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Post by Deleted on Jan 15, 2011 23:48:08 GMT 1
As many of you seem to have enjoyed my 'extract' in the Dire Straits thread, I decided I will try and post other extracts from my life story. As I said, some are far too long to post and have to be 'cut down' to fit but I will do my best to select parts that I feel you will find amusing, so please enjoy.
Part 2 Tales of an East End Boy
The King is deid. (God Save the Queen)
The early fifties were a time of readjusting for many families. Some kids, like me, were earlier growing up without the father figure, due to the goings on in Europe, but families in those days tended to rally round, as well as neighbours, either up the same close, or elsewhere in the street. Aunties and uncles all lived in the street or nearby, so if someone’s mammy wis away at work, we could always rely oan a friendly aunt fur a wee jeely piece to keep oor strength up till maw got hame.
We were underfed, undernourished, but not unloved. We were in the main wee bundles of skin and bones, lacking in vitamins, and most of all in this post war city, suffering a severe lack of sunshine due to the fact nae one had seen it in years because of the amount of fossil fuels being burnt to keep the family home warm and dry (even in summer).
Rationing was still in place and oor wee coupons for ‘Dolly Mixtures’ were not an issue, when real food was in short supply. Our playground was the air raid shelters’, which were to be found all round the area. Each back court had its own shelter, and the tenements all had great ‘dunnies’ which also doubled as shelters during the Luftwaffe’s wee visits to pulverise Clydebank. There was quite a number of those Clydebank destined bombs, that never made it, and surrounding streets in Dennistoun and the East End all had tenements with a hoose missing from the top floor and gable ends and open spaces, where a few years earlier, a whole community once lived.
As we grew (in years if not in stature), our footballing skills were honed on the streets, usually with a scabby wee tennis ball, and anything up to 50 –a- side, or when we got bored with that, then ‘dyke jumping’; leaping great gaps between the wash houses and air raid shelters was a favourite. These ‘jumps’ all had their own particular name; The Wee Yardy, The Big Yardy, the Coffin etc. The WY was for beginners, who, having mastered that, would move on if confident enough, to tackle the BY. Both these jumps had the same landing point, on the roof of a back court ‘midden’, but the take off point was about 3 feet further back in the case of the BY. The Coffin jump wis another story. That folks, wis fur the real ‘heidbangers’. A real monster; It could be tackled in either direction, either the easy way, or the Coffin way. The easy way meant taking off from the flat roof of the air raid shelter, crossing the aprox 6-foot gap, and landing about a foot lower down, on the sloping roof of a washhouse. The heidbanging way, was to attempt this jump in reverse. (It was nigh oan impossible), and though many did try; only a few of the bigger, older boys managed it. (They were oor Gods) Many of the foolhardy ended up with a ‘stooky’ for trying to keep up with the big lads. Oh they could manage the distance no bother, but it was the height difference that caught them out, usually catching (and breaking) shins on the edge of the shelter roof. (ouch!)
We did have ‘gangs’ in those days, but they were more or less restricted to the street you lived in. There was the Cardross street gang, the McIntosh street gang, the Fisher street gang, the Edmund street gang (that wis only a wee gang due to the Luftwaffe taking away hawf their street), and the Eveline street gang. Fights were rare, and any conflict was usually in the mass football game, or as to who had the best dyke jumpers.
Things took a dramatic turn in 1952. As most of us ‘War Babies’ had now progressed from toddlers, through to primary school, it came as a surprise to be told by our teachers that from now on, if attending the local cinema, we were not to sing “God save the King”, no, we had to sing “God save the Queen”. King George was dead, and his daughter Princess Elizabeth was to be our new monarch. Things perked up for all school kids at this time, remember, rationing was still in force. Out of the blue, after her Coronation, we all received a tin of sweets, with our new Queen’s face on the front.
Magic! Pure magic! “God save the Queen”, thanks for the sweeties ma’am.
Ronnie
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
PS although the date says 2009 the stories were written about ten years ago. I only added the copyright thingy on the advice of Charlie when I joined the keelies.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2011 0:04:35 GMT 1
Part 3 Tales of an East End Boy
(Growing up, and off ti join the Army-O)
Growing up in Dennistoun after the war was an experience. Religion was not a major issue for most kids. Aw the guys aroon me went ti the same school, apart from a very few. That’s not strange you might think, but, when only one or two guys in the neighbourhood is different, then, that is strange, but we were weans and knew nothing of the religious divisions prevalent at the time. People kept to themselves, but somehow we aw knew things were different.
