Personally speaking I think that NS would be a good thing. A spell in any of the services would teach people to have respect for other, how to look after themselves and would instil a little of life’s social etiquette back into a society that in my opinion, has gone to far down the wrong road. Most NS I know, weren’t to keen on doing the service, however, when you talk to them, it’s the good old times that always come through. We tend to remember someone else being in trouble and not ourselves. But that is life.

[Zofo]

I know when I look back at my mil. experiences and how much fun there was I also try and remember stagging on at 0300 in Winter wearing a ill fitting flak jacket, carrying a weapon with no rounds and wondering what the hell would I do if something kicked off. I remember the long sunny days at the outside swimming pool and good German beer 24/7!

The good days were great, the bad days bad - I try not to look back through rose coloured windows even though it's very tempting. Much as many people think NS is a good idea (there is a thread we discussed this elsewhere) I cannot for the life of me see it working and the yobs, deadbeats and directionless becoming new and improved citizens; however a worthy cause that may be.

[John A Silkstone]

Here is the next little episode in my book

JUST A TRIM ROUND THE EDGES, PLEASE!

The following morning, the squad marched to the camp barber. Having a haircut before leaving home was no excuse for not having one now. The old saying about what’s under your beret is yours, didn’t apply. My hair was cut so short I thought I was auditioning for the lead roll in the King and I. The trip to the barber then became a Wednesday morning ritual.

PART ONE ORDERS.

Part One Orders is the word! God put his table of laws on stone. Our Battery Sergeant Major puts the Commanding Officers every ultimatum upon his daily paper tabloid. Destiny is not written in the stars, it is written on Part One Orders, and woe be the soldier that doesn’t comply with its wording.

DISCIPLINE.

Discipline is the screw, the nail, the cement, the glue, the nut, the bolt and the rivet, that holds everything together. Prussians have it. The Arabs don’t. In between is the Englishman. He accepts it, and adjusts it to his national character. The result is a disciplinarian of ferocity, patience, and infinite humour, who will go to hell and back, provided that the QM’s Department provide the tea and bacon butties. The principle is simple; Lay it on thick, fast and often, with firmness, fairness, and consistency. The end result is, THE BRITISH SOLDIER.

A SENSE OF HUMOUR.

A sense of humour enables us to think the unthinkable, accept the unacceptable, discover new relationships, adjust better and maintain our mental health. Without it we would probably be dull and dim witted, trapped in a world that’s too harsh and serious to bear.

ENOUGH WAR SURPLUS STOCK TO FIGHT WORLD WAR Ill.

I think that this is now a good time to pass some comment on the kit I had been issued with. I will start with the world famous World War II jungle green drawers Dracula (boxer shorts type underpants). A pair of one size fits all sizes. They had four rubber buttons on the front to fasten them up, and two cords at the back to adjust them. What more could a man ask for? They enabled the air to circulate around your midsection, while killing any ideas of passion that you may have secretly harboured. The khaki flannel shirt always smelt of mothballs. Its purpose was to serve as a shirt, nightgown and bathrobe. It was wool based and made your skin itch like mad, causing a rash that never seemed to go away and it’s length reached to your knees. The brown issued plimsolls didn’t stay brown for long. We were told to blacken them with boot polish. They were the nearest things to a pair of carpet slippers that the army issued. The trousers were that long, that they hurt me under the arms and the jacket was so large, that it hung from the neck like a bell tent. The theory was that you would grow muscles and eventually fit the Battle Dress. Gunner Fox confirmed, that every recruit had a housewife for his own personal use. I can’t begin to tell you the disappointment I felt, when I found out that it was the name given to our sewing kit. Finally the hobnailed boots that your feet were broken into, when it should have been the other way around.

BULL PARADE

Every evening from 18-00 to 19-00 hours was Bull Parade, Changing into denim working dress; we laid our ground sheet on the bed, and place our kit on top. I then start polishing my boots to a very high shine. The boots were covered in small pimples. To get rid of them and leave a flat surface to posh, we’d heat the handle of a fork or spoon over a candle and then burn away the rough surface of the leather, while still hot, cover with polish so it melted and soaked into the leather. The brasses had tiny air holds in them from the casting. These were removed by buffing the brass on a piece of cardboard. We answer questions on Regimental History, Victoria Cross winners, Battle Honours, customs and personalities. As a confidence building exercise, we had to stand up and tell the rest of the squad about ourselves, At 18-55 hours all kit had to be back in your locker, and the room cleared by 19-00, as it was time for the Archers on the radio.


THE MULTICOLOURED SOLDIER

Having been issued with military clothing, we now had our civvies boxed and secured in the Regimental Stores; it felt good to blend in with the rest of the troops on camp. What I didn’t comprehend was that our kit was made up of mixed colours. Getting dressed started with a First World War issued oatmeal vest, followed by jungle green drawers Dracula, grey socks, khaki flannel shirt, bleached off white tie, green pullover, brown battle dress, black boots, and topped off with a dark blue beret.


YUG = YOU USELESS GET

In the British Army, all recruits are equal, with the same kit, same equipment, same training and same rate of pay. Anyone deprived in Civvy Street, had a chance to make something of themselves, individual personalities began to show through and broke down into the following characters.

Parasites, who lived their lives at other people’s expense. Wasters, who were basically lazy and didn’t care about anybody or anything. Flyboys or Spivs, who thought that they were Wheeler Dealers and the Barrack room Lawyers, who always knew better than the sergeants or bombardiers. This type could get you into real trouble. Then there were the Bullies, who saw brute force as the answer to everything. Finally there was the YUG.

YUGs were totally naive about life in general; they were so sincere in their action that it was hard to be angry with them. The whole squad got punished for their stupidity. Ours was Ginger Morrison, he was known as a mummies boy. Everything had always been done for him and he’d never learned the basic survival skill of blending in and becoming invisible. Even in a football crowd he stuck out like a sore thumb!

YUGs should carry a Government health warning. They are a liability on the battlefield and occasionally get you punished for their actions. However they certainly make everyone around them look good.

It came to light in the NAAFI that Ginger was a great piano player and so he was transferred to the Military School of Music.
army; sal;

[Bigbird]

Discipline is the screw, the nail, the cement, the glue, the nut, the bolt and the rivet, that holds everything together. Prussians have it. The Arabs don’t. In between is the Englishman. He accepts it, and adjusts it to his national character. The result is a disciplinarian of ferocity, patience, and infinite humour, who will go to hell and back, provided that the QM’s Department provide the tea and bacon butties. The principle is simple; Lay it on thick, fast and often, with firmness, fairness, and consistency. The end result is, THE BRITISH SOLDIER.

Do we believe we still have this kind of discipline in our armed services?, a friend of mine is always bleating on about how the army is not what it used to be because the discipline has gone. :roll:

[tosh66]

Well I spent most of last year back in the army when I was called up and let me tell you it has changed. No swearing, no shouting, no beastings and all PC.

Days of Yore- "Soldier! Go and get that bucket"
"YESSIR"

Now- "Soldier! go and get that bucket"
"Why should I?"

[John A Silkstone]

Hi, Bigbird, I know what you’re saying but it’s 20 years since I left the Army so I don’t know. One thing I do know is that just before I retired two soldiers came straight from the depot. As orderly sergeant I told them to get bedding from the QM. A few minutes later they were back saying that there was no one to carry their bedding. “Sorry about that” said I “come with me.” I lead them to a full-length mirror and said “See those two there?” pointing to their reflections, ”Well those two lazy b*****ds will carry your bedding, now get your f**king bedding sorted out and report to me in fifteen minutes for fatigue duties.”

For some reason or other I was not placed on their Christmas Card list

[Zofo]

I was called Mole or sh*t For Brains, depending on who was doing the talking!

[John A Silkstone]

a few more anicdotes

BULLSHIT BAFFLES BRAINS.

The British Army clothing and equipment was certainly ‘off the peg,’ but ready to wear was another matter. But it would all fall under one of the following headings.

AUTHORISED LIST OF PRODUCTS ONLY TO BE USED; Brasso or Bluebell metal polish, Kiwi boot polish, Meltonian or block whitening, Khaki 103 block blanco and NAAFI yellow dusters.

CLOTHING, make it fit; Let out, take in, shape it, taper it, shrink it, stretch it, adjust it, and then assemble it correctly.

METAL; buffed down, burnished and polished. EXCEPTIONS; Beds, and lockers. Fire buckets were scraped down and painted every week.

WOOD; sanded down, scraped, linseed oiled, then polished, but never painted or varnished.

RUBBER; Washed, wiped, dusted, and then blackened with boot polish.

