military

PC 479 Memories of Regimental Service (3)

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Memories aren’t necessarily concentrated – my mind sees one, remembers other, hears a third, from the general collective memory of ‘my time in Germany’. We generalise our memories to make them manageable. For instance: I remember the funeral of Major Dick Jones, killed in a car accident whilst on exercise, and having to practise carrying his coffin with a weighted filing cabinet; the restaurant in the Lippstadt town square where the Pfeffersteak was to die for;

spending a long weekend at the regimental Ski Hut down in Southern Germany; my left-hand-drive blue Volkswagen Variant; taking the train to Turin to collect a new Lancia Fulvia from the factory; formal mess dinners once a month,

all booted and spurred – the meal followed by mess rugby; what was known as ‘the porcelain telephone’ in the gentleman’s in the Officers’ Mess in Lippstadt, essentially somewhere to vomit when you have drunk too much (!); pretending to be a private soldier and collecting the late Richard Clarke, a newly-joined officer at that time, at RAF Gutersloh in a little Ferret Scout Car;

Not a lot of room inside one of these!

studying for academic exams for entry to the Army Staff College, a prerequisite to promotion beyond the rank of Major; learning that the wives of my soldiers could also be charged with offences under Military Law – a Sergeant’s wife lost her temper, smashed a bottle over someone’s head (nice huh!) and ended up in a Military Court; listening to the first ever moon walk – ‘One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind’ – by Neil Armstrong on 20th July 1969, on a small battery-powered radio in a tent in Trauen Camp; sitting for the annual Regimental Officers’ photograph, which often included a dog or two – this one of 27 Medium Regiment Royal Artillery in Lippstadt in 1972;

travelling to the German North Sea island of Sylt one Easter for a long weekend. Accessible by a man-made causeway …

….. an up-market place for Germans to be seen, to promenade, to eat cake; another memory is easy – the extension cable I used in my Officers’ Mess accommodation, to take power to a stereo system, is still in use (see PC 108 ‘I’m Long and Black’ October 2017): attending a ‘Colloquial German’ course in Mülheim, near Düsseldorf, and embarrassingly translating a message to the effect there was a tank (hiding) behind the large farmer – confusing bauer (farmer) for scheune (barn).

Travel to East Germany was almost impossible, although one could drive or fly to Berlin with the correct paperwork. In the British sector of West Germany, troops occasionally patrolled the border with the East, more for its Public Relations value than any suggestion it was a deterrent! I undertook one such week’s fascinating patrol with sixteen of my gunners and am glad I did. We stayed in farmers’ barns, although a young Guard’s Second Lieutenant, who was attached to us, and I shared a room in the main house. I remember our first morning; out of nowhere, in his rather plummy voice: ‘Drat! He didn’t pack my razor!’ ‘What’s the problem, Brian/Andrew/Toby/etc?’ ‘My man (ie batman) forgot my razor!’ I lent him a spare and hope he learned a little lesson; if you want to guarantee something, do it yourself!

I have mentioned that 39 Medium Regiment spent two Christmases (1972 and 1975) on operations in Northern Ireland (see appropriate postcards). Prior to my second tour, the commanding officer, Mike Hudson, decided we should get used to working well into the night, so shifted our working day from 0800 – 1630 to 1230 – 2200. Previously, we just accepted that training went on into the evening. Now we could have a nice relaxing morning and the ‘working day’ never went beyond 2300.

Twice in my Army career I organised an Officers’ Mess Summer Ball, the second time in Bulford north of Salisbury, the first time in the Lippstadt Officers’ Mess. In the latter I was assisted by Anna Clements, the wife of the resident dentist John. I saw a lot of both of them and their three young boys, but it was Anna whose artistic ability gelled with mine in designing the decorations. 

