Coming of Age: 1939-1946 Part 1

Coming of Age: 1939-1946.

by John c.o.x.

FOREWORD

Now that the Second World War is some 60 years past this would seem to be a good time to collate all the various chapters that I've written over the last few years and present them as an ent.i.ty. No war can really be described as a "good" war especially by the families of those who didn't return or by those who returned maimed but in the sense that I went through it from the start until the finish and emerged unscratched I suppose that mine could be called a "good" war.

Though I spent just under three years in the Middle East in Iraq and Egypt I was never engaged in any action and what follows in these pages describes the more mundane side of military life. I didn't start writing these chapters until about 50 years after the war and have relied heavily on memory, with some photographs but no diaries; the content is substantially accurate. Dates are included in the Contents page; the starting and ending dates are true and the intervening dates are not more than a month out.

John c.o.x Ottawa, Canada March 2004

RUMOURS OF WAR

It was 1938 and the Spanish civil war was still in progress; Germany was flexing her muscles having effected an Anschluss with Austria and having out-manoeuvred Britain and France over the matter of Czechoslovakia. It was obvious that a war was coming but Britain had allowed her forces and armaments to run down and was in no position to engage in one. At that time I was 20 years old and was working as a draughtsman in an engineering firm; I believe conscription had started though I'm not certain exactly when and there was always a possibility that my job would be cla.s.sified as a reserved occupation. To this day I don't know whether or not I would have been called up because together with my school friend I joined the Territorial Army.

With war looming closer and closer new units were being formed everywhere and No. 2 Company of the 5th AA Divisional Signals was born at The Wayfarers Club on Worral Road near the top of Blackboy Hill in Bristol. My friend and I had been very interested in radio or wireless as it was called in those days and it seemed to us that a signal unit would fit in well with our hobby, we might even be of some use to the army. Many others had the same idea especially employees of the Post Office which was at that time the sole legal agency in Britain for all communications, so the recruiting hall was full of potential soldiers on the night we went to sound things out. Among the dozens there we found many of our old school friends and some of the members of our church.

We didn't join up that night but thought things over for a day or two saying nothing to our parents who might have raised objections then made a second trip to enlist.

Some lads we knew were already commissioned and were to interview us before we signed on the dotted line. Our commitment to the force obliged us to attend for drill on two nights a week and to spend two weeks at camp each year; our employers were compelled by law to give us the two weeks off from work with no penalties To start with it was a case of the myopes leading the blind, true there were a few ex-WWI veterans and others who had been members of their school Cadet Corps but we could hardly be called a highly disciplined group. We didn't enquire too deeply into the nature of our duties or what exactly we were getting ourselves into but were content to let life unfold in its own way.

After answering a few perfunctory questions the swearing-in followed with our right hands on a bible; some jokers later told us that we were not really soldiers because we had been sworn-in on a dictionary but that was a tale I heard many many times. Then came the issue of equipment, this was rather spa.r.s.e, all of it being of WWI vintage or earlier, khaki tunics with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, drainpipe trousers, second-hand boots and what seemed quite remarkable brown leather bandoliers for the 50 rounds of .303 ammunition with which we were never issued. Were we then to be cavalry? A tin hat, forage cap, webbing belt with bayonet frog, bayonet and scabbard completed our equipment though later on we were given collar badges and bra.s.s letters to affix to our epaulets proclaiming us to be Royal Signals.

My parents when told of my enlistment had different reactions, father said little, probably thinking of his experiences in WWI but mother who would not let me join the Boy Scouts or the school Cadet Corps because they were too militaristic said, "you're a fool!" At the time I thought that was a bit hard but six months into the war and I had to admit she had a point.

One or two with recent military experience gave us rifle drill with the two SMLE (short model Lee-Enfield) rifles allocated to our unit and we did a bit of marching and saluting. Our CO, Captain Sommerville, told us that our saluting resembled that of a disgruntled taxi driver giving thanks for a small tip but we did improve. After a few weeks of desultory drilling we were told to report to The General Post Office in Small Street to get acquainted with teleprinters. Good, we thought, now we'll get our hands on some electro-mechanical equipment and learn the inner workings of the Creed machines only to be disappointed to find that the primary purpose of our being there was to learn to type. The Creed teleprinters were only capable of transmitting 66 words a minute but this was academic because we didn't advance much beyond the "hunt-and-peck" stage.

