Life at the Army Apprentices Sch

The initial survey class was composed of twelve likely lads, namely: * John Alcock * Peter Gould * Dennis ‘Jack’ Hawkins * George ‘Geordie’ McAllister * Lawrence ‘Bud’ Moon * Thomas Wesley ‘Wes’ Noble * John ‘Ozzie’ Powell * Trevor ‘Bill’ Powell (no relation to John) * Alan J. ‘Al’ Roberts * John Turnbull * Brian O.J. ‘Boj’ Williams * Bryan Edwin ‘Woody’ Woodfield *

Unfortunately I have very few photos of those years (who could afford a camera, film, developing and printing?). Only the colour photos were taken by me (in 2003), so my thanks go to whoever supplied the black/white ones.

I have included some very humurous and poignant poems (not written by me) which I’m sure will bring back sweet and sour memories of those experiences, certainly not to be regretted.

Left: The bedpack inspection was daily.

Above: The room inspection was weekly.

Below: The kit inspection was monthly.

And good fun was had by all

(except for the poor A/Ts).

R.S.M. Stanley Lonsborough – Coldstream Guards
Served as R.S.M. at Harrogate A.A.S. from March 1948 to September 1955

Regimental Sergeant Major Stanley Lonsborough of the Coldstream Guards, known as ‘Tara’ (from the Yorkshire way of saying T’RSM), merits a particular mention. A class 1 Warrant Officer, he inspired awe, nay, downright fear just by his presence in the vicinity, in all who had the misfortune to come across him. Even officers would change direction to avoid him if they could as they were just as likely to receive a reprimand for their dress or behaviour as were the Apprentices. The only difference being that the bitter pill would be slightly sweetened for the officers by being addressed as “Sir” instead of “Lad”.

The tales told of legendary Stan would fill a book and make very entertaining reading. On parade he would stand behind a trembling apprentice and ask in his deep voice “Am I hurting you, lad?”. The bewildered lad would reply “No Sir!”. The question would then be repeated and receive the same worried reply. At which Stan would bark out “Well I should be, I’m standing on your hair. Get it cut! Take his name, Sergeant Bowsley!”. The poor culprit was now doomed to an even shorter back and sides to the one he already had, as well as a couple of hours on fatigues, perhaps painting the stones white which lined the roads or scrubbing the cookhouse floor.

One of his favourite expressions when drilling apprentices was “Bring your foot up underneath yer KNEE, NOT underneath yer BOTTOM!” In actual fact, Stan was probably a very fair person despite his insistance on military perfection and discipline, and my Army friends and I still talk about him over fifty years later with affection (perhaps still tainted with awe), when the passage of time has mellowed our memories and we can laugh about those happenings which struck the fear of God (Tara) into us so many years ago.

Stan’s daughter Anita, by the way, won a gold medal for Britain in the breast stroke at the Rome Olympics in 1960. Perhaps she was ordered to win and dare not disobey.

Some lads of Intake 53B on an Outward Bound
exercise on the Yorkshire moors in 1955 or 1956

Army Apprentices School,
Harrogate July 1956

Intake 53B R.E. Survey Wing on completing their three-year course, together with Permanent Staff Instructors

Sgt P.Riffel Sgt L.MacPherson A/T B.O.J. Williams A/T D.Hawkins A/T A.J.Roberts A/T P.Gould Sgt P.Timbrell Cpl Lawrence

Sgt P.Worsfold Sgt G.Hancock A/T Cpl J.Turnbull A/T L/Cpl L.Moon A/T L/Cpl T.W.Noble A/T L/Cpl G.McAllister Sgt P.Usher Sgt P.Broxham
S/Sgt A.Fisk A/T Sgt J.D.Powell A/T CSM T.Powell Capt.G.S.Seaton WOII H.J.G.Bickers A/T Sgt B.E.Woodfield A/T Sgt J.Alcock Sgt S.Lucas

Poems about the Army Apprentices School, Harrogate

Glossary of some unfamiliar terms and expressions
(in alphabetical order)

Ammo boots – Ammunition boots (for throwing at the enemy when the bullets run out?). Ankle-length boots with hard toes and made from leather covered in little bumps. To rid the boots of the bumps, see ‘Boned’

APC – Significance unclear, perhaps All-Purpose Cure (One type of medicine is good for all ailments). It seems a reasonable guess.

A/T – Apprentice Tradesman (considered the lowest form of life in the Army).

Bed-pack – Bedding had to be stripped off every day and made up into a bed-pack. Three blankets and two sheets would be folded into equal sizes of about 20 inches by 15 and made into a pile like a club sandwich, a blanket, a sheet, a blanket, a sheet and a blanket. Another blanket was then wrapped around the top, bottom and two sides and the pack ‘squared up’ using pieces of hidden hardboard or cardboard.