The yearly street bus trips ti Ayr were more important and an expression of togetherness for everyone regardless of which church one attended, as a lot of families in the area were fatherless thanks to Mr Hitler. The wee corner shops thrived, even though rationing was still in place, and they knew everyone in the area by name. (Your big shopping centres don’t have that now)
Every district had its own swing park, Dennistoun, Townhead, Calton, Camlachie, Bridgeton, Dalmarnock, Parkhead, Shettleston and Tollcross, Carntyne, Riddrie yes, we knew them aw. We didn’t need bus or tram fares, we used ti walk tae them, mibbe four or five miles, that was oor way of doing things then. It’s strange ti think that we had at least ten picture hooses within a mile or two of oor hoose, two big dance halls (the Denny Palais and the Barrowland) and hundreds o’ pubs.
Wae the “Sunday Uncles” visits each week, my view oan life was expanded. It was not always nice to see my “Adopted Dad” stuck through in another room, while aw ma maws side were daein the after war version of Boys ‘R’ Us and singing their hearts oot aroon the piano. Being wee, I used ti commute between rooms, and as I grew up learning aw there wis ti know about King Billy, I also found oot from my adopted dad, that he, as a sailor, spent two years in the bloody desert. Yes, as a telegraphist, he was sent for by that bampot Monty. Royal Navy telegraphists were the best and fastest at that time. I even learned how to do Morse, (well the basics) on ma wee ‘buzzer’ before starting school. EISH, TMO, and the Numbers, yep, I knew how the groupings worked. How was I to know that in later years I would come up against the numptie so beloved (?) by the desert army? No, Monty is not a hero in many soldiers’ eyes.
In 1967, whilst participating in the Earls Court Tattoo, the Cameronians (who were also taking part) received the news they knew was coming, that were to be disbanded; I am not too ashamed to say many a tear was shed by grown men that day. We could not change things, but we made a statement. At the end of our set, without the Pipe Majors or Drum Majors knowledge, we marched off to the Cameronian Regimental march, and at their normal pace, 140 bpm instead of Scotland the Brave as per the programme. Monty, who was taking the salute that evening, found to his disgust, that when he stood up to take the salute at the march past, all he saw was the swinging kilts of the massed Pipes and Drums of the Scottish Division, as they disappeared oot the arena to thunderous applause. Two fingers from the Scottish regiments (at least the Pipe Bands) to the establishment, for getting rid of one of our number.
Not every house in the tenements were ‘council’ houses, many were run by ‘factors’, people who were responsible for collecting the rent, and it was not unusual in the 40’s and 50’s for families to struggle big style to pay the rent. As a result, rather than face the indignity of the dreaded ‘eviction’, some families (mine was no different) would find alternative ‘digs’, usually a sub-let with another family with a spare room or two, and stay there until suitable council homes could be found, which sometimes took years. Consequently I said goodbye to Dennistoun where I spent my formative years, and found myself living under the shadow of Celtic Park, in a house in a little square on the Springfield road, just across from Begg & Cousland, wireworks. We still attended our Dennistoun schools until the end of term, and then the younger ones went to Newlands and then Riverside in Parkhead. Things took another turn when once more we found ourselves uprooted and like nomads, we packed up our meagre belongings and headed for a very strange land, Kirkland Street, Maryhill. This indeed was virgin territory for us. Back once more in a tenement, and again not a council house, but we would make do. I was starting my teens, and still travelled to Whitehill secondary. The travelling was no hardship, I was getting used to it.
Back when I was in ma teens, I was the scourge of Maryhill. I got caught playing “Tig” in the street, and got fined ten bob. Ma parents weren't too pleased. Partick sheriff court thought they had seen the last of me, but no…. I had ti skip intae the Blythswood cinema and get captured for skipping in; another ten bob fine. I was noo oan first name terms wi’ the sheriff doon at the courthouse.
