Whether he did or not, I don’t know. More personal details were taken, after which I scribbled a short passage to prove my basic literacy. ‘I fully understand that after my first double issue of kit I will have to pay for my own from the allowance that I will get.’
My papers had to be accepted, and I returned home to await formal confirmation. A travel warrant duly arrived with an order to attend a medical examination in Brighton, during which my measurements were taken along with the smallest physical characteristics, in case I should ever desert: a brown mark on the inner side of my left knee, and a ’scar small on back’ where my mother had once used scissors to dig out a sheep tick. Lastly, the swearing-in ceremony before an officer and I was in the army; the date was August 28th 1913.
For the next three days, I stayed at Brighton Barracks before travelling by train to the Dragoons’ depot at Seaforth, Liverpool, where the Recruits’ Course of Training taught the rudiments of cavalry life. At Seaforth, I was allocated a barrack room and told to report to the Quartermaster Sergeant’s stores to draw my equipment. There, I was handed a khaki uniform and told to change in a cubicle, parcelling up my civilian clothes with brown paper and string. These clothes were to be sent to my parents, but recruits were always ripped off and it didn’t surprise me when they never reached home. No doubt they were pawned – a financial perk for someone in the stores.
Corporal Reagan, a full time drill instructor, was to show us the ropes during three months of foot drill and fitness training, that would mould each of us into the basic shape of a Dragoon. Much emphasis was laid on physical fitness. Gruelling hours were spent running across country, or round the barracks, leaping the water trough after each circuit, or in the gymnasium, working on the rings, vaulting, running, performing press-ups until we couldn’t press-up any more. To toughen us up, boxing gloves were dished out, and we were paired off for three-minute bouts. Heaven help anyone that did not fight like mad, for the instructor would step in and have a go at those who didn’t give their all.
Almost as much time was spent on the parade ground, where barking NCOs fought to shape us up, with the usual verbal abuse to encourage obedience. One poor devil, a man from Somerset, became so nervous while marching that within a few paces his arms swung in tandem with, and not against, his stride. At first, the sergeants thought he was trying to be funny and aimed no end of shouts and shrieks in his direction. Soon they had him on his own, walking up and down, to and fro, and each time he would start all right and then revert, maddening his trainers and no doubt making the situation worse. In the end he bought himself out.
On Saturday mornings, drills gave way to fatigues, then to lectures, when we were told about the nature of Esprit de Corps, or about the importance of health and cleanliness. Many speakers simply passed the time of day, but one in particular had a marked effect. He was Sergeant Cole, a drill instructor from the Queen’s Bays (2nd Dragoon Guards). I forget the theme but part-way through, he stopped. ‘You young chaps take my advice. Learn your trade, learn everything you possibly can because, believe you me, in less than no time you’ll be fighting for your bloody lives’ He was killed early on in the Retreat from Mons, but I never forgot his words.
During the final month of basic training, we were allowed out on to civilian streets for the first time. The wearing of khaki was forbidden until at least two years’ service had been put in, so instead we appeared in newly-acquired full dress uniforms. Red tunics, dark blue collars and cuffs in velvet with a little yellow piping, were worn above blue ’strides’, down the side of which ran a two-inch-wide yellow stripe, held tight underneath our Wellington boots by a buckle. We had to know how to carry ourselves, whip under the shoulder, so that at the very least we appeared a credit to our regiments. ‘When you walk down the street, remember you are a cavalryman. You are not just walking down the street, you own the bloody street!’ That was the message and I did feel very proud.
While we were at Seaforth, we saw one or two full-time officers who were sent from the various Dragoon Regiments to do stints as orderly officer at the recruits’ depot. One such officer was a Lieutenant from the 4th Dragoons’ barracks at Tidworth, Sir Arthur Hickman, a popular man but one who suffered from a pronounced stutter.
One of his jobs was to oversee guard duty. There were set procedures for this which had to be learnt, so that everything was done just right once the orderly officer had read the evening’s orders and mounted the guard. If, for example, the guard was approached by the orderly officer and sergeant of the guard, they were challenged in the correct manner as follows: ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ The sergeant answered with ‘Orderly officer doing his rounds,’ before the officer asked the sentry to ‘Hand over your orders’. The private then replied, ’Take charge of a post and all Government property in view. Report any unusual object to the Sergeant of the Guard.’
