The Long Way Home (16 page)

I had three weeks of going to bed when I felt like it and, even more important, not getting up in the morning until I wanted to, staying in or going out just as I pleased, and all this without
armed guards controlling my movements. It seemed too good to be true. We had just spent almost five years in uniform, at all times under the command of someone else in uniform, never having any say
in what we were going to do next, nor when we were going to do it.

We had often dreamed and fantasised about how wonderful it would be to be back in the way of life we were now leading, but that was when we had thought it would never happen. But it had, and now
after three weeks of inactivity, I realised I was bored and unhappy. Mother did her best by suggesting people I should go and visit. This unfortunately didn’t solve my problem and it was
almost with relief that I realised that in a few days we would be heading south to start all over again.

Within myself, I knew it was a very different person starting out this time. I may not have been a better person, but I was much harder and definitely more ambitious. After the usual tearful and
sad farewells to the family, the three of us met and set out on the next phase of our adventures, wondering how and when this part would end.

The Army Selection Training Unit (ASTU) that we had to report to was new and foreign to our previous experience of army discipline. As telephone engineers we were skilled
tradesmen, and had been treated with a certain respect, to the extent of being allowed a great deal of laxity in matters of drill and square-bashing and even dress. In this new establishment we
were lumped together with rejects from other units, misfits and new recruits. The idea was to classify and put a qualification tag on the finished article. Individually, we might have come to grief
in this place, but as a team we managed to stay out of trouble and kept ourselves to ourselves as far as possible. This wasn’t always easy, as a lot of the troublemakers were trying to get
out of the army altogether.

I came to grief very quickly and it happened very simply. We had just finished eating our main meal in the mess-hall on the second day there and I was about to scrape my plate clean in the
swill-bin when the duty sergeant-major screamed at me, asking what I thought I was doing. Politely I explained that I couldn’t eat any more. Presumably the bins would be collected and the
contents used as pig-swill, so it wouldn’t go to waste. I thought this would mollify him but it seemed to have the opposite effect. He became livid and I thought he was going to burst. He
began to scream again, asking if I realised that thousands of merchant seamen had died to get that food to us and here was an unworthy sod scraping it into the swill-bin as if it grew on trees. I
tried to explain that there had only been a tiny bit left on the plate and that I was very sorry about the seamen, but his rage continued. He took my name, rank and number and put me on a charge
for wasting food. Since signing on in 1937 I had never been on a charge, and here I was in 1944 being put on one by a big ugly bastard who had never been out of the country and for five years had
been eating and drinking at the expense of the army.

The following morning I was marched into the duty officer and the charge read out. When I explained that my stomach had shrunk and under what circumstances, the charge was dropped and I was
marched out again. So I still had a clean sheet. My priority for the remainder of the time spent in this camp was to keep as far away as possible from the sergeant-major. Fortunately I managed this
and no further incidents occurred.

After we had been whipped into shape physically, we were assessed on our individual ability to use our brainpower. The result was a mass of very quick postings. The Mensa tests and the Morse
code recognition tests created havoc and the assessments were soon made.

Jimmy and Joe were posted to the Royal Signals Depot at Catterick. This was to be our final parting in the army and it turned out to be quite emotional, which was not at all surprising after all
we had been through in the past five years. Before they left we received official word that we had been awarded Military Medals for our recent achievement. We had been told that this would probably
happen but when it did it was a nice highlight from the last few gruelling months and years! Our battledress tunics were taken to the regimental tailor and were soon returned with three lovely
medal ribbons stitched on the chest. They were the ribbons of the MM, the 1939–43 Star as it then was, and the Territorial Medal for twelve years’ service (which we wouldn’t have
been entitled to except that the war years counted double). I had an extra embellishment in the form of a gold vertical stripe on my left forearm, showing that I had been wounded in action. I
always kept my hand over the ribbons if the sergeant-major was anywhere in sight so that I wouldn’t antagonise him.