About this time the regulations were changed somewhat; our two weeks at camp were extended to four weeks and I was due to go to Southsea Castle on September 3rd 1939. I think it was about August 28th that the Territorial Army was embodied (that was their term for mobilisation).

At 4-30 am father was awakened from his slumber with a knock at the door and Corporal Reg Pinnel stood outside with the engine of his motor-bike combination still running to tell me to get up to HQ right away; then off he sped to awaken others. I dressed hurriedly, had a cup of tea and a bite and then walked up to Worral Road, walked because it was too early for the bus service to start its daily routine.

When I got there it was a bit of a shambles really with dozens of men milling around trying to sort themselves out and generally getting themselves organised. At about 9am I walked along to the end of Worral Road to the bank of phone boxes then existing near the top of Blackboy Hill and phoned my office to tell them that I would not be in that day nor in the foreseeable future; that was a little prophetic because I didn't return there to work for six-and-a-half years.

In the first few days we learned a little of the set-up; HQ was to be the gun operations room, the GOR, from which the AA guns surrounding Bristol would be directed. Some of us would be GOR personnel, others would form the Line Section maintaining communications with the gun sites, while a few would be responsible for the Quartermaster's stores and general clerical work. How many of us there were I can only guess, probably upwards of two hundred because we also had to supply similar groups to our detachments at Plymouth and Portland.

To get some experience of aircraft plotting six of us including me were sent to the RAF at Filton where we were housed in splendid isolation in an otherwise empty vast hanger; daily we reported to the Operations Room where we became acquainted with the strange jargon of the RAF, Angels, Bandits, Red Leader, Tally-Ho and the like as mock raids and interceptions were practised. If we had been on duty for the night shift we found sleep very hard to come by the next morning because fighter planes were constantly taking off and landing, even when they were stationary their engines were ticking over. For some reason or other there was an Avro Anson attached to the station that took off and landed periodically; it once caught fire as it landed but the fire was quickly extinguished.

Guard duties were carried out when I was there by members of The Gloucester Regiment, the "Glosters", regulars and we used to mingle with them in the canteen in our off-duty periods, being introduced to army songs that we joined in with gusto as a pianist accompanied us. As the beer flowed the pianist was treated to the odd pint and occasionally the lid of the piano was raised so that it could join in the jollity and a pint poured over its strings to the shout of "and one for the piano." Life was exciting, we were free from parental control and we were on the verge of something big though in the background there was this little niggle of apprehension about the future.

Early on my inadequacy as a teleprinter operator was discovered by an RAF corporal whom I had last seen as a 13 year old when he lived a couple of doors away from me, but only he and I knew. On September 3th the rumours of war changed to reality; I was in the canteen when the news came over the wireless that war had been declared on Germany and in our ignorance we waited for the bombs to drop but of course nothing really happened for a few months apart from the odd reconnaissance sortie. Winter was coming on and we still didn't have greatcoats though at great expense we had added swagger canes to our wardrobes to a.s.sist in our deportment and keep our hands out of our pockets. Something had to be done so we were issued with dark blue greatcoats that had originally been destined for the Royal Navy or Air Raid Wardens. Gloves had not been issued either so we used our own and a right motley crew we looked when we appeared in public places, khaki uniforms, blue greatcoats, black boots and brown leather gloves.

Perhaps this would be a good time to mention that as Territorials we were expected to supply some personal items of kit. If we provided boot brushes, hair brushes, comb, b.u.t.ton stick, housewife (hussive), underclothes and some other odds-and-sods to take with us to the annual camp we would be rewarded with the magnificent sum of ten shillings.

Until 1942 I was never issued with a complete kit but over that period I was given some replacements of personal items; we also changed our WWI uniforms for battle dress. We didn't lose our leather bandoliers however and we were supplied with the Royal Navy's black leather gaiters. We were still not sartorially attractive.

But to get back to August 1938; the round-up of civilians who were now to be embodied was not without its humour, in the early hours of the morning Reg Pinnel happened to meet one of his flock in the Kingsdown area and told him of the situation. Len was on his rounds delivering milk; his milk float was of a new type, battery driven at a walking pace it allowed the roundsmen to walk by its side starting and stopping as necessary and obviating any muscular effort on his part. Len took his orders literally, left his milk float where it was in the road, went home, changed into his uniform and reported to HQ. Then he phoned his employer and told him where he could find the milk float leaving it up to the employer to mollify all the irate customers.