LEATHER; Broken in, burned down, stretched, studded, blackened, browned, whitened or blancoed.

CANVAS WEBBING; Stripped completely down, then lightly blancoed. All brasses highly polished using the button stick, to prevent staining the canvas with brasso.

CLOTHES; Washed, dried, bleached, loose threads removed, trimmed, cut, shaved, starched, aired, darned, patched, then dampened with a wet shaving brush, before being pressed with thick brown paper.

LAUNDRY; One sheet and one pillow slip per week. Eight items of personal clothing per bundle. No civilian items allowed in bundles. No more, and certainly no less to be handed in to the Company Stores every Wednesday morning by 07.30 hours and collected the following Tuesday at 07.30 hours.

CLOSE YOUR MOUTH AND BREATH THROUGH YOUR EARS!

As an aid to drill we did everything by numbers. Given the word of command from instructors. The squad would shout at the top of their voices, “One. Two, three… One!” One was the number for us to move like greased lightning. Two and Three was the pause, during which you stood perfectly still. The final One was to complete the movement. We would move around the drill square shouting out “One two three” between each movement as well as marching at 120 paces a minute. Thirty minutes of drill was very exhausting, even more so for the smokers.

WEAPON TRAINING

I enjoyed weapon training because eventually we would put our newfound skills into practice on the ranges. I could strip down clean and reassemble a Lee Enfield 303 blindfolded. At the end of basic training I was classified as a marksman on the 303 rifle and the Bren gun

PAY PARADE

Every Thursday at 11.00 hours, the Troop Commander sat at a scrubbed and finely sanded six-foot table. We queued, marched forward, halted, saluted smartly, received our pay, seventeen shillings and nine pence (89p) and signed our AB 64 part II, (pay book). The remaining pay, £1.50, was left in our credits for when we went on leave. A few of the flyboys would seek permission for money to be sent home to their mothers, who quickly returned it to them to spend.

THE STANDARD ISSUE METAL LOCKER

Six foot high, three foot wide and two foot deep and painted Olive Green. It contained everything you owned. It was secured with a NAAFI padlock. Inspections saw its doors wide open squared to the front, thereby bearing its contents to the whole world. Your complete set of World War II canvas webbing and steel helmet, sat packed out squarely with cardboard on the top. The Regimental locker layout was over 40 years old. Hanging clothing on the left, of course, facing right. The top shelf; Mug, knife, fork, spoon, respirator, socks and gloves. Shelf number two; clean towel with your full complement of washing and shaving kit laid on top. The next two shelves held your PT kit, shirts, and underwear. The bottom shelf displayed your highly bulled boots.

LOCKER INSPECTIONS

We had locker inspections every day except Sunday. It was an integral part of the room inspection. There was nowhere to hide anything, so you had to clean everything you possessed. Each individual had a locker diagram pasted to a board, your layout had to mirror the diagram. If you didn’t put 110% effort into it, then when you returned to your barrack you’d find the entire contents of your locker on the floor. This was known as having your locker ragged. Worst still, was to come back and find everyone’s kit in a big heap. This was where the correct numbering of property came into its own.

Once a month we had a kit check. We all got up extra early to lay out all of our clothing, kit and equipment on top of our beds. All as per the Regimental diagram. This allowed the kit to be checked at a glance. Should there be anything missing it would be spotted at once. Everything had to be fully serviceable, correctly numbered and spotlessly clean. The item to be checked was called out, and you showed it. On the morning of the kit check, breakfast was taken in shifts to prevent any petty pilfering by other marauding squads.

THE PRACTICE; Hold the item out in front of you, showing your regimental number, it was inspected by the Barrack Room Trained Soldier or NCO carrying out the Inspection.

THE THEORY; Put it back on your bed, without unfolding or undoing it, so it could be put straight back into your locker layout.

THE REALITY; A kit check normally deteriorates into a changing parade, giving you twice as much work to get the items ready for the next inspection, but you got into high-speed kit preparation.

[Bombardier]

Nice one John. I remember buffing the floors with those big ole iron Bumpers, jesus that was hard work :shock: :roll: :mrgreen:

[rotorwash]

One school I went to we had a foot locker and a wall locker. One night we were subjected to footlocker inspections, to continue until everyone got it right. If everybody wasn't perfect, everyone dumped their footlocker on the floor and started over. Just to make sure no one was taking shortcuts, between each inspection we had to sit in our footlockers and sing "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . ." Finally at 4AM the inspecting officer got tired and let us go to bed.

[John A Silkstone]

CHANGING PARADE

These always started in full Battle Dress (B.D.). The name and order of dress was announced, followed by ‘CHANGE!’ The rush was then on to change out of your present dress and into something else like, PT kit with shower-kit. Out of the PT kit and into fatigue kit and working boots. This left your bed and locker in a shambles. It undid days of hard work, and disheartened you.

BEDDING BLOCKS

Each billet was issued with a short length of wood with markings on it. The length of the piece represented the length of your bedding block. From the end of the piece of timber to a mark about two-thirds up its length, equalled the width of the bedding block, precisely!

The bedding block was made up of three blankets sandwiched with your two sheets and then wrapped in your fourth blanket. Your two pillows, with pillowslips, were placed on top. The main thing to remember was never to hide anything in the block, for it wouldn’t be there when you got back.


ROOM INSPECTIONS

There was a Troop Commanders inspection every day, except Sunday. Every Thursday was a Battery Commander’s room inspection. Wednesday afternoon was sports, which finished early, so the rest of the afternoon and evening was spent preparing for the inspection. With scrubbing brushes, long bar of green Fairy Soap, buckets of hot water and rags. The floor would be scrubbed spotless. Once dry a small amount of polish would be buffed into the lino and left to dry, it would then be bumped to a high gleaming state with a bumper that I’m sure weighed half a ton Once it had the necessary gleaming shine the bumper was put away. We then started on the windows; they were washed and dried to a diamond shine with old newspaper. The fire hand-pump was unrolled, tested, washed, blackened and put back in place. Fire buckets painted. Once dry they were refilled. Two with water and one with clean sand.

The six-foot table and two benches were taken outside and scrubbed. Sinks, baths and toilets were cleaned with small amounts of sand. The canister of Vim scouring powder was a sacred item and was not to be used. Paintwork was dusted and washed up to a height of ten feet. The outside area was tidied and the gardens turned over. The room ‘Roll Board’ was updated and rewritten. Finally, mops were washed out, loose fluff removed from brooms and bumpers; all handles were scraped down with razor blades until bleach white. Then the lot was laid out for inspection.

The British Army was a sanitary and spotless machine.

SUNDAY MORNING CHURCH PARADE

09.30 hours every Sunday, in best dress and bulled boots, we stood in three ranks with a clean white hanky and small bible in your left hand, and a three penny piece in your right. We were marched to the church in squads, but got to walk back individually. One Sunday, someone placed a brass button in the collection plate. I thought the world had come to an end. We were marched back to our room and changed into PT kit. The next hour was taken up with a forced march and run. It never happened again.

PT = PHYSICAL TRAINING, OR PHYSICAL TORTURE?

The PT staff was equally as unbending and demanding on our bodies. They wore ‘Dennis the Menace’ Red and black hoop tops, dark blue serge trousers, and white plimsolls. No badge of rank, they clearly didn’t need it to rule their roost. They milked every last ounce of effort out of you, then when you thought that you couldn’t go on, they made you do it all over again. I continually surprised myself with my own physical achievements. I began to do things that I thought only Tarzan could manage.

The Drill Staff would castigate us for not reaching the tremendously high standards set by them. The Physical Training Instructors also had their standards. First, it was press-ups followed by legs raised and chins to the beams, next was squats, then we would move to bunny hops, vaulting over the wood horse, climbing ropes sometimes with full kit. It all finishing off with a one mile run still in Full Field Marching Order (FFMO). My running strategy was to get keep with the front bunch and stay there, keep up a good pace but not that fast that the ones at the rear couldn’t keep up. They knew exactly how far to push us. Of course, on rare occasions there was always praise for a job well done. Not that I can think of one.

THE DEPOT ASSAULT COURSE

At the rear of the camp was the assault course. The squad was shown over it obstacle by obstacle in PT kit by one of the PT instructor. No one got wet, hurt or shouted at. All in all, it was a very pleasant afternoon. The following morning dressed in FFMO, we were taken for a five-mile march finishing at the assault course. The obstacles had now grown completely out of proportion. We were tired, disorientated and fragmented into little groups. The pleasant afternoon of yesterday now became the nightmare of today and we were glad when the morning was over.

Free Broadband. Never pay to use the net again. Starting 1st October 04. Click on the site below. You could earn cash as well.