High school proved disappointing to me, and I did not do as well as I knew I could. Maybe it was because most of my mates were attending a different school, (Onslow drive junior secondary)and they were getting woodwork and metalwork, and my school wis trying to teach me Latin and French. After two and a half years, I had enough. I turned 15 during the summer holidays, so went and got a job, and never went back to school (even though I had another term to go) My very first wage was about 30 bob, working in the packing department of a large warehouse company in the city. I soon got bored with that, then found something I really liked; Aerial rigging. Now that was more like it, apart from the fact it was mostly seasonal work, as most people did not need TV aerials in summer, so, it was frostbitten fingers for me up oan roof tops, lashing the aerials onto the chimneys breasts. This really was the “High Life”. Being young, I was fearless up oan the tenement roofs in Glasgow and surrounding towns. Safety rope? Don’t be daft, health and safety at work was still years away. It’s amazing what you can see from up on high; A different world. (That’s when it wasn’t pouring with rain, or snowing that is) Being seasonal, my stint on high soon came to an end, and so did my time in Maryhill. The family were allocated a flat in far-flung Ruchazie, and that meant making new pals in strange surroundings yet again. I was now miles away from my beloved Ibrox, but I still walked it on occasion. I had now got a job in a pub, but it was halfway across the city in Shawlands, but, as I had my older cousin’s bike, a cracking Dawes Dominator, I used to cycle from Ruchazie to work. It was easier to do back then, as there were not as many cars on the roads back at the beginning of the 60’s.
As I was not the world’s best riser in the mornings, this led to me and Sammy Dow parting company after 18 months, and I was sacked for turning up late on one too many occasions. Now, Shawlands back then boasted it’s very own Army recruiting offices, so, instead of going to my local “broo” to sign on, I opted to “Jine” the army.
As I was now over 18, it seemed the best thing to do, so after a visit by the recruiting Sergeant to my parents, the deal was done and dusted, and I was sworn in at the Regimental HQ of my chosen Regiment in Sauchiehall Street, given a travel warrant and told to present myself at Winston Barracks in Lanark for 16 weeks training. Little did I know at the time, that I would still be in the army 22 years later?
So, on a cold wintery 7th November 1963, I got off the bus outside Winston Barracks, Lanark, and took my first steps on what would prove a long and mostly enjoyable journey. I would get to see places most guys I grew up with never would, if they managed to stay out of jail that is. The training was hard, and the winter of ’63 was the coldest for about 50 years, but I persevered through the 16 weeks, and was proud as punch, when, with family present, I “Passed out” with the rest of my platoon, given some well earned leave, and told I would be flying off to join my Regiment in Germany two weeks later. Arriving in a strange country two weeks later, made me wish I had not been so disinterested in languages at high school.
Ronnie
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2011 0:18:58 GMT 1
Part 4 Tales of an East End Boy
Cheerio Glasgow - Hello World
After a well-earned leave of absence, it was time to say my goodbyes to family and friends hump my suitcase and kitbag from the family dwelling, and head for the airport. Only two of us from the training platoon, had elected to join the Royal Highland Fusiliers, (an amalgamation of the Highland Light Infantry and the Royal Scots Fusiliers) and they were based at the time in Iserlohn, Westphalia, West Germany so; no sunny climes of Singapore, Hong Kong, Cyprus or Gibraltar for us. Flying into Dusseldorf was our first foray into a foreign land, and upon arrival the “Movements” staff met us. These were the people responsible for making sure the British Army got from A to B anywhere in the world, where the British Army were. (At that time, early ’64, we were everywhere)
Things were going fine, until the guy in charge gave us our travel directions and train tickets. “Dusseldorf to Hagen, then change platforms and get the Hagen to Werl train, but make sure you get off at Iserlohn, or you will end up in the Canadian sector” said Corporal useless. I had to say I was a wee bit perturbed, as me and my mate spoke aboot ten words of French between us, and the thought of approaching a German on a strange station platform and asking for directions, brought memories of allied POW’s doing just that during ’39-’45 to the front of my mind. Thank god for the Welsh Fusiliers. We met up with a couple of Taffs, who were thankfully going our way, at least as far as Iserlohn, and they took us under their wing, and made sure we got our connections all the way to our destination. We arrived in Iserlohn a few hours later and said goodbye ti’ the Taffs, as they got picked up by landrover and whisked off to their barracks. We were still stuck in at the station, and no transport to meet us. (As I was later informed by a Commanding Officer), this was not an oversight, but a test of the young soldier’s initiative. “If ye canny find yir own Regiment son, then what chance have ye got of finding the enemy?” That comment has stuck with me for many a year.
