It took me hours to get there and, by the time I arrived, it was almost time to come back. Needless to say I was completely knackered for the rest of the week.
We decided it would be far better for both of us if she got on a Green Line bus to Epping. I’d meet her there and then we’d travel back together to East Ham on the red bus, then repeat it when she headed back. This worked out a lot better and was far less exhausting!
It was so wonderful when her two years was up and she came back home permanently; it virtually coincided with the war ending, so it was perfect timing. But that happiness was only to last a year as, blow me down, here I am cycling over to tell her I’ve been called up.
We went to the park and sat on one of the benches, where I showed her the letter. Before she’d even read it she knew what it was. I could see she was upset, but all she said was, ‘You’ll have a great time, Stan, just like I did in the Land Army. It’ll fly by and we can write to one another all the time.’
‘But I’m going to miss you so much,’ I said, as I put my arm around her.
‘I know, and I’m going to miss you too, but we’ll see each other every night before you go,’ she said, as she laid her head on my shoulder. We sat like that for ages, just talking.
I was dreading telling Uncle Tom the next morning, but would you believe it, all he said was, ‘Nothing I can do about it, boy, you’ve just got to get on with it. God willing we’ll still be here when you get back.’ That was it – not another word was said.
My last day working was as normal as any other, the only difference being when I left that night, after his usual ‘Goodnight, boy, see you in the morning’, he left off the ‘see you in the morning’, adding ‘mind how you go, boy’.
He had very strange ways – not a man of words or emotions but I knew he’d miss me as much as I would him. Over the last four years I’d settled in to the business and loved getting up for work every day, learning the ropes with him and the other men. I was going to miss them all.
So, on 16 June 1946, I set off to Bedford for my General Military Training, which would last a period of six weeks. Mum and my sisters were in tears when I left, Dad was choked up – which didn’t surprise me as he was a big softy – and luckily Joan wasn’t there, as I think if she had been I would’ve burst into tears, too, but I managed to control myself as the neighbours were all out waving me off. It was all a bit embarrassing, to tell you the truth. All that fuss.
I sat on the train, thinking about what was going to happen, where I was going to go, who I was going to meet, and what we would be expected to do – it was overwhelming.
When I got to the barracks, a large group of other young men who’d also just arrived were milling around. It was the first time any of us had been away from home, so we were all filled with trepidation, and in those first few days those feelings were proved right.
We’d all gone from our homes to a boot camp; we knew it was going to be hard but it was certainly a shock to our systems. I’d been mentored by Uncle Tom, who was unbelievably tough, but these sergeant majors . . . they were a different species.
I was glad of having had the guidance and support of Mum and Dad and the experience of working with a man like my uncle. This helped me cope with the day-to-day rigours of army life and training. My family had instilled a strong work ethic in me, as well as discipline and taking pride in everything I did which, to be fair, most men had during those times. There weren’t any benefits in those days, so no work meant no money, no food and no house. It was as simple as that. So to lie about doing nothing was completely incomprehensible. This mindset certainly made my life in the Army slightly more bearable.
During our training we were taught to clean our rooms, boots and buckles, to make our beds, and to shoot a rifle, as well as take it to bits and clean it. We were paraded, marched and sent on assault courses, all of the time being constantly shouted at morning, noon and night – in fact, when the shouting stopped, you thought you’d gone deaf.
At the end of the six weeks we were allotted a regiment. Three of us were picked out to go into the Royal Armoured Corp 59th Training Regiment, situated in the town of Barnard Castle close to Darlington in County Durham.
Before heading off to our new regiment we were given a week’s leave. Seeing Joan, enjoying Mum’s cooking, and sleeping in my own bed again was marvellous. She was worried I’d lost weight so she fed me up all week with my favourite meals of steak and kidney pudding, jam roly-poly and spotted dick with Bird’s tinned custard. I’m sure London must have run out of suet and custard by the time I left!
