Reluctant Recruit

Derek Rosser

Description

My early life was fairly uneventful apart from the scrapes and mischief to which all boys of the period were prone. Then there was the fact that the bulk of my education was blighted by taking place during the years when Mr Hitler decided to attempt world domination. But that's another story which, given time, I may tell later. On leaving school, I was fortunate to be accepted as an apprentice engineer by the, then, Bristol Aeroplane Company for a period of five years. On completion and qualification I gained a position in the Jig and Tool Design office and expected to be there for the rest of my working life. At eighteen I met my future wife, courted her for four years and married her in July 1952. There followed two years of wedded bliss before I was conscripted and obliged (as were all fit males of the day) to become a member of the armed services, in my case the Royal Air Force. My adventures as a 'Reluctant Recruit' are the subject of this volume. I decided, at the time that I would, one day, tell the story. One day was fifty years later but here it is at last.Book reviews online @ www.publishedbestsellers.com

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Reino Unido
• Memoir
• United Kingdom
• Great Britain
• History
• Royaume-Uni

Informations

• Publié par: Pneuma Springs Publishing
• Date de parution: 15 mars 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782281597
• Langue: English

Extrait

A Reluctant Recruit




Derek Rosser
First Published in 2011 by: Pneuma Springs Publishing
A Reluctant Recruit Copyright © 2011 Derek Rosser
Kindle eISBN: 9781907728938 ePub eISBN 9781782281597 PDF eBook eISBN 9781782280774 Paperback ISBN: 9781907728105
Pneuma Springs Publishing E: [e-mail] W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Contents and/or cover may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written consent of the publisher.
I dedicate this book to my beloved wife with my grateful thanks for over sixty years of love and devotion
Foreword
It was all so long ago, over fifty years. Yet there are many events which I remember so vividly that it may have been only yesterday. To paraphrase a greater writer than I can ever hope to be:-
There were good times and there were bad times’
How strange it is that, in most areas of human experience, the good times are those that we remember best. We wallow in nostalgia as we recount to our children the exploits of our youth. We explain that those were the ‘Good old days’ and that today’s generation has no spirit of adventure.
“It would do you good”, we say, “to go through the mill like I did. It would make a man of you.” I’m not sure that we believe it but it does give us a nice warm superior feeling.
I can hear you saying “Why has he waited over fifty years to tell this story?” I didn’t deliberately leave it so long. For well over forty of those years I was busy earning a crust and there was little time for reminiscence. When I retired and time no longer ruled my life, I was able to amuse myself by recalling those far off days. If you too are entertained, I shall feel that my efforts have not been entirely wasted.
The events described in these pages are loosely based on personal experience but I have permitted my imagination to embroider and exaggerate the facts in the hope of adding interest and, perhaps, a note of humour. Some of the characters remind me of ex comrades whom I remember with affection but all of these characters are pure figments of my imagination being drawn from a hotch potch of disjointed memories. The names I have used are also totally fictitious and have been selected in an attempt to give the characters a credible identity within the context of the story.
I recommend this book to my sons in the earnest hope that they will pass these memories on to my grandchildren when I am no longer with them.
Enough of all this. Let’s get on with it…
Contents
BOOK 1
How I (almost) dodged the draft
The short temper of a Provost Sergeant
Day One
A visit to Saville Row
The art of Indoctrination
The Hednesford Hilton
In at the deep end
Elegance in the Billet
Sick Parade
Rifle Drill
Fire Picket
Cleanliness is next to Godliness
A Night on the Town
Weapon Training, Marksmanship and attempted murder
The Royal visit
Sorting the wheat from the chaff
Reliability and Initiative
The final run up
Graduation Day