Needless to say, we had to ask the locals, in what can only be described as “Bookies” language, all hand signals and broken English (and that wis us), how we could get to the Schottische Casserne. By bus, was the answer we could understand, and so we hopped oan a bus, suitcases and kitbags taking up most of the room, and god only knows how we did it, but we got to(we’re told) where we should alight. Tired and weary from the travel, we picked up our gear, and walked past strange shops, and even more strange looks from the locals, and found ourselves outside this large military looking establishment, which made Winston Barracks look like a beach hut.
Our eyes gazed at the large double gates; at least 20 feet high, with pillars on both sides surmounted by huge German eagles. An imposing place you must agree, but that was only the entrance to the officer’s mess. We had to venture further along to find the main entrance to Mons Barracks, which was to be our home for the next few years.
Expecting the worst (A la training), we ventured inside, and met the Provost Sergeant at the guardhouse. “Ah, yoos must be Fusiliers ******* and ******?” he asked with a fatherly smile. “We have been expecting you, and you are oan time as well”. “Let my boys take your stuff, and I will take yees aff ti the cookhoose fur some scran”. Aw sheesh, aw this hospitality and a strange looking soldier talking double Dutch. Had we just traversed the German countryside only to join the foreign legion?
It was the first act of Scottish friendliness we had seen, since we left Blighty what seems nearly a day ago, and not one I was likely to forget in a hurry. As the fatherly Provost Sergeant ushered us into the cookhouse, we were expecting a “Local cafe” or similar to the Winston barracks canteen. What we saw, fair took oor breath away; The cookhoose wis bigger than the Dennistoun Palais. “Who the hell used a place this size?” I asked Papa Provost. “The German SS, Armoured division son” he replied matter of fact. “The British removed aw the provocative stuff at the gates, but left the eagles because they look nice, and remind the officers of the hunting parties enjoyed in the Highlands.”
16 weeks training on a diet of half an egg, half slice of bacon (how the hell do you get half an egg, I don’t know), and other measly build you up rations, went right oot the windae, as the biggest plate of piping hot mince and tatties appeared and was placed before us. This was great I said to my travelling companion. Nothing like training at all, is it? Nope he replied, this is the bee’s knees, as his eyes glanced sideways at the queue forming at the Dennistoun Palais door. “Fur f**** sake whit’s aw that?” he asked of the Provost Sergeant, but he by now had gone to keep order in the massive queue for evening meal. A wee corporal came to escort us to our new billet. Fu’ as a pig in s***, we retired to our new home in the Advanced Training wing of ‘D’ company 1/RHF, and proceeded to unpack our belongings, and army equipment.
I was just about to enquire about our sleeping arrangements, when a wee voice piped up frae the door. “OK lads, doonstairs wi’ me ti’ the CQMS stores, and we will pick up your bedding.
“Ye mean we don’t have ti’ go hawfway across the barracks just ti pick up oor bedding” asked my friend. “Naw lads, you have done aw that in training” “Noo ye are with the First Battalion, ye can relax until lights oot, but don’t switch aff, ‘cause we are liable ti get a ‘Quick Train’ (army speak at the time for a call oot) at any minute and head fur Sennelager or Saltau jist ti keep the Ruskies at bay, and protect the freedom of the West.” “I’m only kidding boys, you are still in training for another month, but if the balloon dis go up, and we huv aw left ti fight, yoos will huv aw this camp ti clean yirsells”.
22nd February 1964. Welcome to the army son. Forget Dennistoun, Parkheid, Maryhill and Ruchazie. This is where the real world is. And so it was to prove.
Ronnie
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 0:56:27 GMT 1
Part 5 Tales of an East End Boy
Those pesky Ruskies (and Jamaica rum)
The month long continuation training soon flew by, and consisted mainly of the learning all about armoured warfare, and how best to keep our armoured vehicles clean and shiny. Our lockers were not as they were in basic training, in that, as long as our equipment was laid out neat and tidy, and shirts, jackets and greatcoats hung in the correct order, we could more or less keep them as we wished, all apart from OC’s or the odd CO’s inspection. The main thing we were taught, was to keep our fighting equipment packed and ready at all times, that is, the backpack holding the change of clothes we would need when were called out and deployed to our battalion form up area, somewhere within 15-20 miles of our camp, ready to join up with the rest of our brigade, or division, depending on the level of threat. These call outs were quite frequent in those days, remember, it was still less than 20 years since WW 2 ended, and tensions were high between the Russians and Western allies in West Germany. We could be called out at any time, day or night, and the procedure was, drop what you are doing (unless you happened to be on the grenade range at the time), and hotfoot it back to camp, grab your gear and weapons and ammo, load up the armoured cars, and be on the road to the form up area within two hours. God help those who missed the call.
