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( Part 4) Painting things white

These were also days when the whole day was filled with a thousand and one duties. Painting things white was the top of the bumper fun book. Orders were quite plain, ‘If it doesn’t move paint it’.

It was sure sign that the top brass was popping in for a cup of tea.
The smartest amongst the platoon would be picked for this guard duty to give the finest of displays. Thank goodness for this young soldier these highs were never achieved. No doubt about it and stretching the point, the head was willing but that the rest of him seemed detached. Each limb he had choosing a different path to tread. As bad as he was there was a time when his name appeared on the notice board to join the guard duties. He would try to perform the impossible always determined to get this hideous guard duty right even if it took all night and all his might to get the hang of it. It was impossible; his efforts made the rest of the lads look brilliant.
With heavy heart he would take a deep breath and continue the unending hours of cleaning and polishing.
In between the cleaning, the routine guard drill was repeated until some sort of shape emerged
This wasn’t the life he had envisaged; his eyes turned to his film heroes for some sort of guide. The picture always projected the perfect soldier image, and was forever on the move to new pastures, not wasted time polishing those blasted boots with equipment designed for action in the F.W.W.

Another notice board displayed his name on it the M.O wanted to get into the act. Many jabs and vaccinations were to be given in preparation for overseas operations. There was no way in dodging them; each section was entered into the A.B 64. Bit by bit he was being turned into the soldier they wanted. The jabs wouldn’t make him bullet proof but at least bug proof. Their remedy for the very sore arms was to dig a trench, and then fill it in again. It must have worked. Nobody died from it but his or her language became more colourful.

Early Days

It’s the same old routine marching orders abounded! "Right turn’, Left turn, About turn." Invariably the young soldier finished up looking in the wrong way and clashing with his fellow soldier, his pride dented and leans heavily on the premise, ‘Time may improve things’? He looks to the floor and just shakes his head; there is no other way but to get on with it.
First rules in saluting started with those you do salute, and those you don’t. Somehow the story went that it’s not the guy but the uniform it’s in. The others are in substandard ill- fitting uniforms that were to be buttoned right up to the top of the tunic. With the power of a town-crier words are sent in the direction of the rookies, nobody, just nobody in that substandard uniform buttoned up to the regulation neck height was to forget that the officers uniform needed all that hand waving to respect at least one arm of the service.

First days in learning the art of saluting.

It was earliest of days the over anxious recruit sometimes went through the act of saluting anyone that looked like an officer, often only to be rebuked for his effort. A parade was called; the Sergeant stood there and stares along the ranks, then stops to stare a little longer at few of the individuals, and moves on to look at other misfits. Now he can be seen to be working himself into one of those tantrum as he rolls about on his feet, and then hesitated. His voice is squeezed through clenched teeth say’s something that he must have felt should only be whispered, "Sums of you blokes as been saluting warrant officers. It's got to stop." His eyes waltzed around the group; "Saluting is only for the privilege of the officers, as yooou got it."

Looking around him and with words from his Sergeant's vocabulary he makes this statement, "I is yer to make sure its going to bloody well stop," Nobody made a sound. The sound delay fired him up, "Are you all bloody deaf, braver ones start the ripple of, ‘no Sergeant’. All have to admitt to not being deaf. There is a pause as he set himself up; he was now in the position to demonstrate the hand salute.

"Now you is to watch carefully," standing to attention, he shouts his instructions! “The longest way up, and the shortest way down and almost spits out, as you all got that”? He stared directly at the main offenders "Right let’s be having yooou!" He was working himself into a bit of a higher tittering; his fiery looks start to stir them all. At least the lad is not alone this time; the majority meets the sergeant’s requirements of being called a “Bloody Shower”.

With a degree of utter hopelessness he drags himself into some sort of shape. Then with a bit of a twitching body presents his salute. The young lad’s salute was a mixture of the Royal Navy and the American salute. Very flamboyant and possessively the most picturesque, but it always got the thumbs down. Some-how the Sergeant standing there is still unbroken. His molars were grinding away as he stood in front of the lad, then grabs the offending hand to put it into the right position. For a short while the hand stays in the correct position, and then wanders off again to the lad’s way of saluting.
In a last effort the Sergeant clearly now revealing his annoyance with an extra display of grinding his teeth. It was eye to eye now; the unspoken thought was a plain as his oversized mouth, then as if willing that wondering hand to lock in position grasps it in a vice-like grip and pushes it once again into the right position
Almost out of pity he says, "As you got it," and moves on to the next offender. The hand still wondered off in the direction of the Royal Navy and American salute. The lad was a bit relieved that he wasn’t the only one that found it hard and even took some satisfaction from it. Different styles abounded; the most picturesque was the hand that turned it into a fan. It had that nervous twitch that gave the movement some sort of richness as it travelled between the eyebrow and the top of their head.
The Sergeant tries to grab at the hand as if he was trying to catch a bird in flight and almost knocks the recruit’s eye out. It was a long day for the poor sod! and screams at the recruit, "For Gods sake! If you want to cool you’re bloody head off go and have a run around the parade ground." It’s a time of great control as he looks at the recruit and screams "One more time, this time just like this! He looks and can see a slight improvement and moves on.

