During the week we all got up at the same time. Reveille was a single trumpet call at 6am followed by a second once the trumpeter had had time to walk round to the other side of the barracks. We rose to the shouts of troop corporals to look lively, washing in tin bowls of cold water before dressing in fatigues and running downstairs (or shinning down the drain pipe) to answer the Orderly Sergeant’s roll call at 6.15. At 7am, we left the barrack rooms to muck out the stables, cleaning out the wet peat and wheelbarrowing in new, dry, rough-cut peat distributed from huge loose bales. While straw looked nicer, peat made a better bed and could be evenly spread to a depth of six inches, to be topped up later to keep the horses comfortable. The horses were then taken for a drink and given their feed, hay throughout the week with a Saturday treat of bran mash mixed with hot water and a scoop of treacle. Only after the horses had eaten did we make our way to the cookhouse for breakfast, a couple of slices of bread, margarine and jam, or pozzy as jam was known, and a bowl of tea. During winter, bread changed to porridge, also known as burgue, for pozzy and burgue were Hindustani words, which we picked up from the older soldiers who used little phrases or counted up to ten, ‘ikk, do, tin, char, panch, shey, saat,’ etc, to impress us youngsters and to prove they’d been there.
The younger and older soldiers got on pretty well, although there were grizzly old soldiers that we learnt to watch out for. These men had certain ways of doing things, certain seats in the mess where they always sat, certain crockery they always used. One incident showed how petty some old soldiers could become. Tea basins were picked up as we entered the mess hall. Some were plain, others had red or blue bands around them, but all were basically the same in that they held over a pint of tea, poured out by one of the mess room orderlies. One morning trumpeter Patterson mistakenly picked up a ‘favourite’ bowl belonging to one of these old soldiers, who, grumbling loudly, embarked on his own crusade to find it, which he duly did. ‘What are you doing with my bowl, boy?’ he growled. ‘Is this really your basin?’ replied Patterson. ‘Well, put a bloody chinstrap on it,’ and standing up, plonked it firmly on the old soldier’s head, showering the man with tea. Patterson was a favoured boy in the Regiment because he had joined as a boy trumpeter and was still only eighteen, despite having been in the Regiment for some five or six years. There would have been an uproar had this older man tried to hit Patterson, and he knew it. Soaked with tea, he stood his ground, furious, but at a loss to know what to do. In the end, he swallowed his pride and walked away, much to our amusement and the odd jeer.
After breakfast, at 9am, a trumpet call signalled the start of training exercises, followed at 11am by another call for stables, when the horses were groomed and taken out for inspection by the troop officer. This was a thorough inspection, the troop officer wiping a handkerchief over the horse to check it was clean, then examining the saddlery hung up behind. At evening stables, we’d water the horses, before night rugs, old and fairly dirty blankets, were put on to keep them warm. In the stalls, they were tied by a chain which ran from their head collar through a ring to a ball weight, giving the horse enough flexibility to lie down but not to leave the stalls.
There was no main gate guard at Tidworth, just a stable guard looking after all four troop blocks, ensuring that none of the horses became loose in the stalls or got a hoof stuck in the swing bar as it rolled in the peat. As others preferred to stay in bed, I could earn two extra bob by doing their stint, working two hours on, four hours off. Those on duty missed out on their normal night’s sleep and this was difficult to make up, but I was young and felt I could manage, so to earn extra cash I often took two or three nights’ duty in a row.
Next to the stable blocks stood a covered area under which was stacked the peat and a small amount of baled hay. One night, while on duty, I sat down on one of the bales for a few minutes and was soon asleep. I did not hear the orderly officer with Sergeant Dusty Miller as they came round on a routine check, calling ’Sentry, sentry.’ As the two passed by, Miller spied me out of the comer of his eye and hit my legs with his stick, while continuing to call for the sentry. Waking with a start, I dashed round the other side of the block to meet them with a conscientious-sounding ‘Who goes there?’ It was very easy to miss one another when patrolling round four stable blocks, so the officer was none the wiser. Miller had saved me from a charge, for which I was more than grateful.
