Article 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]

My Army Anicotes part II

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

 

[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. These days nearly everyone calls me Silky.

 

[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.

 

[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!