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Reminiscences of Alan Ventress |  |
| Pack Up Your Cardboard Suitcase | ||
| I joined the British Army on 25 August 1965, or should I say my father joined me up. I came from a family of 9 and feeding them all was a big problem for my Dad, so he and my stepmother decided to divest themselves of the responsibility of feeding and clothing me in about July 1965. I really didn't have any say in the matter. One day I was at school the next I was on my way to the Army recruiting office in Wolverhampton. The time between signing on the dotted line for 6 years and 6 in the Army Reserve was minimal and I was off to glorious mid Wales on 14th September 1965 to the All Arms Junior Leaders Regiment (AAJLR) at Tonfanau Camp, Towyn, Merioneth. Though before I left I worked for a time on a building site as a 'chain man' – holding a pole which the surveyor focussed on when laying out the foundations for a new building. I think I was paid the princely sum of One Pound 15 Shillings a week (sorry we don't have pound signs in Australia!) I generally gave my stepmother half my pay and the other half was set aside for me to buy a suit to go to the army in. Well the day arrived for me to get the suit and it cost me about three pound 10 shillings, must have been little better than sack cloth because it was very coarse to say the least. I packed my miniscule cardboard suitcase which was about 12 inches by 8 inches and about 4 deep with my worldly possessions and set of on my big adventure. Little knowing what was in store for me. The steam train took about 4 hours to travel from the Midlands to Tonfanau and there were lots of other apprehensive young lads there all going to the same spot. We arrived in late afternoon and surprise surprise it was raining and rather gloomy weather wise. What confronted us all was a scene of total confusion, lads milling around and NCOs barking out orders and telling us all where we were to go and what was happening next. We were loaded onto the back of Bedford 3 tonners and driven a few hundred yards up the hill to the camp proper which was situated on a gentle sloping hill leading down to the sea. As new recruits we all ended up in 'R' Company – R for recruit presumably. Or it may have been Ramillies, after a battle won by the Duke of Marlborough? I can't remember which platoon I was in but there were gunners, sappers and privates all mixed in together. A great legacy of this mixture was the tolerance we all had for different parts of the army whether engineers, artillery, infantry or even the hated military police which is what I had ended up in. I was in a room with about twenty others, with a coke burning pot bellied stove in the middle. One of the jobs we were allocated was stoking the stove with coke during the night and woe betide the poor sod who didn't wake up and caused the stove to go out. | ||
| At this time nearly everyone in the block smoked bar me. A real Geordie hard man in the Northumberland Fusiliers took exception to this fact and regularly gave me a working over by punching me into a corner in his efforts in trying to force me to smoke! He used to hold up his fist and say, see this and then punch me and say "now you can feel it". I never gave in and he eventually gave up. I have never smoked a cigarette to this day. At the time I was only 5'6" tall and quite skinny, so I suppose I made an easy punching bag. Bizarrely when I left the army in 1971 according to my discharge papers I was still 5'6" tall! In fact I had grown to 6'3". | ||
| Martyn Fletcher who has remained a friend all my life was in the same room and he and I quickly formed a rapport. What drew me to him was his Cockney accent, since disappeared I might add. I loved all the accents at that time and you could immediately tell where someone came from whether they were Scots, Scouse or Somerset. We had representatives from the four corners of Britain, representing a range of units, many of which no longer exist, Durham Light Infantry, Green Howards, Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, 14/20th Kings Hussars, REME, RCT, RMP, Signals, Black Watch, Welch Regiment, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders the list went on and on. Because of this we learned a great deal about the traditions and history of each regiment and why they were called the Cherry pickers or whatever. The range of uniforms was a sight to behold too. Glengarrys and flashes down the back for the Welch Regiment, apparently originally there to stop stains from tarred pigtails no less! It taught us a lot but most of all it taught me to respect the traditions inherent within the British Army. It also helped me later when I became a military policeman to relate to soldiers of all persuasions in a friendlier and more forgiving way than some of my colleagues who never had the privilege of serving with such a diverse array of men. | ||