My first Christmas at the Regiment was a raucous affair, the whole Squadron in a mess hall eating and getting increasingly drunk together. Troopers stood on benches and gave their musical best to songs whose words were somewhat altered, before the Sergeant Major was persuaded to stand up and sing a parody of ’The Good Old Summer Time', to general cheers.
The festivities coincided with the old soldiers returning from their month’s furlough, and this ensured that there was a great spirit of camaraderie between all the privates and NCOs, before the younger recruits took their yearly one week’s leave in January. I returned to my parents’ home and took the chance to show off my dress uniform on every opportunity, including walking down to my old school to pick up my brother, who was equally thrilled to see me coming. I was not able to show off to Mr Price, for he had finally been sacked in early December, a mistress and her sister taking over the teaching and, to my brother’s disgust, handing out homework for the first time!
I returned to the Regiment, and soon after began formal instruction at the Regiment’s riding school. That first morning, a corporal addressed us as we lined up for tuition. ‘Any of you chaps used to horses?’ he asked. I replied that I had been a groom, another that he formerly worked on a baker’s van. But neither qualification seemed to impress the corporal much. ‘Well, to start with you can forget everything you thought you knew about horses, you’re in the cavalry now.’
For the first two days, we were only taught the names of the saddlery, and how to put on and take off a saddle. On the third day, we were given our mounts and within minutes the corporal rode up, inquiring who had taught me to ride military style, promptly moving me to a higher ride, from which I was promoted one notch further four days later.
The purpose of the riding school was to teach us how to be a fighting machine on horseback, and this demanded strict uniformity. Preparing to mount, we were called to attention standing on the left side of the horse’s head, the reins in the right hand. At the command ‘Prepare to mount!’ we turned, taking the reins in our left hand, putting the left foot in the stirrup. At ‘Mount!’ we rose as one, but waiting for the man on the extreme right to nod his head before we swung in unison into the saddles, finding the right stirrup. When riding, all actions were controlled by the bugle, sounded by the trumpeter at any speed equal to, or faster than, the trot. To get the bugle steady enough to sound, it had to be blown downwards, the rider crouched in his saddle, not as Hollywood western films showed years later, bugles played at the charge, with the rider bolt upright.
On Salisbury Plain there was a ‘manger’, that is, a double ring of fences, five or six in each, the outer markedly higher than the inner ring. Both horses and riders were taught in the manger. Loose horses were driven round to teach them to jump naturally, while troopers rode round so that faults, such as leaning too far forward or back, could be pointed out. It was while on Salisbury Plain that I was moved to the highest ride. I had come to the attention of the Riding Master, a captain in charge of the riding school, who, after watching me ride, asked the corporal instructor who I was. I was told to ride round first the inner, then the outer jumps, before the officer asked, ‘Will you take your saddle off and try it again?’ At sixteen years old, I was as agile as you like, and, although I fell off, the horse stopped in between the fences and I finished the round. The Riding Master spoke to me again. ‘I’m going to put you into the top ride, where you’ll have to work hard, as they are more advanced than you. You’ll also need to stop behind for a while to learn sword and rifle drill, but I think you can cope.’ There were about six levels to reach the
top ride and I still had much to learn, but this was one area where I could shine, and I passed out of the riding school in three months, when it normally took nine.
This was exceptional, for generally speaking few troopers had had any experience with horses, let alone the opportunity to ride one since childhood. Invariably, as new recruits learnt the ropes, accidents occurred. Bruises were par for the course, cracked ribs or broken arms an occasional hazard, but every now and again tragedy would strike, and one May morning a trooper from my Squadron was killed at the riding school. He was in a lower ride and had apparently slipped from his horse only to be kicked as he fell. Any death meant a full dress funeral when the Regiment’s three Squadrons (in Church Parade numbers) turned out in respect. It was a blazing hot day for the trek to the Church and afterwards the cemetery, which lay a couple of miles away from Tidworth on the Collingboume road. As the sun blazed down, everyone was sweating profusely under their tunics and brass helmets. If one man had fallen out, half the Regiment would have followed suit – but no one was willing to accept the inevitable consequences of being first, so we stayed in line.
