With a Morse Key and Rifle: One Man’s Humorous Attempt to Survive the British Army

By Graham Hill

This book was written in the beginning of 1960 to make sure that no facts were forgotten or exaggerated by the time factor. Only the rough edges of the writing have been polished a little, the basic facts and incidents are exactly as they happened. It is guaranteed to all be true. Read, and try to stop laughing!

At the tender age of 18 in mid December 1957 Graham left the cosy world of apprentice compositor in the printing trade and compulsorily joined the many thousands also serving 2 year’s National Service.
He used those 2 years to learn a lot, some things about the army, but mainly about life from the many and varied people he met along the way. Leading a charmed life, he managed to enjoy himself in the army, at the army’s expense, and keep out of trouble. His demob papers, written 6 weeks before he was demobbed, state “He is a disciplined soldier who works hard…..” If only they knew!
On demob in December 1959 he went on to finish his apprenticeship and then went round the printing trade in London for experience. He soon realised he wanted to work for himself in a small team and that is why he became a newsagent and retired at 52 years of age.
In retirement he took a course in blacksmithing as a hobby and also joined a writers’ group. His hobbies also include motor-homing and cycling with his Brompton.
He now at 83 takes life (just) a little easier and is proud of Carole his wife of 58 years and 2 grown up children and 3 grandchildren.
However, he still does not understand the rules of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781678032098

Book preview

With a Morse Key and Rifle: One Man’s Humorous Attempt to Survive the British Army

Graham Hill

Copyright

‘With a Morse Key and Rifle: One Man’s Humorous Attempt to Survive the British Army’

Written by Graham Hill

First published in January 2022 by D. Brewer

Distributed by Lulu Press

Copyright © 2022 Graham Hill

Sussex, UK

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, not be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN-13: 978-1-6780-3209-8

First Edition

BACKGROUND

    I suppose my love/hate relationship with the British Army started when I received a summons to go to a hospital in London and report for a medical to pronounce me fit to fight for Queen and Country. I cannot remember which hospital. It all started off on the wrong foot. Living in Harrow I did not know central London well and I drove in on my motorbike, arriving at the hospital at exactly 12 noon. There was a huge car park at the hospital but it was totally full except for 6 empty places clearly marked Doctors only. I parked my motorbike in one, intending to ask for directions to another car park. It was the start of lunch break and people were streaming down a huge set of steps to the car park. At the end was a small watchman’s hut containing a very bored looking attendant wearing a peaked cap. He was reading a paperback which he waved in the air, annoyed at being interrupted. The crowd on the steps stopped and watched, obviously having seen this scene many times. Waving his paperback in the air he loudly shouted, Can you read?  I looked at him and the crowd; it was too good a chance to miss. Certainly, I shouted back, Where are you stuck?  The crowd fell about laughing, and I followed up by passing the medical. So the scene was set for how my life would progress over the next 2 years.

      It was in the middle of the period when there was unrest in the island of Cyprus and civil war had finally broken out after simmering for many years. The island population was a mix of Greeks and Turks and the Greeks wanted union with Greece, known as Enosis, whereas the Turks did not. The Greek Archbishop Makarios, living in Cyprus, was said to be at the root of it and he set up an underground terrorist movement called EOKA led by Colonel Grivas. They generally prowled with machine guns in the Troodos mountains but were not averse to blowing up army trucks and buildings, and killing held no fear for them. Since Cyprus was a British protectorate it fell to Britain to take control and so thousands of British troops were being rushed out there. As happens in those situations both sides turned against the British and overnight it turned into a bloodbath; British troops were being murdered daily and it was headline news in all the papers at the time and lasted for several years.

    Around this time the British Army had been aware for several years that the Irish Republican Army, known as the IRA, although not well known in England were building their numbers up and were getting ready to change from an underground movement to an active force. The object of their many killings was to rule themselves. There were rumours that they had ambitions to attack the mainland. The British Army were already taking security precautions, pitiful though they were.

CATTERICK

    5723 were the numbers, pronounced 57-23. To anyone who did National Service in her Majesty’s Forces they were profoundly important. There were 2 intakes of conscripts every month except December of every year which had one, therefore it meant I joined the army in the last intake of 1957, which was 2 weeks before Christmas.   

    For the next 2 years that number would be uppermost in my mind; it spelt out exactly when I would leave the army. More importantly, it made me a superior being to any soldier with an intake number of 58-01 or later, because I would be demobbed 2 weeks before them. Unfortunately, by the same token it made me inferior to anyone with an intake number of 57-22 or less. They would be demobbed 2 weeks before I would be. On such unwritten rules the British Army thrived.