| About the second day we all had to go to the Quarter Masters stores to be issued with our kit. We were introduced to an array of new equipment, some of which was quite mysterious as to what use it could possibly be. For example a button stick and a housewife, what on earth did this mean? There was never an opportunity to try anything on and we were sized up by the sergeant behind the counter and if he got in wrong – tough titties! Most of the kit seemed to have been mothballed at the end of the Second World War and here we were 20 years later, the grateful recipients of all this largesse from Her Majesty. I must admit at the time I had never seen or been the owner of so many clothes in my life. We were then introduced to the mysteries of locker layout and bed blocks! Woe betide him who didn't have his locker and bed block in order, the contents would be trashed onto the floor and the bed turned upside down. I immediately adopted a rather Zen like attitude to all this mayhem, along the lines that it will inevitably happen to all of us so why worry! The stinking moth balled clothes had to ironed and got into apple pie order and our civvy clothes were locked in suitcases and taken away from us, not to be seen until Christmas leave three months hence. I think we were shown how to iron and it was a matter of sink or swim from then on in. Battle dress was the worst, every time you got wet you ended up looking like a sack of potatoes tied in the middle and not getting wet in mid Wales in autumn or any other time for that matter was a physical impossibility. Some of the old lags taught us how to 'shave' the insides of the creases of the trousers and to coat the inside crease with soap so the outside crease remained sharp, this also went for the sleeves of the battle dress top and the six creases that were de rigeur for the back of the battle dress blouse. Bulling boots was another joy and someone taught us how to burn the polish before you started bulling as well as ironing out the creases and imperfections in the leather prior to starting. Hundreds of hours were spent making small circles of polish with a yellow duster in the vain hope of reaching some sort of black mirrored nirvana! | ||
| About the third day they decided to see what we were made of and took us over an assault course. The three Corporals in charge, physical training instructors looked like coiled snakes waiting to pounce. All standing in the pouring cold rain, in singlets and stitched creased trousers looking like three avenging devils ready to pounce on any weakness or infringement of their maniacal fitness standards none of us ever had any hope of reaching. We were dressed in baggy navy shorts many sizes too big and white T shirts if I remember rightly. The usual stuff was there swinging over a ditch full of water, climbing a rope net and doing a forward roll over the top, then scaling a brick wall. There were two blokes on top of the wall to give a hand and pull you up. One poor sod, I never found out his name fell awkwardly from the top of the wall over the other side of the wall and must have broken his leg or an ankle because he couldn't move. This caused immediate consternation among the PTIs who descended on this potential malingerer like the horsemen of the apocalypse and started getting stuck into him dragging him along and generally giving him a hard time. It was only later we heard that one of them had been busted for this display of brutality. At the time it put the fear of PTIs into all of us. | ||
| About the fourth day (it still hadn't stopped raining – and the stove hadn't gone out yet!) we were told we were off on a camping trip. Whoopee we all thought until they started loading us up like pack horses with old canvas rucksacks and tents which weighed a ton when they were dry and twice as much when they were wet. The destination was Cader Idris, which I think is the second highest mountain in Wales. We were trucked up to the lower reaches of the mountain in the ubiquitous 3 Ton Bedford Truck, split into squads of about 10 each and off we went under the watchful eye of a corporal with a map, chinagraph pencil and a compass. You have guessed it, it was still raining and the packs and tents were weighing us down and slowing our progress. Finally we stopped for the night and I was allocated a tent with my mate Martyn Fletcher, once we had our 'delicious' meal of Meat and Veg compo rations we settled down for the night. Stupidly I decided to take my hobnailed boots off and leave them outside rather than sleep with them in my sleeping bag. After a pretty rough night what should we all see in the morning, but a heavy coating of frost! This meant my very wet boots had been frozen so solid it was impossible to put them on. I had to get around in my stocking feet, while the tent was packed and loaded on my back and walked up towards the summit of Cader still with no boots desperately waiting for them to thaw out. | ||