In December 1939 I returned from Filton to Worral Road and for three months became a member of a GOR shift. We had no plotting table but instead a map of south-east England hung on one wall, we of course were south-west but I suppose that south-east was better than nothing.

Coloured pins were used to mark the position of planes. Information on aircraft activity was given to us over a permanently manned phone line connected to No.11 Fighter Group at Uxbridge and the lucky man who was given the job of listening sat in the middle of the room on an office type swivel chair wearing a telephonist's head-and-breast-set doing nothing but waiting. As soon as the ringing a.s.sailed his ears he answered, "Bristol," and then yelled to the rest of the group, "Operations," at which they were supposed to get ready to relay any incoming information to the gun sites by phone. While I was there I don't recall any plots coming from Uxbridge that concerned our area.

The shout of, "Operations" was also supposed to alert the Gun Control Officer, GCO, of the Royal Artillery who then stood by his wall map, coloured pins at the ready, waiting to give some relevant information to the gun sites; however this was the time of the "phony war" and the boredom was considerable.

MY GOR SHIFT, WORRAL ROAD, 1940.

I think it was in the early days just after we were embodied that we were given our medicals, it was a bit of a joke really, a cursory once-over with the stethoscope and an eyesight test on a standard eye chart at a range of five or six feet; for a hearing test the MO stuck a pocket watch in my left ear, "Can you hear that?" "Yes," I replied, then in my right ear, "and that?" "Yes."

"OK." And I had pa.s.sed. And apart from the time of my final discharge from the army when they were trying to make sure that I couldn't make any post-war claims for incapacity and the times when I was discharged from hospital that was the only medical examination I ever had.

One possible advantage of being stationed in Bristol was that I could go home when I was not on duty but home was a fourpenny bus ride from Worral Road and this double journey together with ten Woodbine cigarettes cost me a day's allowance (I was getting two shillings a day but was allotting one shilling a day to my mother who incidentally never spent it but saved it up for my return). I usually went home after a night shift and so was rather tired and not very good company; after a month or so of this routine I decided that I would be better off away from Bristol and applied for a transfer to Plymouth.

The war was not very old before the Post Office started to get concerned over the loss of some of their key personnel to the forces; it was one thing to have their employees playing at soldiers in their own time but quite another matter to lose some of their qualified staff on a semi-permanent basis. So just before I went to Plymouth an arrangement was made that allowed the Post Office to claim back all their employees who did not have an army trade. The army could see all their Territorial signal units being drastically reduced and took swift action. In a blanket approach army trade ratings were given to as many members of my company as possible, not only Post Office employees; I was called before Captain Sommerville.

"You are?"

I identified myself

"I believe you've been spending your drill nights at the Post Office, is that correct?"

"Sah!" (I was now learning the lingo).

"On teleprinters?"

"Sah!" There was a short pause as he looked over the papers in front of him and then,

"You are now a teleprinter operator cla.s.s III. Dismiss." A smart salute, about turn, quick march and I was out of the Company Office with an extra shilling a day but there was now no way my employers could claim me back even if they wanted to.

About this time a new face appeared on the scene, a real live regular soldier, Sergeant Millen, an infantry regular I believe but from what regiment I don't know and he was going to change us into an efficient military unit. He was always perfectly turned out, his uniform spotless, creased where it should be but otherwise creaseless. He was a disciplinarian and he certainly made a difference to us but one thing always intrigued me -- his facial expression. I never saw him smile or laugh, in fact I could never detect the slightest change in his expression that would denote any emotion. Later in the war I believe he earned a commission; perhaps he enjoyed life and had some fun but one could never tell.

I'm not certain how many vehicles made up our transport section, I know we had Morris and Austin utility vans, a five ton lorry and some 30cwt Bedford lorries whose gearboxes had a peculiar and distinctive whine.

The Bedfords were usually the workhorses of the Line Section while the utilities were the general runabouts used for work and pleasure. We had one officer, a major, who was over-fond of his liquor, he used to frequent The Mauritania in Park Street; late at night he would phone and in a slurred voice demand that a utility van and driver be sent to pick him up. This happened on many occasions and one night when he arrived back at HQ he staggered into the guard room and with a drawn hand gun proceeded to hold up the guard. He was disarmed and a report made out.

The sequel? I don't know, we didn't see him again.