Blanco – Khaki green or white chalk material, used on a damp sponge to ‘clean’ webbing material (packs, straps, belts, gaiters etc.) by caking coloured chalk on.

Boned – Boning is the art of removing the little bumps on the leather of the ‘ammo boots’ to make the leather very smooth and shiny. (We all wondered why the boots were made bumpy instead of smooth in the first place). Boot polish is ‘boned’ onto the surface of the leather using a hard instrument (originally a piece of bone) such as the handle of your UTES or a toothbrush. This operation was then followed by spit and polish (bulling), where a small amount of polish was put onto a duster wrapped tightly around a finger accompanied by a small amount of spit (water doesn’t do the job nearly so well) and then rubbed in small circles until it forms a mirror-like polished surface. You then have to try to remove the ‘bulling rings’ that form by this action by polishing hard with the duster which in turn would create small scratches on the surface, to be removed by spit and polish which then had to be followed by ……..

Bumped – A ‘bumper’ was a heavy piece of metal, around which would be tied a duster, attached to a broom handle and used to polish the hardwood centre strip of the dormitory floor. The strip would be ‘bumped’ throughout the night by A/Ts taking it in turns (about 20 to 25 minutes each) to ensure it was ready for inspection the morning after.

Collar dogs – The small badges attached to the high collar of the SD jacket denoting the regiment to which one belonged. A/Ts were part of the General Service Corps.

Denim rings – The working dress consisted of denim jacket and trousers. The jacket had removable buttons for laundry purposes and they had to be fitted on with split rings like those used for attaching keys. Split rings = split nails.

Drawers Dracular – Real name Drawers Cellular, jungle-green cotton underpants with draw strings, designed to castrate unwary A/Ts, so reducing the need for putting bromide in the tea. The most diabolical underwear ever designed. Indescribable. And why cellular?

Halfcrown – A silver coin worth two shillings and sixpence (12½ p of today).

Hildebrand – Name of barracks on the other side of Pennypot Lane from Uniacke barracks. The church, sick quarters, YMCA and many playing fields were there.

Holdall – A waterproofed fabric bag for holding soap, toothbrush, comb, razor, etc.

Housewife – no, the Army didn’t give us a real housewife, our surrogate one was simply a small fabric bag containing needles, thread, buttons and a thimble.

HQ Company – Headquarters Company to which the apprentices of the new intake were assigned for six months before moving to their trade Company (A, B, C or (from 1955) D).

Jankers – Punishment consisting of having to report to the Guardhouse at certain times during the day to be given fatigue work such as cleaning the greasy pans in the mess (or cookhouse). Cleaning the mess in the mess!

M&D – Medication and Duties (Aspirin and Work, the sure cure for all A/T ills)

MRS – Medical Reception Centre, in other words the doctor’s surgery and medication centre.

NAAFI – Navy, Army Air Force Institute, a combined shop, canteen & indoor games saloon providing material comfort to hard-worked and impoverished A/Ts.

Orderly Dog – Orderly Sergeant to oversee activities in the Company. He was present in the cookhouse during mealtimes, made sure lights were out in the dormitories on time (10 pm) and carried out Reveille (6.30 am). Most Permanent Staff (Regular Army) Sergeants carried out the duty for 24 hours on a rotation basis.

Pegged – To be put on Company Orders charged with some offence. The Army’s trial without jury.

Pennypot – The name of the rural road to the west of Harrogate where Uniacke and Hildebrand Barracks were situated.

Poncho – The Army poncho, a rectangular piece of waterproofed fabric with a small curved cutout so you know where to fit your neck. It serves as a raincoat (to be worn when ordered to water the regimental flowerbeds when it’s pouring down with rain) and as a groundsheet (to prevent the rain, which is leaking through your tent roof, from soaking into the ground).

Red sick report – If the MO thought the A/T was feigning illness (malingering) he would issue a ‘red’ sick report and the A/T would be ‘pegged’.

RQ – RQMS Regimental Quartermaster Sergeant and his ‘store’ where kit is kept.

RSM – Regimental Sergeant Major, the senior non-commissioned officer rank in the British Army and responsible for order and discipline in the unit. Second only (sometimes) to God.

Sally Ann – (Also known as the Sally Bash) Salvation Army canteen run by volunteers, usually kind elderly ladies who’s motto might have been “slow to serve but quick to bless”.

SD – Service Dress, the A/T’s uniform in which the jacket buttoned right up to the high neck (like in World War I) as opposed to the W.W.II style Battle Dress.