Juice Broadband link has been removed due to suspected scam and to protect our members and visitors
:D :lol: :D :lol:

[John A Silkstone]

A WHOLE MONTH GONE!

On the Monday morning of the fourth week, we were informed that on Thursday we were to parade for our first inspection and drill test in front of the Adjutant. The night before we stayed up late to bull boots, clean brasses and ironing our Battle Dress uniform. Thursday morning dawned nice and sunny and a nervous excitement ran amongst us. At five minutes to nine we formed up in three ranks, ready to march onto ‘The Sacred Square’. The order was given to ‘Right Turn’; to us it appeared that it was also the order for the sky to open up, for a torrential rainstorm started. We were marched onto the square and into the vehicle hangars for shelter. We stood there like drowned rats with water dripping off our berets and Battle Dress, to lie in pools at our feet. The creases had vanished from our uniform and Blanco was dripping from our belts and down our trousers. A few minutes later, the Adjutant, sat in a land rover, was driven across the wet square to inspect us. After a quick inspection we performed our drill test in the hangar. The hanger was so small that the drill parade when something like this. Right turn, march ten paces and salute to the right, a further ten paces about turn. March ten paces salute to the left, a further ten paces to the brick wall of the hangar and salute to the front, followed by ten paces of slow march. The inspection over, the Adjutant congratulated us on passing our first drill test. He then said, “As you have all done so well, I am granting you a Saturday night leave pass to visit the local town till 23.59 hours. This was to be our first time outside the camp!

At 13:00 hours on Saturday, we climbed aboard the three-ton vehicle outside the guardroom and travelled to Oswestry. Though only seventeen, being in uniform gave the local landlords the impression that we were of an age to drink. With a pound in your pocket, you were a rich man. A group of us went into one of the pubs and ordered five pints. Five pints of Courage ale were placed upon the bar and the landlord asked for six shilling and three pence (22.5 new pence). Raising our pints we toasted “The best of health to one and all.” Quaffing a mouthful of beer, I soon found out why it was called Courage. You needed lots of Courage to drink the stuff. After travelling around the world and drinking lots of different beers I still think that Courage is the worst beer I’ve ever drank. The rest of the afternoon went fine; it was nice to have a day when no one shouted at you. At 2300 hours we assembled outside the NAAFI Club to catch the three-ton vehicle back to camp.

“WITH A MAGAZINE OF TEN ROUNDS. LOAD!”

After many lessons on weapon training, we were taken to the ranges. With a magazine of ten rounds, we loaded our Lee Enfield 303 rifle. Lying on the ground we fired at a target 250 yards away. After each round we waited while the man in the butts, pointed a red arrowhead stick at the hole in the target. After ten rounds, the rifle was zeroed in correctly for each man. At ten hundred hours, all firing on the range ceased. There was no NAAFI on the ranges, however, at this time of day a Red Shield Wagon (Salvation Army) would pull up. The two-woman crew would start to serve tea, coffee, cold drinks bacon butties and sticky buns. Over the years this routine had been perfected to a fine art and the 120 men on the ranges would all be served within the thirty-minute tea-brake.

“SAM, SAM, PICK UP THEY MUSKET!”

This is my rifle. There are many like it. But this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle without me is useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy, who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me.
‘USA MARINE CORPS CREED.’


PARTING OF THE WAYS

After sixteen weeks of hard training. We finally have a Passing Out Parade, to which our family are invited to attend. The parade started at 11.00 hours on a Friday morning finishing just before lunch. After the parade we were all going on seven days leave and had to report to another unit at the end of it. I was off to Kimmle Camp near Rhyl in North Wales.

KEEP THE ROADS SAFE

Kimmle Camp was a driving school for Lorry drivers (Heavy Goods vehicles today). Here they allowed me to drive around the country lanes of North Wales. “Lets keep death and destruction off the road in England.” said my instructor. He also had a novel way to teach me not to let the three-ton vehicle roll backwards on a hill start. He would place a packet of ‘Woodbines cigarettes’ under the rear wheel of the vehicle before you started off. It wasn’t just any old packet of woodbines; it was my packet of Woodbines. As I didn’t like smoking flat cigarettes, it didn’t take me long to learn how to do a hill start.

While at Kimmle Camp I received a rollicking from a Second Lieutenant for some minor misdemeanour that I can’t remember. One night I was on guard duty by the lorry park. The officer in charge was the same officer and he gave me another rollicking for my turnout. About midnight I spied him creeping onto the parking area. I assumed he was trying to catch me out. I hid under one of the wagons and shouted “Halt who goes there?” The standard call for recognition. He didn’t answer and dodged behind one of the vehicles. I could now see his lower legs and feet. I watched him as he slowly crept around the vehicles until he was at the side of the wagon I was under. In the loudest voice I could muster, I once more shouted, “Halt who goes there?” Being startled he jumped backwards and so I shouted “Halt I say, halt!” and clouted his ankle with the pickaxe handle we had to carry. His scream of agony was heard around the camp and the guard Commander and escort arrived at the scene. The officer was carried off to his quarters and I was placed under arrest for striking an officer.

The following morning I was on a charge and in front of the Colonel. The officer hobbled into the room with a walking stick and gave his evidence. I informed the Colonel that I had shouted twice and been ignored. The Colonel asked the officer if this was true. After a few hums and haaas he confirmed that I had. The Colonel then gave me a lecture on military discipline and making sure of events before taking action. I was then dismissed. The officer was asked to stay behind. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall in the Colonel’s office.

I failed my first driving test which was taken on a Thursday and had to re-sit it on the following Monday. The lads that past were given a long weekend pass and told to report to their new regiments on the Monday

I passed the test on Monday and after four weeks driver training I was posted to 20 Field Regiment R. A. to drive a quad, limber and 25 pound field gun, around the city of London.

[Bombardier]

Excellent stuff John thank you :mrgreen:

[Eagledriver]

Yes, John. Excellent post, in fact.

[John A Silkstone]

Thanks Bombardier,
I suppose it the same type of training in all the arms for the first few weeks. The weapons may differ but the drill and bullshit is still the same.
Find the man's weak points and strengthen them by breaking the mould, remodelling the clay and baking to perfection.
sal; army;

[Bombardier]

Find the man's weak points and strengthen them by breaking the mould, remodelling the clay and baking to perfection

Thats about it buddy, brain washing I heard it refered as :P

[John A Silkstone]

NOT A BAD PLACE THIS, IS IT?

I arrived at Woolwich where the Regiment was stationed at 15.00 hours on a Wednesday. I report to the Battery Headquarters and was instructed to return the next day at 09:00 hours. The following day I was given an arrival form to complete and told that if I had it done my 12.00 hours I could go home on a long-weekend pass. By 11:30 I was on the ferry crossing over to North London to catch my train.

AS A DRIVER, YOU’RE DOING A GRAND JOB, NOW!

On returning from the long weekend pass, I reported to 107 battery and was informed that the Regiment was on stand by for the Suez Crisis and that I was the spare driver. I was to report to the Gun battery, I with many other, were put to work scraping the green paint off the 25 pound guns and paint them sand brown. This task took us over a week. We were then informed that the crisis was now over and we had to remove the sand brown paint and repaint the guns field green.

“FOLLOW US LAD, WE WON’T LEAD YOU ASTRAY!”

Four of the lads stayed together all the time. Though they weren’t related they were all named Jones. On my first Friday night they took me down town for a drink. I returned to barracks at 01.00 hours only to be arrested and confined to barracks for the weekend. On Monday I was charged and marched into the Battery Commanders Office. I was asked why I was one hour absent and drunk. I explained I wasn’t drunk, and that I was back in camp before 06.00. I was then informed that as I was under the age of 18 I was not allowed out of camp after 23.59 hours and that by the law of the land I was not allowed to consume alcohol. Ignorance was no excuse and I was confined to camp for the next seven days.

On Thursday afternoon, the BSM (Battery Sergeant Major) called me into his office.
“Silkstone” said he “I believe it’s your eighteenth birthday tomorrow?”
“Yes sir” I replied.
“I have spoken to the Battery Commander and he informs me that if you can sweep the whole of the parade ground tonight between the hours of 1900 and 2100, he will cancel the rest of your RP to allow you to go out and celebrate your Eighteenth Birthday.”

I left the office thinking of the mammoth task that lay ahead of me. At 1900 hours I was at one corner of the square with a bass broom in my hand. I hadn’t swept more than a few feet, when by my side stood Jones, Jones, Jones and Jones, each one with a bass broom in his hands. The following day I was once more in the BSMs office. He told me that he knew that I had help in completing the task he had set me. He then said “Last night, you learned a very valuable lesson that will help you for the rest of your life. Friendship and companionship with your fellow man is a bond that nothing can undo. Help them, and they will help you. Here is a pass to have Saturday morning off work; I don’t want you drunk on duty. You’re dismissed.”
His words have stayed with me to this day.