| As a post script to this walk – I retraced my steps with my wife up Cader Idris in 2009 and found it to be a bit of a doddle, not the gruelling trek that had stuck in my mind, but then again it was summer time and I had shoes on my feet! | ||
| Time at Tonfanau became one long blur of inspections, drill, weapons training, route marches and all the wonderful things the army does for you to train you as a killing machine by the time you turn 16! We never seemed to have any time to ourselves and the camp was so far away from the nearest habitation at Towyn, I can never recall going there. Anyway our tea was always topped up with bromide to curb our more primitive urges! Tonfanau Camp was very close to the beach, but I don't think I ever had the opportunity to go there they whole time I was there. | ||
| Anyway, three months passed quite quickly, despite bruised arms from the Northumberland Fusilier, fear of PTIs and sore feet from clambering up Cader Idris in my socks on cold and frosty mornings. The day finally arrived when we had to collect our suitcases and retrieve our civvy clothes in preparation for Christmas leave. | ||
| I hastily opened my green army suitcase and quickly got out my suit, gave it a quick ironing and put it on, or shall I say tried to put it on. All that good food and bracing Welsh air had made me grow about 6 inches in 3 months and it no longer fitted me. So Plan B it had to be, I had to go home in my army uniform. I was quite rich too and had about 15 quid in my pocket, more that I had ever had in my life! | ||
| On returning to Tonfanau early in 1966 many of us found we had been posted from the All Arms Junior Leaders Regiment to the Junior Tradesmens Regiment Rhyl, Most of us didn't want to go and we were quite proud of the diamond flash on our battledress sleeves indicating our origins as AAJLR boy soldiers. We were loaded onto Bedford 3 tonners and shipped off to Rhyl. My first impressions of Kinmel Park Camp were good, the barracks we not as forlorn or as windswept as Tonfanau. Many of us hung onto our diamond flashes for about three weeks until we were threatened with severe punishment if we persisted in wearing them, naturally at this point we all gave in and it was no longer possible to identify AAJLR lads at a glance and we were quickly absorbed into the hurly burly of JTR Rhyl where the focus was on learning a trade and education rather than on infantry tactics and weapons training. | ||
| I was in Arnhem Platoon, 'C' Company (Green Flash if I remember rightly) from 1966 to the end of 1967 when I went to Rousillon Barracks in Chichester to their Depot and Training Establishment. Sgt. Beamson, Royal Corps of Transport was our Platoon Sergeant, seemed friendly enough and reasonably harmless. The Lieutenant in charge was Lt. Ensor, South Wales Borderers. | ||
| On one famous occasion we were on exercise in Snowdonia at Swallow Falls where a flying fox had been set up, unfortunately for me I slipped off it and fell knees first into the fast flowing river below. I dragged myself out like a drowned rat and was immediately kicked up the arse by Lt. Ensor who said 'Ventress you are full of bull**** and no coordination!' I then had to go to hospital for a week or so to recover. | ||
| I still have the injury today which gives me curry in the colder weather, (lucky I live in Australia) also my left knee is a completely different shape to my right. A happy memory of North Wales. | ||
| Friends I made and am still in contact with are Ian Ambrose and Martyn Fletcher, both now retired. I enjoyed my time in the army, it certainly taught me a lot - 'how to touch type and how to kill people' to name two useful skills! However, I am glad I decided to leave and take a chance in civvy street. | ||
| BTW, Ian went on to have an illustrious career in the Army, ending up as a Major, he served in the RMP/SIB and ended up with an MBE. Finally retiring in February 2010, surely the last man standing from the 1966 intake at JTR Rhyl? | ||
| I too have ended up with hearing problems from all the live firing we did on Sealand Ranges! I started realising about 5 years ago I could no longer hear very well, especially when I attended after work functions such as exhibition openings, book launches etc... | ||
