National Serviceman..........pictures www.edmundspictures.co.uk

At the age of 15 I left school with nothing to show for an expensive education so I began to educate myself.  I read books on Art, Drawing, and Famous lives.  I discovered Delderfield, Joyce, Gibran, Klee, Moupassant, and Frank Harris.
I read books on the RAF and the latest planes and the Army and its way of life, its disciplines and its heroes.

I set about improving my physical strength, because I was a very puny example of a human being, really I was just a bag of bones. 
Every day there were deliveries to the Ice cream factory in which I worked. 
One day it would be 1cwt sacks of sugar, and the next day 56lb boxes of fats. 
All of these had to be carried to the first floor of the factory, up 21 concrete steps.
Refusing any help from the delivery men I would struggle up the steps with these heavy loads.  Eventually I was able to carry them up with relative ease.

To develop my legs I either ran to and from home to work each day or cycled in the lowest gear. 
All this eventually paid off, and by the time I was called up to do me National Service I was in reasonable shape.
My call up papers duly arrived and I felt deliriously happy and sick with worry.
My first choice was to join the RAF; I was very interested in Armament Engineering, however I came a cropper on my motorbike and fractured my wrist, which took a few weeks to heal, and I missed the intake to the RAF.
Luckily the medical officer at the medical Center was a family friend and also our  Insurance man.  He was surprised to see me and asked me what service in the army I preferred.  I said driving so he recommended me for the RASC.
Arthur Sharland who was the foreman at our Ice-cream factory where I had been working had taught me to drive when I was just 15. 

He would hire a Morris Minor from a local company and teach me how to drive, usually from Torquay to Exeter. His driving instructions were extremely detailed, involving the correct speed for the road conditions, how to use the weight and power of the engine to enable fast cornering, how to be aware and anticipate dangers etc. Before long I had become a competant driver.
I had spent many hours at a local garage watching the mechanics at work, and became very friendly with them and eventually was encouraged by them to undertake simple tasks. 
Therefore, I was well grounded in the workings of the internal combustion engine and a competent driver by the time I was 18 even though I had not yet passed my driving test.

Honour to him who evil thinks.  Here I am 66 years old now, but happy that I belong to a group of men who have such a good reputation for their role of supporting our armed forces at the battle front.  without the RASC. Royal Army Service Corps bullets and Food would soon run out for the front line troops.

The RASC and National Service.
National Service was introduced in 1948 for every 18 year old male, and lasted until 1960.
Conscription has only been employed twice in Britain, both occasions during the 20th century.
Royal Army Service Corps recruits, North Camp, Aldershot was an important training centre for the Royal Army Service Corps.  Most of its intake of young men being were to be trained as drivers or clerks.
Aldershot basic training was not to be as traumatic as I had been led to expect by all the daily Mirror Headlines about bullying and excessive BULL.
This was the time when the Daily Mirror was investigating “BULLSHIT”. 
Reports of widespread bullying of National service men had been rife for some time.
Following reports by people leaving the Army, of excessive discipline within a harsh regime of intolerance, indifference and brutality.
The Mirror made headlines over a period of time, which caused questions to be asked in parliament.
The response by the minister responsible was to issue instructions that National Servicemen were to be treated less harshly.  So we were.
Because my intake were all going to be joining the R.A.S.C. our basic training was to be just four weeks concentrated square bashing, followed by eight weeks driver training.
Following this we would be posted to our new units, to which we would belong for the rest of our stay in the army.

ALDERSHOT

1885

I was Deemed to have been enlisted at Aldershot for Whole-Time Service under the National Service Acts on 19th July 1956 and posted to 5 Training Battalion of the Royal Army Service Corps.

I reported to Blenheim barracks in Aldershot in the July of 1956 ready for anything, and as nervous as hell.
There was a motley of assorted lads all my own age assembled in a large room. 
The term “We are all in the same boat mate” quickly established itself as the self-preservation retort to anything that confused us.
Aldershot basic training unit was a vast expanse of concrete upon which numerous long barracks huts had been placed. These huts were to be our home for the next four weeks.