‘shun – Abbreviation of the command ‘Attention’ (in which the A/T was exhorted to ‘Bring your foot up underneath yer KNEE, NOT underneath yer BOTTOM!’ before slamming it down next to his other foot). See ‘Stan the Man’ below.

Squeegee – Rubber-edged implement fitted with a broom handle for squeezing the water off a smooth surface such as a tiled or concrete floor.

Stag – A roaming guard patrol. Also the on-duty periods, as opposed to the off-duty periods, of a 24-hour-long fire-picquet.

Stan the Man – RSM Stanley Lonsborough of the Coldstream Guards, overall responsible for discipline and drill. He ruled the roost and even officers would avoid him like the plague. Thought of with affection (NOW, 50 YEARS later!) His daughter, Anita, whom we knew as a young teenager, won a gold swimming medal for Great Britain at the 1960 Olympics in Rome. She was ordered to and so had no choice.

Tara – From T’RSM, the Yorkshire version of ‘The RSM’. See Stan the Man

Yellow Jack (or Yellow duster)– Yellow flag flown on the ship’s mast to indicate “Yellow Fever” or similar infectious disease aboard.

YMCA – Young Men’s Christian Association canteen offering similar services to the NAAFI but possibly slightly cheaper.

Zebo – A black greasy fluid used for ‘cleaning’ cast-iron grates, stoves, etc. A/Ts used it mainly for blacking the wooden dormitory floors. It was then polished using shoe brushes until it acquired a dullish gleam. The makers guaranteed that it would stay on your hands for longer than it lasted on the floor!

God made the World in six days, the seventh did he rest,
He thought he’d made a good job and nothing had been missed,
But whilst he rested in the heavens, Satan down below
Was planning for a visit, to see what was on show.

Up he popped with all his band of evil demon hordes,
With picks and shovels, paint and screws and wooden notice boards,
“This looks a God-forsaken place, a bleak and barren spot,
It’s just the place for “Hell on Earth, I’ll call it Pennypot”.

They laid the square and built the roads and wooden huts called “spiders”,
Put up a fence with wire barbs to keep away outsiders,
Pulled up the trees for miles around so freezing winds could blow,
Mosquitoes in the summer, and in winter ten below.

The central-heating system operated at lukewarm,
October on and April off, two (army) seasons was the norm,
Never really warm in winter, summer just the same,
“I’ll keep ‘em cold and hungry, ‘cos Lucifer’s my name”.

“All who volunteer to spend three grim long years in here
Will curse my name and suffer in this place so bleak and drear,
Boy soldiers will be harshly trained, each one called A/T,
At Hell on Earth, now known as U - N - I - A – C – K - E”.

We set off from home to be soldiers
On the sixth of the ninth ’fifty four,
Fifteen years old, some nervous, some bold.
“Learn a trade, you’ll do well” we were told.

The 10.10 from King’s Cross pulled out dead on time,
“Mallard” the engine, the pride of the line.
After two miles of track we started to fly,
The houses and trees were a blur passing by.

Changed at Northallerton. A small diesel train
Took us onwards to Harrogate where we got off again.
Two sergeants called out “Fall in lads, over here,
When we call out your name, get lined up, have no fear”.

The grizzled old sergeant said “I’m Sergeant Bowsley.
Get fell in behind me, not in twos but in threes”.
The Irish one shouted “And Oi’m Sargeant. Caine,
An’ fall in behind me, not in twos but in TREES”.

Up drove the three-tonners, “You lot get in first.”
We scrambled aboard, banging knee-caps, we cursed,
“And you lot behind, get into the others”.
All raw recruits, no trained “Band of Brothers”.

The convoy rolled off and out of the town,
For more than five miles we were bounced up and down.
A sudden turn left along Pennypot Lane
And we entered the place with the infamous name.

We drove past the Guardroom and “Stan the Man’s” shrine.
The tail gate crashed down, followed by shouts and a whine.
“What’s next?” someone asked, “To me looks like trouble”.
“Get off, fall in here, and move at the double!”

Sergeants Bowsley and Caine, they just weren’t the same
As the kindly old chaps we had met at the station.
From Jekyll to Hyde in the space of the ride,
They’d transformed into Hell and Damnation.

“Squad ‘shun, answer names, fall out, follow me,
For six months you’ll be here in HQ Company.
This is your ‘spider’ and this is your bed.
Put your things in your locker, you’ve got to be fed”.

The bottom cookhouse was smelly and dreary,
With slippery floors to trap the unwary.
Our plates were piled high and we all ate our fill,
But for three long years after the grub was just swill.

Then back to the ‘spider’ and make up your bed.
It wasn’t yet winter and the heating was dead.
The room looked so tidy, gleaming and bright.
We’d very soon learn that this took all night.