| I ended up getting some very up market hearing aids after I had been diagnosed with industrial deafness! The audiologist thought I must have worked in an iron ore mine very close to explosions in Australia, I said that I had worked in an iron ore loading facility in the Pilbara in Western Australia, but not at Paraburdoo where the ore is mined. She said my symptoms were consistent with industrial deafness caused by explosions. | ||
| BTW the hearing aids cost around 4000 quid! I tried to claim it back from the British Army, but they politely told me to get lost. | ||
| I can't really remember that much about weapons training, only that I really enjoyed it and ended up being a marksman on most weapons. My favourite was the Bren gun; I loved the balance of the weapon. Filling SLR magazines and being timed while we did it springs to mind, also the cuts on your thumbs from forcing the 7.62 ammo in there in double quick time. Stripping and assembling weapons also comes to mind sometimes blindfolded if I remember rightly. | ||
| One of my most abiding memories of drill was an early morning practice for the passing out parade with Sgt. Smith (Lancashire Fusiliers - yellow hackle) he was quite pleased with our efforts and marched us back from the parade ground to an area between the spiders, where the echo of our multitude of hob nailed boots rang out and seemed to mesmerise him, because we kept marching up and down interminably. We all thought he had gone bonkers, he kept on roaring out, ABOUT TURN, ABOUT TURN like a maniac. Not because we were doing anything wrong, but because we were doing everything right. It was a picture and sound of perfection (in purely military drill terms), I think he may have become orgasmic and ejaculated in his pants because of this! Anyway it seemed to go on for at least 10 or 15 minutes with all of us whispering to each other, what the f*** is going on! Finally it came to an end and we were all dismissed. | ||
| Sgt. Smith seemed a decent sort of old soldier, but he smoked heavily and I think he drank even more heavily; he appeared to be preserved by the alcohol. Swarthy dark features, mindful of an old turtle. Mind you he never did me any harm. | ||
| Another lunatic - once again I can't remember the name was an RSM who was followed very closely by a Sergeant Ferbrack or Verrbrach??? He used to put the fear of God into all of us when we were inspected on parade. Any infringement, such as Brasso stains on a blanco belt were dealt with in the following way ---- “Sergeant Verbrach take that man's name!!” Without a nano second pause the response bellowed out in a stentorian voice was always “SAH !!”. | ||
| BTW It was only when I travelling to South America and learned Spanish that I realised that blanco meant white in Spanish! Bizarrely often in the army blanco was green. | ||
| Another ‘fond’ memory was being picked out by a physical training instructor – didn’t those immaculate sewn in crease trousers put the fear of God in you, that with the quivering anticipation of physical exercise they all seemed to display, like a coiled spring, always ready to leap out of the blocks – the guy was teaching us unarmed combat and immediately twisted my arm behind my back and drove me into the nearest wall, happy days! | ||
| Another couple of memories of JTR Rhyl. As a Clerk/Radio Operator we had to learn how to touch type on a old Remington Typewriter the classes consisted of about 30 blokes all sitting at their own desk with the large and clunky machine in front of them. The Warrant Office teaching us was WO1 Budge a tall gangly, ungainly man but very friendly and a really decent human being. We gradually became accustomed to the QWERTY keyboard and the monotonous beat of a metronome which constantly pushed up the speed of our typing, starting with ‘ASDF JKL’ etc. etc. and reaching the dizzy heights of ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ to use all the alphabetical keys on the key board. | ||
| One day we were merrily typing away under the avuncular gaze of WO1 Budge who was on a sort of stage at the front of the classroom, leaning back on his chair when suddenly he fell over backwards with a great clatter, much to the hilarity of all present. He dragged himself off the floor and his face appeared above the desk looking decidedly sheepish. | ||
| There was another young civilian instructor there too, whose name I can’t recall he was an absolute whiz at touch typing getting supernatural speeds of up to 120 characters per minute and above. We held him in very high regards as we rarely cracked 30 words a minute. | ||