We all arrived more or less at the same time, in a variety of dress and hairstyles. The army promised to make us look pretty much the same the next day.
In anticipation of a brutal haircut, I had my hair cut before reporting to the camp.
This did me no good at all. The Army did not like initiative, and I was lined up with all the others to have my head double shaved until I was nearly bald.
Without a doubt, we were all scared shitless of what was to come? 
We were a subdued bunch, quietly exchanging information about where we had come from, if we had girlfriends and we talked about our families. 
To show we were tough all conversation was liberally laced with f**ks and c**ts and bastards etc.  and not to be left out I joined in, I was learning a new vocabulary quite quickly.
A tough looking sergeant appeared and introduced us to our Officer who addressed us in a posh voice and said if we played fair with him, he would play fair with us!  Ha!
We were also introduced to our corporal who would be responsible for our well-being while undergoing training, this chap appeared to be a real tough nut.
The corporal got us outside and formed us up into two rows, and then we were led to the quartermasters stores in some sort of order, where we were issued with a mountain of Army kit. 

Nothing fitted me, because of my 22” waist, short body and long legs. 
What I sight I looked, as a sack of spuds done up with string. 
However, with some goodwill and by exchanging bits of gear with each other, by the end of the day we each had army issue uniform that fitted in places.
We were then shown how to make our beds the army way.
The corporal said that each bed had to be perfect for inspection every day or the whole hut would suffer.
This came as quite a shock for some lads who had never in all their lives slept in a bed that had been made up properly.
We put on denims, which is the Army working uniform.
Denim is hard wearing and can take a lot of abuse, but makes the wearer look like an escaped prisoner.

Later we were formed up into ranks, marched together for the first time.  This was an interesting experiment and caused a lot of laughter among us, but little from the corporal who got red in the face and started shouting at us.  As we stumbled along we were surrounded by squads of men drilling on the parade ground.  We were mightily impressed, they looked good at marching all in step with arms swinging high and boots all shiny. 
The corporal told us we would never be as good as they would because we were a BLOODY shower, and the worst intake of men it had been his misfortune to have in all his years as a professional soldier.
We were taken to the guardroom, and shown how to sign in and out, but the real reason was to intimidate us and ensure our good behaviour and to stop us running home to mummy at the first opportunity.  Not that we were out going anywhere, because for the next four weeks we belonged to them.
We all seemed to get on together but there was one exception to this conviviality, KEOGH! Pronounced KERR.  Keogh did tours of the billet challenging anyone to a fight, and generally being aggressive and a bloody nuisance.

His most notable feature was his heavy eyebrows, which joined in the middle.  He eventually became bored with his games and settled down.  This aggressive behavior was his way of dealing with his strange new environment.
The lance corporal came in to organize us, and he spoke very kindly to us, which was a nuisance, because then we thought that he was nice. The next day revealed him in his true colours, a right bastard.
Early the next morning, REVEILLE!  Or to you, Wakey-Wakey-Wakey.  Hands off your cocks and on your socks and other such pleasantries.
We put on the denims again, after all they wouldn’t want us messing up our lovely new best uniforms now, would they?  And went outside and stood in line. Then we all went back in again to collect our eating utensils.
I am going to march you to the cookhouse the corporal said, and if you don’t march together, left, right, left, right, you won’t get any breakfast, got it?  Yes corporal we all chorused.
We didn’t get it right did we!  So he marched us about a bit to give us an appetite.  We all decided that he was not a very nice man after all.