Memories of food outside the Officers Mess are of the wonderful German sausages and their extravagant cakes. Their little ‘Schnell Imbis’ (‘Fast Snack’ (Obviously!)) caravans were everywhere in die Parkplätze and the ‘Currywurst mit pommes frit’, served on a white cardboard tray with a little wooden two-pronged fork, became the easy answer to hunger pangs. Writing this, another memory surfaced! On big exercises in Germany, we tended to operate on Greenwich Mean Time, the time zone adopted by the Royal Air Force. In the summer months that meant we were two hours behind the locals. At the end of one gruelling day, the lieutenant colonel of the armoured regiment I was attached to suggested we had a snack in the local pub – the kitchen of which to our dismay had already closed!

Living on continental Europe had its advantages from a travel point of view. In 1976, a conversation over lunch in England led to an offer; ‘come out to Palau, Sardinia and help Merry Andrews, the old friend of a friend, crew his yacht’. Two weeks on and off sailing, ‘fed, watered and accommodated for free’; I jumped at the chance. Late one Friday afternoon, with some sandwiches for supper, I set off in my little Lancia Fulvia for Civitavecchia, the port city to the west of Rome, from where I could catch a ferry to Olbia on Sardinia.

It’s just under 1500kms; Google Maps today tells me it would take around 18 hours. I drove until I felt the need to sleep, pulled into a layby, dropped the seat down, covered myself with a sleeping bag and slept. I reached Civitavecchia in time to book for the 2300 sailing; my car was hoisted onto the ferry deck by crane and I headed off in search of the bar. Two Gin & Tonics went down in quick succession! It was a very good fortnight.

And finally, our world was a diet of Alphabet soup. For example:

RA JDSC 2IC CO BC BAOR FOO TEWT NAAFI CPX GPO ADC AFV ADJ OP AG6 NSI SGT BDR GNR FP FUP GCM

Richard 20th February 2026

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS Oh! And I managed to find time to race from Tenerife to Bermuda in a 55ft ketch:

see PC 161 The Atlantic 1976 (Sep 2019)

PC 409 Saying Adieu

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Things come in threes, right? It was in Estoril in September when I took a telephone call that told me my dear chum Bill had died. Two days earlier a WhatsApp message imparted the news that Carol, the wife of an Army colleague whom I had first met in 1973, had died and gave information about her funeral. Three week’s ago my brother-in-law’s elderly little Yorkshire Terrier Buddy left for a different place. Each piece of news brought a flood of pertinent, personal memories but it wasn’t until I started Peter James’ latest novel, ‘One of Us is Dead’, that I thought I would scribble something on the subject of saying goodbye.

It wasn’t James’ description of a funeral service that brought me up short but his observations of a wake, for three days before I had been to Bill’s ‘Celebration of Life’, a ‘wake’ by any other name! It was as if James had been looking over my shoulder, down to the ‘….. and on tables bottles of Red and White wine, with no effort for the latter to be chilled.’

‘Sailing in The Baltic’! Alongside in Faaborg, Denmark 1972

Dear Bill! I had met him in Lippstadt, Germany in August 1972 when he was my Troop Commander in 27 Medium Regiment Royal Artillery. The Cold War was at its height and NATO faced the might of the Warsaw Pact across the Inner German Border. Additionally, in August 1969, Her Majesty’s Government had committed the military to assist the local police in Northern Ireland; so serious times. (Note 1) But it was also the time of Idi Amin, the President of Uganda, whose rule was characterized by political repression, ethnic persecution and rampant corruption. The British magazine Punch had a column devoted to Idi Amin’s week. Bill and David Morley, another Captain and great raconteur, had those of us taking morning coffee in the Officers’ Mess in fits, as they read the column out loud, taking on the voices and appropriate accents. Probably frowned upon now, certainly racist, but this was 1972! I was only in 27 Regiment for a year before moving down the road to Sennelager in preparation for 39 Medium Regiment’s first Northern Ireland tour in 1973.    

Then we just kept in touch, met up now and again, that delightful result of good times and shared experiences remaining the glue to our friendship. Bill eventually retired from the Army as a colonel and got a job in the Ministry of Defence (MOD) as a Watchkeeper. Deep below the MOD building in Whitehall is an operations room, manned 24/7, that manages the Government’s overseas military operations. The Watchkeeper’s main role seemed to be preparing the morning brief for the Chief of Defence Staff, a task Bill would have been exemplary at. This Watchkeeper duty came round every few weeks, so not onerous and, after he was free, we’d try and meet for lunch in the Crusting Pie in Covent Garden. Bill was good at ‘chewing the fat’, although occasionally he would lean across the table and, fixing me with his beady eye, ask: ‘Now Richard, what do you think of the current situation in Timbuktu (or wherever)?’.

