Part 1 (2/2)
MY GOR s.h.i.+FT, WORRAL ROAD, 1940.
I think it was in the early days just after we were embodied that we were given our medicals, it was a bit of a joke really, a cursory once-over with the stethoscope and an eyesight test on a standard eye chart at a range of five or six feet; for a hearing test the MO stuck a pocket watch in my left ear, ”Can you hear that?” ”Yes,” I replied, then in my right ear, ”and that?” ”Yes.”
”OK.” And I had pa.s.sed. And apart from the time of my final discharge from the army when they were trying to make sure that I couldn't make any post-war claims for incapacity and the times when I was discharged from hospital that was the only medical examination I ever had.
One possible advantage of being stationed in Bristol was that I could go home when I was not on duty but home was a fourpenny bus ride from Worral Road and this double journey together with ten Woodbine cigarettes cost me a day's allowance (I was getting two s.h.i.+llings a day but was allotting one s.h.i.+lling a day to my mother who incidentally never spent it but saved it up for my return). I usually went home after a night s.h.i.+ft and so was rather tired and not very good company; after a month or so of this routine I decided that I would be better off away from Bristol and applied for a transfer to Plymouth.
The war was not very old before the Post Office started to get concerned over the loss of some of their key personnel to the forces; it was one thing to have their employees playing at soldiers in their own time but quite another matter to lose some of their qualified staff on a semi-permanent basis. So just before I went to Plymouth an arrangement was made that allowed the Post Office to claim back all their employees who did not have an army trade. The army could see all their Territorial signal units being drastically reduced and took swift action. In a blanket approach army trade ratings were given to as many members of my company as possible, not only Post Office employees; I was called before Captain Sommerville.
”You are?”
I identified myself
”I believe you've been spending your drill nights at the Post Office, is that correct?”
”Sah!” (I was now learning the lingo).
”On teleprinters?”
”Sah!” There was a short pause as he looked over the papers in front of him and then,
”You are now a teleprinter operator cla.s.s III. Dismiss.” A smart salute, about turn, quick march and I was out of the Company Office with an extra s.h.i.+lling a day but there was now no way my employers could claim me back even if they wanted to.
About this time a new face appeared on the scene, a real live regular soldier, Sergeant Millen, an infantry regular I believe but from what regiment I don't know and he was going to change us into an efficient military unit. He was always perfectly turned out, his uniform spotless, creased where it should be but otherwise creaseless. He was a disciplinarian and he certainly made a difference to us but one thing always intrigued me -- his facial expression. I never saw him smile or laugh, in fact I could never detect the slightest change in his expression that would denote any emotion. Later in the war I believe he earned a commission; perhaps he enjoyed life and had some fun but one could never tell.
I'm not certain how many vehicles made up our transport section, I know we had Morris and Austin utility vans, a five ton lorry and some 30cwt Bedford lorries whose gearboxes had a peculiar and distinctive whine.
The Bedfords were usually the workhorses of the Line Section while the utilities were the general runabouts used for work and pleasure. We had one officer, a major, who was over-fond of his liquor, he used to frequent The Mauritania in Park Street; late at night he would phone and in a slurred voice demand that a utility van and driver be sent to pick him up. This happened on many occasions and one night when he arrived back at HQ he staggered into the guard room and with a drawn hand gun proceeded to hold up the guard. He was disarmed and a report made out.
The sequel? I don't know, we didn't see him again.
Originally we had all signed on for home service but after the war started we were asked to agree to serve overseas, this we all did, signing to this effect. Looking back I don't suppose it would have made any difference had we declined, after all those who were conscripted were not given the choice but it was a nice gesture on our parts.