During my continuation training, I was in a billet directly above the Pipes and Drums platoon, and as I had played the snare drum in the Boys Brigade a few years earlier, I asked if I could join them. After showing them my expertise, the drum sergeant told me, that as I had at least learned the basics and knew the difference between mammy-daddy, and a parra-diddle, I could join them as a learner drummer/bugler. That brought me back down to earth with a bump, but on meeting my new mates, I soon learned how far behind them I was in the drumming stakes. Life was starting to look good, especially when it came to pay day. The basic pay was not that great, but the cost of things in Germany, was much lower than back in UK. 200 ciggies for less than £1, and drinks in the beer bar the “Nugget”, in the NAAFI, were, well, let’s just say, 5 deutschmarks would keep you in booze from opening time at 19.00, till closing time at 23.00, and that was beer and spirits for the equivalent of less than 10 bob. This was luxury, we felt like millionaires. Drunken chain smoking millionaires.
It was obvious, that payday was the time that town visits occurred most, and it was an experience and a half for the new guys. There was a great deal of camaraderie among the guys in your own platoon, and it was nothing out of the ordinary to find your best suit had disappeared from your locker by the time you got back from evening meal, and half your mates had already left for the “Hotspots” of Iserlohn, Johnnies bar, the Steps bar, the Swinging t**s or the cinema or the Key & Bayonet club (for all units in the Brigade). It was a case of, first back from dinner was the best dressed, and those who tarried at the meal table, invariably had to wear someone else’s clobber, that was either too big, or too small, and more than likely still had the grease stains from last week’s chicken or currywurst down the front, and the lazy b*****d had not bothered to have it dry- cleaned. Anyway, once personal ablutions had been attended to, and dressed in whatever attire was available, it was time to make to journey into the great unknown; “Doon the toon”. First, there was the small matter of booking out at the guardroom, where you went to sign out, and later, and hopefully before 02.00 hrs, sign back in SPD (sober and properly dressed) I often wondered about that. Why go to the bother of getting dressed up to go out for a bevy, when at the end of the night, you were expected to come back to camp sober? Still can’t get ma heid roon that one nearly 40 years later. The dress code for visiting town in those days was blazer and flannels, or a suit, shirt, collar and tie, and smart shoes. Jeans and casual shirts were a no-no, as was winkle pickers or brothel creepers, the type made famous by Elvis. Now you can see where the first fed, best-dressed came from. If that was the only attire available to you, after the mad evening meal rush, then you just had to resign yourself to another evening in the company of the old lags in the beer bar, and hope that your Sunday best came back to barracks in one piece, and stainless. Many an intrepid soldier hung his suit out of the barrack room window on a piece of string, just to evade capture on pay days, and long were the faces of those who had tried this trick, only to find upon leaving the cookhouse, that the heavens had opened, and the evening wear, secreted outside the window, was now a soggy mass, and a resignation to another evening with the old fogies, and a sing song round the piano. The resident ivory tinkler’s, were two older guys, who, to us youngsters, looked like old age pensioners, but in reality were only in their mid to late 30’s, who had signed up for regular service on completion of their national service. There were quite a few men in the battalion, who had done likewise. Oh well, there is always tomorrow, or next week if the suit was not in pristine condition on its return later that evening. “Agnes, I’ll have a large Dortmunder pilsner and a double Jamaica rum and coke bitte.” I said, as I settled down beside the piano for another evening’s entertainment by the resident Jerry Lee Lewis’s, and endless renditions of “I belang ti Glasgow” or “Bonny Mary”.
It’s getting colder; must be a ‘call out’ due!