BOOK 2
And so it goes on
Settling Down
Foreign Service
Improved Transport Arrangements
The Social Climber
The Great Sports Day Skive
The Phoney War
A Day at the Races
Night Operations
Active Service
Christmas Festivities
The Great Engineer
Three Men in a Boat (Abject apologies to Jerome K Jerome)
The Demob Party (Dress Rehearsal)
A Holiday in Bisley
The Warrior Returns
Book 1
How I was dragged from the bosom of my family and placed at the mercy of a gang of degenerates whose sole objective appeared to be the destruction of my morale and initiative.
1. How I (almost) dodged the draft
There were seven of us in that poky little office. They are scattered far and wide across the globe now but I expect that, if they ever read this, they will recognise themselves.
We were all engaged in a common pursuit called ‘ Avoiding Conscription ’. The last ‘ War to end wars ’ had been over for about eight years but the government of the day, in its wisdom, found it necessary to maintain the armed forces at full strength to ensure our continued survival.
Needless to say those of us upon whom the burden was likely to fall did not support this point of view. We were, however, given little opportunity to argue our case.
The ritual began at the age of eighteen when all males were obliged to register for National Service and be subjected to medical examination. The examination appeared to consist of coughing while the examiner retained a firm hold upon your vital appendages. To make absolutely certain, you were instructed to touch your toes while he carried out a close scrutiny of your posterior orifice.
Should you not succeed in escaping, a mirror would be held to your nose. If it misted over you would be pronounced A1 fit for active service. There were various attempts, even at this early stage, to be judged unfit. That which afforded me the most amusement was the lad who turned up with a note from his mother insisting that he was too delicate for military service. However, the vets were up to most of the tricks and you were unlikely to get away with it unless your father was the Mayor (or your sister was sleeping with the Mayor’s son).
Thinking that the benefits of being declared unfit might well be outweighed by the resulting disadvantages I chose not to hide my disgustingly healthy condition. Accordingly I left the building with a piece of paper certifying that I was fit to be shot at almost anywhere in the world.
Phase 1 of the battle to avoid conscription was now well and truly lost. However, since I was an indentured apprentice, I need not start worrying for another three years when my apprenticeship would be completed. Maybe, by then, there would no longer be a need for National Service.
The three years passed all too quickly and, with the approach of my twenty first birthday, there was no sign of any repeal of the National Service Act. It was time to consider the available options and come up with the strategy for Phase Two.
I was aided in this by my employer who invoked a weapon called ‘ Deferment ’. This meant that, provided my employer could convince the authorities that leaving my job would be detrimental to the well being of the State, I would not be conscripted (yet).
This was not a cancellation of sentence, merely a stay of execution. It did, however, provide a breathing space in which to plan Phase 3.
So it was that seven of us were gathered in that little office with ‘ SECRET-NO ADMITTANCE ’ painted on the door and escape plans being feverishly debated within. We had been imprisoned there for almost four years now and had still not come up with a foolproof scheme. Such ideas as had been considered were abandoned as too impractical, too expensive or too painful.
According to the law of the land, if we managed to remain free until our twenty fifth birthdays, we would no longer be liable for National Service. We were all well past our twenty fourth birthday and aware that our deferment would not be extended for another year. It was time for drastic action and two of the group took it. They beat a hasty retreat across the Atlantic where, as foreign nationals, they could feel safe.
I must admit to having given a great deal of thought to bolting down the same hole but…there was a snag. During my four years in the wilderness I had met, courted and married the love of my life. We are still together so I have to put it like that or she will do me a serious mischief.
Anyway, our financial position was so precarious that there was no way we could afford two fares across the pond. My wife, understandably, refused to allow me to disappear on my own despite my promise to send for her as soon as I could raise the fare. So it was that I surrendered to the inevitable and settled down to await the buff envelope with OHMS in the corner.
I didn’t have to wait for long. It arrived one day in late September containing a travel warrant and inviting me to present myself on October 16th at RAF Cardington to commence my National Service.
By now the escapees had safely landed in Canada and were, no doubt, sniggering at the fate of their ex colleagues. We had been finally caught, one by the Royal Navy, two by the Army and two by the Royal Air Force.
The journey to, and arrival at, Cardington was not an unqualified success. But that’s another story...
2. The Short temper of a Provost Sergeant
I had known Ron Sloane for a long time. We joined the Company on the same day, served our apprenticeship together and had been cooped up in the same little office for the past four years. Now we were sharing the dubious privilege of being called by Queen and Country on the same day.
We shared something else as well. Ron too had taken the matrimonial plunge and was just as sick about leaving his wife as I was about leaving mine. We were, therefore, kindred spirits and agreed to travel together. We arranged to meet at platform nine at around 11:30am with a view to catching the twelve ten train. We reasoned that even forty minutes might not be enough time to properly take our leave of our relatively new brides. We were, you see, both in the flush of that first fine careless rapture. Disillusionment was still some years away.
Ron and Mrs Ron were on the platform waiting for us when we arrived. They sat together on a suitcase which looked large enough to accommodate all four of us. I forget Ron’s wife’s name but I do remember that she was what, in those days, was called “A Dish” . She didn’t look quite as dishy at the moment however. Her face was damp, her eyes were swollen and her mascara was dribbling towards her chin.
It didn’t help much when we joined them because we soon had two sets of swollen eyes with which to contend. When there were no dry handkerchiefs left, both Ron and I were beg