Having now become reasonably proficient in those military essentials, marching, saluting and rifle drill the next step was to go on a range and fire a few rounds. The nearest rifle range was at Bristol University and a group of about 12 of us was taken there on a most unmilitary vehicle, a soft drinks lorry. This had no tailboard or sideboards to speak of and we all stood up on the flat bed, the front row holding on to the back of the cab and the rest holding on to each other. We made the double journey without losing anyone. The rifle range was indoors and we fired .22 rimfire from a standard .303 rifle fitted with a Morris tube. I believe we only fired 10 rounds each, with moderate success, but that was the only time I fired a rifle until 1942.
PLYMOUTH
The journey down to Plymouth was the longest rail trip that I had ever taken alone and I was eager and excited about it. I was travelling with all my kit of course and I was learning how to stow it without interfering with other pa.s.sengers. As we pulled away to the south-west from Temple Meads station the familiar scenes around Bristol gave way to the flatter country of north Somerset and later on to the red soil of Devon. At Plymouth North Road station I detrained but I have no memory now of how I reached South Raglan Barracks in Devonport. The barracks were typically army, grey, spartan, uninviting and ugly; my spirits sank. I was allocated quarters in a small room together with six or eight others; beds consisted of three bed-boards on two low wooden trestles augmented with three ”biscuits” for comfort and the whole ensemble was completed with four blankets.
I was directed to join a GOR team and shown the ropes as it were. The GOR was located on Mount Wise in the end room of Hamoaze House. A large map of the south-west of England had been painted on an expanse of dark blue linoleum, this formed the plotting table in the centre of the room; to one side a dais accommodated the GCO and also the naval anti-aircraft liaison officer (NAALO) for this was a combined operations room. We signalmen sat around the plotting table waiting for something to happen.
a.s.sorted naval petty-officers, Royal Artillery gunners and bombardiers made up an eight-hour s.h.i.+ft.
As in Bristol one signalman sat with a head-and-breast-set permanently connected to No.11 Fighter Group at Uxbridge and the routine was much the same. Those doing the plotting made up wooden blocks with plastic chips of letters and numbers to indicate the ident.i.ty, size and height of a particular plot adjacent to a coloured arrow, green for friendly, red for hostile, showing the location and direction of the aircraft.
This was quite an improvement on Bristol's coloured pins. There was another improvement too, the Post Office type switchboard was replaced by two wooden desk mounted units, each fitted with 10 switches and indicator lights. Every switch and light combination was connected to a gun site or a searchlight station and any combination of sites could be called individually or simultaneously. Each site acknowledged receipt of a message by pressing a b.u.t.ton, this caused the appropriate light to glow in the GOR. In this way messages could be broadcast to all sites at once; those sites whose lights did not glow were contacted again individually and the message repeated. Frequently in the heat of the moment gunners would forget to acknowledge causing some irritation and on one occasion an exasperated GCO ordered me to reprimand the miscreant. Having got the official blessing I proceeded to do just that, translating his order into the vernacular most effectively; I was rewarded with most obsequious apologies elevating my rank to that of ”sir”. Later I discovered that my correspondent was a major, outranking our GCO, fortunately he didn't know who I was.
These tasks were performed in the RAF by WAAF's and we were told from the beginning that we would be replaced eventually by the ATS but by the time I left Plymouth in 1942 they still hadn't taken over. It was quite a boring job at times and most of us hoped for something more challenging.
The Line Section's work was a little better, they went out daily, running more lines and repairing those damaged in air raids; in our detachment there was no establishment for a draughtsman but the Line Section wanted a record of the routes of all their lines and so I drifted into the job. Armed with a one-inch-to-the-mile Ordnance Survey map I produced the necessary drawings; it was also alleged that I marked the locations of all the coffee shops in the area but there's no truth to it. Phone lines across the country followed whatever path was most suitable, using twisted Don8 cable that was attached to any convenient feature, trees telegraph poles or buildings. In the case of the line to Fort Tregantle I spent a day with others on a fatigue party digging a trench across the road in which the cable was to be buried. A call went out to the local populace asking for empty cotton reels; these were to be used not specifically as insulators but rather as attachment points offering less fretting to the cable than a nail alone would do.
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