Ronnie
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 1:33:48 GMT 1
Part 6a Tales of an East End Boy
You’re in the army now son (better get used to it)
Now a fully-fledged infantryman, I settled down with my new companions in the Pipes, Drums and Bugles, and concentrated on learning to play the bugle, and improve my drumming skills. We were a fine cross section of life in our band of brothers, Scots, English, Southern Irish, and Ulstermen, you know, just what any other regiment in the British Army at that time would have included amongst their number, and speaking of numbers, we were about 50 strong. The other rifle and support platoons in the battalion, were of similar size, and the battalion must have numbered in excess of 1200 men in those early days. (At least it seemed so to me).
I was amazed when I had my first sighting of the battalion football team, and thought my beloved Rangers had paid an un announced visit to BAOR (British Army of the Rhine), and had honoured us with their presence. But no, it just happened that our regimental football team colours were exactly the same as those worn by my heroes, even down to the red and black socks. We will hear more of them later. I am going to enjoy life with the Fusiliers.
March 1964, and with Germany still in the depths of winter and snow lying thick on the ground, I got my first real taste of organised pandemonium. My X rated dream of fraternising with a blonde, blue-eyed Fraulein, was rudely interrupted by the duty bugler sounding the “Stand To”, on the pavement just below our barrack room window. This was followed seconds later by the sound of hobnailed boots crashing along the corridor, and the doors being banged open to the plaintive call of the duty NCO shouting, “Right yoos lot, hands aff yir c****, feet in yir socks, we are leaving for Soltau in 2 hours sharp”. This was it; the Colonels wee call outs previously, were usually only limited to seeing how quickly he could muster his battalion on the barrack square, but this time we would be rolling northwards up the autobahn to Rommel’s old panzer training area at Soltau.
Ablutions were completed in double quick time, and as I started to don my combat gear, I noticed the older guys around me were pulling on all variety of issue clothing, Long johns, pyjama bottoms and battledress trousers, under their combat trousers. Noticing my look of astonishment, I was told that I better do likewise, or my a**e would turn gangrenous sitting for 4 or 5 hours on the frozen metal seats inside our armoured vehicle. A few hypothermic hours later, I was glad I followed suit.
A short time later, body now fully awake, apart from the blistered lips and tongue from the boiling hot mug of tea issued by the sadistic sons of the Marquis De Sade, masquerading as army cooks, we paraded with all our weapons and equipment beside our Antarctic taxis, loaded up, squeezed aboard like sardines, and awaited the order to “Move Out”.
At approximately 04.00 hrs., and still as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat outside, the radio crackled, our vehicle commander, upper body stuck out through the top hatch, chattered a command to our driver. The whole barracks reverberated with the sound of hundreds of vehicles giving it high revs, and we rolled out the main gate and headed for the autobahn. God, it was bloody freezing. Remember, this was the early 60’s, and the British Army had not yet got round to issuing the troops with sleeping bags, so, the only bedding afforded us was two blankets each and some of these had already been taken out of packs, to cover the lower parts of frozen bodies as we bombed up the autobahn in convoy. Although all openings in the back of the vehicle were closed, we could do nothing about the driver’s hatch or the open top hatch where the commander perched shivering. For obvious reasons, those remained open to the elements and the icy wind.
About an hour into the journey, I saw some of my comrades, obviously thirsty, take long draughts from their water bottles. This was not unusual in itself, apart from the fact that my own was frozen solid even though I had only filled it some 2 hours earlier. A familiar fragrance soon permeated through the frozen interior, as I recognised the unmistakable smell of Captain Morgan Jamaica rum, and Martell brandy. Although against army regulations, I think some superiors just turned a blind eye, and in any case, they were all vehicle commanders and were probably partaking of the contents of their silver hip flasks themselves. As we shared the illicit hooch among us, trying to generate some sort of internal heat, I stored the information in the brain file marked, “Next time, remember the Captain Morgan.”
By the time we reached the training area some 5 or so hours later, and deployed, the metal fridges had generated enough heat to thaw our limbs just enough, to allow us to dismount, and start to set up camp in the densely wooded area we found ourselves in. Barked commands from officers and NCOs soon had the troops organised into working parties, preparing our base for the next day, week or fortnight. Guards were posted, tent erectors set to work putting up our two man pup tents, and the unluckier among us, set to work digging the obligatory latrines. Defensive positions were allocated, with intersecting arcs of fire, and the remainder set about attacking the North German permafrost, preparing our defensive slit trenches. Due to the aforementioned state of the ground, this was not a feat accomplished with any sort of ease.