It was a very sombre ceremony. We followed the cortege in which walked a jet-black horse with the soldier’s boots placed eerily back to front in the stirrups. After the service we walked to the cemetery, arriving at the slow march, pointing the toe, standing to attention as he was buried and a volley of shots was fired over his grave. The Regiment came back across country, marching at ease with the regimental band striking up the popular tune ’Stop Thy Tickling Jock,’ to shake the men out of any glumness.
Despite the dangers, troopers learnt trick riding. This was taught to give us self-confidence and mastery over our horses. At the gallop, we were taught to pick up objects from the ground, swinging over and hooking our spurs underneath our swords, our left hand holding the reins, the right scooping up a handkerchief, sometimes staying down to pick up a second one fifteen yards farther on. We were also taught to come into action at the gallop, whereby a horse holder at the gallop took the reins of another trooper’s horse, while he, the trooper, jumped down holding on to his saddle while getting into step with the horse. Gripping on to his rifle with the left hand, the trooper ran on, throwing himself to the ground, and coming into action as the horse holder rode away. Similarly, to remount at the canter, the same trooper would leap into the saddle as the horse holder spurred his mount on.
Basic rules for musketry were taught in the same way as horsemanship. Our first lessons had been at Seaforth where we stood around a rifle mounted on a tripod, a sergeant taking us through the rifle’s mechanics, before showing us how a target should sit on the blade of the foresight and on the shoulders of the backsight. Our first shots were on an indoor rifle range, shooting over thirty yards. As an economy measure, we used Lee Enfields converted to take .22 ammunition, firing at targets balanced on old railway sleepers buttressed by sandbags. By shooting indoors, we could be trained intensively in all weathers, for it was not until we joined our regiments that we shot outdoors on proper ranges.
Except for initial foot drill when we were issued with Marks One and Two. Lee Enfields, the cavalry had changed over to the Mark Three. This was a rifle with several important modifications, principally a shorter barrel and longer stock, which strengthened the muzzle, and a reduced sight, the Mark Three being sighted to 1,800 yards, 1,000 fewer than her predecessor. Each trooper became attuned to a particular rifle, learning to compensate for any slight anomalies it had, so improving his own accuracy. This was the rifle that would be taken to war and so he was naturally loath to change it, let alone to allow anyone else to shoot with it. To avoid confusion, each rifle was identified by a number on the butt plate and on a small disc on the stock, mine being 231.
Musket training was on the sixteen-target Sidbury range, built into the side of the hill. If there was a strong cross wind, we used what was called a sighting bullet. As a strong wind affected the path a bullet took over a long distance, we were allowed to fire one bullet using our windgages to counteract its effect, moving the wind gauge one, two, or three clicks left or right, depending on the wind’s direction. The shooting at number sixteen target was always notoriously bad, for just off the bank to the side of the target was a pathway on which rabbits were often seen and the boys could never resist having a pot at them.
Not everyone eligible to shoot would fire each day, for a fatigue party was needed to work the ranges. On many occasions I took a turn sitting in a long, ten-foot-deep trench, working the ironframed apparatus below the targets. Two men worked each pair of targets, sitting on little chairs as the bullets cracked overhead. One mended the ‘down’ target, pasting, then slapping black or white square patches over the holes, while the other signalled shots on the ‘up’ target with a long ‘lollipop’-like pole. The disc on top of the pole was painted black on one side, white on the other, so that either side could be used to highlight the bullet hole, depending on which of the target’s concentric black and white circles had been hit. A bull was shown by displaying the edge of the disc against the target, and a complete miss was signalled by the waving of a flag. The fatigue party remained underground for about two hours, having a chat and a laugh before a whistle blew to signal the all-clear.