One evening, during a walk round the stables, Hickman met the sentry’s customary challenge. ‘Ha..ha..ha..hand over your orders,’ said Hickman, whereupon the sentry began ’Take ch..ch..charge of a po..po..posts …,’ but got only so far before being cut short by Hickman who spluttered with rage, ‘You bloody monkey! Don’t you bloody well mo..mo..mock me or I’ll punch your nose.’ Unbeknown to Hickman, the sentry stuttered too. It would have been a calamity for an officer to strike a sentry but it took all the sergeant’s persuasive powers to stop Hickman doing just that. The incident caused a sensation and was common knowledge all round the barracks within twenty four hours.
The night that I passed out to join my Regiment, I was also on guard duty. As a rule, seven men were on parade, six of whom would rotate the night’s work, the seventh, the cleanest, being given what was known as ’the stick’. The inspecting duty officer would tap the winner on the shoulder, whereupon the rest of the guard dismissed and the orderly dumped his sword, collected his whip and reported to the sergeant. Being the Sergeant of the Guard’s orderly was the cushiest job, for the orderly slept all night unless any messages needed delivering. That day I was immaculately clean, with everything in the highest state of spit and polish possible, for to be sent off the passing-out parade meant another month’s training, and I had no intention of missing out. Two of us had been on the passing-out parade that morning, and the officer was having difficulty picking out the cleaner. Ordering us to step forward, he said ‘Lift your foot’. Our strides were buckled underneath the boot to keep them straight, and I won the stick because my tiny buckle was polished and his wasn’t.
Just before I left for Seaforth, I was woken in the early hours by a woman’s voice screaming a torrent of abuse. The whole barrack block was up and about, peering out of the windows, trying to discover what on earth was going on, as regimental policemen were seen darting in and out of several barracks. Word quickly got around that a prostitute had been smuggled into the camp, but that the regimental police had got wind of what was going on, and a search was now underway to catch the troopers responsible. The culprits had dashed to evict the prostitute by dumping her unceremoniously over the camp’s perimeter railings, but this was easier said than done, for the railings were spiked and, as the soldiers were finding, it was no easy matter to launch anyone over, let alone an ungrateful prostitute.
The screams signalled that they had been unsuccessful, and as the troopers beat a hasty retreat, the prostitute was left dangling from the railings, her skirt and various undergarments impaled on the spikes. The Military Policemen, more concerned with finding the offenders than helping the woman, were rushing about trying to catch anyone in bed with their clothes on. To most, the incident was hilarious, but privately I thought it was awful that she should be left hanging there.
I was just sixteen and had joined the army hardly knowing how babies were born, indeed I was utterly naive about anything sexual. While at Seaforth, a soldier considerably older than myself had become very talkative and friendly to me. His bed was in the comer of the room, and mine was next to his. One evening, another soldier took me aside.
‘Boy, you want to sleep with your breeches on,’ he said. I wanted to ask why, but instinct told me not to. Only later did it dawn on me that the man was homosexual, and that this was by way of a warning. Similarly, the Saturday lectures about private cleanliness had often left me wondering what on earth the instructor was talking about. ‘If you must dip your wick, for heaven’s sake make sure you wash when you come back.’
In December 1913, I left with a draft of twelve men for Tidworth camp. ‘Is there a Private Clouting here?’ asked a corporal, on my arrival. ‘Right, C Squadron, report to Captain Hornby.’ De Wiart had been seconded to another Regiment, but had ensured I would come under the able Hornby, another officer well known at the Brands’ home, and therefore to my family.
The regiment was billeted in Assaye Barracks, in four of twenty eight camp accommodation blocks built in a large crescent. The regimental barracks were each named after an Indian town: l.Aliwal 2.Assaye 3.Bhurpore 4.Candahar 5.Delhi 6.Jalalabad 7.Lucknow 8.Mooltan. Of these, Aliwal, Assaye, and Mooltan had stable blocks behind, so that, apart from the 4th Dragoons in Assaye Barracks, there were the 18th Hussars in Aliwal, and the 9th Lancers at the other end of the crescent in Mooltan. The other barracks held either battalions of infantry, such as the Rifle Brigade or men from the Army Ordnance and Service Corps.