I was pretty lonely after the boys left, but as a counter to this the rest of the course became quite intensive. We always knew when the training was going to get rough or dirty because then we
had to parade in denims. If anyone had told me then that they would become a pet hatred, I would never have believed them. I hated them then, and still do.

In the middle of the course I was called in to the major’s office and asked if I would consider foregoing the trip to Buckingham Palace for the medal presentation. If I
would, then he would arrange to have the presentation made by the CO on the barrack square. I readily agreed to this as it suited my retiring nature better.

Eventually the whole course was completed and I was informed that my new category in the army included a note indicating I was a PO3. Just in case this was something nasty and could be held
against me, I asked what it meant. It was explained that it was the code for Potential Officer Grade Three. I wonder what I had done wrong to fail Grades One and Two?

Next was the visit to the officer who decided where you went from here. My guardian angel arranged for it to be the nice major I had become fairly friendly with. Earlier in the course he had
arranged a trip together on some pretext and had stopped at a restaurant for a very tasty lunch. It dawned on me later that this was partly to see if I knew how to eat properly and wouldn’t
be an embarrassment in the Mess.

We chatted a little and then he pointed out that there would be no difficulty in disposing of me. I would automatically be returned to the Royal Signals, where it wouldn’t take too long to
bring me up to date. Quietly I asked if I could tell him a little of what had been going on in my mind over the past few months. He agreed to listen.

In the next few minutes I tried to explain to him how it felt to have signed on as a signalman and be starting all over again five long years later, my rank still the same. My younger brother
had volunteered after the war started and was now a corporal in the Signals, and one of the signalmen who had skipped the job on the road-block on which I was wounded and captured was now a
full-blown major. Surely he must understand that if this new army and I were going to be compatible there had to be some sort of instant promotion, otherwise I would most likely be returning to No.
1 ASTU as a problem soldier.

When I stopped talking he sat looking at me for some time. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and gave me a rueful smile. He then admitted that if he were to carry out his duty properly, it would
be back to the Signals and no arguments. On the other hand it would be intriguing to see if anything could be conjured up to make my dreams come true. He suggested that we should begin by looking
at the military manual and seeing what that might produce. I asked if the Military Police would be an option and this was promptly turned down, but it did trigger something in his mind and he
remembered that he had a pal in the Intelligence Corps. He began to check the manual for the required qualifications for the IC and the next few minutes would have made a wonderful script for the
music halls.

First question – what university or college did you attend? I told him he could stop right there, but the major was in full flight and wanted details. I told him the best we could do was
St George’s Road AC (Advanced Central), a school I had left aged 14. He said that if we left out the Road and put AC together it would look like Academy, and St George’s Academy sounded
like a very good school to him.

The next question was – how many languages do you have and with what degree of fluency? I explained to him that although I had been one year in France, I couldn’t speak French, but
he insisted that I must know a lot of French words. This I couldn’t deny, so he summed it up as ‘French – fair’. Then he insisted that if I had been four years in Germany I
must be fluent. I was honest and said that I wasn’t capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation in German. His summing up was ‘German – colloquial’.

His next step was to telephone his chum in Wentworth Woodhouse, which was the Intelligence Corps Depot, and after a cosy little chat it was arranged that I would appear there as soon as possible
for an interview with their recruiting officer. I thanked this very kind man for his attempt to solve my problem and promised to do my utmost not to let him down.

The interview was a success and I was accepted for training with the new intake. The course turned out to be both rigorous and demanding, physically and mentally, with quite a number of
drop-outs, and you emerged as a rather different person. I was posted out to Northern Command to complete my ground training and, operating from Sheffield, part of my security duties included
visits to two German POW camps, namely Lodge Moor and Doncaster Racecourse. This was a real turn-up for the book after having done four years in captivity myself. I must say, they were better fed
than we were.