    The garrison town of Catterick, home of the Royal Signals, was where I had to report, and I soon discovered my other important number, 23440289. Every serviceman has a number that is unique to him and he is often referred to by the last 3 numbers. This is committed to the mind and remains as if carved in stone, never to be forgotten.

    Now Catterick is north of Watford, although as a little travelled Londoner it might as well have been in Timbuctoo for all I knew. Bored with my apprenticeship as a compositor I was longing for the outdoor life and so, like a lamb to the slaughter I embraced the army life.

    It was probably the shortest romance in history, the further north we went the colder it got. Catterick in December is a bleak and dismal place.

    The barracks were a formidable sight, rows of brick school like buildings, each about 5 storeys high. Soldiers seemed to be marching everywhere and at high speed. If this was not enough the ground was covered in snow, not London snow, but deep stuff, the kind that is made for calendars. Only this was no Christmas card scene.

    There was no settling-in period, we were informed this was a training camp and we’d be here 6 weeks and do our basic training before going on to other training camps to specialise. In other words we were here to square bash. Almost immediately we were set to work bulling our brasses and blanco-ing our webbing. Blanco was a light green waxy paste which when applied to webbing with a dampened cloth soaked in and dried to a smooth surface.

    Now bulling brasses meant holding your cap badges and then belt buckles in your hand and polishing all the cast marks out with Brasso on pieces of cardboard until they were smooth and shone like mirrors. It took hours of hard work, and in the case of the belt brasses, which could not be detached from the webbing, you had to be careful not to get any Brasso on the webbing of the belt. If you did, the webbing would not take any blanco and so you had to scrub and scrub the belt to remove the greasy marks, let it dry and start the Brasso and blanco routine again.

    When a satisfactory finish had been achieved, subject to inspection by the sergeant, we were individually allowed to continue to the next stage of turning into the perfect soldier. Bulling boots.

      I found the army boots very comfortable and certainly unbreakable. They consisted of a leather top with a hard leather toe-cap, 3 Blakeys  on the heel and 17 metal studs on the sole-heaven help you if you lost a stud.

      The art of bulling, which again took many hours, consisted of holding a metal spoon over a candle, dipping said spoon into black Cherry Blossom shoe polish and hard rubbing the bowl of the spoon on the surface of the toe-cap to burn the shoe polish in. After many, many applications taking hours the toe-cap, instead of having a dull pimply look, will suddenly take on a bright and shining appearance. This was where and how I earned my nickname of Boots which was to stay with me throughout my career, proudly painted on the side of my tin mug.

    Many a fight was started because someone on drill had stepped on someone else’s boot and caused the whole of the wax coating to fall off. This meant the normal toe-cap was exposed and the wearer was immediately put on a charge and this meant being marched in front of an officer. The usual result of this charge was Jankers; you got 3 days, 7 days or 14 days.

    The problem with Jankers was that it was the start of the slippery slope. Whatever other duties you were doing you had to report to the guard room with other victims in full best kit every hour on the hour from 7p.m until the duty officer had held a full parade and then minutely inspected your kit. Yet you had no time to get it ready. If the officer was particularly sadistic he would order everyone to take off their webbing and brasses and lay them on the ground in front of them. He would then order open order march which meant everyone had to move one pace forward and then one pace to their right.

    The result was that everyone trampled over someone else’s kit with their metal studded boots, leaving it all scratched and scarred. If your kit was not perfect for the next inspection, almost impossible in one hour when on duty as well, you went on another charge, and this time the jankers were longer and consecutive with the first lot. When finally dismissed you would then be up well into the late hours of the following morning bulling all your kit again for the coming evening. After a week of this many a soldier looked like a zombie. Once again the scene was set for many a fight afterwards.

    The Drill Corporals and Drill Sergeants were all particularly brutal and I can remember one Drill Sergeant being courts-martialled while I was there for breaking a rifle butt by hitting a conscript over the head with a rifle. To this day I do believe the army sentenced him for breaking the rifle, not for fracturing the skull of the poor unfortunate soldier.

    My sleeping quarters were in a dormitory 3 storeys up in the barrack block and a Drill Corporal slept in the spare room at the end. Many times throughout the day and night there would be a loud banging and it was the Drill Corporal banging his drill stick