His tormentors are just as browned off as he is, but orders are orders, and continue with the saluting of officers on the move. His saluting act is one of perfection. The act needs a perfectly placed body, and this he does before he steps off, arms swinging, his head erect, turns his head to the imaginary officer, "Up two three down two three, stops to look around, have you got that private?" He looked at the nearest recruit to him. Then, to make sure the message had got through, "Up two three, down to three." Looking around with sadness in his eyes he makes another observation, "anyone suddenly dropping down to do his boot laces up or doing any other bit of skiving and the Sergeant-Major sees him he will be reported, "extra saluting and pack drill for this lucky bugger. So watch your step! Its officer’s privilege and yous going to provide it, like it or not’. Then as if to put the fear of god in them he eyed each one gave a grunt as if he was in pain and carried on with the saluting drill.

The art of saluting had gone on long enough, his long suffering has come to an end, and he dismissed the parade. Rifle drill was to get even a bigger ordeal for the poor fellow. Each man had to be properly dressed, with a rifle and a sling that needed to be covered in blanco for this barrack drill. A part of the drill was to slap the sling thing as hard as possible with the result that it threw a cloud of dust every time it was hit with the hand. Perhaps if it had been DDT powders it may have been so useful for something or other.
His First World War belt and pouches had the same treatment as the rifle sling, with the same consequences discharging blasted dust everywhere. A bayonet in its scabbard hung from the back of the belt. Nothing seems to be missing and he’s as ready as he will ever be to take part in this drill. The usual small talk amongst the group but subdued by thoughts of the new drill that other platoons were being put through. Prior to this day when they were involved it met with little interest; it was now their turn, their main interests now was waiting for the Sergeant and corporals to form them up, then to march them onto the parade ground.

He stands there with his three strips gleaming and looking just like a dragon breathing fire----‘Get on parade’. The parade was called and the initial inspection of the equipment was carried out. NCO’s standing with the Sargent move around the ranks to see if it was fitted to the body correctly.
As the drill Sergeant works his way along the line, he stands in front of each one of his new recruits. There were a variety of adjustments to the equipment as he moves along. Its wintertime and the weather is bloody awful, a wind from the North Sea is objecting to the lad even standing there. It’s so strong that it pushes through the greatcoat with the ease of a hot knife passing through butter, issue mittens give a little protection to the uncovered finger tips which have become numbed to the bone.
His steel helmet takes on the roll of a refrigerator and freezes the mind, all that extra hot drinks he has swallowed before coming on parade are sending the message that they want to return to the outside world.
The lad has to concentrate to keep it where it is, ‘God, ‘he thinks'. Haven't I got enough troubles'? To add to it the Sargent has arrived at his doorstep and is stepping right close to him. The first thing he goes for is the belt and pulls on it as if he wants to pass it through the lad’s body, this only adds to the problem by compressing the already over-tight water works. It’s almost too much to bear in silence the warning about the possible disaster is screaming inside his head, "bloody hell! Bastard," as he just managed to hold on to his water.
As cold as he was the air he breathes looking like hot steam as it leaves his mouth. How much more of this can he take?' His personal inspection wasn’t over; the Sargent handled his two ammunition pouches as if he was handling a woman’s breasts. "‘What have we got yere? Another couple of inches and the bloody things would be hanging about your knees." He tugs at the straps and straightens them up. "God why doesn’t he piss off" the young soldier winces. "That’s where they should be." as he again moves the pouches up and down. He replies with clenched teeth, "yes Sergeant," but his thoughts are mainly concentrated on his own body needs.
He was trapped and just as well be in Piccadilly Circus with people teaming about and all the toilets closed. What a life! He’s in the army now and was on parade and he couldn’t put up his hand and say, ‘Please teacher’, bust or other wise, this was where he had to stop. The future hour for him was to delve into the mysteries of rifle drill and wanting to have a pee. Time goes on as they are instructed in the art of rifle drill. He and others are in agony as the Sargent dismisses the platoon; with a dozen other fellows makes a B line to the toilets. Fittest of them arrive first and are shoved over to make room. There was no room just to stand on ceremony, time is precious. The ones that are stubbornly holding their position around the pan are warned. "If you do not move it will be all over you." Some were cursing they had been too late. Others just standing there just cooing and moving their heads side to side, ‘Bloody hell that was close’.
Another lesson had been learnt. Limit the tea before the parade especially in cold weather.