In your life you will meet thousands of acquaintances but very few true friends, when you do meet them, don’t loose them.

THE INVISABLE MAN

In 1957 I was on a NATO exercise. Because I was recovering from a leg injury I was assigned to drive the umpire that was attached to the battery. One day the battery moved location. On setting up the 25 ponders in a coppice the umpire declared them as prisoners. They had been in this new location for about five hours, in that time they had dug themselves and the guns in, set up OP points. On inquiring why they were POWs the Umpire blew a whistle and about fifty Gurkhas pop up from out of the ground or from down trees. That was the first time I has seen or heard of these people. Throughout my military career I heard more and more about the antics these small warriors from the roof of the world got up to. They did, and still do, some unbelievable stuff

LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL

In this period of time, Skiffle was the in musical thing. The 4 Jones’s and I formed a skiffle group Fred and Bill played guitar, Sam played his clarinet, Tommy played an old washing board with thimbles on his fingers and I played an old tea chest with a broom handle and piece of string, which sounded like a big base. We got a few gigs in the pubs around Woolwich, which kept us in free beer. We only had the group for about six months when Bill and myself were posted. Bill to Germany, myself to The Military College of Science at Shrivenham.

WELL HUSH MY MOUTH

The College of Science covered acres of ground and even had its own golf course, so I signed out a bicycle from the QMs department. One day I was cycling down the road when I heard a shout behind me. “You there soldier, stop!” I stopped and was approached by a Second Lieutenant who gave me a lecture about not saluting him. I told him that I had saluted. To which he told me that I was lying and he was placing me on a charge. 0900 hours the following morning I was outside the COs office. The RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major) asked the officer why I was on a charge, he said that I had not saluted him and attempted to lie by saying I had. The RSM looked at me and said “Was you on your bike?” “Yes sir.” I replied. The RSM then explained to this young officer, that when riding a bike a soldier does not salute with his hand, but sits up straight on the bicycle with his hands on the handlebars to keep control. He also informed him that he could go ahead with the charge, but would look a right idiot when explaining his case to the CO. The officer withdrew the complaint.

In November 1961, I applied to join the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC). This was accepted and on the 8th of January 1962 I reported to the RAMC depot. Aldershot. So started more anecdotes.

:lol: sal;

[rotorwash]

How do you remember all the details, Silky? You must have kept incredibly detailed diaries over the years.

[Zofo]

Great stories John. I've been charged before but the SSM never said anything like that to me! However he did support me against the charge!
I was already 18 when I joined so can't comment on the staying in/out bit but your BSM was correct with the friends bit!

[John A Silkstone]

Rotowash, no diaries to speak of, but thousands of photos. I have always been a keen photograph and each photo not only brings back a memory, it also brings back the memories before and after the event. I have been writing these anecdotes down for about twelve months now and still have to go back to insert something because the wife said something, or one of my old army mates will say “Do you remember?” and another story comes back into life.

[rotorwash]

Silky, you are very fortunate in that respect, the photos I mean, mine were almost all destroyed when our basement flooded many years ago. Now I update my memory banks from our company website. I have also found a former battalion commander who has extensive records of aircraft, personnel, etc. He is writing a book and is using some of my stories.

I am taking under advisement your suggestion that I write a book. I have discussed it with my wife and she has no objection. Of course, I would have to recruit all of you guys as informal editors.

RW

[John A Silkstone]

Rotorwash, love to help; I know the British system for sending manuscripts to editors. I would imagine that the USA is very similar. As you have the blessing from her on high, where can you go wrong? I will give you all the help I can. Silky
:P :lol: sal; army;

[rotorwash]

Where can I go wrong? My friend, you have never seen me make a parachute jump.

[John A Silkstone]

You’re quite right; I have never seen you perform a parachute jump. But we are here writing to each other. So they couldn’t have been that bad?

Saying that, in Cyprus I watched a lad fall at terrific speed in what you call a Roman candle. In the ambulance, we chased over to the spot where we thought he had landed. As luck would have it, he narrowly missed a local church and his chute caught up on the brickwork and stopped him hitting the deck at full force. He had a dislocated right hip, and injuries to the left leg where the straps had cut into his groin. He was unconscious when we found him and he spent three weeks in hospital, vowing never to jump again.

[rotorwash]

I'll bet he went back. One time we hunted for a jumper who went into a swamp with no open chute. We found him standing upright stuck in mud up to his knees and water past his waist, unable to move. He was screaming for us to get him out, seems he was excited about a few snakes and alligators.

[Zofo]

Talking of which, did you see in the press that a lady skydiver jumped at 11,000 feet and her main failed to deploy. She yanked the emergency but too hard and that didn't open either. She landed on some power cables which wanged her back up a bit then fell the remaining distance to land with slight concussion and a few bruises!! She was ready to go up after a medical check up!

[rotorwash]

That's incredible. You'd think that if she hit powerlines she'd get sliced like salami.

[Frisco-Kid]

Jaysus! That's why I never tried sky diving. Two miles is WAY too much time to dwell on that sudden stop after a malfunction :mrgreen: .

[Eagledriver]

YEAH! You know what they say. It ain't the fall that gets ya, it's the sudden stop at the end.

[rotorwash]

Frisco! Glad to hear from ya. But if you remember, they always told us there was a truck on the ground where we could trade in any malfunctioning parachutes and get new ones.

[Frisco-Kid]

That's true! The Army always had our convenience and comfort at heart :roll: .

[John A Silkstone]

8th JANUARY 1962 RAMC TRAINING DEPOT, CROOKHAM CAMP, FLEET, HAMPSHIRE


NO NEED TO START AT THE BEGINNING, BUT!

Already being in the army, I was asked if I would mind going through basic training again, as knowing the ropes would help the other recruits to settle in more easily.

I soon made friends with two others, Pete Dunn and Scouse Campbell. Another chap that sticks in my mind from those days was a man called Merryment. He went around the squad one day trying to borrow £1 from each man, he managed to get £16 to which he added £4 and with the £20 he purchased his release from the army that same day. The lads soon learned the lesson of ‘Don’t Lend Cash.’

BEND YOUR ELBOW, EXTEND YOUR THUMP, AND HOPE

After four weeks training we were granted a weekend pass. Pete never having been outside of London before was persuaded to come home to Bolton with me. He couldn’t get over the friendliness of the people. Folks that he had never seen before were buying him drinks because he was with me. “This would never happen back home London.” He told me. On Sunday night we were making our way to the station when we bumped into two girls that I knew, so we stopped to talk and missed our train back to Aldershot. I told Pete that we would have to hitch hike back to camp, and so we set off walking.

A lorry stopped, the driver informed us that he was travelling to Reading but could only take one of us, as he had his two dogs with him. I told Pete to get in and make his way back to camp.

I had a bad night with only a few small lifts. I knew that I would be late back so at about 0300 hours I telephoned the Guard Room to inform them of the events. I arrived back at 11:00 hours and was placed on a charge for being absent. I found out that Pete had arrived back 20 minutes late. He had been on a charge that morning and got seven days restrictive privileges. All over lunch he gloated, “If I got seven days for 20 minutes, what will you get for 5 hours?”

THERE AIN’T NO JUSTICE IN THIS MANS ARMY

At 1400 hours I was marched into the COs office, I explained to him that I knew that I would be late back from my weekend pass and that I had phoned the guardroom of this fact. The CO phoned the guardroom and found the events to be true. The case was abolished and I was marched out of the office. I was told to put on my cap and belt and was marched back into the office. The Commanding Officer congratulated me and informed me that I was to be promoted to the rank of Lance Corporal. I left his office, collected my chevrons from the QMs department and had them sewn onto my uniform by the camp tailor. Pete stated “There’s no justice in this mans army, I got seven days for being twenty minutes late, and you get promoted for being five hours absent”.

“LET ME RETURN THE FAVOUR”

A few weeks later Pete invited me to his place for the weekend. Having been station in London before, he decided to take me to some of the lesser-known places.

THE MUCKY DUCK

Pete took me to The White Swan public house, known locally as the ‘Mucky Duck.’ “When we get inside,” said Peter, “watch what you’re doing and don’t upset anyone, as this place is full of big boys in crime.” On entering we are making our way to the bar when Pete bumped into a chap spilling his drink. The man was built like the preverbal brick shithouse. Oh! Thought I, now we’re in for it. The man turned round and looked like he’d just gone fifteen round with Sugar Ray Robinson. His face broke into a wide grin and placing a hand that looked like a shovel on Peter’s shoulder he said, ”Hello Peter, how’s your mum and dad?” The tension was broken, Pete replaced his drink and I said a silent pray. Pete told me later that whenever the police came looking for ‘Tiny’ as he was know. There were always six of them and they would plead with him to come quietly.

