Of the many thousands of characters whom I encountered during my six-and-a-half years of army life most have drifted into obscurity but some are still with me; such a one was Brigadier Barbary of 55 Brigade. Without my knowing for sure rumour had it that he had a firm in Cornwall and I assumed that it was an engineering firm; I also assumed because of this that he was a Territorial Army officer. He was a shortish almost portly figure with a definite bearing. His articulation was not exactly that of the BBC but he had a pleasing Cornish accent and over the many times I saw him he never appeared to have the aloofness of rank. Occasionally he would visit our GOR and having discussed things at a higher level would exchange a few words with the other ranks. During a lull in operations I was seated at the plotting table reading a not very intellectual magazine when I became aware of his presence; I sprang to my feet. “No, no,” he said, “sit down.” I obeyed. “What’s that you’re reading?” he asked. I gave him the magazine which he scrutinised. “What’s your job in civvy street?” he enquired. I told him. “Then you don’t want to read trash like this, get some technical magazines to read, if you don’t keep up with things you’ll finish up with an addled brain.” Then wishing to speak with Exeter he said to a telephone operator, “Gimme my brigade.”

In the days when our GOR was in Hamoaze House one of our signalmen, Bill Lambert, had to take a message into another room where a meeting of some top brass was in progress; assorted crowns and pips were there together with their ATS drivers. The meeting was about to break up and Brigadier Barbary picked up his baton and asked, “Where’s me ‘at?” Up jumped his ATS driver and said, “Here I am, Sir.” “No, no, not you dear,” said the brigadier, “I means the ‘at wot I wears on me ‘ead.” Many years later this story was confirmed, word for word, by an ex-colonel who had also been present.

Other unusual characters often come to mind when I recall those days; one lad arrived alone one morning wearing khaki but sporting an RAF pilot’s wings on his chest. He had been transferred from the RAF and he told us bits of his story but never the reason for his transfer and we assumed because of his nervousness and his habit of constantly looking back over his shoulder that it was LMF. He told us that with others he had been ordered to machine-gun soldiers, presumably enemy, on the beach near Brighton and offered to bring in his log book but we didn’t press the matter.

Derek was a different type; he also arrived alone. He was about 19 and this was the first time he had ever been away from home. He was a quiet retiring lad, one could almost say not quite of this world and what was unusual was that he couldn’t shave himself, up to that time his mother had always shaved him; adapting to the army life was a real challenge for him but I suppose the army was happy to have another warm body.

Bob was near my age, maybe a year or so older and before the army got hold of him he was a school teacher. He found life just as boring as the rest of us but he surprised us all when he announced that he was going to apply for a commission. We enquired in what branch and he said that the only commissions available then were in the infantry. Our further enquiries elicited the following; he and his wife had a fairly large circle of friends and when they entertained their hallstand became full of uniforms, all with pips, crowns or rings. His wife pointed out that all Bob could rustle up was a standard army greatcoat without even a lance-corporal’s stripe, so Bob decided to remedy the situation. Well, good luck, Bob, I thought, if you don’t make it, as you probably won’t, your wife can always hang your posthumous medals on the hallstand together with all the bowler hats.

In the early part of 1942 in bitterly cold weather I was on daytime guard duty at the gate (what else is new?); I was bundled up in my greatcoat and a leather jerkin, one of the more acceptable pieces of equipment supplied by the army, when the duty sergeant approached “You’re to go up to the GOR and take a teleprinter test this afternoon,” he said, “teleprinter operators are required for an overseas draft and so far four from different units have been found to be inefficient, it’s your turn to try.” Not having touched a teleprinter for a couple of years I said, “It’s no use, sarge, I’ll fail, it’s a waste of time.” He was a regular soldier and he found it difficult to understand that anyone would voluntarily drop in pay. “You mean you’re prepared to forfeit your trade pay without even giving it a try? You’ll revert to general duties.” An idea had begun to form in my mind, if I were to revert to general duties then I would be free to apply for a transfer to another branch of the services to a trade more in line with my civilian job, possibly into the Royal Engineers or the Royal Army Ordnance Corps and I told the sergeant so. He thought about it for a moment and then agreed, he went into the Company Office, saw the CO and returned within half-an-hour with the necessary papers for a transfer application.

A few days later I was at Devonport railway station awaiting a Southern Railway train bound for Salisbury. On arrival there I found my way to the private house where I was to be interviewed. I forget the officer’s rank, he was probably a major but it was an informal affair, one-on-one. I suppose that my answers to his semi-technical questions were satisfactory and eventually he asked, ”Have you ever thought of a commission?” Now in this world there are leaders and there are followers and in matters concerning the life or death of others I come in the second category. “No, Sir.” I replied. “You could be compelled to.” he said. I was non-committal and we left it at that. Back in Bowden Battery I was called in front of a visiting officer, Captain Barbary, son of the brigadier. Apparently certain selected individuals were to be sent on an intensive physical training course to develop their full potential and Barbary was there to sort out those most likely to benefit from the scheme. Reflex actions and the speed thereof were checked and I suppose that a general assessment of physique was made, anyway a couple of days later I was bound for Westward Ho on the north coast of Devon with all my kit. My destination was a pre-war holiday camp, taken over by the military but the holiday spirit was gone and the conditions were spartan. However before my course really got started I was ordered to get moving once more, this time to Tidworth to take a trade test.

I had only ever heard of the place before as being the site of the Tidworth Tattoo and I wasn’t quite prepared for the fact that it appeared to be in the middle of nowhere and that the railway tracks finished there; my spirits sank. The one redeeming thing was that I would only be there for a couple of days. Military personnel of all corps and regiments seemed to be there and it had an atmosphere of bustle, squads marching and counter-marching, urged on by the drill-pigs, little dictators strutting their stuff. There were military vehicles also including a few tanks, probably the only ones Britain possessed at that time and pips and crowns abounded together with some red tabs. But there was one little haven of relative peace, the Drawing Office where I took my trade test and for two days I could shut off the military world. When it was all over I returned to Bowden Battery as it was too late to re-join the intensive physical training course.

Some days later I was ordered to go to a holding battalion at Oxshott. Once again I gathered up all my kit and headed east, this time as a private in the RAOC, a draughtsman class III. I detrained at Oxshott station and plodded up the hill to the holding battalion that was in a large private house set in a very large garden on the road between Leatherhead and Esher. It was about five o’clock when I got there and the first thing to do after reporting in was to get something to eat. This done I next went to the QM stores to get my kit sorted out. I exchanged my leather bandolier and black leather gaiters for webbing bren gun pouches and gaiters all in pieces and in different shades of khaki. I also exchanged my gas mask for an identical one which seemed silly to me but I still didn’t have a complete issue of army equipment.

OXSHOTT