The whole camp was more or less self-sufficient, for, even if we had had passes to leave Tidworth, Swindon, the nearest town, was twenty six miles away and we had precious little money to spend anyway. Outside the camp, there was The Ram Inn, the only civilian pub anywhere near the barracks, and half the time this was out of bounds because there’d been a row and a punch-up between soldiers and locals. We therefore relied on the camp. Symonds Brewery supplied beer at two pence a pint to our canteen, where the men would get drunk on a Friday night, while one or two shops in the middle of the camp supplied everything else. Entertainment was catered for by the camp’s own theatre, our spiritual health by the camp’s impressive church, and our physical wellbeing ensured by our own hospital in Candahar barracks. Finally, for those who had wives and children, there were married quarters, identical terraced houses which ran behind and parallel to the wide sweep of the barrack blocks.
Four barrack blocks were allocated to the 4th Dragoons. Every block contained eight rooms, each housing twelve men from the same troop. Six beds lined each side of a room, separated in the middle by two long wooden tables. The otherwise spartan room was heated at one end by a coal fire and lit by paraffin lamps, the glass chimneys of which were forever breaking. Outside each room there was a wide verandah, at both ends of which were the stairways, and between the stairways of each block were the wash rooms, the baths being in a separate building. Baths were held on Saturdays, and although there was nothing to stop one having a bath during the week, most waited until the weekend for there were so many duties to do.
As an unmarried private, I was allocated a bed upstairs in the block belonging to the 4th Troop of C Squadron, where I met my new comrades, among them my Corporal, Cushy Harrison, our Shoeing Smith, Sandy, troopers Spider Stevens, Cumber, Isted, Treacle Johnson, Shit Sharp and Ding Dong Bell.
Most soldiers picked up nicknames and mine was Cronkie, given after Cushy Harrison detailed me for a job under the impression that this was my name. ‘Well, what is your bloody name?’ he asked when I didn’t respond. ‘Clouting,’ I replied. ‘Uhh, well, Cronkie will bloody well do for me,’ so Cronkie I remained. Of the others, Johnson, as I soon learnt, could never keep his fingers from the thick dark treacle given as a weekly treat to the horses; Sharp always managed to look scruffy ’ even when he was tidy ’ and Bell was inevitably Ding Dong.
I quickly slotted into the room’s regime. Each person took turns as barrack room orderly, making sure that the fireplace was cleaned out, the paraffin lamps trimmed, the two barrack room tables scrubbed daily and the floor once a week. It was, of course, everyone’s responsibility to ensure the room was tidy and that the beds were taken down, the three blankets, two sheets and pillow slip being folded and lined up properly with our towel on top. An inspection by the Orderly Sergeant ensured that any lapses were noted and punished with extra fatigues or ‘jankers’, such as weeding round the stables or extra latrine cleaning. As punishments were collectively given to the whole barrack room, plots were hatched to retaliate against anyone who let the side down. When Treacle Johnson spilt paraffin, staining the floor, he was grabbed and carted off struggling to the horse trough where he was dragged, fully clothed, up and down with a horse halter on his head. It was all in good humour, but it helped ensure that we strove not to let each other down!
Almost as soon as a new trooper was allocated to a bed, married soldiers came in and touted for his clothes washing. ‘Have you made arrangements for your washing? No? Well my missus will look after you.’ The charge was fourpence a week, for which his wife would wash a shirt, a pair of pants, socks and a towel, her husband picking up the washing, which he found rolled up at the end of the bed, on a Monday and returning it on a Friday or Saturday. Now and again we could get darning done, too; it was the married man’s way of supplementing his income, for many were still privates and had children to support.
There were one or two others, ex-soldiers who remained at the camp and made a living doing odd jobs. One of the best known was Hoppy Martin, a fifty-year-old civilian allocated one of four small rooms attached to the barrack blocks and normally reserved for the Orderly Sergeants. Hoppy, so-called because of a wooden leg which he swung from the hip down, was the troops’ official photographer and toured the regiments looking for commissions. His bread and butter work was group pictures at the stables, at the cookhouse, or on church parade, the troopers splitting the costs between them. Hoppy also took portraits, and carried with him a magnificent picture of a Dragoon in full dress uniform astride a beautiful horse. He would offer to take your picture, superimposing it on the photograph of the Dragoon with such expertise that it was impossible to see the join.