PARTING OF THE WAYS

After basic training, first aid training, and basic medical training. The squad was split up and we all went our different ways. That is except Scouse Campbell and myself who were kept behind in holding troop. Each morning about 50 of us in holding troop would parade outside the company office and given tasks to do for the day. After a week of this, Scouse decided that enough was enough, and that he was going home. After collecting his pay on Thursday he absconded. He was away for six days. Turning up on Wednesday night so that he could collect his pay the next day. On the Thursday morning parade, the sergeant asked, “Campbell, where have you been?” “Emptying the dust bins with Silkstone sargeant.” “Right said the sergeant, you two now report to the coke yard.” This proved to me that you could get away with any thing in the army, if you have the bare face cheek to try it.

ONE BAG EQUALS TWO PINTS

One night Scouse and I went down to the village pub; at the bar the landlord placed two pints on the bar and said there’s another two in the barrel for you. I asked Scouse what was happening, “Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” he replied. I found out later that he was flogging coke to the lads in the married quarters.

“If your flogging coke,” said I “why are you sharing your profits with me? “Because you bloody fool, it’s you that collect the signatures in that second receipt book that I gave you. If anyone gets caught it’ll be you and not me. Okay?” That was Scouse all over, watching his own back but a good lad at heart; he’d give his last penny to anyone that needed it.

YOU SHOULD GET AN OSCER FOR THAT

One Friday afternoon, Scouse and I are on the train going home. There was only he, I and a middle-aged well-dressed lady in the compartment. For no reason at all Scouse started crying. I took no notice because I’d seen him do this before. Within a few minutes the lady is asking him “what’s the matter”. “My granny’s died” he said “and I’ve no money to buy her flowers.” The lady opened her bag and taking out a large white five-pound note, she offered it to him, he on his part, played the great act of not accepting the money. The woman insisted that it was a loan and she gave him her card so that he could pay it back later. Two weeks later we were on the train again but this time Scouse was not going home. He was stopping the weekend at one of the large hotels in Blackpool with the lady.


:lol: sal;

[John A Silkstone]

GOOD BYE DEPOT, HELLO 20 COY RAMC

I was posted from the depot to the military hospital at Tidworth. After a few months I was working on Officers Ward when I was given the duties of supervising a young nurse fresh from the QARANC Depot, her name was Jan Lord. We married, but more about that later.

ANOTHER SEVEN DAYS RPs

For some misdemeanour that I can’t remember I was placed on seven days restricted privileges. One evening I was painting the white lines around the hospital parking spaces when the Catering Officer approached and told me he wanted his own parking space painted by the kitchen and I was to place his abbreviations within the space. This I did and the following morning I was once more dusting the C.O's mat. Left right left right mark time, halt. Left turn. “Are you 23494015 private Silkstone?” “Yes sir.” “You are charged under section 69 of the Army Act 1955; in that you did on such and such a date painted a car parking space for the Catering Officer and placed inside the said space in three foot high letters, the Catering Officers abbreviations. How do you plead?” “Guilty Sir.” After being informed that the abbreviation for Catering Officer was ‘Cat Off’ and not ‘F Off’, for Food Officer. I received a further seven days

NOT ON MY ‘AFI 1157’ SIR!

One day Private Proctor and I were placed on a charge, for disobeying ‘Part One Orders’. When asked if I had anything to say I replied, “Sir, the orders stated that the following soldiers with Greatcoats on their AFI 1157 (AFI 1157 a recorded list of clothing that is issued to a soldier) are to report to the QM's department. As I don’t have a Greatcoat on my AFI 1157, I did not report, Sir.” The CO phones the QMs and verified that I didn’t have a greatcoat on my AFI 1157. He then asked Proctor if he had any thing to say, to which he replied, “I forgot, Sir.” Smiling the CO said, “I hope you won’t forget to stay behind when I dismiss Silkstone?” Poor Proctor received 14 days Restricted Privileges, as this was his second offence in two days.

UNOFFICIAL WORLD RECORD

Towards the end of 1962 I was asked to perform the ‘Last Offices’ to a patient that had passed away. I asked Nurse Tony Fry to give me a hand; I don’t think he’d seen a cadaver before and was a little reluctant to assist. After screening the bed, I showed Tony how we washed shaved and prepare a body for burial. After washing the front of the cadaver I ask Tony to give me a hand to turn the body over. Tony was still reluctant. On turning, the body, air expelled from the lungs making a groaning sound. The great feat of Roger Bannister breaking the 4-minute mile in 1954 was nothing compared to the speed Tony record that day.

On the 4th December 1962, Tony and Jan Lord both sail on HMS Oxfordshire on its last troop sailing. Jan and some other QA nurses were on their way to BHM Gibraltar; Tony was one of the medics on the round trip and returned to the hospital after the voyage.

AMBULACE! WHAT AMBULANCE?

The winter of 62 was very bad with thick snow and ice. One evening we received a call for an ambulance to collect a patient from Bulford Camp. The ambulance was an old K9; it comprised of a three-ton chasse with a box top and was about twelve foot tall. There was a snowstorm blowing and drifts of 15 foot or more. About three miles outside of Tidworth we skidded of the road and into one of the drifts. The drive and I decided that it was not safe for one of us to walk back for help and so we set off together. It took us about an hour and half to walk back the three miles.

Once back at the hospital I had a hot shower and changed into dry clothes. When I returned to reception the REME were waiting for me to show them where the ambulance was. We set off in their large scammel recovery vehicle and travelled all the way to Bulford without see the ambulance. We turned around and slowly made our way back again. It was no good, the snow had buried this large twelve foot green coloured vehicle within a very short period of time.

IT’S A GOOD JOB I’VE GOT A THICK SKULL

A few days later I had been to the NAFFI for my 10 o’clock brake and was walking back to the ward when I heard a loud cracking sound. I woke up six hours later in recovery ward. There was that much snow and ice on the trees that one of the boughs broke and fell on my head rendering me unconscious. I was very lucky; the bough only caught me a glancing blow on the back of my head, which shot me forward and away from further injuries. I was told later that the bough weighed nearly two ton and it took the Enineers nearly four hours to saw it up and remove it.

In February 1963 I was on duty in reception when in walked Scouse, he’d been posted to the hospital. He was still seeing the lady for weekend and the odd week or two in France. She was married but as she footed all the bills Scouse said “it didn’t matter.”

SMOKE SMOKE SMOKE THAT CIGARETTE, OLD SONG TITLE

Scouse was working for the RSM and one day he gives me a round tin of Woodbine cigarettes. Later that week everyone in the unit was called to the RSMs office to sign for a tin of cigarettes that had been confiscated by the customs and sent to the hospital for distribution. Later still I received another tin from Scouse. It appeared that the RSM had a special lock placed on the locker that the cigarettes where in. That didn’t bother Scouse; he’d pull the lock away from the wall and unscrew the back panelling.

:lol: :D sal; army;

[Zofo]

NOT ON MY ‘AFI 1157’ SIR!

One day Private Proctor and I were placed on a charge, for disobeying ‘Part One Orders’. When asked if I had anything to say I replied, “Sir, the orders stated that the following soldiers with Greatcoats on their AFI 1157 (AFI 1157 a recorded list of clothing that is issued to a soldier) are to report to the QM's department. As I don’t have a Greatcoat on my AFI 1157, I did not report, Sir.” The CO phones the QMs and verified that I didn’t have a greatcoat on my AFI 1157. He then asked Proctor if he had any thing to say, to which he replied, “I forgot, Sir.” Smiling the CO said, “I hope you won’t forget to stay behind when I dismiss Silkstone?” Poor Proctor received 14 days Restricted Privileges, as this was his second offence in two days.

Almost the same thing happened to me when driving a soldier under custody (also my best mate) back from RAF Guttersloh and had an accident in the MTO's chevette. I was wearing my boots, high leg, combat and the boots were too wide for the pedals. As I was hauled up in front of the Monkeys they made a lot about the fact that I wasn't wearing shoes. I double marched into the OC's office with the SSM barking and swearing behind me. The OC also phoned the QM dept. and had the fat civvie clerk round with my issue docs. No shoes in evidence so charge dismissed, much to the chagrin of the monkys & the MTO - the SSM was delighted tho' he put me on extras for appearing in front of the OC in the first place!