So, at the end of this blissful week, I arranged to meet my two friends Bob Gilding and Bobby Hill at King’s Cross Station at 3 p.m., where we would catch the train up north. We eventually arrived around 8 p.m. into Darlington station and it was freezing! The gas lamps were lit and flickering on this ghostly cold, dark, miserable station, and it was like we’d reached the bounds of beyond.
Luckily the stationmaster was still around and we asked him how we were supposed to get to Barnard Castle. He pointed across the platform and said, ‘Go over there, lads, the train will be along in a while.’ It had started to sleet and the wind was howling around the station. As we huddled together on a frozen bench, I longed to be sitting in the armchair next to our fire, eating one of Mum’s cakes with a cup of tea, listening to the wireless. But here I was, freezing in this ungodly place.
The three of us sat there, it seemed like ages, waiting for this train, chatting away, once again not knowing what to expect at our new regiment.
We then heard footsteps, loud footsteps, coming from a distance. As they got closer we could see they were military; there were three of them, and they were built like bull elephants – a sergeant, a corporal and a lance corporal. They were obviously drill inspectors.
‘Don’t look at them,’ I whispered to the others. ‘Let them walk by, we don’t want to attract their attention.’ As they walked towards us we stood up and saluted.
The sergeant said, ‘At ease.’ We relaxed and sat down again. The three of them looked so intimidating with their hats pulled down over their eyes and whips tucked under their arms.
We found out later they’d been to the Guard Depot in Purbright in Surrey and had been on a course which was renowned to ‘make or break’ new recruits. These three were all here, so they obviously hadn’t been broken.
The old steam train eventually arrived. It was only pulling two carriages, so we got in the back whilst the ‘whips’ got in the front. It took another hour to arrive at Barnard Castle. Well, I thought Darlington station was bad enough, but this! It was as if we’d reached the ‘end of the line’ – in fact, I’m sure it was. There was virtually nothing there, just a small hut, which was the station, surrounded by fields. It was dark and bitterly cold, the wind was still howling and we had no idea where we should be heading. There was nobody around to ask and no signposts. Just then the doors of the front carriages opened and we watched the three ‘whips’ climb off and walk up a path that ran alongside the station. They opened a gate, climbed a few steps and carried on up the hill. They clearly knew where they were going so we followed behind at a respectable distance.
We’d walked a mile or so through driving sleet, uphill, against the bitterly cold wind, overcoats pulled tightly round us and hats pulled down as far as they’d go to stop our ears from dropping off. We were in the dark but fortunately we had our torches to guide us and of course the ‘whips’ up ahead kept us on track. God only knows how we were supposed to have found the place if it hadn’t been for them. What a relief when we saw the barracks in the distance – however, the cold we felt that night would be nothing to that in the coming weeks; the winter of 1946 turned out to be one of the coldest on record.
On the first morning we were told to attend the exercise halls in a singlet, socks, shorts and boots. Now, that was OK if we were going to stay inside, but no, that would be far too civilised. As I discovered they didn’t do ‘civilise
d’ in the Army.
Lance Corporal Brown, who happened to be one of the ‘whips’, marches in, champing at the bit to practise his newly discovered skills on us poor buggers.
He bellowed, ‘Right, outside you lot . . . NOW!’
We all ran outside and, within seconds, our teeth were chattering and we were literally turning blue.
‘I want you to RUN down to the town and back again without stopping. Notice I say RUN, not stroll, walk or jog, and I certainly don’t want to hear about any gassing with the local girls. Just keep going till you’re back here. WELL, GO ON, what are you bleedin’ waiting for – for me to kiss you goodbye. GO!’
And off we went. It was freezing cold and icy underfoot, so how we didn’t break our necks or get pneumonia, God only knows. Needless to say, he didn’t come with us; he had a spy waiting at the halfway point down in the village, ticking our names off a list and making sure we didn’t turn back. They were hard bastards.
