by Anton Rippon
Needless to say, from then onwards, off came those boots!
F. G. Jones, Shotton, Deeside
Officer: Well, young man, what were you before you were called up for the army?
New recruit: ’Appy, Sir!
P. H. LEWIS, BRIDGEND, GLAMORGAN
The orderly officer on his rounds walked into our mess at dinner and asked the same old question: ‘Any complaints?’
One soldier replied: ‘Yes, sir. We can’t eat this meat. It’s so bad that a dog wouldn’t eat it.’
Well, the officer happened to have his dog with him and picked up a piece of the meat and threw it at the dog. The dog just swallowed it and the officer, eyebrow raised, said: ‘It must be all right.’
The officer walked on. The dog hung back.
The soldier called after the officer: ‘Look at your dog now! He’s licking his arse to get the taste out of his mouth!’
Mr S. E. Smith, Essex
I was in the Royal Engineers at Thorpe Mill, Triangle, near Halifax in 1942. We would parade every morning on the square and the lieutenant colonel would stand at the end of the parade ground, always accompanied by his Alsatian dog.
We always said that dog ate ten men’s rations. One morning we were all lined up and Sergeant Major Henry Hall, complete with silver-knobbed stick, bawled out to the entire parade: ‘Ah-ten . . .’ an order which the Alsatian finished with a mighty ‘Woof!’
Every man stood sharply to attention and then fell into roars of laughter as we realized we had been brought to attention by a dog. The lieutenant colonel turned away to conceal a laugh but the sergeant major went barmy, all red in the face and shouting: ‘As you were!’
I think that’s the only time the Royal Engineers were brought smartly up by a dog.
Mr A. S. Cobb, Hull
I was stationed at Cleave AA camp near Bude. The warrant officers and sergeants were accommodated in huts with separate rooms, each of which was shared by two men. One night when two of the sergeants were in the mess bar, a sheep, which had been grazing nearby, was caught and put into their room. The electric lamp was removed and the door closed. Later that night, the sergeants, having consumed a few beers, returned to their room. You can imagine the rumpus. The sheep was running around the room trying to get out, and neither of the sergeants had a clue what was happening.
W. Norris, Watford
It was 1941 and I was serving ‘somewhere in the south of England’. Our day began with a forty-mile route march. It was customary, as I remember, to have a five- or ten-minute break after every hour. On our first stop the first priority was to relieve ourselves. Over the wall we leapt and into the woods. Imagine our surprise when the young saplings, plus a number of small bushes, began to move in all directions. We had disturbed a bunch of soldiers on manoeuvres. They were certainly perfectly camouflaged!
F. G. Jones, Shotton, Deeside
A comrade of mine related a tale of when he was in the Royal Artillery. He had been on an AA gun site. One day they were inspected by a general and the gunner had been detailed to stand by the Lewis gun, in a sandbagged pit. The general made his way around the site, having a word here and there. When he got to the gunner, he exchanged small talk. He asked him how long he had been in the army and then his attention turned to his training.
‘If you were to see a German plane coming in low to attack this site, would you open fire on your own, or wait for the order?’
‘Neither,’ said the gunner, ‘I’d get laid down at the back of the sandbags because I’ve got no ammunition!’
Poor Gunner Hawkins spent the next two months beside that gun!
Mr A. S. Cobb, Hull
A young junior officer was made orderly officer for the day. Making his inspection, he went to the cookhouse to inspect the cooking. Looking into one pan he noticed that it was boiling around the edges, but not in the middle. He asked the cook to explain this.
‘That bit’s for the sentries, sir. We always serve them first!’
MR S.E. SMITH, ESSEX
Some of my best times in the army happened while stationed in the Orkneys. To fill in time we had various half-hour lectures, one concerning ‘Demob’. Various conditions as to how, and when, we might be demobbed, were discussed – things like length of service, overseas duty, war wounds, married men with dependents etc. But the climax came when one cockney voice piped up from the rear: ‘As long as they don’t do it in bleedin’ alphabetical order!’