The blankets were hairy, the sheets they were damp,
A lumpy old mattress from an old prison camp.
The bed springs were sagging, the pillows like rocks,
A big wooden locker and a large soldier’s box

Sunday morning breakfast, first parade at nine,
Roll call, ’shun and right turn, quick march and left incline.
Halt outside the RQs, line up in files of ten.
“When your name’s called out, inside and say your name again!”

A long dark polished counter, with Storeman stood behind,
With kit piled up like mountains, and even more to find.
Khaki shirts and woollen socks, holdall, housewife, brushes,
Three of these and twelve of those, the Storeman shoves and rushes.

Webbing straps and SD cap filled with denim rings,
And buttons, badges, collar dogs, a chinstrap and other things,
‘Drawers Dracular’, two denim suits, a kitbag green and tall,
You ask what size the denims are. “One bloody size fits all”.

The mountain’s growing taller as you shove it up the counter,
Two pairs of ‘ammo’ boots crash down, brown plimsolls follow after.
The pile of kit is three feet high, you think you’ve got the lot
But a greatcoat comes from nowhere with a poncho on the top.

So this is all the A/T’s kit to last you three long years,
Eleven-fifty-seven is duly signed, steel helmet on your ears,
You slide your arms beneath the pile and heave up with a grunt,
Then stagger to your ‘spider’, following blind the bloke in front.

The short lad just in front of you can’t see beyond his load,
He trips, his feet are tangled up, his kit strewn on the road,
He brings you down, your mountain too, your kit flies everywhere,
Takes thirty minutes sorting out to get your proper share.

Six months have passed and now, at last, no problem with our kit,
It only takes an hour a day to clean and polish it.
We’re learning all the secrets, are Masters of our trade
And don’t get picked on quite so much, except when on parade.

Then suddenly we’re moving out and up to Company lines.
We’re all split up twixt A, B, C and hope for cushier times.
Blue shoulder tabs we now exchange for yellow, green and red.
Blankets, kit and all effects are moved to our new ‘shed’.

Large pack, small pack, ‘L’ straps, cross straps and webbing belt,
Ammo pouches, gaiters, and a white belt soft as felt.
This is how you ‘card’ your brasses, no blanco on the buckles
You rub your brass on bits of card and blacken all your knuckles.

Scalding molten ‘Kiwi’ spread across your bumpy boots,
Toes and heels and uppers ‘boned’ using the handles of your ‘UTES’.
Webbing blancoed, buckles cleaned, inside you use a matchstick,
Large pack, small pack squared with hardboard, you’ve learnt another trick.

Dusters full of fluff destroy the ‘bulling rings’ that linger.
The thimble’s got no end on it, a needle pricks your finger,
Sew buttons on your Service Dress, split nails on denim rings,
Spit and polish, ‘bull’ and shine, you’ve got too many things.

The triple ‘O’ – the triple ‘B’, for six months of your life,
BrassO – BlancO – ZebO, parades and drill and strife.
But looming large o’er everything, the triple ‘B’ is king,
‘cos “Bullshit Baffles Brains” they say applies to everything.

A bucketful of water hot and a tin of Zebo black,
On Friday night for Saturday is spread to fill each crack.
The hardwood polished centre strip is ‘bumped’ throughout the night.
The table’s scraped with razor blades until it’s pristine white.

Your kit laid out upon your bed, by eating knife is measured,
Seven inches long both deep and wide, bed-pack boxed and squared.
Don’t walk upon the Zebo though, your boots have twelve hobnails,
You’ll slip and leave some silver marks, like half-a-dozen snails.

Room Inspection
Saturday at eight o’clock the CO will inspect.
It’s Major ‘Knocker’ Walker, will he pass it or reject?
A pair of white gloves on his hands, a twisted walking stick,
It’s said he doesn’t miss a thing, and we’re all worried sick.

Walking slowly through the room, inspecting every lad.
You stand there rigid on the spot, he passes, not so bad,
Then stops and turns and points his stick towards your bed headrails,
His eyes half-closed, he makes no sound, the Sergeant Major pales.

You look around and there IT is, you forgot it after cleaning,
A grubby crumpled duster dangles from the rail agleaming.
A sharp intake of breath is heard, he asks with voice so mean
“You fly the Yellow Jack, A/T, are you really in quarantine?”

“What’s your name? You’ve lost it” the Sergeant Major screams,
His mouth one inch from your left ear, your skull pops at the seams.
Two hundred decibels of noise in one ear and out the other.
You rock back on your heals and think “What was his fricking mother?”