Many of his pictures were taken while we worked at the stables or as we undertook various fatigues. One of the principal fatigues was carting around the coal needed all over the camp; in the barracks, the cookhouse, the married quarters. Coal was drawn from the dump, enough for the barrack room for a week, although not sufficient to keep the fire going at night which, during winter, necessitated our sleeping in cotton shirts and long johns. In twos, we carried coal to the cookhouse or married quarters, using double-handed metal cauldrons, making two trips to the bunker at the back of each home.
Potato peeling was a daily routine, with twelve of us peeling potatoes for the whole Squadron. Everyone used his own knife, with those who’d never peeled before leaving as much spud on the skin as on the potato itself. To while away the time, we usually broke into a song, especially favourites such as ‘Nellie Dean’.
For fatigues, we wore canvas trousers with turn-ups. Working in the muck of the stables, these turn-ups became filthy, and by the end of the week looked in a real state. It was our job, however, to keep them clean for the Monday morning inspection. As it was nigh impossible to wash them by hand, most rubbed soap into the sodden trousers, then scrubbed them vigorously with the bass broom from the stables, swilling them off with fresh water before pinning them up to dry. Even then, it was difficult to stop the turn-ups from becoming ragged at the edges, as Sergeant Major Steel coarsely pointed out one morning, while we were lined up for inspection. ’That canvas of yours! There is more bloody lace around the bottom of those than my old woman has round her drawers.’ This man had been married for no more than three weeks, and was saying things like that, I thought. The language we heard from the NCOs did beggar belief sometimes, but this was different and my estimation of the man never went back up again.
Work was strenuous during the week, when sleep was all we wanted. Lights out was at 10pm and choice words followed from the Orderly Sergeant if we were slow to respond. At weekends, we sometimes played cards underneath the barrack room tables, pu
lling a blanket over the top before lighting a candle and beginning a few hands. These games included a spot of gambling, but with a wage of one shilling and threepence a day, it was only for pennies.
To catch up on lost sleep, it was possible to stay in bed an extra hour on Sunday mornings. Those due for stable fatigue rose at 6am while those on the Orderly Sergeant’s list for Church Parade got up at 7am. Those on the list had to have volunteered, something I always did, as I loved singing so much. The extra hour was to ensure we were absolutely spick and span, but unofficially it was an extra forty winks. Each squadron provided a skeleton number of troopers for Church Parade, about thirty or forty, all in full dress uniform, brass helmets and swords. Two lines were formed for inspection, with the tallest men at each end so as to make both rows look about the same size. On ‘eyes right’ we turned to dress, shuffling forward or backward, ensuring we were in a straight line. There were two sittings at the camp’s Church, which lay on a hill more or less behind Lucknow barracks, one for the Protestants and one for the Catholics. The band played the Protestants to church, hence the phrase ‘Following the Drum’, which was used to identify oneself as a Protestant, as often as saying ‘C of E'. Once at Church, several minutes of assorted clatters and bangs followed as the infantry with their bayonets, and the cavalry with their swords sat, while the officers with their wives and children made their way more sedately to specially reserved seats. A regular selection of hymns was sung, led by the choir made up from the duty Regiment, while music was played by the duty band.
After the service, a parade was formed for the march back. All the regiments were represented, with their bands playing, the 18th Hussars going ahead of us, the Rifle Brigade behind. This caused all sorts of problems, for C Squadron was directly in front of the Rifle Brigade’s band and therefore we could hear virtually nothing of our own band, making it almost impossible to keep in step, a problem compounded by the fact that the Rifle Brigade marched at a different speed from everyone else. The cavalry traditionally marched at 120 steps to a minute, the infantry 140, but the Rifle Brigade walked at 144. To stop us crashing into each other, our stride was thirty inches in length, the Rifle Brigade’s twenty four, but all said and done, a farcical collision was only averted by careful concentration all round.
Teenage Tommy Page 3