[John A Silkstone]

Can't win can you? Silky

[Zofo]

Very rarely! :D

[Dragon]

MAN, maybe we should trump up some these at work one day, Silky, can i print em off to put em up on the bulletin board, they probly get some laughs, and the older people in the units rememberin their past experiences

[John A Silkstone]

Hi Dragon,
Thank you for asking, most people just print off and plagiarise. Yes by all means, copy what you want. Silky
sal;

[Dragon]

Jeez Silky, 21 pages and i spose u got more, well their now up on the bulletin board and anyone who takes the time to read em always gives a least one chuckle, and more than one guys asked where the hell i got this from, i gave the site address don't know if they'll join up though

Keep 'em comin hel; sal; camo;

[John A Silkstone]

Hello Dragon,
Yes lots more to come. I'm writing it for publication. That's between editing and producing my magazine and Ghosting a story for someone else. Ghosting means the other person supplies the basic story and I write it so an editor will consider it for publication.

[Dragon]

I know what Ghosting is, Sliky, My Brother and I do it for our books, im the one who fills in myself, and belive me if i can find time and space to put em on on the web i will one day.

Dragon

[John A Silkstone]

THE THIN BLUE LINE

Later in 1963 I was posted with 9 others to set up the Medical Reception Station (MRS) at the United Nations Forces In Cyprus (UNFICYP) base in Nicosia Cyprus. We were issued with a sky blue Beret and armbands. The ambulance and other vehicles had large red crosses on them and the United Nations ‘World Emblem’ pasted on the top and all sides. A MRS looks after patients that need to be cared for but is not bad enough to be hospitalised.

LEARNING THE HARD WAY

Our first patient was a sunburn case. A group of lads had been given the afternoon off and had gone to the safe beaches of the Sovereign Base Area in Dekelia. This lad had fallen asleep on the beach and was roasted to a turn, he was also unconscious from dehydration because of all the beer he’d consumed. Instead of taking him to the Military Hospital that was just up the road they brought him back nearly 40 miles to us in Nicosia. They thought that being UN they could only be treated by the UN. As the lad was being seen by the doctor, Brian Walsh the RCT drive and myself went to the Chogi Wallah’s hut (Chogi Wallah, name give to any local trader by British Forces) He was hopping mad when we removed his two very large blocks of ice from his coca cola box.

Returning to the ward we chopped the ice up and placed it around the patient He was very ill with a temperature of 102 plus. We soon got the temperature down and brought him back to consciousness. He was then air-vact to the BMH and collected four days later to be looked after us in the MRS were his back was skinless and very painful, thankfully he recovered fully with no scarring.

Nicosia was divided by what was known as the ‘Thin Blue Line.’ The Turkish Cypriots on one side, and the Greeks on the other. To get to the Greek hospital we had to pass through a Turkish roadblock of 45-gallon steel drums. Private Walsh had returned to the UK for compassionate reasons., and I was driving the ambulance. As we approached the roadblock of barrels, the doctor said, “Clip that last barrel and I pay for the drinks. As I drove through the chicane, I managed to clip the end barrel, which then went bouncing off down the road, I managed to do the same on the way back. A few days later the Doc said, “Third time lucky?” I pulled over sharply on the steering wheel and the ambulance hit the barrel with an all mighty bang. Looking in my rear view mirror I saw the back door was only hanging on by the top hinge. The guards had filled the barrel with concrete, so that put an end to the free pints. The Medical Officer told the Motor Transport Officer that the ambulance was hit while we were in the hospital and we didn’t see the accident. So I got the drinks in.

HOW TO MAKE A PROFFIT, WITHOUT REALLY TRYING

After a few weeks I found out that Currency Exchange Unit at the Air Port was open for business. One payday I went over there with my £27.50 cash in English Currency and exchanged it into Cyprus money. Magically it turned into £32.80 due to the rate of exchange. Ever week this extra cash I sent home to my mother in the shape of a Postal Order. When my six-month tour of duty ended, I went home on seven-days leave to find that my mother had not spent the money, but had placed it in my bank account for my return. I took her down town and bought her a new winter coat and shoes.

The week before I was to return home, I went into Nicosia and purchased a Methuselah. (A gallon of wine in a glass and wire basket) On returning to the MRS I used the infra red lamp and heated the wax until I could remove the top without breaking the seal. We drank the wine and I filled the container with five star brandy. I then heated the seal again and placed it back on the Methuselah bottle and then applied a squirt of CO2 which froze it tight again. I got through customs with no bother

R and E DEPARTMENT
(Reception and Enquires now Accident and emergency)

My leave over, I returned to BHM Tidworth. My new job was working in the Casualty department and one of the first people I met was Jan, so we started going out together.

NEVER MIND THE QUALITY, FEEL THE MIRTH

One night on duty, an unconscious Ghurkha was brought into casualty. A Colonel whom I shall not name was on duty. After giving the patient a thorough examination he declared that the patient was suffering from urine retention. “As the patient is unconscious and won’t feel any pain,” he said, “I intend to exert presser on his bladder and remove the blockage.” I went off to collect a urine bottle; upon my return I placed the man's penis into the bottle. The doctor extends a little light pressure to the man’s abdomen. As nothing was happening he exerted more pressure, so much so that the man's penis popped out of the bottle. The external pressure on the abdomen forced a small stone to be dislodged. The bladder now being freed from its blockage, sent a stream of urine about five feet into the air. Seeing this eruption of urine, I jumped back away from the table. The Colonel stood his ground. The urine not having the necessary velocity to escape Earths gravitational pull now started its downward motion in the direction of the doctor. The cascading urine landed on his right shoulder and ran down his white coat. As a smirk spread across my face the Colonel said, “I suppose you think this is funny?” Still gazing at the urine running down his coat I saw that his right pocket was now filling up. This vision was too much for me and I busted out laughing, which got me another seven days restrictive privileges.
:D sal;

[Zofo]

Good stuff again John. Having just come back from Cyprus the exchange rate is just as good - but I was changing Euros and the rate went the other way around! A cunning trick that with the brandy - I do miss my Formula!

[John A Silkstone]

THE CUSTOMER IS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT

One evening while on night duty in the casualty department we received a call for an ambulance to collect a lady from Bulford Village and deliver her to the Maternity Wing. The nurse on ambulance duty that night was none other than Jan. “It’s a Maternity case we’re collect.” I told her.
“What do I do if the baby arrives?” she asked
“Let nature take its course” said I, “but if we keep the lady sitting and not lying on the stretcher the odds are that we can get her back to maternity before she gives birth.”

The trip went without incident other than the woman being in such pain that she told Jan that she was useless as a nurse. I told Jan not to take to heart what the woman said. All patients in pain say things that they don’t really mean.

In May 1965 I was posted to the Junior Leaders Regiment RCT in Taunton. Before I left I proposed to Jan and we set the date for August.

UNLESS YOU’RE DEAD, DON’T COME SICK

On my first day I couldn’t believe the number of people waiting in the sick room. There were about 50 youngsters all laughing and funning around. It turn out that the civilian sister was a soft touch. The lads knew that they could skip the morning PT section and the sister would cover for them. I informed them that on tomorrow’s sick parade, as per regimental orders, they would have to turn up with their small pack and all items listed on Part One Orders. The following morning there were only about 15 on sick parade, I made them empty their small packs and sent half of them back to the billets for their missing kit. On the third morning there was only two on the sick list and I knew that those two young lads were genuinely sick and treated them with the respect they deserved.

WERE THERE’S MUCK THERE’S BRASS

Once I’d settle in at Norton Manor Camp, I started to plant a few vegetables in the garden at the back of the MRS. One night in the local pub I was talking to a chap who told me that he worked at the village sewerage works. After I few pints he said “Aye lad, I’ll bring thee up a bit of muck for yon garden of thine.” I thanked him and thought no more of it. The following week a trailer drove through camp with 15 ton of muck on it, he dumped the whole lot on the back garden. The smell was horrendous and lasted for days. By the end of summer, I was selling potatoes, runner beans, and the biggest and tastiest tomatoes that you could wish to have.

By this time Jan and I was married and living in Married Quarters. She was waiting for me at the door one evening with a smile upon her face, her first words “Darling I’m pregnant.” Time marched on as it does. Then early one morning I received a nudge in the ribs and a cry of “I’m in labour.” Though I’d delivered children before, one in England and five in Cyprus, I still ran around like a headless chicken, attempting to get her in the car and off to Musgrove Park Hospital.