Bill developed Prostate Cancer. In April I met David Morley for lunch in Winchester and we had tried to entice Bill to join us ….. but he obviously didn’t feel up to it  ….. so months later we came together to celebrate his life; no funeral, just a celebration, a chance to say goodbye and to thank him for his friendship.

A wake of sorts, but uncoloured by a prior service, and attended by those touched by Bill down the decades, from school friends, through Army service, to golf and tennis chums. The Royal Regiment of Artillery has a very distinctive tie so those who had served with Bill were very evident.

I am always curious about what are now called people’s ‘backstories’ and enjoyed talking to Jerry, one of his two schoolmates and subsequently British Airways Concorde pilot. Another chap, Martin, had served in The Gunners then became a Practice Manager in a law firm, retiring to the Salisbury suburb of Harnham, where he sculpts in his garden shed. His wife said they’d moved 18 times in their life together! Then there was John someone, who spoke to us all of Bill’s time in the Army. He knew me but couldn’t place me; I vaguely knew him, and we dodged around the question of when and where and even why. Memory fades! Bill and Lynne’s daughter Georgina spoke of Bill as her father, a family man through and through.

When I told Celina’s family the date of Carol’s funeral which then was to be in three weeks’ time, there was a sharp intake of breath, as Brazilians bury their dead within a day or two, as do many religions. I am a fan of a slight delay if only to allow those who might wish to attend but live far away to make the necessary arrangements. The funeral took place in the tiny parish church of St Mary’s The Virgin in Vernham Dean in deepest Hampshire and was extremely well attended.

We sang the appropriate hymns, listened to the eulogies, smiled at the oration of the popular poems regarding our departure from this earth …. and as the wicker casket was taken out for its committal, the heavens opened with a downpour of biblical proportions. Seemed apposite! Later, standing in the widower’s home for drinks and canapés, our wet clothes steamed …..! I later thought of how Covid was spread and how quickly we forget. One hundred people crammed into three rooms, 50% slightly deaf, bending an ear to hear!

One’s pets are all characters and Buddy was no different, but like us humans, their lives are finite.

Attendance at the funerals of family members is a duty, something expected of us. To go to those of friends is something different, a reflection of love and affection, of respect and humanity. As Christina Rossetti wrote:

“Better by far you should forget and smile, than that you should remember and be sad.”

Adieu Bill. Farewell Carol. Thank you Buddy. You lived your lives to the full.

Richard 18th October 2024

Hove

www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

PS I hope things don’t come in fours!

Note 1 No one imagined this embryonic conflict would smoulder for almost thirty years, with the occasional period of more intense mayhem.

PC 408 Memories of Sandhurst – The United Kingdom’s Royal Military Academy

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Towards the end of my teenage years, I wanted to be an architect …… but architecture was going through a difficult time and my stepfather suggested I join the British Army. He thought was that by the time I had spent three years or so serving Her Majesty, architectural opportunities might be better; I did 20 years!

To gain entry to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst (RMAS) I had to attend the Regular Commissions Board, then located in Westbury, Wiltshire, to be assessed!

Fortunately I passed the various physical and mental tests, including the ‘speak for 5 minutes about … a milk bottle’!

The transition from boy to man, girl to woman, is, for some, complex and unnerving, for others it’s like water off the proverbial duck’s back. Everyone’s experience is unique, can never be otherwise and it could be forced upon one through the diktats of family life, the loss of a parent for instance, or tribal customs very early, but for most it happened after one’s 16th birthday; nowadays I sense it’s much earlier – more’s the shame! Of course there are those who never really grow up, still maintaining a childish outlook on life, the Peter Pans. The syndrome, used to describe those adults who are socially immature, refers to people who have reached an adult age but cannot face their adult sensations and responsibilities.