Our billet hut was a long room with beds neatly arranged down each wall,

At the end of the billet were the toilets and showers and also some large baths, but these were not used much as we all preferred to use the showers.  There was also a drying room for our clothes.
We put on our best dress uniforms as instructed by the corporal and told to stand by our beds.
Each of us was carefully inspected by our Officer and the sergeant who rattled off details to the corporal.  The army wanted us to look our best in our walking out uniforms.  These were then bagged up with our names on them and taken away to the tailors.  It would take about two to three weeks to do the alterations.  The next time we would wear them would be on our passing out parade, that is, if we had not run away first.
That evening we were truly exhausted and ready for our beds.  However,  We had to make sure that by the morning our boots were clean and polished and our denims would be worn with blancoed belts and polished belt buckles, to achieve this meant staying up half the night. 
Our berets were to be worn straight with the badge over the right eye.  When we put the berets on they fell down over our faces and stood up tall like chefs hats, what a sorry sight we were. 
I showed the lads how to immerse the berets in hot water to make them shrink and then put them on the radiators to dry.  (I had been given this tip before I was called up.)
With exception of `Keogh` the lads were an Ok bunch and friendships were being made.

At 6am the next morning, we were rudely woken and told to shave, wash, and present ourselves ready to go for breakfast by 7am.
The language that we had used at home was now replaced by a more rough tongue with lots of fucks and Cunts which coloured and emphasised our feelings but did nothing to improve our lot.
Apart from looking out for our own appearance, we began to look out for each other, helping the inept or slow to get things right, so that we would all benefit and escape the derisory comments from the corporal and sergeant.

typical cookhouse

The cookhouse was a huge barn of a place full of trestle tables and folding chairs.  We queued up for breakfast at huge stainless steel counters, behind which stood as ugly a crew of malcontents that I have ever seen. I did not hold out much hope of the food being fit to eat.  I was right, it wasn’t.
The noise of in the mess hall was horrendous.  About a thousand voices all chattering at once.  And the clattering of metal cutlery on plates as we gobbled up the grub. 
The breakfast was all right really, it looked like something I had seen before, but it tasted different.

Again we were mustered outside and shown how to line up properly, how to keep our distance, and the rudiments of marching in time.
Swinging our arms up to shoulder height, hands clenched, thumbs on top.
LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT and so on. We right wheeled, left wheeled, marked time, stood at ease, stood at attention, about turned and halted.
All this marching about was to go on for the next four weeks. 

After a few days, they issued us with World War 2 Lee Enfield rifles to carry about.  However, no bullets, which was a shame because we knew a corporal or two we would have used them on.
We were taught how to shoulder arms, present arms, stand to attention, stand at ease etc until we ached all over and were fit to drop.
Oh, what hell, we thought, little did we know that infantry soldiers, and those who signed up, as regulars had to do eight weeks of this basic training.
However, we were to be drivers, so the second half of our training was to take place elsewhere.
At the end of the first week, we had a group photo taken.

And so it went on for the next four weeks, left right left right, polish your boots, straighten your beret, and chin in chest out,  STAND STLL! You horrible little man. 
Buff up your gear, wash up the dishes, scrub the floor polish it to a shine, wash your body, put up with the crap because your mummies not there’s to look after you any more.

(At this time I was interviewed by an officer who wanted me to go on an NCO's course, which if I passed would make me a Lance Corporal with extra pay and responsibility..  I refused!  At the time I was scared shitless of all the new events presented to me each day, the language, the physical aggression from some of the lads, the regime of presenting myself fit and ready for each days challenges.  Become a corporal? a glance at  the photo of me will enlighten the reader as to my fitness to be a mere driver ordinaire let alone someone responsible for others.)

We stripped the Lee Enfield rifle and reassembled it until we could do it in our sleep.  The same applied to the Sten gun and the Bren gun. I was a marksman with the Lee Enfield and proficient with the Sten and Bren guns, much to my satisfaction.

We passed;

We passed the requirements that the army had of us and now there would be a Passing out Day. 
We were still on our feet, with all limbs intact.
They hoped that all the shouting and swearing effing and blinding had made us obedient to their every command. Now we would be passed on to a driver training camp, where, they hoped we would become good drivers.  This is the invitation to My Mother and Sister Teresa and A J Sharland to attend my Passing Out Parade.
We were told that there would be a variety of vehicles to practice on and we should try not bend too many.
We watched the postings board hopefully, we all hoped for somewhere decent. Yippee! I had got Blandford training camp in Dorset, silly sod, so did all the others.

READY TO DRIVE. BULLED UP AND READY FOR ANYTHING.