Then Knocker’s stick is raised aloft and taps the lampshade green,
A minute puff of dust descends upon the inspection team.
His hands, encased in gloves so white, probe the roofing beams
And once again he finds more dust has soiled those candid seams.

His retinue is quailing now, there is no more inspection.
He hisses out his final words, an obvious rejection,
“This room’s not clean as I have seen a pigsty not so dirty.
After Church Parade tomorrow morn, new inspection eleven-thirty!”

Sergeant Bowsley does his nut, shouts and flaps about.
We’re ‘gated’ for the weekend now and no-one can go out.
He throws our kit around the room and just draws breath to swear,
“All outside you bloody lot, you’ll be ‘doubled’ round the square!”

There’s a ‘bolshy’, lanky lance-jack known as ‘Where’s yer chit’,
And Sergeant-Major Hazelton - (Old Hairy), super fit,
‘Harry Boy’ (B Company), smart and stout, says ‘pucking’,
A mug of cold tea on his desk – remove it, you’ll get a rucking.

‘TARA’ Stan, a Coldstream Guard, runs the bloody place,
With Battalion on parade he spots an A/T’s lazy pace,
From a hundred yards away he screams, “In close arrest!”,
A/T’s feet don’t touch the ground, he’s in the cells at best.

A crooked cap-badge, fingerprint upon your web belt brass,
You lose your name, you’re in the book, inspection you’ve not passed,
You’re ‘pegged’ next day, march in march out, the first time you’re on ‘Jankers’,
Seven days of punishment, with all the other crankies.

It’s phase two now, we only hear of piquets, guards and stags,
Open, close arrest and ‘Jankers’. We’ve got to get our jabs.
Getting ‘gypped’ in the cookhouse queue and in the NAAFI too,
We’re bottom of the pecking order, just moved up from HQ.

You’re sent off to the cookhouse now, off to ‘Dixieland’,
Great, you think, you like to hear a good old trad jazz band.
But ‘Dixieland’ means dixie pans, great big greasy trays,
Piles of them reach to the sky, cold fat congealed for days.

Luke-warm water, grease and ‘Vim’ build up a slimy glaze,
From web-belt down to gaiters, you’re water-proofed for days,
Denim trousers, shirt-sleeve order, scrubbing-brush and ‘Vim’,
Your mates recoil in horror, shouting “Here comes stinky Jim”.

Jankers, open/close arrest, guard, fire piquet, drill,
Some A/Ts were unlucky and never had the thrill
Of ‘jankers’, doubling round the square, helmet on your head,
Every hour must change your kit, then lights out, collapse in bed.

We spent the weekend with a toothbrush sweeping ‘TARA’s’ square,
We swept the grit on Saturday into tiny heaps elsewhere,
On Sunday swept it back again and spread the little piles,
While two RPs watched over us with their moronic smiles.

One Sunday morn my mate and I were cutting ‘cross the square,
When Stan’s voice screamed “There’s only two allowed to walk on there!
Me and the good Lord Jesus Christ, and He’s not here today,
So get here at the double, lads!” – another debt to pay.

We painted kerbstones red and white outside the Guardroom block,
And whitewashed piles of grey-black coke in a compound under lock,
‘Squeegeed’ greasy cookhouse floors and painted green the grass,
‘Bulled up’ ablutions, basins, bogs, to fool inspecting ‘BRASS’.

Pay Parade
Pay Parade on Thursday, a “five-bob week”, you’ll soon be skint,
Five fags, a doughnut, cuppa tea and ogle the NAAFI bint,
Tin of Brasso, block of Blanco, fourpence for the pictures,
A penny ‘kitty’ for the Zebo, again we’re six-day paupers.

Six days pass, it’s “ten-bob week”, you’re loaded up and happy,
Egg and chips, a bun and tea, we dine out in the NAAFI,
We top up all our cleaning kit, ten Woodbines, lot’s to smoke,
There’s cash left over for the week. By Monday you are broke!

Tuesday night you’re feeling low, someone lights a fag,
You’d sell your soul to Satan for just a little drag.
Shouts go up around the room, “Two’s up, pal, I’m first”.
His finger points, but not at you, your craving’s worse than thirst.

Can anyone remember when I had my claim to fame,
It was a ‘five-bob’ payday, two halfcrowns and sign your name.
We paraded at the ‘spider’, lined up alphabetically,
And after the ‘A’s and ‘B’s were paid, they started on the ‘C’s.

My name was called, I shouted ‘Sir’, and marched out for my share,
I halted on my left foot, with my right knee in the air,
Prepared to bang it down again in the regulation way.
Disaster struck, I should have stopped at least a foot away.