Like all good pregnancies, the baby took hours to arrive. Jan was on a stretcher being attended to by one of the nurses who was doing her midwifery training. Jan calling me over and asked me to rub her back as the nurse was bloody useless at her job. As I rubbed her back I said “I can remember a time not long ago when another pregnant woman said the same thing about you.” Jan apologised to the nurse. And so our first daughter ‘Annathea’ was born.

YES YOUR LORDSHIP

One of the sergeants in the RCT, who live across the road from us, changed his name by deed poll. He added his wife’s nee name to his, so that he now had a double barrel name. He thought that this would bring him quick promotion.
“That’s a good idea” I said, “I think I’ll put Jan’s name in front of mine.”
“Oh!” said he “and what is her name?”
“Lord” said I, “So I’ll be known as Lord Silkstone.” He walked off with saying a word.

SEE YOU IN MY OFFICE AT 09.30 HOURS

One evening The Doctor, the ACC NCO, Dave Scott and I went down town to celebrating the doctors 72nd birthday. The doctor being an Irish man, we sat there giving our rendering of ‘Paddy McGinties Goat’, when in walk two MPs. They came over to our table and demanded from Scotty and I our ID cards. They took our particulars and stated that they were charging us under section 69 for making a nuisance of ourselves in public, and that we had to report to the RSM’s office at 09.00 hours tomorrow. As they turn to walk away the Doctor said
“Don’t you want to see my ID?”
To which the MP corporal said, “All due respect sir, but your a bit long in the tooth to be in the forces aren’t you?”
The doctor removed his documentation from his wallet and said “Major General Mullins RAMC, I’ll see you in my office at 09.30 hours, as at 09.00 hours I will be giving evidence on behalf of these two. Now You’re dismissed.

A REPEAT PERFORMANCE

On The 14th of January 68 a sister ‘Denys’ now joined our daughter and I’m glad to say that Jan went through this birth with a lot less pain.

:lol: sal;

[Bombardier]

Great stuff buddy, I bet those two MP's quickly removed their heads from uo their arses LOL roc;

[Dragon]

Silky, good one mate
Bomb, take it from a current server, MP's will never get their heads outta their arses

[John A Silkstone]

CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?

September 67 I gave Jan a present wrapped up in Christmas paper and ask her to put it away, I told her that it was for our next-door neighbour Margaret. Her husband ‘Mick’ didn’t want her to find it and ask me to look after it till Christmas.

Come Christmas, Jan said “I’ll take that present round to Margaret.” “Don’t bother love,” said I “the present’s for you.” I’ll not write what she said, but it was her habit to search the house looking for her Christmas Present. I hoped that this event would put her off searching in the future. Well, it’s not often I’m right, but I was wrong again, she’s still searches today.

HOW TO PUT YOUR FOOT IN YOUR MOUTH WITHOUT REALY TRYING

In August 68, as I was a football referee I was approached by the local committee and ask if I could stand in for a fixture over the holiday weekend as a fellow referee, was in hospital with a broken leg. Without thinking things through, I agreed. I reported to the playing fields on the Saturday to find that there were another six referees there. “What’s going on?” I enquired. “It’s the annual under elevens five a side knockout, I was told. Not too many teams this year, only 96. With a bit off luck it should be finished by Sunday afternoon.” I’d play some games in my time but this took the biscuit, the main difference between junior and senior football is the pace. Juniors never let up and chase the ball constantly. By Sunday afternoon I was glad the games were over, for I was utterly exhausted. The Final game was between the Winners and the Referees. The little buggers were far to fast for me, and I was booked for blowing my whistle when one of them was about to score a goal. The booking wasn’t to bad, but having my whistle confiscated really but me off my game.

ME, I’M NEVER WRONG!

My own personal quote is ‘The moon and stars may vary, but Silkstone is always right.’ One weekend Jan, the children and I drove off to Mindhead for a day out. After letting the children play on the sands, we set off home about 16.00 hours. Jan said, ”Do you know the way back?” “Yes” I replied, “I’ll take the same route out of Mindhead as the one I came in on.” Driving down one of the streets I noticed a vicar on his bicycle riding towards me on the wrong side of the road. “Look,” said I to Jan “This chap will soon see his boss a lot early if he keeps riding on the wrong side of the road.” As we drew level the vicar call through our open window. “One-way street sir, One Way Street!” I did a quick left turn down the next opening.

GOOD NEWS, BAD NEWS!

In February 69 I was informed that I was to be posted to BMH Singapore. The wife and I were ecstatic, as neither of us had been to the Far East. The circus then began, Report to QM Dept for this item of clothing, report with family to medical centre for this jab and that jab, report to chief clerks office to fill in this form, and so it went on. At the end of March I collected some packing cases from the QM and started packing ready for the trip. It was about this time that Jan informed me that she was once more pregnant, more good news.

One morning I received a letter, which read. Dear John on behalf of the ‘Football Referees Association’ I am pleased to inform you that you are one of the lucky members to have won a ticket in our draw for the FA Cup match between Manchester City and Leicester City. Ticket enclosed. This was the best prize I’d ever won and the event had to be on the same day that I was flying to Singapore. I return the ticket with a heavy heart. Win some. Lose some.

DID I HEAR RIGHT?

We emplaned at RAF Brize Norton and after a few hours flying we landed at RAF Barian. We off boarded for fuelling and waited in the visitors lounge. The bar was open and so I ordered soft drinks and crisps for the girls, a Brandy and coke for Jan, a pint for myself, and 200 Rothmans King size. “That will be one pound, fourteen shillings, and 10 pence, sir.” (£1.74) Said the barman. I gave him £2 saying, “Keep the change”.

Our next stop was at RAF Gan. Gan is a small island in the Indian Ocean. That small, that the runway covers the full lenth of the island. As soon as the plain lands the pilot turn the engines onto full reverse to stop the plane running into the sea. The take off was just as bad; the pilot revs the engine at full speed, which vibrates the whole plane. Once he has enough power, he releases the brake and the accelerating pushes you into your seat. On the final leg to Singapore. We encountered a thunderstorm and one felt apprehensive at watching the lightning dance along the wing. We were glad to land at RAF Changi in Singapore. From the Airport we were transported to temporary accommodation and I was given three days leave to acclimatize.

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE IS SO HARD

On the second day I was walking through the hospital when I saw Pete Dunne. He told me that he had married an Austrian girl and that there would be a flat vacant at his place in two days time. I told the wife and we arranged a day to view the flat. We met Pete at the hospital reception and when to his flat in the Holland Village district of Singapore. Pete’s wife was in the kitchen and stood a couple of feet away from the table and was throwing flour into a bowl. It wasn’t all going in the bowl and the floor and table was covered with a sprinkling of flour. When Pete asked her what she was doing, she said, “ I’ve read the recipe instructions and it said to toss in flour. I then looked up the word toss in the dictionary and it said that to toss was to ‘throw up’ and so I throw the flour up in the air and into the bowl. Isn’t that right?”
Who could blame the girl?
:lol: :lol:

[Dragon]

Again, good ones Silky

[John A Silkstone]

WHAT! NO DOG?

Once install in the flat, we thought it funny that each day, a local Chinese man would walk his pig past our flat, like we would walk our dog.

SIGHTS SOUNDS AND SMELLS

Singapore has two other names, one is ‘Lion City’ given to it by the local people and the other is ‘Garden City’ given by the Europeans. The sights are wonderful. Driving down Orchard Road, you can travel from the present day, back in time to the 1860s with the old kampong villages, made out of bamboo and banana leaf roofs.

The sounds of the city are different to the ear, and one hears a dozen languages being spoken at once. One of the funniest things I noticed is that the Chinese would use English words in the middle of a sentence because in their language they didn’t have words for Hospital, Operation or Taxi.

The aromas of the Island wafted in from all over. The worst smell was a fruit called locally as ‘Passion Fruit’. The fruit smelt like diarrhoea, but once you got passed the smell, the tasted was like strawberries and ice cream. If I came home with one of the fruits, I would have to sit in the garden to eat it, as the wife would not allow it into the house because of the lingering smell it left. The nicest smell for me, came from the Nutmeg tree after a tropical storm.

IT AIN’T HALF HOT MUM

Every morning would start with a fine mist over the island, by 06-00 hours the sun was up and the hot day began. The temperature would sore into the high nineties and soon your nice crisp starched uniform would be stuck to your back like a limp wet dishcloth.

WHO SWITCHED OFF THE LIGHT?

Every evening about 18.45 hours the sun would go down and within minutes it was night time. There didn’t appear to be any dusk, just day and night.

IT’S VELLY CHEAP BOSS!

Every night at 19-00 hours, somewhere on the island would be an out door market. The first thing you learned was not to accept the price the stall owner wanted, but to haggle over the price. That way you would go off with your purchase happy and content at knocking down the price, and the stallholder knew that he’d just received twice as much as what the item was worth.