His name, you see, was Gunner Tom Zelkin!
Clifford Bailey, Dudley
Walking down the main street of my hometown while on leave, I approached a crossroads and spotted a large car approaching with the Duke of Kent inside. Being in uniform, and with my rifle slung over my shoulder, I wasn’t sure what kind of salute to give and had precious little time to make my mind up. I attempted to give a butt salute. Wearing heavy army boots didn’t help. I tried to halt at the kerb, slipped on my back and up in the air went my rifle, missing the royal car by inches. What a laugh His Highness must have had. And what a scramble I made!
F. G. Jones, Shotton, Deeside
The place was Blackdown training camp. The year was 1940. Our squad was being trained as gunners or drivers in the Royal Artillery. One day in the gym we had to climb ropes, tumble on mats and jump over the vaulting horse. One cockney, named Joe Brown, was hopeless at PT, so each time he had to jump the vaulting horse he would pretend to tie up his shoelaces and miss his turn. Eventually, the sergeant spotted this and yelled: ‘Hey, you! Over the horse!’
Joe replied: ‘I don’t mind being a gunner, don’t mind being a driver, but I ain’t going to be a bleeding acrobat for two bob a day!’
H. Walls, Highams Park, London
During the war we were stationed at a place for training and living under canvas. Most of the chaps were a happy-go-lucky bunch and shared alike. That is, if one had cakes or a cake sent, they shared it with their mates in the tent. Anyhow, in my tent we had one very tight-fisted bloke. Now this particular afternoon the post clerk came and gave him a parcel. Most of the chaps were either writing letters or cleaning up. We all waited in anticipation and behold – out came a homemade fruit cake and a large pot of strawberry jam. Now, he cut a slice of cake for himself, put the rest of it back in the box. To make it worse, he kept going on about this cake and, eventually, I got very cross and told him: ‘If you don’t shut up about that damned cake, I’ll come over there and wrap it around your neck!’
The NCO in the tent told us to ‘pack it up’ and the incident passed. Teatime came and as we filed into the dining room, lo and behold, there was this chap with his knapsack. Out came the cake and the jam. But then he dropped his knife and as he climbed under the table to retrieve it, I grabbed the jam and passed it down the tables to my comrades. When he came back up and realized the jam was gone, he looked straight at me. At that exact moment, the orderly officer and sergeant were making their rounds. When we were asked if we had any complaints, the tight-fist said: ‘Yes, sir. Woodham has pinched my pot of strawberry jam!’
‘Have you got his jam, Woodham?’ said the officer with a big grin.
‘No, sir!’ I said.
The sergeant was about to burst and the officer said: ‘Put this man [the tight-fist] on extra weekend guard for making a frivolous complaint!’
The tight-fist complained that this particular weekend he had a pass, but the sergeant told him that unless he could get someone to stand in for him, his leave would be cancelled.
He had a special occasion lined up, it seemed, and he was desperate to be able to use his pass so he came into the tent trying to persuade someone to stand in for him. There were no takers. Then he offered me five shillings to do it and I said: ‘Not on your Nelly! Make it ten shillings and we’ll go to the RSM and sort it out!’
The RSM agreed to postpone his duty until the next weekend and, as we were leaving, he called me back.
‘How much did that cost him?’
‘Ten shillings,’ I
replied.
‘Not bad!’ said the RSM.
A good result all-round, but I never did find out what happened to that pot of jam!
Mr A. E. Woodham, Slough
We were stationed at Chesterfield. On our evenings off, we stood about on the street corners, doing nothing particular, only to be moved on by the MPs, or Redcaps as they were better known. By September 1941, my mate and I had a medical board and were eventually discharged. Awaiting the usual formalities – train tickets, coupons for civvy clothes – we decided to take a last stroll through the town, minus cap, no gaiters, jacket undone and hands in our pockets. We walked straight into the arms of two Redcaps. We decided to pull their legs, refusing to button up our tunics and not standing to attention. Eventually we showed them our discharge certificates and to their credit they took it in good part and actually shook our hands, wishing us the best of luck.
