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 3rd 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 assist 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, button 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.