Among the entire stall was the macan stalls, selling Chinese, Indian, Malay and another hundred type of exotic food. I’m purchase satay on a stick and be given a tin can of curry sauce to take away.

Across the road from the BMH was a restaurant called Pegasus and next door to that was ‘THE SHACK’ The dining side of the Pegasus was spotless, the kitchen, well the least said the better. At the hospital we had more patients with diarrhoea from this one establishment than we had from any other place on the island. The shack was just as it was, a lean too of old timber and sacking, but the cooking wok was red hot and killed most of any bacteria that was in the food. The cook would also wash his hands after serving every meal. Disposable plates in the form of banana leaves were the order of the day and tin cans for teacups.

As you sat at one of the wooden tables and ate your meal, from out of the jungle by the railway line would appear a rat. This jungle rat, and I kid you not, was the size of a very large cat. It would hop onto the table and sit up and beg for food. It was fascinating to watch it take the food given, then holding the food in its front paws it would remain seated and start to eat. Once the food was gone, the rat would clean itself. If it wanted more food it would squeak at you. If you ignored it would move on to the next diner on the table.

ACCOMODATION MOVE

After being in the flat three weeks I was informed that I would be moving into a house at 34 Taman Permater Road, Neesoon. It wasn’t till after we’d moved that we found out that our address was in millionaire row. Our neighbour at 32 was an Indian known as Mister Singh who owned a tea plantation in Malaya. At number 36 was a Chinese gentleman called Mister Chang who owned a shipbuilding company. Both were very nice people. Mister Singh one day asked me if I would like to go on a Tiger hunt. This was the beginning of the ‘Save the Tiger’ campaign. This tiger had turned man-eater and had killed a child in one of the villages. What they were trying to do was to capture the tiger and place it in a zoo, as apposed to shooting it. I was looking forward to the hunt but never made it due to unforeseen duties in HQ Tanglin.

HER LADYSHIP

Jan lived a life of leisure. At 08-00 hours, the day would start with the grocer coming for the days order. He would return later with the goods and so it was with all the other tradesmen. At the end of the month they would come and collect their money and would present you with a gift for using their business.

While I was at work, the ‘Armh’ (Local name for the house made) would do the housework, while Jan took the children out to see the sights or go swimming at the Britannia (Brit club.) or the Union Jack Club

If Jan wanted a new dress, she’d go to the local dressmaker and looking in a catalogue, she would have a dress made by selecting various styles. To the seamstress she’d say, “I want that top, on that skirt, with that neck line and those sleeves.” That would be in the morning. At lunchtime, the seamstress would turn up at the house with the dress for a fitting. At 19-00 hours the seamstress would be back with the dress complete and asking for payment of $15, about £1.80 $1.20 in today’s money. It was exactly the same if I wanted a suit.

I remember when I returned to England I went to Burtons for a suit and was informed that it would take five weeks. When I told him that I could have one made in five hours in Singapore, he didn’t believe me.

[Dragon]

Silky, try chinese tailors i could get a full dinner suit made up in only 2 hours and for about a dollar our money

[John A Silkstone]

IT’S NOT WHAT YOU SAY, IT’S HOW YOU SAY IT

One day Bob Harrison and I, both being philatelist, went down to Change Alley to purchase some stamps. After getting a good bargain we went for a drink. The bar was dark with only very dim lights on. We sat drinking when the door open and through the blinding light walked five white uniforms. They looked around the room and came over to our table. The one nearest Bob said, “Are you colonials?” Bob answered “Colonials! I’ve give you f***ing colonials.” Standing up he belted the man. Before we knew it we were in front of the Provost major. Who informed Bob and I, that we had set the Anglo-American relations back another hundred and fifty years? We informed the Major that they called us Colonials, to which one of the Americans said “No! we were only asking if you where off the ship, the USS Colonial”. Bob and I being in white jeans and shirts had looked like their uniform in the dim interior lights. The major give us a warning and sent us on our way.

WHAT A QUAINT OLD CUSTOM

Once outside the Military Police station. The Yanks asked us if we knew where there were any English girls so we took them back to the hospital. In the NAAFI I offered to get the first round in, however, one of the Americans insisted that he be the one. Okay said I, and shouted, “Getting a round in” all the people in the NAFFI, about thirty of them got up and came to the bar. I said to the American, “Getting a round, meant everyone in the bar area gets a drink. A round is a circle, and no one is left out of the circle. “It’s an old English custom.” I told him. Once the pints were purchased we all formed a circle, then. Raising our glass we all said “Your very good health sir.” And took a large drink. One of the other sailors said “What a quaint old custom. Can I buy a round?” “Of course you can” said I “it’s an insult not to drink another mans round and we don’t want insult you. Do we?”

MY BROTHERB SILVEST, GOT A ROW OF 40 MEDALS ON HIS CHEST

The following day the same Americans turn up at the hospital looking for me, so I took them home for a drink. They all had a chest full of medal ribbons. My wife asked one of them what they were for. She was informed, “That this one” said one of the lads pointing to a medal ribbon “is for volunteering and not being conscripted. These others are for basic training, for passing basic training, for going into the Atlantic, for being in the Atlantic, for returning from the Atlantic and so it went on. Jan is a woman who doesn’t mince her words and told them that I had been in the army for fourteen years and still only had one medal, and as far as she was concerned, they only had one medal they had that counted, was the Vietnam medal. The others she said “Are just show.”

The third day they turn up at our house to say goodbye, their R and R was over and they were returning to Vietnam. They give all their money to Jan so she could buy something for our children. They went off promising to write but never did. I’ve always thought of them over the years and hoped that they returned home safe and sound to their loved ones.

THIS ROUNDS ON ME

Mike Cairns invited five of us and our wife’s to his anniversary dinner down town. The twelve of us sat down and had a lovely Chinese meal with all the trimmings. As Mike was paying for the meal I said that would pay for the first round of drinks. The round of drinks cost me more that the meal did for Mike. He still ribs me about today.

THE PAIN, OH THE PAIN!

On the 12th of December 1969 I was admitted to the hospital with abdominal pains. If there was any medical test going, I had it. They all turn out negative and so I was discharged on the 15th. The pain totally disappeared at about 07-00 on the morning of the 17th of December I left for work leaving the two girls with the arma. Jan had been admitted to the maternity wing the previous day. When I arrived at the hospital I was told to report to the maternity wing, where I was inform that my wife had given birth to a healthy girl at 07-00 hours that morning. Some folks don’t believe in sympathy pregnancy pains. I do.

I PLEAD GUILTY MY LUD!

On visiting my wife and new daughter, the first question Jan asked was “Did you have a good time down Bugis Street leading the carol singing?”
“Me love!” said I, looking very surprised.
“Yes you.” Said she, holding out a photo of me standing on a table conducting the carol singers. The wife of Dave Williams had been with us and took a photo and give it to Jan. Case closed.
sal; army;

[rotorwash]

Great story Silky, I always wondered about the medals the Navy wore. After 19 months in combat I got the standard two, the VN Service Medal and the VN Campaign Medal plus the National Defense Service. Funny part is that they never were issued, you had to go to the PX and buy them. I did come home with two Air Medals but could only wear one. I wore the second one issued with 33 Oak Leaf Clusters. I'm glad I never qualified for a Purple Heart.

Missed your story last week, glad your back.

[Zofo]

I used to enjoy a night out in Bahrain at the British Club when the US Navy were in port. Bahrain is HQ for the US 6th Fleet and the navy lads I met were (on the whole) all very inexperienced and green behind the ears. We used to get a lot of beers off them and do swappsies of kit. My plastic lighter with a union jack on it for a zippo with the US ship's crest was always a goodie. Thanks John, good memories brought back!

[John A Silkstone]

Hi rotorwash.
Yes the Purple Heart is one medal you don't want. When my girls were little the eldest once said "Daddy you were born before WWII started,(I was six months old) so what did you do to get your medals?" I told her that I got my first medal for cutting a germans head off and throwing it in his face. The next day she went into school and told all the kids. Who all went home and asked their fathers if that was how they got their Medals.
:oops: :evil: :D

[rotorwash]

Oh yes, little kids do carry tales! I'm a teacher, I've found out its better to listen with only half an ear.

[Zofo]

I remember my Father putting on medals one evening and I too asked him where he'd got them from. He said very straight faced (Iwas 6 or 7) that he'd won them at Quatre Bras and Waterloo! I believed him! :oops:

[John A Silkstone]

Hi Zoro,
perhaps your father was a bit long in the too