Memories of Frank Yates Chapter 19

Memories of Frank Yates CHAPTER 19

I was now a member of a “Holding and Training” regiment, this is a unit to which, and from which, officers and OR’s could be posted, a kind of manpower reservoir. When I arrived at Stratton St. Margaret, the previous incumbent had already departed, so I was left to the tender mercies of a troop sergeant, a mine of information, and very good at dealing with the ration strength returns and making sure that the four gun sites and troop HQ got their grub!
There was a driver, a cook and a little tubby chap who acted as batman, assistant cook and officer’s confidant’ He fixed up my bed, he laid out my meals, by putting a tablecloth on my desk, He cleaned my shoes, and sent off my laundry. He also answered the ’phone, if the sergeant and I were out. I got the impression that he would put up with me, until I left for pastures new!
There was a 30 cwt truck, well used for delivering rations and transferring personnel to and from the railway station. There was also a motor bike, for my use, and a very thick pair of gauntlet gloves. When the bike was kick started, the carburettor would develop a small fire, duly smothered by the gauntlets. This was a small embarrassment, outside shops in the Swindon High Street! I wondered why the fault had never been sorted out.
I was summoned to Battery HQ., by a phone call from the Major, so I put on my gauntlets, started the bike and put out the fire and rode down the main Swindon to Marlborough road to a village called Ogbourne St. George. Battery HQ was in a very pleasant house, next to the church, complete with a tennis court. The battery commander was called Major Bailey, a dark, good looking chap, in his late thirties, and, as I was to quickly discover, a grade “A” fruitcake. I suppose that an overgrown schoolboy would have been a better description!
As we drank tea, I was introduced to the battery captain and the “Dog’s body” officer, officially “Transport officer”. He had been the Tennis “Pro” at the leading Tennis Club in Leicester and I wonder which came first, the tennis court or the “Pro”? I was asked if I played and when I said that I did, but had no racket, the major said that they had plenty of rackets and he would fix a day for me to come over for a knockabout. (I bought myself a pair of tennis shoes in Swindon on my way home).
There was a framed photograph, on the wall, of a very beautiful naked lady. I found out that she was the major’s wife and that he had taken the picture.
Before I left, he told me that he proposed to hold an “Exercise” in my troop area, involving the Swindon Auxiliary Fire Service and he would come along and put me in the picture.
A large part of my day was taken up by going round my gun sites. One was situated off the main Stratton road, by the railway. It was situated on some rough land and was approached by a track, about 50 yards long. Another site was on the road serving the very large Plessey electronics factory, in the heart of Swindon. The other two were to the North of the town, on the edge of the built up area and in the vicinity of a shadow factory, making aircraft components. The sergeants seemed efficient and, as I settled in, I was happy enough.
I found out, from Peggy, that her adoptive brother, Syd Hartley, lived in Swindon, so I set off on my bike, to find the address, in a row of terraced houses in a cul-de-sac, quite near to the railway station and the centre of Swindon. Syd was a sergeant in the RAF, but his wife, Mae, welcomed me. They had a little boy, nearly four years old, called Brian, who now lives, slightly older, at Sewerby, Bridlington. Little Brian was fascinated by my revolver, and, making sure that it was unloaded, I let him handle it. His first surprise was its weight, and he dropped it. Then, to his annoyance, the trigger pull was too much for him. Eventually he managed to pull the trigger, by using both hands.
Mae suggested that Peggy might come down for a weekend and we thought it a good idea so we fixed a time for her trip. We did our fine tuning arrangements by telephone, I was a bit disconcerted when Peggy told me that there was a train every 35 minutes. On trying again, she found out that there were just two trains, daily, to Swindon, the frequent ones being to Swinton in Rotherham! I met her at the station and was, of course, delighted to see her again. I had left my bike, at Mae’s before going to the station, so could go back to my Church Hall HQ, in the small hours.
On Saturday we went to dinner at a hotel in the town and, on Sunday afternoon, I saw her off on the train to Sheffield. We had both enjoyed the weekend. I did not take her to my HQ, not wanting to give my “Staff” the opportunity for gossip!
The major launched his assault one Tuesday afternoon and my telephone became red hot. The sergeant on No 1 site rang up in an agitated state of mind to say that there was a fire near his hut and there had been explosions, and I had better come and see.
Suddenly, under my chair, there was an almighty bang. The major had slipped in and put two thunderflashes, wired together with copper wire (I found the wire afterwards). In the confines of the office the explosion was enough to split the panelling and make my head ache!
Then the phone started ringing “Who’s going to pay for my broken windows”? “I can’t get my wife from under the table.” I referred them to the phone number of Battery HQ! The major had been busy; He had caused explosions at two of my sites, the most serious ones at the one where he had lighted a fire. It appears that he had applied to the Royal Engineers for explosives and a friendly sergeant major had collaborated, and they had planted explosives in the verges of the track leading to the site. When the AFS arrived, with their appliance, converted from a truck, they were “bombed” as they went up the track. So much so, that the crew had left before they reached the fire and, because of the shocks, the body of the thing was beginning to leave the chassis!
In the quiet of the evening, the major telephoned and boasted about the great success of his exercise, as I contemplated the cracked panels, under my telephone table! He also invited me for lunch on Sunday!
After lunch at Ogbourne St. George, we played tennis, not too successfully, because, Trevor, the pro, was so much better than any of us and the only way to get a fairly even game was for Trevor to play on one side of the net, using the full court, with a doubles pair on the other side. When we had had enough, the Major showed us his legacy from the friendly sergeant major, several packets of gelignite, past its sell-by date, and some blocks of gun cotton, and a box of assorted detonators!
He then indulged his obsession, by producing a three foot length of cast iron drainpipe, and sticking it, almost vertically, in a heap of sand, at the back of the tennis court. The mad major then, with a penknife, carved a slab of gun cotton, to fit his drainpipe. A slab of gun cotton is about as big as a small book with a hole in the centre to accept the detonator and has the appearance and texture of solid cotton wool. A salmon tin, in an old sock, was dropped into the pipe, on top of the gun cotton, the detonator wire coming out through the sand.
I was worried about the brittleness of cast iron, but he assured me that there was no danger, because he had done it several times already! He applied a torch battery to the detonator wires.
The effect was spectacular; the tin can described a trajectory over the church roof, still rising. Hopefully, it also cleared the village!
When we went in for tea, the major took a piece of the gun cotton and teased out a small scrap, into the fluffy cotton wool, from which it appeared to be made, and put the almost invisible threads into an ash tray. “Watch this” as he put his lighted cigarette into the tray. The resultant flash was enough to scare any unsuspecting smoker out of his socks! He was delighted with this new toy, and offered us some to play tricks on our colleagues. I could see that there was a distinct possibility of getting a thick ear rather than a laugh!
Life at Stratton St Margaret was anything but dull. One day I sent the driver to the station to pick up a gunner, with instructions to take him to No. 1 site. He never got there! As the lorry bumped along the minor road, alongside the railway, with the passenger, sitting comfortably on his bedroll and leaning back on the tailboard, trouble came as the tailboard suddenly fell down, depositing the unfortunate gunner, still lying on his bedroll, onto the road, from where he was transferred to Stratton St. Margarets Hospital, with bruises and a broken arm.
When I looked at the lorry, I found that one of the two tailboard “Pinkles” was missing, allowing the board to open when the other one had jumped out of its slot. Truck maintenance was the responsibility of the aforementioned Trevor, although my thickish driver should have reported it. When orders came for the inevitable “Court of Inquiry” the two members were Trevor and Me! We sat at his bedside at the hospital and took down his statement. He, several times, said that there was only one pinkle on the tailboard, but we didn’t seem to hear him very clearly, our findings being that, either both fastenings had jumped out, or one of them had not been properly fastened. Anyway we heard no more about the matter and Trevor got a new pinkle installed. I told him to do something about my motorbike, while he was in the mood, or he would be attending an enquiry on the incineration of a second lieutenant!
“Out of the blue” came an interesting task, I was asked to survey, and record the position and state of about a dozen abandoned machine gun sites in the area NE of Swindon. A proposed “Shadow” factory had not materialised, but its air defences had been built and abandoned, I spent a couple of mornings finding them, having been given the highly inaccurate map references from years before. Farmers were able to point out some of them. I drew plans of each one, with a description and a new map reference, but as I had only the One Inch OS map, I wonder how accurate these positions were.