Our section officer was Captain Philip Haigh, who earlier in the war had been unfortunate enough to encounter a hand grenade, but time had healed the damage. Like my own, his
nightmares probably went on for a long time, though increasingly spaced out.

He was a lean, dapper, handsome and well-educated man, naturally cheerful, and he always made you feel you were lucky to be working for him. I asked him one day if it would be on the cards for
me to be included in his section if he were ever given a posting to Germany. Without hesitation, he said that if it were at all possible, he would keep me in mind; he was as keen to go there as I
was. I didn’t tell him about Traudl as it didn’t seem relevant yet. The way the war was going, it looked as if I wouldn’t get the chance. Monty had been told to stand fast and
engage the main resistance of the German army while the Americans were racing in their tanks all over the rest of the country. However, the day came and I was recalled to the Intelligence Depot to
be told by Captain Haigh that he had finally been detailed to take a section to Brussels, our Field HQ for Germany.

I was one up on the rest of the section as I had already worked with the boss, but it didn’t take long to get acquainted during our kitting-up period. Two of the team were Scots. One was
Bob Hunter from Larkhall and the other was Andy Thomson from Glasgow. Bob and I became good friends and later I had the pleasure of being best man at his wedding. He was seconded to Intelligence
from the Royal Scots Greys, a very proud horse regiment. To me, Bob always looked and walked like a cowboy. To crown it all, if we were ever out on an assignment, he would fold the cover of his
revolver holster in, so that the butt stood out – very effective. Andy was different altogether. Where Bob was dark in complexion, Andy was blond, and it took a bit longer to get to know him,
though we became quite friendly later on.

Our sergeant-major was a taciturn little man and much more mature than the rest of us. I never really got to know him as his main job was administration and, of course, most of the time we were
out and about and had little contact with each other. My other friend in the new section was ‘Benny’ Goodman, who was a little rounder than the rest of us, which perhaps acounted for
his very good nature. His proper name was Victor but everyone preferred to call him Benny. On the whole, I felt that the section was fairly well balanced, with a mixture of what I would call hard
men and intellectuals. Whether this had been deliberately achieved or not I wouldn’t know, but what I did know was that a very great number of security sections would be required for the
occupation of Germany when the capitulation came.

We had been allocated to the MI8 side of the business, which covered port and frontier security. I was hoping for some remote frontier where I could maybe have a chance to contact Traudl.

The section was finally kitted out and we had only to collect our vehicles. As everyone had to be mobile you were either allocated a 30-hundredweight truck or a motorbike. Andy and I were on the
bike squad. Along with some others we went off to collect our machines, which turned out to be beautiful gleaming new BSA 500s. My joy at seeing them was short-lived as they were immediately
spray-painted with horrible camouflage green. There was an almost conciliatory bonus when I learned that Andy was an expert mechanic and specialised in motorbikes. He proved this many times over in
the period that we were together. Any tuning or adjustments that he made on his bike were duplicated on mine. The captain, of course, got the ubiquitous Jeep with a driver called Paddy thrown in
for good measure. As his name implied, he hailed from the Emerald Isle and was indeed gifted with the gab, which he was willing to demonstrate at all times.

We were all set to go and had started our convoy to the coast when the German High Command decided to call it a day. It is just possible that they heard we were coming, but I doubt it. They must
have had enough when Hitler opted out in his Berlin bunker.

The VE celebrations stopped us in our tracks and it took us about two days to get to the landing ship tank which was to take us over to Belgium, then about another two days to reach a jubilant
HQ, which was still celebrating. When we got our marching orders, my heart sank, and I wondered if it had all been in vain – our posting turned out to be Hamburg, in the north-west of Germany
– it couldn’t have been further away from where I wanted to be. My mind went back over the unbelievable training course – riding through the woods with the motorbike, then up and
down old shale bings, through the water and the mud of the tank-testing grounds, until I thought I would never be able to walk normally again.