F. G. Jones, Shotton, Deeside
While I was waiting for my demob group to come up, I was sent from my depot at Lowestoft to a small naval overflow camp at Hopton-on-Sea that, before and after the war, was a holiday camp. I was caught for colour guard. The camp had no band, so for ceremonial occasions we had to rely on a gramophone record. We were fell-in on a parade, some 500 or so, then brought to attention and given the order: ‘Royal salute, present arms.’ But instead of the strains of the national anthem coming over the tannoy, all we got was Judy Garland singing ‘The Trolley Song’ complete with clanging bells! Five hundred men burst out laughing.
The offending signalman, who had put on the wrong record, doubled-up to the commander. The officer asked him if he knew how far it was around the football field. When the signalman said that, no, he didn’t know, the officer told him: ‘Well bloody well find out – and don’t come back!’
Mr R. Taylor, Hull
When I was in the cookhouse we always made the custard for the duff with water, it never saw milk. One day, as we prepared to dish up dinner, there was a panic. We had no hot water to make the custard. So one ‘gastronomic genius’ suggested straining the water from the carrots and using that. What a row we had with the lads when they got custard with tiny bits of carrot in it. We tried to tell them it was little bits of peaches, but they weren’t fooled.
Mr A. S. Cobb, Hull
During the early part of the war, I was a lieutenant in a unit stationed in Bradford. Our colonel had arranged for the officers to attend a variety show on the Saturday evening. I was due to be orderly officer the next day. A well-known Bradford socialite had also laid on a party for us at her home and so it was arranged that we would go there immediately after the variety show was over. At the latter, one of the acts was a race across the stage on little wooden rocking horses. According to how they were jerked forward, they either went along or just collapsed and the rider had to pick himself up and start again. The chorus girls gave a trial run and then called for volunteers to go up on the stage and take a horse each. Well, before we knew where we were, a lieutenant friend and I found ourselves manhandled up onto the stage to take part. There we were in all our glory, full service dress and Sam Brownes, falling off the horses!
When the show was over, it was nearly 11 p.m. and off we went to the party. This went on until about 8 a.m., but I left at 6.30 a.m. as I had to inspect the men’s billets and then the breakfast, besides cleaning myself up. I then had to take church parade. As I’d had no rest for over twenty-four hours, you can imagine how I felt. I just managed to reach the church with the unit in fair regimental order. But the moment I sat in the pew, I just fell fast asleep. The colonel was reading the lesson and, exactly as he finished, my friend nudged me awake. Now, in that split second of waking, I was still in the theatre and, in the deathly silence of the church, I started clapping loudly and must have got in about five to six claps before I realized. You can imagine the reaction of the troops. No act at the theatre the night before got half such a hilarious reception as I received.
Later that afternoon my friend and I were told to report to the colonel’s HQ at 10 a.m. the following day. I was called in first and the colonel really let me have it over making a fool of myself at the theatre. Then he came to the church incident. This was beyond description! I just wanted to drop dead. My friend, who followed, only got the theatre fiasco.
About eighteen months later, while serving in Egypt, I was spending seven days’ leave at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo. One morning, as I was leaving the hotel, I passed my old colonel and a brigadier. I gave them a super salute and walked on. But I had only gone a few steps when a voice called out: ‘Captain?’
I turned around and the colonel beckoned me over.
‘Weren’t you once in a unit that I commanded?’
I said: ‘Yes, sir. In Bradford.’
‘Good! Now we can prove it! I’ve told the story so many times and to so many, and I know that few have believed me!’
He then told me to go back into the hotel, where I was taken to the cocktail bar. About two hours later, a rather tottery brigadier, a not-too-good colonel and a very sickly me, parted ways.