My right knee hit the table’s edge, it lifted in the air,
Ranks of halfcrowns placed in pairs cascaded everywhere,
Part-two pay books neatly piled now wildly flew around,
The Imprest Book was soaked in ink, destroyed upon the ground.

Halfcrowns flying in the air, twirling on the ground,
Rolling, spinning under beds and rear of lockers bound,
Utter chaos, total ruin, the Pay Parade a farce,
My right knee hurt like bloody hell, then I landed on my arse.

Three seconds passed, then all the lads there waiting to be paid
Gave out a cheer and called “Encore”, and pointed at where I laid.
A voice from Hell exploded loud, “You bloody rowdy sods,
Shut up, get out, fall in outside – no pay today, you clods!”

It looked like Armageddon, with me lying on the floor,
Papers, pay-books, Imprest, ink and halfcrowns by the score,
My bum was numb, my knee in pain, my self-esteem was shot,
The voice screamed out “Get up you clown, pick up the fricking lot!”

Limping round the barrack floor, my beret filled with cash,
I looked like Long John Silver, or Aladdin with his stash.
Crude invective and abuse was hurled at me awhile,
Old soldiers know which words were used, all of which were vile.

Splinters in my fingertips, I scrabbled up the money,
Filling up my blue beret while voices shouted “Hurry!”
Banged my head upon the bed as I stretched behing each locker
I wondered if I would be pegged and dragged in front of ‘Knocker’.

The Paying Officer glared at me, a very icy look.
I asked him if he wanted help, he yelled out “Sling your hook!
If there’s any money missing, it comes out of your pay,
Five bob one week, ten the next – a pauper ‘til Doomsday!”

Then everyone was duly paid, I had to wait ‘til last,
Limping to the table, but this time not too fast,
Saluted, “Pay correct Sir”, then hobbled to the door,
Unwilling hero of the hour, knee and bum both red and sore.

The ‘Sally Ann’ was cheap for buns, and cakes and cups of coffee.
YMCA at Hildebrand was cheaper than the NAAFI.
The man from Burton’s tailors offered suits you paid like rent,
His tape was straight for Inside leg, the rest of him was bent.

Sneak out the back gate in your civvies, just your mate and you,
A bus to Ripon for the bold to get your first tattoo,
A pint or two to pick up courage, go in a dingy room,
Roll up your sleeves, it’s now too late, the needle goes ‘vroom-vroom’.

Back you go to Harrogate, a dressing on your arm,
It’s swelling up and bleeding, but you’re ‘hard’ and feigning calm,
Into Lindy’s coffee bar, a girlfriend you must seek,
“Come out with me tonight, my love, we’ll do the same next week”.

Now after two years service we were paid more cash each week,
Enough to save and even squander, the good life we could seek,
Pubs and ‘pics’ and other pleasures when we got the chance,
And ‘pulling birds’ on Saturday at Lindy’s place or Bilton dance.

Fish and chips, the last bus home, smelling of smoke and beer,
Then someone’s sick upon the floor, vomit everywhere,
Conductor quickly stops the bus, chucks ‘puker’ out the door,
Late back to camp for that poor sod means ‘Jankers’, that’s for sure.

The bus arrives and all get off, into the bushes flit,
Through the back gate, RP’s waiting, make a run for it,
Behind the gym and assault-course, you have to do it fast,
You’ve lost the RP; in your ‘spider’ you’re safe in bed at last.

Sick parade at O-eight-thirty, small pack on your shoulder,
Outside the Guardroom, freezing cold, the gale is blowing harder,
“I don’t feel well, I cannot march” you tell the NCO.
“This is SICK PARADE”, he snarls, “Keep all complaints for the MO”.

Stumble down to Hildebrand, towards the MRS,
It’s freezing cold, you’re feeling worse with every bloody step.
The sick, the lame, the lazy, reading comics, sit about.
A wooden bench, a lengthy wait to hear your name called out.

You march into the MO’s, “Right, what’s wrong with you?”
“My head is burning, my bones ache, I think I’ve got the ‘flu.”
“Stick out your tongue, now say Aaagh, OK that will do,
Two APC’s and M&D, there’s no time off for you!

Two APC’s and M&D, come back when you are dying.
Red sick report for you, A/T, if I think you are lying.”
The walk down for your treatment did more harm than good,
It would’ve been much better if he’d prescribed some extra food.

Line up in the breakfast queue, your pint mug in your hand,
Shuffle to the tea urn, on the hotplate rail it stands,
Someone tips it forward to drain out all the lot,
Mug under tap, he tries to balance the urn against his pot.

The liquid in the urn swirls round, the tea comes gushing out,
Control is lost, the urn falls down amidst a frantic shout.
The breakfast brew spills on the floor, steam rises like a fog,
Scalding tea, from boot to knee, has drenched the ‘Orderly Dog’.