| Rock climbing and abseiling in Snowdonia also spring to mind. Abseiling wasn’t too bad once you overcame the fear of leaning out over some never ending precipice, at least you could slip on the Sh** on the way down and after a while it became quite exhilarating with burn marks from the rope across your back and warm gloved hands from the friction of your descent. If I remember rightly we were also taught to go down frontwards but that wasn’t compulsory. The boots we wore were really impressive very large with huge metal cleats, I think this type of mountaineering gear was abandoned many years ago! On one misty, drizzly day I was climbing on a rock face, I am pretty sure we were roped together and I was traversing a ledge from right to left when suddenly the ledge ran out, I could see that it started again around the corner of the rock face, so I attempted to stretch myself around and managed to get a foothold with my left foot, whereupon I stupidly looked down at the valley which seemed a long way below even through the North Wales weather. At that point I froze and couldn’t move either forwards or back. I must have been stuck like a limpet clinging to the rock face with jelly legs for quite a while before the instructor managed to talk me back to relative safety. At that point I realised mountaineering wasn’t really for me. The big phrase we learned was “Climb when you are ready” and “Climbing Now”. We also wore helmets to ward off possible rock falls on our heads and were constantly told to ensure when climbing that we had three points of contact. On returning to camp we often had the chance to slide and bounce down scree slopes which was always good fun. The trip back was invariably in an old Bedford 3 Ton truck which smelled of fuel and made us all travel sick from the winding Welsh roads. | ||
| Talking about driving, I can’t remember why but I was quite late taking my driving test at Rhyl in a short wheel base crash gear box Land Rover which required considerable skill at double de-clutching. (A very useful skill that has stayed with me all these years – I drive a 1975 clapped out VW Kombi Van with a dodgy gear box and changing down from 3rd to 2nd with a burst of the accelerator in neutral always does the trick). The instructor who was testing me was quite friendly and told me to drive into Rhyl. Anyway we had hardly gone a couple of miles, I think we got as far as a round about near Rhuddlan Castle and he told me I had passed my test and said to drive back to camp. Perhaps he had a more pressing appointment! Anyway I was quite pleased with myself with this result. | ||
| Denbigh Moors spring to mind. We once had to do a map reading exercise in truly appalling weather. Walking on compass bearings to find tins with further instructions in them to finish the course. We trekked over quite a few miles in squads of 6 or so, the weather quickly deteriorated and snow was coming in almost horizontally caking our right sides and faces with an icy layer. The effects of compo rations usually clogged you up for days and ensured that the bowels remained inoperative apart from the occasional disgusting fart – to which the usual response was “I think a rat has crawled up there and died”. Inevitably I needed to do a crap but none of us had toilet paper so I ended up using some grass and dried leaves. Big mistake, a few miles further on I developed a very sore arse and could only walk if I pulled both my buttock apart! Not a comfortable experience to say the least. | ||
| In relation to compo rations I still have a comp ration tin opener on my key ring to this very day marked with the government arrow and 1966, comes in very useful especially for opening paint tins. | ||
| When I first arrived at Rhyl we were allocated our billet in ‘C’ Company, Arnhem Platoon which was just about as far away from anything you could get. The end of our hut faced onto Engine Hill if I remember rightly and it was just over the road from the girls school that occupied Bodelwyddan Castle at this period. As we wandering into the room, there was a young corporal at the end of the billet standing next to a record player, and the dulcet tones of the Beatles were filling the room, it was the album Rubber Soul and I think the song was ‘Michelle My Belle’. I will forever associate this song with JTR Rhyl – a bizarre relationship but very real for me. The corporal wasn’t your average bastard, was very welcoming and made us all feel at home as much as he could in the rather Spartan surrounds of the room lined with austere grey lockers, utilitarian beds and expanses of orangey brown lino. Polishing this lino soon became part and parcel of our lives and we were introduced to large drums of glutinous polish which smelled distinctly toxic. We were also introduced to a peculiarly military polishing instrument called a bumper. This device had a long handle attached to a heavy