"I believe you've been spending your drill nights at the Post Office,
is that correct?"
"Sah!" (I was now learning the lingo).
"On teleprinters?"
"Sah!" There was a short pause as he looked over the papers in
front of him and then,
"You are now a teleprinter operator class III. Dismiss." A smart
salute, about turn, quick march and I was out of the Company Office with
an extra shilling a day but there was now no way my employers could
claim me back even if they wanted to.
About this time a new face appeared on the scene, a real live regular
soldier, Sergeant Millen, an infantry regular I believe but from what
regiment I don't know and he was going to change us into an efficient
military unit. He was always perfectly turned out, his uniform
spotless, creased where it should be but otherwise creaseless. He was a
disciplinarian and he certainly made a difference to us but one thing
always intrigued me -- his facial expression. I never saw him smile or
laugh, in fact I could never detect the slightest change in his
expression that would denote any emotion. Later in the war I believe he
earned a commission; perhaps he enjoyed life and had some fun but one
could never tell.
I'm not certain how many vehicles made up our transport section, I know
we had Morris and Austin utility vans, a five ton lorry and some 30cwt
Bedford lorries whose gearboxes had a peculiar and distinctive whine.
The Bedfords were usually the workhorses of the Line Section while the
utilities were the general runabouts used for work and pleasure. We had
one officer, a major, who was over-fond of his liquor, he used to
frequent The Mauritania in Park Street; late at night he would phone and
in a slurred voice demand that a utility van and driver be sent to pick
him up. This happened on many occasions and one night when he arrived
back at HQ he staggered into the guard room and with a drawn hand gun
proceeded to hold up the guard. He was disarmed and a report made out.
The sequel? I don't know, we didn't see him again.
Originally we had all signed on for home service but after the war
started we were asked to agree to serve overseas, this we all did,
signing to this effect. Looking back I don't suppose it would have made
any difference had we declined, after all those who were conscripted
were not given the choice but it was a nice gesture on our parts.
Having now become reasonably proficient in those military essentials,
marching, saluting and rifle drill the next step was to go on a range
and fire a few rounds. The nearest rifle range was at Bristol
University and a group of about 12 of us was taken there on a most
unmilitary vehicle, a soft drinks lorry. This had no tailboard or
sideboards to speak of and we all stood up on the flat bed, the front
row holding on to the back of the cab and the rest holding on to each
other. We made the double journey without losing anyone. The rifle
range was indoors and we fired .22 rimfire from a standard .303 rifle
fitted with a Morris tube. I believe we only fired 10 rounds each, with
moderate success, but that was the only time I fired a rifle until 1942.