My War 1938 to 1947 Part 3 of 8

1944

On New Year’s Day I do not remember any variation in the usual routine of drills, instruction , and lectures except that, since Palace Barracks had been an old established military barracks, it had a gymnasium, so we had PT lessons added to our curriculum. To start with that was the principal, if not the only, change, but gradually the tempo increased, and we found ourselves working harder than any of us had been used to. Route marches became a weekly feature of the programme, starting with a short march of some two or three miles twice a week, but steadily increasing to some twenty-odd miles once a week, with a ‘scheme’ , or simulation of a minor piece of ‘action’ taking place once or twice during its progress, so that we might cover thirty or even more miles in the course of the day. During our regular PT lessons we would often go for a run, covering several miles, interspersed with climbing up one end of a line of brick built air raid shelters, down at the other end, up the next shelter, and so on to the end of the line, when we would resume our running. If we were ordered to do rifle or machine gun practice we would have to march from Holywood round the edge of Belfast and then across to Newtonards, at the tip of Strangford Loch, and then after marching several miles round the loch we would veer off to the left to the range. Then, after spending most of the day shooting, we would have to march back to Holywood by another route.

Of course, not all of us were physically strong enough to manage this, but it was regarded as a matter of pride that we all set off together, and we all finished together. I cannot remember any occasion when our platoon failed in this, but of course it did mean that matters had to be arranged so that we could do so. As the miles were covered and members of the platoon tired and began to flag, the stronger members would start to assume some of their load. It was by no means unusual, nearing the end of a long route march, to see some of the men carrying, in addition to their own equipment, somebody else’s pack and rifle, sometimes two rifles, and with one or sometimes two men holding on to the stronger man’s belt or webbing equipment, so that as he marched he could pull them along with him.

This may seem an unlikely thing to happen, but I have taken part in just such an arrangement. More than once.

After these route marches we would have a shower, or at least wash our feet, and then the subaltern responsible for our platoon would inspect our feet, carrying out first aid on those too badly blistered to be able to look after themselves.

Of course, if this account seems too bleak, it must not be assumed that there was not a lighter side to life in Ulster. Once we were invited to take part in a big parade through Belfast. I really cannot remember details of it, except that the salute was taken by an American general, who in his speech at the end of the proceedings, said complimentary things about the British contingent. Another time I managed to win tickets for a major American stage show, the name of which I forget, but which for me was memorable in that there were no females in the cast at all: all the female parts were played by men. Later, Hollywood made a film of it.

The other memorable thing about this period was that between New Year and Easter, I cannot remember a single day without rain! There may have been one or two, but they quite passed me by. At Easter came leave — a whole week. So off we set, laden like pack mules, to spend seven days with our families. My grandfather was beginning to fail by now, but he still knew me, and was able to laugh and enjoy life. Most of my friends were in the services, so I did find it a little lonely, but a week soon passes, and then it was back to Ulster. Indeed, I think I did realise that it was worse for my Mother. Arthur was in Malta, and would not be home for an indeterminate period, if ever, and Dad was at work all day, so for much of the day she was alone, unless she could meet up with other women who were mostly in a similar predicament to her.

This time the journey back to Palace Barracks had a small amount of variety to spice it up. As we left Loch Ryan and turned South West for Larne the order came for all passengers to go below: nobody was to be allowed on deck. It was, of course, very crowded down there, and the atmosphere was very thick. It was not helped by a detachment of black American troops,
who had been amongst the last units to board, and who had spread themselves in a double line on the deck, effectively cutting it into two halves, and consolidated this by depositing all their belongings and baggage around them. Most of them, if not all, were sea-sick, so that the vomit swilled about the deck between them and made the already thick atmosphere almost unbearable. How they felt I can only conjecture. However, my attention was diverted by what I saw through a port-hole nearby. Sweeping down on us from the North, brilliantly lit by the sunlight, came an aircraft carrier surrounded by its flotilla of escort vessels. I only saw it for a short time, but I was very impressed by its size, and then we were past it. We were not allowed back on deck until we were safely inside Larne harbour, where we disembarked.

During this second part of our stay at Holywood those of us selected for training for commissions were interviewed, all together, by the commanding officer. He asked a few questions, and made comments which, so far as I can remember, were pretty banal. Then he suddenly delivered a fairly lengthy speech in some foreign language which I, and from their silence the other members of the group, did not understand. Having finished speaking he then asked whether any of us had understood him. Silence. Then I thought that I had nothing to lose, so I enquired whether it was Erse. Hs looked surprised, and asked me why I had asked that. I replied, reasonably I think, that he was an Irishman, he was serving in an Irish regiment, and we were in Ireland. “Of course it wasn’t Erse,” he snapped out. “It was Swahili,” More silence followed.

A short time after this I, and several others, were detailed to attend a WOSB (War Office Selection Board) at Chester, which would determine our future in the service. We left the camp in a group for the railway station, and started our journey to
Chester, This was broken at Lancaster to spend the night in a transit camp — the only one I ever saw which was entirely staffed and commanded by women. It was very good, and the food was superb. Unfortunately we only had two meals there, and then went on by train to Chester, where we exchanged the train for a lorry which carried us to an army camp in that vicinity where we disembarked for the WOSB, where we would stay for three days. There we were tested, and questioned, and generally bothered about until the officers had made up their minds about us. Then we were dismissed and sent on
the long journey back to Palace Barracks to await their decision. In my case the answer was ‘yes’, and I then knew that my next posting would be to an OCTU (Officer Cadet Training Unit). When my posting came through, along with I think two other privates, we were to report to Pre-OCTU in the grounds of Sandhurst Military College.

This was somewhat different from anywhere else I had been. To start with we wore a wide white band round the edge of our caps, signifying that we were officers in training, and secondly we were addressed by all other ranks as ‘Sir’. Apart from that we were still privates, and were chased from morning to night to make sure that we did not get too inflated an opinion of ourselves. Because ‘D Day’ was approaching we were in temporary accommodation in tents, with twelve men to one ridge tent. Quite near us there was an airfield where the new ‘jet planes’ were stationed, and they spent most of each day practicing flying these very new aircraft. None of us had ever seen such things. Then, on the company notice boards, there were warnings of a rocket propelled aircraft rumoured to be in the German armoury. They were not rumours for long. Pretty soon the V1 was in service, and we all watched out for it. I remember one night when we were all asleep, we were awakened by what sounded like a two stroke motorcycle approaching. It got louder and louder, and then cut out. As one man we all sat bolt upright in our tent, waiting. At last it came — an ear splitting explosion. Then, since we did not know where the thing had landed, we all lay down, again as one man, and went back to sleep.

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