polishing head around which yellow duster were wrapped. The idea was to walk up and down the isle that ran down the centre of the room and to flick small amounts of the viscous orange polish onto the lino with a spoon. The bumper man came up behind and swang the bumper from left to right or vice versa and in the process polishing the floor to the required sheen demanded by the polish Nazis who seemed to have a fetish for shiny things and polish in general whether it be for lino, brass buckles or black hob nailed boots. The down side of liberally spreading all this polish was that over time an excess of the stuff built up and formed ugly black patches which had to be scraped away and re-polished. Bumpering was quite a physical activity and I think this job and many others were rostered so that everyone got the opportunity to extend their domestic skills in all areas. | ||
| Terry McLaughlin may be able to elaborate on this story, but Terry was in the Light Infantry and a very smart young lad who left all of us early for the regular army as he was a little older than most of us. By this time I had made Junior Sergeant – I am not quite sure how, but think it was because as Lt. Ensor said I was full of bullshit and quite good at polishing and shining anything that stood still. Anyway Terry was a good friend and he came back to Arnhem Platoon in his rather fancy Light Infantry uniform which had lots of black and green on it. I was particularly impressed by his black lanyard! I had a room of my own which was quite private and Terry and I hatched a plot to ‘inspect’ the platoon. So I took the brasses of my web belt and threaded them on to his epaulettes to make him look as if he had officer’s pips. The light infantry uniform was quite distinctive and very different so it was unlikely that he would be challenged by any of the younger lads. I called the platoon to order and told them that a visiting Lieutenant from the Light Infantry would be inspecting them shortly and called everyone to attention while I took Lt. Terry McLaughlin (really Pte. McLaughlin) on a tour of inspection. It was hard keeping a straight face especially when Terry was critical of some kit layouts, but we certainly had a good laugh afterwards when we got back to my room! | ||
| Another of my friends Ian Ambrose inexplicably went AWOL with one of his mates and ended up in Scotland. Cheekily they went to the local police station and strung them a line about being on leave and running out of money with no where to stay and asked if they could sleep in the police station for the night! They thought they had got away with it until the next morning when the police wouldn’t let them out. During the night they had done some checking up and found out they were both AWOL from JTR Rhyl. Having been charged with being AWOL they were marched into the CO’s office with a Warrant Office spitting out left, right, left, right, left, right . Right wheel, mark time, halt, all done at the top of his voice and so the words were hardly intelligible. Not long after two rather forlorn looking characters could be seen every day doubling up to the cook house to do dirty pan washing. They were always escorted by a corporal or sergeant with a pace stick who yelled out at regular intervals ‘MARK TIME’ and then ‘FORWARD’, the hapless convicts would then be set to washing pots and pans. One of my duties as a Junior Corporal at the time was to supervise Ian washing a mountain of dirty aluminium pots and pans at the cook house. The lingering all encompassing greasy smell has stayed with me to this day and I rarely eat greasy food like sausages, bacon and eggs because of those happy memories. Another punishment seems to have been white washing or painting white the rocks situated around the parade ground. | ||
| Walking from Arnhem Platoon to the cook house was always a bit of a chore as it was so far to go. Each of us had to carry our own KFS (knife, fork and spoon) and mug and we were instructed that there was a special way of marching to the cookhouse holding your KFS and plastic mug in your left hand behind your back and swinging your right arm. It was not long after I arrived at JTR Rhyl that I was able to afford to buy my first wrist watch, this was quite a moment in my life as it gave me more freedom to work out when the cookhouse would be opened especially early in the morning. I cannot remember how I managed before I got the watch. | ||
| Returning to the topic of my private room. Another friend Martyn Fletcher, who had been brought up a Catholic could not stand going to church on Sundays. I am not sure why but he preferred to hide in a locker in my room rather than go to church! So every Sunday I made my room available to him and he hid there for the duration of the church parade. How he managed to get away with this, I am not sure as I seem to recall some sort of roll being called. | ||
