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I'm not very good with figures, but there are two sets of numbers, which are firmly embedded in my memory, the first is the date that I joined the Army, the second is my service number, recalled Tony Hammond.
My introduction to the Army started in Aldershot on a cold, damp, overcast day in October 1951. Within the first ten minutes I came to the conclusion that if I was going to retain any degree of sanity I would have to find a way to buck the system.
First of all came the haircut, then the uniform, and finally the bedding, the scene in the Quartermasters stores was like an episode from an Ealing studio comedy. It was day two when I found a way to break away from the routine if only for a few precious minutes. The cookhouse was quite a walk from our billet and there was an official route that us rookies had to follow. I worked out that if I hurried my meals I would have enough time to take the longer scenic way back.
This worked well for about a week until the Regimental Police spotted me; they took a dim view of my little display of individuality and a hefty spell of extra fatigues was duly dished out.
After only one late night in the cookhouse lady luck took a hand, I was suddenly transferred to Buller Barracks in another part of the camp to start my basic training. The discipline here was so strict, and the training so intense that I could find neither the time nor the energy to think up a diversion. But come it did, but not the way I had intended
I have already said that I'm not very good with numbers, well one of the silliest mistakes I have ever made was to interpret 16.3hrs as 6.3pm.
I was about a fortnight into my basic training, it was 14.35 precisely and time for a few moments relaxation before tea. Quite suddenly the billet was full of Regimental Police and four of us were put under arrest and marched in quick time to the guardroom. Here we were charged with disobeying orders by not turning up for guard duty at 14.30.hrs
Trying to explain that we had all thought 14.30 hrs was 6.30 pm only made matters worse and we were treated to a long stream of verbal abuse, much of which questioned our parentage.
However, worse was to come and my next stop was a tiny prison cell, no window, and just two wooden boards and a single blanket which had seen better days. Needless to say my second charge in the first few weeks of National Service did not go down very well with those who must be obeyed and I was assured that I would not escape punishment on this occasion, and they dished out a massive wallop of extra guard duties. But they had not made allowances for my guardian angel who came to my rescue once again, even before the day was out.
Apparently, I had convinced the selection board that I was a good chap to have around, and the Water Transport section of the Royal Army Service Corps had shown an interest in me. I was to go immediately to their headquarters at Freshwater, Isle of Wight for a trade test, freedom at last! As soon as I got to the coast and smelt the sea I felt like a human once again, and the ferry trip across the Solent was absolute heaven.
I have always found that people who mess about in boats are a fairly relaxed lot, and RASC Water Transport was no exception. Their headquarters was at Golden Hill Fort Freshwater, and I had to report to the training school a few miles away at Fort Victoria, right on the edge of the Solent.
Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by the chief instructor with a cheery, 'Fancy a spot of fishing?' Part of the fishing trip was to be the practical side of the trade test, and I could not believe my eyes when we boarded a boat that was identical to the type I had worked on at William Osborne's boatyard at Littlehampton.
Talk about luck! The rest of the test went well and I was given an immediate posting to the I O W; all I had to do was return to Aldershot to pick up my kit. Life was most certainly on the up.
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