Chapter 6B
…cont. (I went to Llewellyn barracks in 1959, when I was 18.)
Inevitably, the army would raise its standards by having kit inspections, which meant spending any spare time cleaning and polishing. Just as you got the floor of the barrack room looking like glass, someone from an adjacent barrack room would take the lid off a tin of brassy and roll it across your floor so that you didn't wouldn't look so good in comparison to them. Everything had to be sparkling. Your blankets and sheets had to be laid out in perfect symmetry and you were issued with boards to fold your blankets and sheets around. Repeatedly, every morning, your kit had to be laid out on your bed with these boards wrapped inside them. Everything in the barrack room had to be cleaned to the penultimate degree. Broomsticks had to be sandpapered down to make sure there were no marks on them. Our broomstick ended up the width of a pencil. On one occasion, trying to outdo the other barrack rooms, we bought yellow dusters and put one in each boot, rather like a sock, which caused the sergeant major on inspection duty to use a lot of expletives. They were bright yellow dusters, which did not fit in with the grey mood.
If a staff officer considered we weren't trying hard enough, they would come into the barrack room and throw all the kit into the dust out the windows. The other technique they used was to come in at 4 in the morning and throw a dozen thunder flashes inside. You would wake up with a jolt. The staff corporals would do that to make us uncomfortable, liking throwing a bucket of water over someone. Another aspect to kit inspections was that all your kit had to be washed and ironed immaculately. Since nobody had the time to do this, African staff from the local township would come into the barracks at night, grab your toe and shake you awake and say batman sir. You would then give him your washing and ironing, hoping you would see it again. Sometimes your kit would be confiscated by the regimental military police. You are supposed to do it yourself, but also because you cannot have strange people walking around the barracks all the time. A couple of nights after the batman had collected your kit, the batman shaking your foot and demanding money would wake you up. In Britain, every officer had his own personal batman.
These batmen used to do an extremely good job. They would take your number one kit - bush jacket and shorts, wash, iron and starch them, so that your uniform would stand up by itself, the creases ironed to knife edges. The number one bush jacket had about a dozen brass buttons on it, along with the crest of the Rhodesian government. By the time all these had been polished up, you looked like a chandelier. It was very difficult to get into this kit without damaging the creases. There were also hose tops and putties. Hose tops were socks with the feet cut off. Putties were strips of felt about two metres long, that were wrapped around the hose tops. They were to protect your ankles in a skirmish. The boots didn't come up your ankle very high. .
There's no doubt that a soldier dressed in number one kit with a bush hat on, with all his shiny brasses and boots cut an impressive figure. This dress was copied by the police force, except that the Askari used to use leather gaiters (chaps). My grandfather used to wear them. I would we him sitting on the veranda with a device like a crochet hook doing up the bottoms.
…cont. (I went to Llewellyn barracks in 1959, when I was 18.)
Inevitably, the army would raise its standards by having kit inspections, which meant spending any spare time cleaning and polishing. Just as you got the floor of the barrack room looking like glass, someone from an adjacent barrack room would take the lid off a tin of brassy and roll it across your floor so that you didn't wouldn't look so good in comparison to them. Everything had to be sparkling. Your blankets and sheets had to be laid out in perfect symmetry and you were issued with boards to fold your blankets and sheets around. Repeatedly, every morning, your kit had to be laid out on your bed with these boards wrapped inside them. Everything in the barrack room had to be cleaned to the penultimate degree. Broomsticks had to be sandpapered down to make sure there were no marks on them. Our broomstick ended up the width of a pencil. On one occasion, trying to outdo the other barrack rooms, we bought yellow dusters and put one in each boot, rather like a sock, which caused the sergeant major on inspection duty to use a lot of expletives. They were bright yellow dusters, which did not fit in with the grey mood.
If a staff officer considered we weren't trying hard enough, they would come into the barrack room and throw all the kit into the dust out the windows. The other technique they used was to come in at 4 in the morning and throw a dozen thunder flashes inside. You would wake up with a jolt. The staff corporals would do that to make us uncomfortable, liking throwing a bucket of water over someone. Another aspect to kit inspections was that all your kit had to be washed and ironed immaculately. Since nobody had the time to do this, African staff from the local township would come into the barracks at night, grab your toe and shake you awake and say batman sir. You would then give him your washing and ironing, hoping you would see it again. Sometimes your kit would be confiscated by the regimental military police. You are supposed to do it yourself, but also because you cannot have strange people walking around the barracks all the time. A couple of nights after the batman had collected your kit, the batman shaking your foot and demanding money would wake you up. In Britain, every officer had his own personal batman.
These batmen used to do an extremely good job. They would take your number one kit - bush jacket and shorts, wash, iron and starch them, so that your uniform would stand up by itself, the creases ironed to knife edges. The number one bush jacket had about a dozen brass buttons on it, along with the crest of the Rhodesian government. By the time all these had been polished up, you looked like a chandelier. It was very difficult to get into this kit without damaging the creases. There were also hose tops and putties. Hose tops were socks with the feet cut off. Putties were strips of felt about two metres long, that were wrapped around the hose tops. They were to protect your ankles in a skirmish. The boots didn't come up your ankle very high. .
There's no doubt that a soldier dressed in number one kit with a bush hat on, with all his shiny brasses and boots cut an impressive figure. This dress was copied by the police force, except that the Askari used to use leather gaiters (chaps). My grandfather used to wear them. I would we him sitting on the veranda with a device like a crochet hook doing up the bottoms.
One day I heard bustling in the house. I followed it to see my grandfather sitting on a chair. My mother was wiping him down with Dettol. He had come off the horse and his whole head was bleeding.
My grandfather used to drink brandy heavily. He would sit in his chair, smoke his pipe and talk me to death whilst working his way steadily though the bottle of brandy. He would try to leave some for the next day. He would sometimes come up with a philosophy and my grandmother would say, don't take any notice of him, Peter. It's just the brandy speaking. He had the view that there was going to be another war. He thought there would be a third world war. He had an old ford with a dickie-an extra seat stuck where the boot is. It also had running boards. You could hop up on the side, put your arm through the window arch, and hold on. You could open and close the gate that way.
My grandfather had quite a difficult time, as I don't think he had many interests and my grandmother would have been a hindrance rather than a help. Her worldview was very different from his. She was conscious only of her family. I used to stay with my grandmother from the age of six. I was desperately afraid of her, as she would barge into my life. When I stayed with my grandmother, my uncle Charles was always there. He was a motorbike gang member in the making: he was his own motorbike gang.
I used to sit at my grandfather's feet in the evenings when I was seven, whilst he smoked his pipe. He was always trying to get another match into bowl of the pipe, trying to make the tobacco go further. .My grandfather used to pick me up from school and take me home for horse riding on a Sunday afternoon. My grandfather was dignified and I loved him dearly. I did not realise I did until he died. It took his death to bring out the emotion in me, and when he died I suddenly realised there was something missing in my life. I solved it by wearing his old shoes.
No comments:
Post a Comment