Ceremonial use of the rifle and bayonet had become a big part of parade life. Slopping, presenting arms, reversing arms and fix bayonet to the rifle seemed to have been up till then the main contribution to his war effort. It's the thought of these drills that has turned him into a sweaty mess, he knew about his two left feet, now his arms seemed to be too short to handle his rifle and bayonet and he wonders what else could go wrong.
Waiting over and the order to slope arms would be given. He could get it on his shoulder all right, for him anyway. Sadly it was not to the liking of the Sargent. It almost lay flat across the lad’s shoulder, it seems the sergeant thought that it was in a position to do a trick shot and didn’t want any circus clowns, and did the lad “want to poke the eye of the fellow behind him.” Regardless of the tormented state of the young recruit he would expect an answer, this time he only needed to hear it shouted out a few times. With a relentless pursuit of perfection the NCO would sake his head and asks him, ‘What bloody army are you in’, and got hold of the boy’s elbow and rammed it into his side. ‘The rifle likes it better there, the army likes it there, so wake your **** ideas up’ and walks away muttering to himself.

When given the order and as if reciting a nursery rhyme, under his breath the lad starts to counts ‘One, two, three, and four! This went on until the whole sequence of the salute was completed. His mind rushed around to try to grab at the repeat sequence to get the blasted thing into a new position.
Using a similar formula for the all-important fixing bayonet he is feeling for the bayonet that was swinging freely from the back of the belt. It seemed almost an impossible task and took a positive grab at the handle. At last it was in his hand, and then straightens the arm. Bayonet and scabbard swivel around, and is now in the position to remove it. First part of the exercise was over. He mumbles to himself, "one, two three," and finds problems in fixing the bayonet to the rifle. This is repeated until the thing is in its position on the rifle then with some relief, repeats, "one, two three, until his arm returns to his side.
He had got over the first part of training; the big test time had yet to come.

Duty Officer. Only Memories.

It was a parade that was headed by the duty officer, with his NCOs to carry out the inspections.
War long time over, as often happens that in this stage of time, it had left the old Charlie G chap the writer these war years trying to picture things as they really were for him. His young man as he pictures him is as lively as he ever was the ghosts of his past urge him to press on, they are only memories so what the hell.

Today was to be his big day; he wanted to present himself as a worthy soldier. Nothing was to be over looked. He even gave an extra special cleaning to his rifle. As if to find some excuse for his two left feet, he reminded himself that he was new hand at this sort life. The boy’s 70th battalion had only been formed for a few weeks.
All his extra special preparation lulled him into thinking that nothing could go wrong. He had spent hours with an imaginary rifle slopping, presenting and all the other things he had so painfully practiced on the parade ground. Equipment that had been blancoed with its polished brasses lay at the end of his bed. The desire to do even better made him carry out further inspections of the bayonet and scabbard. There was not a mark on them; they would pass any inspection. It was the boots turn to be inspected. They were complete with high polish; all the studs and things were in place and was even starting to praise his hours of work and the successful outcome
Just to make sure he breathes over the toecaps of the boots and has another good rub with his polishing cloth then looks intensely at it all. "The bastards won’t find anything wrong with this lot." His clothing is in peak condition. Nothing can go wrong, anyway that what he thinks.
It’s just another, ‘just in case’, and his main concern, picks up his rifle for another once over. With a sweeping motion the bottom of the butt is in position to lift the small metal cover below it the pull-through. He frees it, and it is ready for his first attempt. Not a worry in the world now, time is on his side. A freshly prepared piece of four by two is fed into the loop at its end. There is a delay as he takes out the bolt and points the barrel in the direction of the floor. With a crazy excitement he dropped the weight carrying the cord and four by two through the barrel. With another swinging movement he drops the butt to the floor. For the first time he completes his first drop then it’s a tug as he pulls the four by two through the length of the barrel. His rifle has had it first real clean for years. Holding it up to the light and spies down it and is still not satisfied, then adds another piece of four by two. It’s much harder to pull through but succeeds in pulling it through. He's well satisfied with that extra effort, smugly he reflects, “let the buggers pick holes in that."
Its time to turn in, he would sleep well; there was nothing to worry about. That extra special attention to the equipment would get him un-scathed through this new ordeal.
(The pull through was made up of a length of cord that had a loop one end to hold the piece of four by two cloth. The other end a brass tube that acts as a weight was clamped onto the cord end.)