Cornflakes thick as wooden shavings, milk well watered down,
Served by surly greasy cooks who never cease to frown.
Everything, like meat, is rationed, four ounces to a man,
A sausage black and shrivelled up, or a wedge of greasy spam,

In a long flat so-called ‘dixie’ eggs float in a sea of lard,
Twelve yolks across, two dozen down, small and pale and hard.
The cook has sliced the eggs in squares, East – West, North to South,
One slides down well but leaves a coat of lard inside your mouth.

Limp bacon rasher, scrambled egg so wet and pale and runny
Is poured upon your blackened toast, means colic of the tummy,
The milk’s so thin it seems to you the cow was grazed at sea,
The cook who serves the porridge asks, “One lump, two or three?”

Finish off with bread and butter, jam or marmalade,
One day the slice of bread so thick a boot sole could have made,
The next day when you get your bread, the slice is far too thin,
It only has one side to it, no thicker than your skin.

Everything was fried in lard, half raw or cooked for hours,
Spuds with eyes and bullet peas, gravy like April showers,
Slabs of yellow Yorkshire pudding floating in the gravy,
Looking just like rafts at sea rejected by the Navy.

Sunday roast, a slice of meat was slid across your plate,
Colour grey, just fat with gristle, a reject out of date.
Cabbage full of protein (snails) and cauliflower stalks,
Sloppy sprouts, roast spuds that pop with lard when pricked with forks.

Friday’s lunch is fish and chips, you’re hungry so must eat,
Peas tumble down upon your plate like drums that beat ‘retreat’.
The batter’s thick and hard as rock, a sardine lurks within,
With chips like nails, your stomach quails, the grub is really grim.

On Monday, all leftovers are mixed into a hash
With onions, pepper and cooked in squares, they call it ‘Baked goulash’.
It’s dark and brown and savoury, a cook’s real mystery mix,
You carve it up and force it down, your molars work like picks.

There never was enough to eat, and what there was, was manky
But cookhouse raids for extra food were classed as hanky-panky,
All the food was rationed out, with so much for each man,
If some went missing, we all suffered, no meat for us, just spam.

Bribe the cookhouse guard with fags to look the other way,
Bread and jam, baked beans and spam went swiftly on their way,
We’re in and out like locusts, then to the ‘spider’ bound
To flog off piles of sandwiches at sixpence for a round.

A decent meal at Christmas, before we went on leave,
Just three times in three long years our stomachs didn’t heave.
“Now eat up, lads, it’s Christmastime, and do you want some more?”
An A/T shouts, “Hey, did you raid the Red Cross parcel store?”

Loads of money, two weeks leave, outside the buses wait
To take us to the station and away from Harrogate.
Ten bob, pound notes, silver, and big white ‘fivers’ too.
This is the life, you’re going on leave, no-one to pick on you.

We pay a little extra fare to catch the train much later,
A slap-up meal in a Pullman coach, and service with a waiter,
It’s Christmastime, we’re going home, good food and comely bed,
And waking-up is when we like, not half-past-six instead.

Do as you please on two weeks leave, come and go at leisure,
You don’t book out, you don’t book in, the door key, nights of pleasure,
Coffee bars, the juke box too, dance halls and the ‘flicks’,
Pubs and pints, and sometimes fights with civvies over ‘chicks’.

Two weeks are up, we’ve drained the cup of luxury and life,
It’s back to Uniacke we come, to lot’s of work and strife.
“Wakey wakey!” the sergeant shouts, “Feet upon the floor.”
Sweet memories fade, it’s drill and trade and Stan for three months more.

If someone made a time machine and asked who wants to go
Way back in time to Uniacke, so many years ago,
Would you accept the challenge and travel back in time?
I know I would, as long as I could press the ‘Fast rewind’!

Look back upon the good times that were mixed up with the bad.
A harsh regime and discipline were most we ever had.
Those three long years at Uniacke, at times a weary haul,
Made us the Army’s golden boys, well-trained and soldiers all.

And now it’s far behind us, but memories evergreen
Of mates and cameraderie that ‘civvies’ haven’t seen,
Warm in your home and late at night midst howling wind and rain,
Just close your eyes and thus IMAGINE, would you do it all again?

British Schools Exploring Society expedition to Newfoundland, 27 July to 15 September 1955

John Alcock and myself were lucky to go on a B.S.E.S. expedition to Newfoundland.