Due to the atrocious weather, we were regularly sent out on patrols to help save sheep stranded on the hills. Sheep are renowned for being the most stupid animals on the planet and, believe me, they are! As snow starts to fall, instead of heading back to their farms they just carry on eating and, before they know it, they’re snowed in and it’s left to us to dig the dopey beggers out. So off we went, heading to the field where the farmer had told us the sheep were stuck. We then dug out a trench in order for the sheep to run back along. The snow by then could be 3–4 feet deep and digging it out was backbreaking – the only bonus being you got warm doing it.
If we hadn’t found them by lunchtime we would then dig an igloo; in fact we quite liked these, as they were really cosy once they’d been made. We used to climb into them and someone from the Catering Corp would bring up our lunch, which normally consisted of meat and veg, and we would sit in the igloo eating and talking, drinking mugs of tea. Unfortunately these pleasant brief interludes didn’t last long, as we then had to carry on sheep hunting. I couldn’t wait to get out of that place and be posted on proper manoeuvres.
We ended up spending eight torturous weeks there. I’m trying to think of a useful word to describe it: ‘bleak’ just doesn’t do it justice. Perhaps desolate, dismal, godforsaken, wretched, would suit better, or maybe one I haven’t thought of. In fact, I always remember thinking during my time in Barnard Castle Barracks that God must have had a right cob on when he created that place.
At last our orders came through – we were to join the King’s Royal 15/19th Hussars and we were then sent on manoeuvres. Over the next eighteen months we had tours of duty in Egypt, Palestine, Jordan and Khartoum.
Looking back, I must admit I enjoyed most of my time during my ‘DOE’. It was an experience I’ve certainly never regretted or forgotten. The only part of it I could’ve done without was when I contracted malaria in Jordan and was delirious for weeks in a hospital in Jaffa. Thankfully I got over it and I’ve never had a relapse, although I’m sure that if years later you’d mentioned it to Uncle, he would’ve said that most of the time I seemed delirious.
The type of camaraderie you get in the services, especially when you’re in dangerous environments (in which we found ourselves during tours in Palestine, with the ‘Stern’ gang, who were ‘Fighters for the Freedom of Israel’, and the Irgun Zvai Leumi, who were a militant terrorist organisation), is hard to find and, when you do, it’s something to be relished. I met some marvellous men and made some great friends – one being Bob Gilding from Poplar, whom I mentioned before.
I got a call a few years back from his wife, who told me Bob had sadly died and that he always told her he wanted me to conduct his funeral. When I went round to sort everything out, she said he’d left something for me upstairs on the cabinet next to his bed. I went up and there was a small box waiting. I opened it and inside was his regimental scarf and cufflinks, which I still have to this day.
After being away for so long it was good to be home. Although food was still scarce, Mum had managed to rustle up a delicious tea for my homecoming and we all sat around to enjoy it. Everyone wanted to hear my stories, even the neighbours, who kept popping in and out during the evening to welcome me home.
My sisters and Mum were outside washing up and I was sitting down talking with Dad. He looked quite serious as he leant forward in his armchair. ‘It’s great to have you back, Stan. We’ve certainly all missed you and I can’t believe how much you’ve grown. It’s as if twenty-two months ago you went away a boy and sitting in front of me now is a fine young man. Me and your mum are very proud of you.’
‘Stop it, Dad, I’m getting all embarrassed,’ I said, laughing. ‘But it is great to be home.’
He leant back into the chair. ‘So, now you’re back what do you intend to do?’ he asked, looking at me intently.
I looked at him puzzled. ‘Do . . . what d’you mean?’
‘With your work, son. What d’you mean to do in regards to work?’ His voice had become a bit agitated and his fingers were tapping on the arms of the chair.
It seemed like a trick question . . . now I was confused! Dad wouldn’t do trick questions so I replied, ‘Ummm . . . well, what I did before I left: go back with Uncle Tom.’