Originally we had all signed on for home service but after the war started we were asked to agree to serve overseas, this we all did, signing to this effect. Looking back I don't suppose it would have made any difference had we declined, after all those who were conscripted were not given the choice but it was a nice gesture on our parts.

Having now become reasonably proficient in those military essentials, marching, saluting and rifle drill the next step was to go on a range and fire a few rounds. The nearest rifle range was at Bristol University and a group of about 12 of us was taken there on a most unmilitary vehicle, a soft drinks lorry. This had no tailboard or sideboards to speak of and we all stood up on the flat bed, the front row holding on to the back of the cab and the rest holding on to each other. We made the double journey without losing anyone. The rifle range was indoors and we fired .22 rimfire from a standard .303 rifle fitted with a Morris tube. I believe we only fired 10 rounds each, with moderate success, but that was the only time I fired a rifle until 1942.

PLYMOUTH

The journey down to Plymouth was the longest rail trip that I had ever taken alone and I was eager and excited about it. I was travelling with all my kit of course and I was learning how to stow it without interfering with other pa.s.sengers. As we pulled away to the south-west from Temple Meads station the familiar scenes around Bristol gave way to the flatter country of north Somerset and later on to the red soil of Devon. At Plymouth North Road station I detrained but I have no memory now of how I reached South Raglan Barracks in Devonport. The barracks were typically army, grey, spartan, uninviting and ugly; my spirits sank. I was allocated quarters in a small room together with six or eight others; beds consisted of three bed-boards on two low wooden trestles augmented with three "biscuits" for comfort and the whole ensemble was completed with four blankets.

I was directed to join a GOR team and shown the ropes as it were. The GOR was located on Mount Wise in the end room of Hamoaze House. A large map of the south-west of England had been painted on an expanse of dark blue linoleum, this formed the plotting table in the centre of the room; to one side a dais accommodated the GCO and also the naval anti-aircraft liaison officer (NAALO) for this was a combined operations room. We signalmen sat around the plotting table waiting for something to happen.

a.s.sorted naval petty-officers, Royal Artillery gunners and bombardiers made up an eight-hour shift.

As in Bristol one signalman sat with a head-and-breast-set permanently connected to No.11 Fighter Group at Uxbridge and the routine was much the same. Those doing the plotting made up wooden blocks with plastic chips of letters and numbers to indicate the ident.i.ty, size and height of a particular plot adjacent to a coloured arrow, green for friendly, red for hostile, showing the location and direction of the aircraft.

This was quite an improvement on Bristol's coloured pins. There was another improvement too, the Post Office type switchboard was replaced by two wooden desk mounted units, each fitted with 10 switches and indicator lights. Every switch and light combination was connected to a gun site or a searchlight station and any combination of sites could be called individually or simultaneously. Each site acknowledged receipt of a message by pressing a b.u.t.ton, this caused the appropriate light to glow in the GOR. In this way messages could be broadcast to all sites at once; those sites whose lights did not glow were contacted again individually and the message repeated. Frequently in the heat of the moment gunners would forget to acknowledge causing some irritation and on one occasion an exasperated GCO ordered me to reprimand the miscreant. Having got the official blessing I proceeded to do just that, translating his order into the vernacular most effectively; I was rewarded with most obsequious apologies elevating my rank to that of "sir". Later I discovered that my correspondent was a major, outranking our GCO, fortunately he didn't know who I was.

These tasks were performed in the RAF by WAAF's and we were told from the beginning that we would be replaced eventually by the ATS but by the time I left Plymouth in 1942 they still hadn't taken over. It was quite a boring job at times and most of us hoped for something more challenging.

The Line Section's work was a little better, they went out daily, running more lines and repairing those damaged in air raids; in our detachment there was no establishment for a draughtsman but the Line Section wanted a record of the routes of all their lines and so I drifted into the job. Armed with a one-inch-to-the-mile Ordnance Survey map I produced the necessary drawings; it was also alleged that I marked the locations of all the coffee shops in the area but there's no truth to it. Phone lines across the country followed whatever path was most suitable, using twisted Don8 cable that was attached to any convenient feature, trees telegraph poles or buildings. In the case of the line to Fort Tregantle I spent a day with others on a fatigue party digging a trench across the road in which the cable was to be buried. A call went out to the local populace asking for empty cotton reels; these were to be used not specifically as insulators but rather as attachment points offering less fretting to the cable than a nail alone would do.