蜜芽传媒

Why the 鈥榊鈥� Service?
And what and where was it? I had never heard of it, so how I ended up in it is as much an 鈥淓nigma鈥� to me as to anyone. Perhaps it all stemmed from my youth, and the night I nearly shot my sergeant鈥�
Winter 1941鈥t was a dark, dank night. I was a mere 17-year old, recently left Whitley & Monkseaton High School to join Shipowners, Furness, Withy & Co. Ltd., at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. There my daytime employment was Junior Customs Clerk; at night I guarded Northumbria's Coast against invaders!
In jumbo greatcoat, more akin to Russian Steppes refugee than 蜜芽传媒 Guard Private, I had trudged wearily and alone for the past two hours鈥� back and forth along Whitley Bay鈥檚 cliff-tops around Panama Dip. In the Blackout I could barely see yards around me, unearthly silence broken only by thumping waves. Was it any wonder I felt I was single-handedly confronting an invisible enemy?
Without warning, cry for help! Drawing on my extensive training, all of three weeks, I charged towards the voice. Spotting a confrontation, thoughts flashed. What to do: shoot first, or be shot? Ask questions first, and then be shot? Or dive for cover? Gallantly gripping First War Rifle I went into the attack, clicking a round up the spout, until the sergeant鈥檚 bellowed Army lingo stopped me in my tracks.
My lame apology that I thought the invasion had begun and he was shouting for help brought the standard retort: 鈥業n This Man鈥檚 Army, soldier, you鈥檙e not paid to think!鈥� Apparently he had called 鈥楬alt鈥�, but the 鈥渋nvader鈥� was friendly. Thus, the sergeant remained to fight another day, and fellow Geordies could continue to sleep safely in their beds.
Nonetheless, I hated the sleepless boredom of Guard Duties, yet even the darkest night has its shiny lining. Cold and envious as I was, perverse gratification obtained from ejecting canoodling couples from their cosy sea-front shelters; perhaps poetic justice that my sleep thereafter would be at a premium.
19th February, 1942鈥rmy Service begins at Highland Light Infantry鈥檚 legendary Maryhill Barracks, Glasgow. There, at crack-of-dawn reveille, we were up and out for al fresco P.T., followed by route-marching and cross-country running; unarmed combat and bayonet drill; Rifle, Bren and Sten gun training, Square- or spud-bashing; breaks only for stomach churning sustenance; fatigues thrown in for evening pastime.
This maltreatment of body and mind continued unabated for six weeks until I Passed Out: surprisingly still medically A1 and superbly fit Trained Infantryman; Sniper standard Rifle Marksman. However, for reasons known only to the High Command I was transferred via Chichester and Southampton to Royal Corps of Signals, Trowbridge; no longer destined for over-the-top hero - more underground mole! There I was billeted in the former Council Offices; slumber regularly interrupted by relentless Fire Alarm.
Although the West Country was known to be safer than most, ironically it would be the nearest I would come to being killed throughout the war. I had just come off Fire Picket on the Council roof when a low-flying plane dropped a stick of bombs; our windows blew in, fortunately not injuring any incumbents. Tragically, however, direct hit on opposite house killed an old lady and her little granddaughter, and we had the sorrowful task of extricating their bodies.
April 27th, 1942鈥nother roof-top Fire Picket, mesmerised at distant 鈥渇ireworks鈥� more akin to Dante鈥檚 Inferno: turned out to be callous, worthless 鈥淏aedeker鈥� bombing of Bath with great loss of life and property.
After five months training, I qualified as Special Operator, signed The Secrets Act to become fully-fledged member of War Office 鈥榊鈥� Service, yet still abysmally ignorant of the undercover world I had unwittingly entered.
So 鈥榃hy the 鈥榊鈥� Service?鈥� Well, in the ultra-secret underworld I now inhabited, Code was the criterion of communication. Thus, the Y symbol could be likened to an aerial and the letter deciphered as Wireless Intercept. That, and no more, could we deduce. Immediately, I was transferred to nearby Bradford-upon-Avon to await posting.
Here I experienced as near a miracle as could be imagined anywhere 鈥� except in 鈥淭his Man鈥檚 Army鈥�! As any ex-squaddy will tell you Regimental Sergeant Majors are not just the steely backbone of the British Army they are its rock-hearted impulsion! Picture the scene: Embarkation parade. Six-man fully kitted detachment. RSM undertakes head-to-toe inspection. He stops in front of me; eyes gimlet my inner being. 鈥楽o how old do you reckon you are, Sonny?鈥�
Sonny? From RSM? 鈥楴ineteen, Sir,鈥� I gulp.
鈥榃ell, you don鈥檛 look it! You鈥檙e removed from this draft. Fall out!鈥�
Ears deceiving me, I march off, and to this very day cannot reconcile such defiance of official Orders. Did this unique being, an RSM with a heart, truly disbelieve my age? (See photograph and judge for yourself). Or did he know it was a dangerous mission? Did I remind him of his son, perhaps lost in action? Only one thing certain, this wolf in battle-dress could never be mistaken for Mary鈥檚 little lamb!