The B.S.E.S. was founded in 1932 by Surgeon Commander G. Murray Levick to promote the spirit of exploration amongst the youth of the Nation and facilitate the possibility of them taking part in organised and rigorously controlled expeditions to some of the wilder and more remote parts of the earth. Initially the expeditions were open to students of Britain’s elite Public Schools but the passage of time saw the possibilities extended to the Grammar and other State schools and, in 1955 also accepted the first apprentices from the Army Apprentices School at Harrogate.

Surgeon Commander G. Murray Levick, born in 1877, was trained in the medical profession. After experience in several hospitals he joined the Royal Navy and in 1910÷1912 took part in the ill-fated Captain Scott expedition to the Antarctic as medical officer and zoologist. He returned to active duty in 1914 and took part in the Gallipoli campaign in the first World War, rising to the position of Fleet Surgeon in 1916. He was a keen rugby player in his youth and founded the Royal Navy Rugby Union.

On retirement from the Navy he dedicated much of his time to studying the problems of rehabilitation, filling important positions in various hospitals. He founded the B.S.E.S. in 1932 and organised and took part in the first nine expeditions (1932 to 1939 inclusive and the first post-war one in 1947) as expedition leader. He was actively engaged in the organisation of the following expeditions up until his death on 30th May 1956.

1932 Finland
1933 Lapland
1934 Newfoundland
1935 Newfoundland
1936 Lapland
1937 Newfoundland
1938 Newfoundland
1939 Newfoundland
1947 Newfoundland
1948 Northern Quebec
1949 Northern Norway
1950 Northern Norway
1951 Central Iceland
1952 Central Iceland
1953 British Columbia
1954 Northern Quebec
1955 Newfoundland

Survey Fire long march down the Paradise River valley
and back up the Sandy Harbour River valley to base camp

The Paradise River

The Paradise River

Bill Powell with a glorious sunset as backdrop.Pity we didn’t have colour film (too expensive)
(To tell the truth, I didn’t even have a camera)

The Sandy Harbour River

Arriving back at base camp after a five day march

Here is a list of our daily rations. (And you think you suffered hunger at Harrogate!)

Dry (unsweet) biscuits	12 oz	340 gr
Pemmican (dried minced meat) 40% fat content .	2 oz	57 gr
Processed cheese	4 oz.	113 gr
Margarine	2 oz.	57 gr
Sugar	2 oz.	57 gr
Dried peas or lentils	2 oz.	57 gr
Chocolate	2 oz.	57 gr
Oatmeal	2 oz.	57 gr
Raisins	1 oz.	28 gr
Dried onion	¼ oz.	7 gr
Dried carrot	¼ oz.	7 gr
Tea	¼ oz.	7 gr
Salt	¼ oz.	7 gr

The typical daily menu was:
breakfast:	porridge, biscuits and cheese, tea
lunch:	biscuits and cheese
evening meal:	hoosh (a stew made from pemmican, dried peas (or lentils), onion and carrot, salt and water),biscuits and cheese.

The chocolate and raisins were usually eaten mid-morning during the period of greatest energy expenditure.

Every seven days there was a supplementary issue (small amounts) of dried milk, dried eggs, wholemeal flour, jam and marmalade, sweet biscuits, dried fruits and cocoa.

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My ‘Intake’ was 53B. Capt. G.S.Seaton, O.C. R.E.Survey, called us ‘Les diaboliques’.

The memories are many and cover the whole psychological spectrum, from sheer desperation to euphoria, a love/hate relationship like the one I entwined with the Yorkshire moors, stretching off towards Ilkley and Skipton, areas where I learnt topographic and trigonometric surveying.

Can anyone remember the name of the Burmese lad and the one on the right?

Army Apprentices School,
Harrogate July 1956

Intake 53B R.E. Survey Wing on completing their three-year course, together with Permanent Staff Instructors

Poems about the Army Apprentices School, Harrogate

Glossary of some unfamiliar terms and expressions
(in alphabetical order)


From the AOHA website

My ‘Intake’ was 53B. Capt. G.S.Seaton, O.C. R.E.Survey, called us ‘Les diaboliques’.

The memories are many and cover the whole psychological spectrum, from sheer desperation to euphoria, a love/hate relationship like the one I entwined with the Yorkshire moors, stretching off towards Ilkley and Skipton, areas where I learnt topographic and trigonometric surveying.

Can anyone remember the name of the Burmese lad and the one on the right?

Army Apprentices School, Harrogate July 1956

Intake 53B R.E. Survey Wing on completing their three-year course, together with Permanent Staff Instructors

Poems about the Army Apprentices School, Harrogate

Glossary of some unfamiliar terms and expressions (in alphabetical order)

Army Apprentices School,
Harrogate July 1956

Glossary of some unfamiliar terms and expressions
(in alphabetical order)