The parade had started the saluting thing was over and the officer stood there to carry out the inspection. Along come his lord-ship and NCOs to carry out the inspection, in a well-educated voice gave the order to present arms for inspection. Glancing down for no real reason he spied the breech hole just couldn’t believe it, the words, ‘can’t believe it’ roller-coasted through his head. That gaping hole took on the size of a tube station, in his effort to obtain excellence stripping the rifles mechanism down for the umpteenth time he had left the bolt out, the sight of that missing bolt jumped out at the lad, he was in shear panic and felt his eyes had popped out and were zooming out in the direction of that blasted empty breach. There was nothing he could do but panic and wouldn’t take the brain of Britain to see that the bolt was missing.
It was obvious something had to be done. This gremlin sitting on his shoulder could piss off and be replaced by a kinder angel of mercy, his brain worked like mad. As muddled as the brain was he could see that there was only one option. Carry out all the actions set for this inspection. Put on a brave face and find that perfect position for the rifle. Satisfied it was in the right position he went on with the action of moving the non-existing bolt up and down. All the unused ammunition would by now is rejected from the magazine. This action was sound enough; the, if only kept repeating its self. The officer with the NCO were looking straight him. There was an inaudible sigh from the young lad as the rifle with that missing bolt was brought up into position for inspection. This façade was to continue by the lad placing his thumbnail in the breach to mirror the light through the length of the barrel.
He waited; the time seemed to drag on for years, he knew he was trapped and no where to run, there was no joy in waiting, bests to get it over with. Impatient he keeps repeating to himself, “balls. Bloody balls to them all, the big, the short and the tall”. "Bloody hell what’s he waiting for." With an added silent plea, "For gods sake, get on with it." The officer just stood there as if it couldn’t be true, his actions were obvious; he had noticed the missing bolt. Sadly for the young recruit the acting hadn’t fooled his lordship. Turning to the sergeant he said,’ charge this man. Distasteful details of this soldier were left to the sergeant.

It was the usual thing on parade time for someone to have his name and number taken, this time it was directed at him. He never understood why the Duty Sergeant with his red sash blazing had to stand a few inches away from his ear to do the shouting. His English was awful and as if to lubricate the ear spit travelled with the noise. As young the lad was, his nerve had almost been broken and finding it almost impossible to comprehend the words of army authority. Crumbling by the minute he tried to take in the words of the sergeant. He was shouting! "You-You, stand to attention, name and number." The strength of the reply didn’t satisfy him. "Cummmm, come what’s your name’, and rounded it off with, "you dozy individual." Its sound effect was if the lad had been made of china the vibrations from the voice would shattered him into a million pieces.
All bad things come to an end, the humiliation of it all still to be recalled by his mates. Thank goodness it was early days and the army justice was lenient with him. Ordeal of waiting for charges to be presented was to be the worse part. It was his first charge; the unknown can be so terrifying. Tails from the hardened defaulters did nothing to help ease his feelings. As it turned out the lad’s short service acted in his favour.
He didn’t know why? But it must have been that the army was short in numbers. Anyway Hitler and his jolly men still wanted to pay the country a visit. It would have been a no contest from this 70th Batt. Group, but what the hell, perhaps there might have been a few surprises.

It was a hard day for him but a bit of a laugh for the old soldiers and the officers’ mess. The lad tries to balance it all out. It was common knowledge and as he sits in the canteen he has to take the sniggers of some of his mates. The old man can picture it all as he writes down, the things that he remembers about this lad now only bemuses him. For him the young soldier is alive as he ever was. His memories maybe a little blurred around the edges but there is still plenty of fire left in his soldier.