During musket training we practised shooting at a life-size cutout of four horsemen. It was built on a four-wheeled platform and pulled over the brow of a hill by a team of horses appearing for a few seconds at 400–500 yards range. It was a lesson in just how difficult it was to hit a target travelling at speed, especially one coming across our front and at the gallop, and I don’t believe it was hit more than half a dozen times throughout the summer months of 1914.
To pass out as a fully-trained soldier, a trooper had to fire fifteen aimed rounds a minute at 400 yards, starting with five rounds in the magazine and nothing in the breech. This took a lot of practice, and not just on the ranges. In the evenings, as we lay on our beds, we sought to speed up the time taken to work the rifle’s bolt action so that by the time we were due to pass out, most of us could get off seventeen aimed rounds a minute, starting with one in the breech.
Finally, after two years’ service, a trooper was automatically tested for an extra sixpence a day Proficiency Pay, awarded for putting five bullets in a four-inch circle at a hundred yards, slow firing. No practice shots were allowed to gauge wind strength and, although one miss was allowed, it had to be very close. Further tests included firing fifteen rounds rapidly into a six-foot target at 400 and 600 yards.
Those were exciting days. I was up to my neck in army life, and loving every minute of it. None of it was really hard because I was so keen to be a soldier. Conversely, many chaps let it drop that they would rather be in civvy life, but, as they had nothing else to do, often nowhere else to go, they enlisted to get something to eat. They were not literally starving but, in my experience, 50% of recruits joined up because they had no work or money. One shilling and three pence was the basic daily wage in the cavalry, and expenses came out of that, such as cleaning materials or deductions for breakages. Joining the army meant the security of daily food and accommodation, and that was worth more to many than the weekly four or five shillings in our pockets.
A good proportion came from orphanages, joining for the comradeship and the sense of belonging more than for anything else. One man in my barracks at Seaforth had come from a Dr Barnardo’s home; he had no family and to him, as to all these men, the army was their new family, most, not suprisingly, never receiving any mail from the outside world at all.
The Regiment was a hotchpotch of men, from many backgrounds. The 4th Dragoon Guards was an Irish regiment, but the number recruited from Ireland had reached an all-time low. More came, as I recall, from the Birmingham area than from Ireland, while among the officers only Lieutenant Gallaher stands out in my memory as an Irish officer with an accent to match. In the army were several men who were a source of speculation and intrigue. One man I first met at the depot at Seaforth
was very well spoken, clearly well educated and, as it turned out, of some financial means. No one knew the circumstances behind his wealth, or why this man wasn’t an officer. Despite signing on as a private, he had taken on the services of an older ex-trooper, one of several who lived at the depot working as storemen, who turned this private out immaculately each day, acting in effect as his batman.
Another man at Seaforth told me that he had deserted twice from infantry regiments before joining the cavalry. It was obvious, even to new recruits, that he had been in the army before, for he picked up the drill too easily. The drill sergeants knew it too, but no one could find out where he had been before and no further investigations were made. He was happy, he said, to stick with the cavalry, and eventually joined the 3rd Dragoons.
Given the varying reasons for joining up in the first place, it was hardly surprising when a trooper nipped out of Seaforth or Tidworth not intending to return. On average, a trooper disappeared every three months at Tidworth and, although a search was made, if he wasn’t found after twenty one days his property was auctioned, the money going to regimental funds. One deserter, trained in the same squad of recruits as myself the previous summer at Seaforth, had failed to return from leave in January, and so an auction was announced for the next pay day. This was an organised event with items being put on display for pre-sale viewing, before a sergeant offered the pieces lot by lot. I was in need of a new tunic. The one I owned had a tar mark in the middle of the back, after I had inadvertently leaned against a fence. It was no longer than an inch, but although I used chalk, the mark stubbornly refused to go away. I had been on parade several times with this tunic on, and while nothing had been noticed, I knew it was just a matter of time. A new tunic cost about three pounds, but they were only ever sold for a fraction of that price at auction, so when I immediately bid a princely three shillings, I warded off any rival bids and got it.
Teenage Tommy Page 4
