Read How Britain Kept Calm and Carried On Online
Authors: Anton Rippon
How Britain Kept Calm and Carried On (14 page)
A comrade of mine related a tale of when he was in the Royal Artillery. He had been on an AA gun site. One day they were inspected by a general and the gunner had been detailed
to stand by the Lewis gun, in a sandbagged pit. The general made his way around the site, having a word here and there. When he got to the gunner, he exchanged small talk. He asked him how long he
had been in the army and then his attention turned to his training.
‘If you were to see a German plane coming in low to attack this site, would you open fire on your own, or wait for the order?’
‘Neither,’ said the gunner, ‘I’d get laid down at the back of the sandbags because I’ve got no ammunition!’
Poor Gunner Hawkins spent the next two months beside that gun!
Mr A. S. Cobb, Hull
A young junior officer was made orderly officer for the day. Making his inspection, he went to the cookhouse to inspect the cooking. Looking into one pan he noticed that it
was boiling around the edges, but not in the middle. He asked the cook to explain this.
‘That bit’s for the sentries, sir. We always serve them first!’
MR S.E. SMITH, ESSEX
Some of my best times in the army happened while stationed in the Orkneys. To fill in time we had various half-hour lectures, one concerning ‘Demob’. Various
conditions as to how, and when, we might be demobbed, were discussed – things like length of service, overseas duty, war wounds, married men with dependents etc. But the climax came when one
cockney voice piped up from the rear: ‘As long as they don’t do it in bleedin’ alphabetical order!’
His name, you see, was Gunner Tom Zelkin!
Clifford Bailey, Dudley
Walking down the main street of my hometown while on leave, I approached a crossroads and spotted a large car approaching with the Duke of Kent inside. Being in uniform, and
with my rifle slung over my shoulder, I wasn’t sure what kind of salute to give and had precious little time to make my mind up. I attempted to give a butt salute. Wearing heavy army
boots didn’t help. I tried to halt at the kerb, slipped on my back and up in the air went my rifle, missing the royal car by inches. What a laugh His Highness must have had. And what a
scramble I made!
F. G. Jones, Shotton, Deeside
The place was Blackdown training camp. The year was 1940. Our squad was being trained as gunners or drivers in the Royal Artillery. One day in the gym we had to climb ropes,
tumble on mats and jump over the vaulting horse. One cockney, named Joe Brown, was hopeless at PT, so each time he had to jump the vaulting horse he would pretend to tie up his shoelaces and miss
his turn. Eventually, the sergeant spotted this and yelled: ‘Hey, you! Over the horse!’
Joe replied: ‘I don’t mind being a gunner, don’t mind being a driver, but I ain’t going to be a bleeding acrobat for two bob a day!’
H. Walls, Highams Park, London
During the war we were stationed at a place for training and living under canvas. Most of the chaps were a happy-go-lucky bunch and shared alike. That is, if one had cakes or a
cake sent, they shared it with their mates in the tent. Anyhow, in my tent we had one very tight-fisted bloke. Now this particular afternoon the post clerk came and gave him a parcel. Most of the
chaps were either writing letters or cleaning up. We all waited in anticipation and behold – out came a homemade fruit cake and a large pot of strawberry jam. Now, he cut a slice of cake for
himself, put the rest of it back in the box. To make it worse, he kept going on about this cake and, eventually, I got very cross and told him: ‘If you don’t shut up about that damned
cake, I’ll come over there and wrap it around your neck!’
The NCO in the tent told us to ‘pack it up’ and the incident passed. Teatime came and as we filed into the dining room, lo and behold, there was this chap with his knapsack. Out came
the cake and the jam. But then he dropped his knife and as he climbed under the table to retrieve it, I grabbed the jam and passed it down the tables to my comrades. When he came back up and
realized the jam was gone, he looked straight at me. At that exact moment, the orderly officer and sergeant were making their rounds. When we were asked if we had any complaints, the tight-fist
said: ‘Yes, sir. Woodham has pinched my pot of strawberry jam!’
‘Have you got his jam, Woodham?’ said the officer with a big grin.
‘No, sir!’ I said.
The sergeant was about to burst and the officer said: ‘Put this man [the tight-fist] on extra weekend guard for making a frivolous complaint!’
The tight-fist complained that this particular weekend he had a pass, but the sergeant told him that unless he could get someone to stand in for him, his leave would be cancelled.
He had a special occasion lined up, it seemed, and he was desperate to be able to use his pass so he came into the tent trying to persuade someone to stand in for him. There were no takers. Then
he offered me five shillings to do it and I said: ‘Not on your Nelly! Make it ten shillings and we’ll go to the RSM and sort it out!’
The RSM agreed to postpone his duty until the next weekend and, as we were leaving, he called me back.
‘How much did that cost him?’
‘Ten shillings,’ I replied.
‘Not bad!’ said the RSM.
A good result all-round, but I never did find out what happened to that pot of jam!
Mr A. E. Woodham, Slough
We were stationed at Chesterfield. On our evenings off, we stood about on the street corners, doing nothing particular, only to be moved on by the MPs, or Redcaps as they were
better known. By September 1941, my mate and I had a medical board and were eventually discharged. Awaiting the usual formalities – train tickets, coupons for civvy clothes – we decided
to take a last stroll through the town, minus cap, no gaiters, jacket undone and hands in our pockets. We walked straight into the arms of two Redcaps. We decided to pull their legs, refusing to
button up our tunics and not standing to attention. Eventually we showed them our discharge certificates and to their credit they took it in good part and actually shook our hands, wishing us the
best of luck.
F. G. Jones, Shotton, Deeside
While I was waiting for my demob group to come up, I was sent from my depot at Lowestoft to a small naval overflow camp at Hopton-on-Sea that, before and after the war, was a
holiday camp. I was caught for colour guard. The camp had no band, so for ceremonial occasions we had to rely on a gramophone record. We were fell-in on a parade, some 500 or so, then brought to
attention and given the order: ‘Royal salute, present arms.’ But instead of the strains of the national anthem coming over the tannoy, all we got was Judy Garland singing ‘The
Trolley Song’ complete with clanging bells! Five hundred men burst out laughing.
The offending signalman, who had put on the wrong record, doubled-up to the commander. The officer asked him if he knew how far it was around the football field. When the signalman said that,
no, he didn’t know, the officer told him: ‘Well bloody well find out – and don’t come back!’
Mr R. Taylor, Hull
When I was in the cookhouse we always made the custard for the duff with water, it never saw milk. One day, as we prepared to dish up dinner, there was a panic. We had no
hot water to make the custard. So one ‘gastronomic genius’ suggested straining the water from the carrots and using that. What a row we had with the lads when they got custard with
tiny bits of carrot in it. We tried to tell them it was little bits of peaches, but they weren’t fooled.
Mr A. S. Cobb, Hull
