In early April of 1956, the battalion moved, en masse, from Minden back to the UK. On the day we were due to leave we had to vacate the barrack rooms, in order that they could be officially handed over to the vanguard of the South Dorset Regt. This meant that the whole of the battalion paraded, in companies on the square, because we were temporarily homeless. This was at 08.00 hrs. We stood out there, waiting to march down to the station, until about midday!
We had only been on the square a very short time when the first snowflakes began to flutter down. The sky became darker and darker and the snowfall became heavier and heavier. By the time we eventually moved off it was at least a foot deep, both on us and around us. We then set off, with the Regimental Band in front, for the train which had been provided to take us to the Hook of Holland, a journey of about eight hours. We now had to cross to Harwich on one of the troopships that plied this route, this one being the Vienna.
Embarking close on a thousand men took a considerable time and I was one of the last to go aboard. We had already been told that we might have to wait for the next sailing, but space was eventually found. To our surprise and delight three of us shared a second class cabin, instead of our usual accommodation on the troopdeck. This meant we were able to sleep in proper beds, as opposed to the canvas bunks down below and we didn’t have to queue for a wash and shave the next morning.
The following day involved a further train journey and we eventually arrived at Brentwood. We formed up in companies, with the band leading and marched from the railway station, through the town and up to Warley Barracks. It was a Sunday lunchtime and we were greeted raucously at every pub we passed, by the local “lads”! Our new home, proved to be a collection of ancient buildings, some of brick construction and others of timber, breeze- block and corrugated iron. This was not what we had been used to!
I think the cooks had the worst deal. They had been used to efficient steam-heated ovens at Minden whereas here they were cooking in ovens that had, as their heat-source, woodburning open fires directly beneath them. The cooks had to keep the fires stoked and burning, as well as prepare and cook the food!
I was due for demob about a month after our return to England, and was consequently a slight embarrassment to the permanent staff. They had new recruits to train, and didn’t want us “old-soldiers” causing difficulties (what us?). Accordingly we were told to lie low during the day, and to try to remain invisible. I failed miserably one morning when the orderly sergeant was looking for victims to wash the floor of the Naafi canteen. It had been a wet and muddy day previously and this wooden floor was looking well used. Three of us were assigned to this task, and we soon had it looking pristine. Then, after we had put away our mops and buckets and returned to our mattress pressing, it dried! We had succeeded only in spreading the mud more evenly, but over a greater area.
That evening saw us once again on fatigues, but this time in the Naafi kitchen, mostly washing up. When the canteen closed the manageress gave us supper and, in defiance of the orderly sergeant paid us for our time. We had enjoyed our evening, especially as we had been among the Naafi girls! Later, towards the end of April, we were at the Naafi counter, talking to the girls, when one of them asked why we were so happy. “Because we are getting demobbed in a couple of days,” I answered. At this, one of the girls burst into tears and ran through to the kitchen. “What’s the matter with her?” I asked in my innocence. “You mean you really don’t know?” said the other girls. “That poor girl is crazy about you and you come in here, all smiles, and announce that you’re going, you idiot!” I was a bloke of twenty, who had little idea of what was going on around him and I had no idea how this poor girl felt. I felt really dreadful about it and I don’t think I went in there again.
However, Essex womanhood had its collective revenge just a few days later. On the evening of the 1st of May, one of my mates came back from an evening out in Brentwood and announced that he was going to meet a girl the following evening. She had promised to bring three friends with her and he was looking for three of us to go with him. I was, of course reluctant to have any part in this but allowed myself to be persuaded. This would be our last evening in the army, as we were due for demob on the 3rd.
We met these four girls, as arranged and having paired off quite amicably we went walking and drinking around the town. We lads were drinking a local brown ale, Manns, for which I still have a liking, whilst the girls, like all girls in the mid-fifties were drinking Babycham at our expense. But Babycham was not that expensive and, well, who knows! The girls then declared that they were in danger of missing the last bus home, so we decided we could not let these young ladies go home unescorted. Accordingly we boarded the double-decker and made for the upstairs, back seats!
Things seemed to be going to plan when we stopped outside Romford bus garage. Several busmen came up onto the top deck, having finished their day’s work and being now on their way home. We took little notice of these people, having our minds on higher things, until one of our girls called out “Hello Dad” to one of these fellows. We were pretty subdued for the rest of the journey until we were told that this was as far as the bus went and everyone must now get off! The girls called a cheery “Goodnight” as they walked off up the road with Dad. The bus had gone back to its garage and we were left in the middle of some enormous, nondescript housing estate, feeling none too happy. “Where the hell are we?” “What do we do now?” we were saying to each other when a taxi came down the road. He took us back to the barracks, explaining on the way that we had been on the Harold Hill estate and would have been in for a long walk if he had not chanced to be in the area. We paid him well for the journey and went to bed for the last time as National Servicemen.
The next day we collected our travel warrants and left Brentwood, en route for our respective homes, but having to go first to a Territorial Army centre in our home region, for demob and re-mobilisation in the Territorial Army / Army Emergency Reserve. This was for a period of three and a half years. On arrival at the drill hall in Tonbridge we were met by a snotty part-time Captain. We handed in our kit and were issued with another lot, as we were now reservists. This Captain seemed determined to delay us as long as he could, but then made the mistake of asking if we had any questions. Dusty Miller, a large aggressive type from St. Mary Cray said “Yeah, I got a question. Can we go?” There was some exchange along the lines of our being still in the army, but he thought better of keeping us any longer and we returned to “civvy street”.
When I had started my military career at Maidstone I had seen reservists carrying out their annual fortnight’s camp and fully expected to do the same. I knew that I was also required to attend regular evening parades at the local T.A. centre. After my demob leave, I put on my uniform and went along as instructed. When I walked in there were a few blokes, in civilian clothes, drinking and chatting at a bar! I said that I was reporting for the first time and was told to go into the office. I went in and found the C.O. sitting at a desk.
He, too was in civvies. I came to attention, but he said there was no formality and that I could come in for a drink any Tuesday evening if I wanted to! This was not at all what I had been expecting and I decided there and then that I had seen enough of army life. Some years later I was instructed to hand in my kit and that was that.