Reg C. Coutanche, Bournemouth
When serving in the Royal Welch Fusiliers in 1942 (70th Battalion Young Soldiers Regiment), we had a march to a firing range a few miles away. Before bivouacking overnight, we were allowed to go to the village, but the OC ordered that full corporals and ranks above, including all officers, drink at one pub and lance corporals and fusiliers at the other. This was typical of the OC, a stuffy sort of bloke, and, of course, such class distinction was entirely out of place in the circumstances.
So, we were having a drink in one of the pubs (I was a full corporal) and the officers were in the best room. My mate ‘Yob’ Yardley, a lancejack who lived in Blackpool, came to the door of the pub and asked for me, and asked if I could get him any fags, which of course were not always available, especially to strangers. We had each been sold five in this particular pub, so I asked the landlady if she could spare five more for my friend. Suspicious that I was trying to get another ‘ration’ for myself, she asked why my friend couldn’t ask for them himself.
I explained, quite innocently, that he was not allowed to come into the pub and why – and then the fat really hit the fire! Whether she was a socialist, or whether the fact that the far greater proportion of the company were spending their money at the other pub, motivated her, I don’t know, but she flounced into the best room and turned the officers out and they had to finish their beers outside. I, of course, made myself really scarce, although I was pleased at the outcome!
Les Sutton, Manchester
While training at the depot of the Royal Scots, outside Edinburgh, just after the fall of France, one night in the NAAFI, I overheard a Scottish soldier comment: ‘This’ll be a long war if the English pack in.’
W. ABBOTT, LONDON
I’m five feet two inches tall and weigh eight stone four pounds. Not exactly a Hercules! Being in the Royal Artillery, we were sent to Northern Ireland to defend an aerodrome not far from the Loch Erne Hotel. One windy night I was perched in a sentry box on a hill, with respirator covering my chest, rifle on my shoulder with fixed bayonet, complete with helmet. Every few minutes the sentry box gave a lurch. Suddenly a strong gust blew the box, with me inside it, down into some bushes and the box fell with the opening towards the ground. I was trapped, good and proper. I could not move the flipping box, everything was on top of me. The bayonet snapped off and the rifle was making love to me while the respirator had fallen between my shoulder blades. I shouted like a football hooligan for help, but the box drowned out my frantic cries. When the gunner due to relieve me couldn’t find me, he called out the guard and they finally found me in the bushes.
It took five gunners, with ropes, to get the box, with me inside, free. I landed up in military hospital in Belfast with a badly bruised face and no sympathy. Everyone thought it was frightfully funny!
Henry Doll, Croydon
One soldier elected to serve on the messing committee b
ut didn’t know anything about food. So when he went on leave, he asked his wife for ideas. She told him to ask for Scotch eggs. Next time we met it was agreed that Scotch eggs would be on the menu for tea one evening. When his turn came to be served, he looked at it and said: ‘Blimey, that’s only half an egg! Where’s the other half?’
S. E. Smith, Dovercourt, Essex
The RSM Grenadier Guards had been in the gas chamber testing his mask. He told the troops to put their fingers inside the mask and have a quick whiff so that they would know what the gas really smells like. Unfortunately, his own whiff was too much. His eyes filled with water and he bent down. I touched him on the shoulder and said: ‘Don’t cry, Sergeant Major! The war will soon be over!’
Mr B. Croft, Stafford
Scene: Recruiting office.
‘What’s your name, number one?’
‘Potts, sir.’
‘What’s your name, number two?’
‘Philpotts, sir.’
‘I suppose you will be teapots, number three?’
‘No, sir, Chambers!’
R. HERRINGTON
It was July 1945, and I was one of a party of men from Group 9 who were going to Queen Elizabeth Barracks in York to give up our arms and equipment, prior to demob or release. We were a very motley crowd – warrant officers, junior and senior NCOs and privates. In fact, we had more stripes among us than would be found in a safari park full of zebras! We were met at the railway station by a very junior lance corporal who was to be our guide. He ordered us to ‘sling arms and march at ease’. This we did and wended our way.