He sees his soldier lad suffering in silence; but is still prepared to do battle with the blokes he thinks he can manage in a fight. Any joker that makes a remark that he disagrees with he tells them ‘To piss off’.
Looking to the counter he spies his favourite NAFFY girl and goes to her. He has a little money and spends it recklessly on one tea and two rock cakes. Drawing himself to his full height he slides the money over the counter towards her. It had the air that there is plenty more where that comes from, Humpty Bogart had nothing on him. His big spend has not impressed her. There would be no sympathy from her.
An empty table is within a few feet of him and with the look of a castaway pulls the chair out and sits down. Cakes and tea have long lost their magic. They were paid for and he eats them as if there would be no tomorrow, there are pauses when the hard pieces lodge in the back of the throat, the only thing that relieves it is a few mouthfuls of tea and grasps the mug of tea in both hands pressing it to his mouth then a little adjustment gulps down the hot liquid in an effort to send that offended piece cake on its way. It’s ok until the next time.
The lad looks into space, ‘what the bloody hell have I done to deserve all this’ and returns to the barrack room and gets into bed to try and get away from it all. Nothing seemed to ease the agony. ‘Why in hell didn’t I get out when I could have’? He puts the blanket over his head as if to shut off the outside world.
It was no escape from that spectre it is haunting him. Horrendous tales of the ‘Glass House’ added to his imagination, twenty-eight days in the glass-house is repeated over and over again. A nightmare predicting the worse punishments seemed to last forever. He sits up, even his over acting body has scattered the bed clothing far and wide, sweating still half asleep and shouts ‘leave me alone’.
Those around are disturbed by it and in their best army language tell him to get back to sleep. He is so tired that their voices are only background noises. Within a short time he drifts off once again.

Morning had to come, its dark and cold outside, and the natural world is all quiet and doesn’t seem to want to be disturbed. A devil in his head was banging away like hell ---‘What’s the bloody hells going on’, as he returned to his New World with a trumpet sounding Reveille; its noise banging its way into the almost unconscious mind of his living tissues and is almost conscious to the usual strange noises and sounds erupt from below the blankets of his comrades near to him. For some their first action is to sit up and grab a fag, then light it and cough like mad, others grabbed at a half empty beer cans, and swigged it down, myth believed it was a booze cure; it was a bit of the dog that had bit them and a bit like throwing a pinch of salt over the shoulder to ward off the devil. A refill of last-nights boozes the highly recommended cure for a badly boozed head.

The young soldier struggles back into consciousness and is greeted by them around him, with ‘what the bloody hell was a matter with you last night’. There was a little sympathy from his buddies who understood the torture of waiting to see the ‘old man’.
A notice is dully posted the appointed day is set and arrives. Orders are scruple adhered too. He dresses up in his best bib and tucker; his nerves have been jagged by the thoughts of the on coming ordeal. Adjusting, fidgeting and pulling the uniform didn’t help as he walked that terrible distance to the office. At least he hoped there would be no criticism to his appearance. There were further inspections by the NCO. It all builds up that extra phobia that he will be chained to some prison wall and the keys would be thrown away.
With a mind as whirling as his, he can say nothing but think and thinks. ‘Why the hell can’t they get on with it’?
The wish is granted and the time had come to move into the CO’s office; He and escort were marched into the office at the double, it was then right turn, cap off for the prisoner in army fashion, then rank, name and number. There sat the officer with power undreamed of by man. A main man flanked by the lesser man the charge was then read out, he was then given a little bit to say.
He reacts as if he is still a civilian and still wet behind the ears. “Sir I didn’t’, glances down at the officer, the rest of the sentence was watered down to a mere mumble. A little bit of soldier shone through, and he drew himself to his full height feeling that he was now the martyr to the King’s shilling. Then looked straight ahead and with an inaudible sound to others said “Balls to them”. It was his bit of silent defiance.
A little bit of his character reference was read out. His judge officer’s head moves up and down and looks at the dejected soldier; the big time has come to pass the sentence. His officer could come to any decision, small things he could deal with; failing this he could also take the decision to refer it to a higher court. That decision could take the lad onto the dreaded route to the ‘Glass House’. It was an army prison that was known to break the strongest will. The young soldier trembled at the thought.
As new as he was to army life he was wise enough to accept the punishment given by the officer. He places all his hopes that they are still normal human beings and have hearts as big as pumpkins. He looks to his god and hopes that all the CO’s natural needs had been met with the night before.

Up looks the officer, his bottom teeth are pushed up over his top lip and looks as if he his thinking, there is a short delay, ‘God’ thinks the soldier, ‘what the bloody hell is it going to be’.
At last the decision was made, ‘I have decided that your punishment is that you will be confined to barracks with extra fatigues. There will also be pay stoppages’. Orders are given, hat on, the NCO salutes. An order is given. ‘Left turn’, ‘double, double’ and the prisoner and escort move into the outer office and is dismissed to sin another day.

Within another few weeks the poor lad had defaulted again.

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