The Royal Military Academy (Note 1) turns boys into young men, girls into young women, ready to be deployed into combat should that be necessary, ready to lead. Nowadays the course is a year (Note 2) but in 1965 it was a two-year course mirroring and, in some respects, equalling the first-degree courses at many universities. The Academy had four intakes of Officer Cadets at any one time; commissioning took place in December and July. Some 60% of our time was spent on academics, the rest on learning our new craft, the military and the art of warfare (Note 3).

Our neighbour Meryl, an avid reader of my postcards, suggested I wrote something about my memories of the two years I spent at RMAS. Why, I am not quite sure; maybe she wanted to find out why I am how I am (?) but I doubted whether, in 1000 words or less, I could encapsulate my time growing, from teenager to adult, from schoolboy to Army Officer. Maybe I would need two or even three PCs? It was a disparate bunch of teenagers who formed up on the Victory College square as Burma Company Intake 39 in September 1965 and included three from overseas, Sid Sonsomsouk from Thailand, Ngambi from Uganda and Jo Nakamet from Kenya. No one was sure what we had let ourselves in for. It didn’t take long to find out!

How would I describe the first six weeks, when the days began very early and ended very late, when others dictated what you did? Challenging? Draining? Character building? Probably all of the above and more besides. A good example was ‘Changing Parades’, when we had to appear in the corridor outside our room in one form of dress, be inspected with infringements resulting in press-ups, before going back and changing into another form of dress – from full combat gear, to Service Dress, to PT Kit (Blue Blazer, Blue shorts, White T-Shirt, White ‘plimsols’ (Does anyone know what these are?)) to Parade Ground Uniform. Our rooms had, during the whole process, to remain immaculate. The instructors would scream and shout at any visible laziness or inattention. Faced with an external threat (the instructors!) we all began to coalesce into a group, safety in numbers and focusing our hate on our instructors. I think this was where the military saying ‘Kit on! Kit off!’ comes from.

Within the first month one of the platoon was suddenly diagnosed with leukaemia, disappeared to the Military Hospital in Aldershot ….. and died two months later. 

I have written before how the experience of becoming proficient at drill, in marching in time, swinging the appropriate arm, showing off our skills and being part of something, belonging, wanting, gets imbedded within one. Imagine being on parade with another 889 officer cadets, moving in formation to the familiar marching tunes, bursting with pride. That’s a great memory, acknowledging the hard work that preceded it, to get to the required standard. For those who have never had the privilege and opportunity, your life is missing something!

The main Sandhurst parades started at 1100. There were always little niggles, so the Academy Sergeant Major, a chap called Phillips, the most senior non-commissioned officer and otherwise known as ‘God’, would insist we would be lined up on Old College Square at 1030, to ensure there was no last-minute panic. Old College Square was a 10-minute march from New College Square, so College Sergeant Major Murphy, Irish Guards, (‘Spud’ behind his back, but never to his face!) insisted we were ready to leave at 1000, as there were always little niggles. Burma Company Sergeant Major Hewlett, Coldstream Guards, insisted we formed up for him at 0930, as there were always little niggles. Staff Sergeant Rooney, a Welsh Fusilier, insisted the platoon for which he was responsible formed up at 0900, as there were always little niggles. This is probably where the phrase ‘5 minutes before 5 minutes before …..’ originates.

(to be continued)

Richard 11th October 2024

Hove

http://www.postcardscribbles.co.uk

Note 1 Naval Officers are trained at the Royal Navy College Dartmouth and Air Force Officers at Cranwell

Note 2 A new term started last month with 288 Officer Cadets joining CC 243 for the 44-week course. There are 40 international cadets from 23 countries as diverse as Columbia and Kazakhstan. Of the 248 British cadets, just over half were educated in the state sector, 80% are university graduates and the average age is 22.

Note 3 The War Studies Department was run by John Keegan. The recent obituary of Duncan Anderson, who took over as its head in 1997, had an interesting snippet!  Keegan’s successor was a chap called John Pimlott, who had died after two grenades he picked up during a battlefield tour in France exploded in his study at home.