Sadly, I never saw him again to uncover the truth. However, though he might not have saved my life, he doubtlessly helped make it. My next posting was to Shenley Special Wireless Centre,Hertfordshire. There I would meet a colleague Special Operator, Catherine Hendry Gray, love of my life, later to become my beloved wife. That RSM, therefore, has my lifelong gratitude twice over!
However, before living 鈥渉appily ever after鈥�, we would first have to endure round the clock watches. Incarcerated in silent Set Room, shut out from the world behind wireless headphones, we listened for designated enemy Morse: mainly German, although I later trained for vastly more complex Japanese! Any distractions banned; make-believe match-sticks propping up drooping eyelids, minimal off duty broken sleep. We wcould meet only at irregular coinciding breaks.
Whatever happened to our intercepted messages we had not a clue; everyone working on a 鈥渘eed to know basis鈥�. Indeed it would be decades after the war that we learnt that they were transmitted, or carried by Despatch Rider, to Bletchley Park: Station X its wartime alias. Following a visit there some forty years later we discovered some of the 鈥榊鈥檚 and wherefores of the 鈥榊鈥� Service,certainly not all!
Prior to that we never fully appreciated what was 鈥淪pecial鈥� about our title; by no means imagining how vital our work would turn out to be. It was, therefore, especially gratifying to learn that instead of killing a few Germans, as I might have done as an Infantryman, our combined efforts helped shorten the war by several years, thereby saving innumerable lives 鈥� allies and enemy!
Weeks, months and years passed until the fateful day I found myself feverishly taking down a message from Berlin HQ operator, call-sign DSK, frantically transmitting in 鈥減lain language鈥� Morse as no time to encipher. A summoned Intelligence Corps Corporal stood behind me interpreting to the effect that, 鈥榃e are overwhelmed and closing down鈥�, and with a desperately rattled message ending 鈥渄it-dit-dit-dah-dit-dah鈥� the ether fell silent. Thus we learnt that the war with Germany was all over bar the signing. Particularly apt and doubly gratifying for this amicable Corporal Franks, being himself a Jew: prime target of Hitler鈥檚 annihilation programme.
Nevertheless 8th May 1945 V-E (Victory in Europe) Day arrived and passed me by as more or less another 24 hours: on duty 0300 to 0800 and 1700 to 2200 hours; next morning 0800 to 1300 and 2200 to 0300 hours, and day after day until鈥�
15th August 1945 V-J (Victory over Japan) Day鈥his time, with World War II finally over, I hoped to be heading homeward. Instead, I was outward bound, and for no comprehensible reason accommodated en route at Catering Corps Barracks in Ossett, Yorkshire. During short spell there, with understandably good grub, I celebrated at Huddersfield Theatre; six of us from stage-side Box enjoying friendly banter with the performers.
Then tgransferred to Maghull, Liverpool, to await embarkation for Bombay. Once again, in the Army鈥檚 circuitous fashion, I was first entrained half-way across India to Mhow in the Central Provinces, then almost the length of the country down to Jallahalli in Southern India, ending up in isolated scrubland some sixteen miles from nearest town, Bangalore.
But war or no war, I was once more secreted in shadowy Special Wireless Set-room on round-the-clock watches; this time, though, in solitary confinement; only praying mantis for company. Nevertheless, enjoyable time-off for rugby, football and cricket, not to mention hockey for Select XI against India鈥檚 Olympic team in the Maharajah of Mysore鈥檚 Palace grounds. Half-time score 1-1, delighted; full-time 11-1 deflated! Later I would turn down invitation to compete in 100 yards and Long Jump at All-India Games, Madras, on the grounds that I had done enough travelling, fearing round sub-continent tour to get there.
Eventually, my work completed, I while away my time alternating between Musketry (Rifle)Instructor, NCO i/c Sport and RSM's Clerk! Normal hours and unbroken nights a delight. After sixteen months out there my time was up and I journeyed to Deolali; just missing the iconic Mahatma Gandhi. Never-ending days awaiting troopship, before sailing on Queen of Bermuda, one of Furness, Withy鈥檚 ships, for Southampton. With war now almost a thing of the past, no longer were there rejoicing relatives, boisterous bands and fluttering flags welcoming returning heroes as we quietly disembarked. Hours later this magnificent liner would be gutted by fire. Had it happened earlier at sea it could have been a major disaster, and you might not be reading this today. Likewise, had I been in that other convoy vehicle involved in fatal crash heading for demob centre.
19th November 1946鈥uildford, Surrey. D for Demob Day! Presented with herring-bone suit, fur-felt trilby, brown brogues et al, now civilian ex-Corporal heading home to Monkseaton to end my war; grateful for my survival, but sad for friends who didn鈥檛 make it back. Thus the 鈥榊鈥� Service and I parted company, though still bonded by the Secrets Act never to divulge any connection therewith or my wartime activities.
鈥楯ust one question, though. The war with Germany and Japan was over before you left for India, so what was the purpose of your duties there?
In answer to that may I suggest a visit to Bletchley Park Museum where you might uncover the reason for my assignment. If you do I too would love to share the secret!

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