| Practicing for the passing out parade on a Saturday morning was always ‘good fun’, I generally enjoyed the marching and the band we had to accompany us. I was always in awe of some of the Junior Sergeant Majors whose voices had broken and were able to bark out commands in a very convincing fashion, totally in contrast to my falsetto voice which could hardly be heard above the band “EYYYEEESSS RIGHT” I would scream at the top of my voice but rarely made a impression – the squad did it on sight rather than on sound! | ||
| I can’t remember the name of the competition but Platoons competed against each other in fitness, weapons skills, shooting, map reading, first aid and problem solving. For example using two short planks and a tin drum to get over a trench 15 feet wide, basically to test leadership, intelligence, ingenuity and creativity under difficult circumstances especially as it was all timed. I think the competition started with a run in full kit with packs and rifles with a variety of problem solving exercises interpolated along the way. Also there was a lot of practicing for this event which was very hotly contested. Each squad consisted of about 8 blokes with a squad leader. One day we were running up Engine Hill and one squad member wasn’t keeping up very well and causing everyone to slow down. This must have happened a few times in practice runs previously because without warning two blokes really got stuck into the lad they thought wasn’t pulling his weight. I managed to intervene and stop this but it was an ugly ‘Lord of the Flies’ type incident. I don’t think the bloke was badly injured but he certainly wasn’t in the competition squad for the final race. The only photo I have of myself from this period of my life was taken at this time and shows me tending to a mock wound. Often situations would be established whereby someone’s femur would be protruding but they had a bullet hole in the back of their heads. Naturally the tendency was to rush towards the leg injury and tend to it because of its spectacular nature. Obviously treating a dead person lost you points! The final stage of the competition was about an 800 yard run and then straight down onto a firing parapet having been issued with a magazine of 20 rounds of 7.62 ammunition. The secret here was to wrap the rifle sling around your left arm to give maximum stability before starting to fire. Each hit was counted towards the final points in the competition so breathing had to be controlled. Despite our best efforts I don’t think Arnhem Platoon did any good the two years I was at JTR Rhyl. | ||
| Education was important for Junior soldiers and sexual education was on top of the list for the Royal Army Medical Corps. Not long into my time at Rhyl we were shown a number of films about the evils of tobacco with the effects of emphysema, men being unable to walk up three steps and others with holes in their throats so they could smoke. However, the sex education films were particularly graphic with lots of images of 3rd degree untreated syphilis and other forms of venereal disease. The WO from the RAMC was quite proud of his films and gave us dire warnings of what happens “if you dip your wick” in the wrong place! This was the first time I had ever heard of such an expression and he must have said it about 20 times during the course of his lecture. | ||
| Before I finish this didn’t happen at Rhyl but at Chichester in Sussex when we were learning to ride motorbikes as part of our Military Police training. The clothing we had to wear was literally out of this world. Talk about protective. It was made of rubber and was about three quarters of an inch thick in case we fell, it was terribly ungainly and hot and it you did fall off your motorbike you wouldn’t be able to get up and would have been run over anyway. We all wore pudding style helmets and goggles, so looked quite a sight. Early on in the piece we had to learn ‘roundabout drill’. So about 12 of us set of with the instructor to the nearest roundabout, on the outskirts of Chichester. The instructor who was a civilian, but ex army, was totally obsessed with roundabout drill and must have spun around and around about thirty or so times, like Sgt. Smith before him he seemed to go into a trance and kept going round and round. Talk about whirling dervishes! We all thought he had gone totally mad but looking back it was just one of those many surreal moments we all experienced on a regular basis where dealing with madness became the norm. | ||
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