‘Dear God, no!’ he sighed, shaking his head. ‘I always thought that was a passing phase. I hoped by the time you got home from service you would’ve got it out of your system once and for all. You don’t seem to realise the importance of a job with a pension. That’s one of the reasons I joined the police. You know if you go back to work with Uncle Tom you’ll never be guaranteed a pension. How would you survive when you retire?’
‘But you know I’ve never thought about doing anything else. I don’t care about a pension. I’m only twenty. I’m not thinking of when I retire!’ I was shocked. I hadn’t been expecting this.
I noticed it had gone all quiet in the kitchen.
‘I know and that’s the problem; you’re not thinking ahead, you’re just living for today, which is wrong . . . you should be planning ahead. Believe me, son, you’re young today but trust me when I tell you, and it’ll happen quicker than you think, you’ll turn around and you’ll be in your fifties and it’ll seem like only yesterday we were sitting having this conversation . . . then where will you be?’
‘I’ll just have to deal with that when it comes, Dad.’
‘So, what you’re saying is that there’s nothing else that you’d want to do except be an undertaker – is that right?’ he asked.
‘That’s right, nothing!’ I was now getting angry. I thought everything was fine before I’d left; we’d already gone through this years before.
What on earth had brought this on?
With that, he let out a deep sigh. He pushed himself out of the chair, as if it was an effort to get up. He then walked over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a box. He started going through a pile of papers and, near to the bottom, he pulled out a blue form. He opened it, glanced at it and then started to tear it up.
‘What are you doing, Dad?’ I was now completely confused. ‘What’s that you’re tearing up?
‘You’ve made your mind up to be an undertaker and I have to accept that’s what you want to do with your life. I always hoped you’d change your mind along the way . . . I’ve had this form since you were two years old, you know.’ He looked sad.
‘Two!’ I said, stunned. ‘What on earth is it?’
‘It’s an application form for the police,’ he said, looking over at me. I saw he was upset. I didn’t know what to say, I just sat there looking at him. But then the penny dropped. All those years ago when Uncle Tom had come to the school to see if I wanted to join the business, my excitement that evening while we were having tea – and Dad trying to persuade me to go into another profession with a pension – this is what it was all about. Now I understood the ‘look’ that went between him and Mum – it all made sense. He had been waiting all this time, hoping I would join him in the police force and follow on the family tr
adition as he and his father had done.
I sat there feeling guilty. ‘I don’t know what to say, Dad, I never knew . . .’
‘It’s alright, son. I think deep down I’ve known for a very long time that it wouldn’t be needed.’
From that day on, not another word was mentioned about our conversation.
When I returned to work the following morning, there was Uncle, where I’d left him twenty-two months beforehand, behind his desk in the shop.
‘Hello, Uncle, I’m back!’ I said cheerily.
‘Welcome home, boy,’ he smiled. That’s all he said. Good job I wasn’t the sensitive type.
That night I went to see Joan; I couldn’t wait to see her. We’d written hundreds of letters to each other while I was away, and we were now desperate to be together. So, not long after being home, I plucked up the courage to propose.
I did it properly. I got dressed up in my best suit (I left off my top hat) and went to ask Mr Davies for his daughter’s hand. Thank goodness he was delighted but, call me an old cynic, thinking back on it he was probably considering all the extra fruit and veg he’d be getting from our allotment!
We had a small tea to celebrate, which was only for our immediate families. Rationing was still in force, and getting any extra food for parties or celebrations was difficult. Sometimes relatives or friends would give you their coupons in order for you to get something special, but fancy items could be found on the black market if you had a grocer who was ‘in the know’ which, to be honest, most of them were.
So there we were, having all had a lovely, enjoyable evening. We were so excited about our engagement and forthcoming marriage. As we sat around the conversation turned, as it normally did in those days, back to the war years. There was a lull when all of a sudden Joan’s dad bangs his fist down hard on the table, making us all jump.
‘Goodness, Frank, what on earth’s the matter?’ Joan’s mum said, turning to him.
An East End Farewell Page 9