A “red letter” day arrived, and with it a new officer, He was tall and blond and with a story to tell. He had been captured at Dunkirk, but had slipped away before being moved to POW camp, making his way down through France and over the Pyrenees into Spain, where he was picked up by the police and put in a prison camp for more than two years, badly treated and badly fed. Spain was a neutral country, but, of course, the Franco regime had strong fascist ties with Hitler, whose Luftwaffe was put at Franco’s disposal during the Civil War. My new colleague, whose name I can’t remember, was repatriated, through Gibraltar, because of worsening health, and, after convalescence, was sent to us, awaiting posting. This came, after two days, when I was still agog with his astonishing stories.
To finish off my extraordinary first month as a second lieutenant, I tell of an incident, which happened during my second week. This is the first time, in 62 years, that I have told anyone about it. I visited the gun site near the Plessey factory, parked my bike and walked down to the gun pit, where I found the air sentry fast asleep on duty! I woke him up and laid into him, reminding him that in WW1 he would certainly have been shot. He was white faced and tears started. My mind was working out what to do in this unexpected situation, never discussed at OCTU. When I finished my tirade, I got him to swear that he would never do such a thing again and then told him that, as far as I was concerned, I would tell nobody. When I rode away, I left a very relieved gunner, but a very worried yours truly, wondering if he done the right thing.

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