As it got nearer lunchtime and with chores nearing completion, the smell of hot food wafted around the camp, and with a melodic “Come to the cookhouse door boys” sounded by the bugler, we took our mess tins and mugs in the direction of some well earned sustenance. Back in barracks, fresh food was the norm, for most of the time, but eating “In the Field”, apart from my training back in Lanark, was to prove something of an eye opener. Catering for 200 plus soldiers in our group was a bit different from the 30 or so in my training set up. Although the food was much the same the eating of it was not though, as I soon found out. Why use two mess tins, when one would suffice? In went the soup AND the “All In” stew, AND the apple pudding and custard. When water is at a premium, then cleaning one mess tin properly was a better option than a half-hearted attempt at cleaning two, and failing miserably. This lesson was to prove fruitful in the steaming jungles of Malaya a few years down the line, where safe, fresh clean water could not be obtained easily. Part 6b to follow
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 1:36:12 GMT 1
Tales of an East End boy Part 6b
Our training on the rolling plains of Soltau was going well, as we practised our manoeuvres with the tank and other armoured regiments attached to our battle group. The fact the Eastern Bloc forces to our north east outnumbered us by a measly 300 to 1, did not dampen our enthusiasm one jot. It was only in later years I found out that the BAOR, plus the Yanks, Canadian and French forces based in West Germany at the time was destined to a holding role, and ultimately, annihilation, as the powers that be decided who would press the button first and wipe out civilisation as we know it. My future jaunt into the Malayan jungle would be a piece of cake compared to this scenario.
Back in our base in Soltau, I learned the art of the “Buddy, Buddy” system, much vaunted in the British army, and not more so, than during the freezing nights spent in our pup tents. Remember, two blankets per person, so, with some ferns as a base, then ground sheets (2), and 1 x blanket below, soldiers slept “Top to Tail” with stockinged feet tucked under the armpits of your companion, and covered by the remaining three blankets, some form of warmth and comfort could be maintained. Believe me, smelly feet were much less of a problem to endure than the incessant cold. Although we were a mechanised infantry battalion, our feet were our number one priority, and daily checks were a must. Cleaning, drying and dusting with talc, if not done, could lead to all sorts of nasties, not to mention the offence of self inflicted wounds which would inevitably lead to a loss of privileges, or wages. Not to be recommended. I also learned another interesting fact while on these joint manoeuvres. Why the Tank regiments refer to the Infantry soldiers as “Crunchies”. Apparently, if one chooses to shelter for the evening under those 60-ton leviathans, rather than dig oneself a proper trench, then that is the sound the body makes, as the aforementioned tank settles down further into the earth after being stationary for a few hours. The moral here is, better to be wet and healthy, than flat and likely to be posted back home in an envelope.
These military exercises were not without casualties, even though “Blank” ammo was used (apart from “Live” firing) on properly conducted shooting ranges. It was not unusual to hear of some poor sods that paid the ultimate price for careless driving, or even being cut in two, as the top heavy armoured vehicle which he may have been commanding at the time, decided that the law of gravity was more powerful than the decision to try to traverse an overly steep slope. These are the things folks back home don’t get to hear much about, apart from the departed soldiers loved ones, but we can’t prepare for war by training on parkland or sticking to well maintained public highways. Two weeks later, it was time to pack up and return to barracks still frozen to the marrow, but, with a sense of having done something worthwhile, in defence of Queen and country.
The Dortmunder pilsners, Jamaican rum and brandies await our return to our beer bar in camp, as do the tinkling ivories of the well-worn “Joanna”.
A nine-month tour with the UN in Cyprus is about to become fact. Better get used to being a foot soldier again.
Ronnie
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 2:22:46 GMT 1
Part 7a Tales of a East End boy
A wee trip to the sunshine Isle (Blue Berets over the water)
In August ’64, after learning about being a real soldier, I, and the Pipe Band prepared for an assault on Edinburgh Castle. Yes, the Edinburgh Military Tattoo was about to feature in my life for the first time. I was soon to find out that all that Pomp and Pageantry was only possible after some damn hard work by those participating. Our base of operations was the wooden huts in the army camp of the junior soldiers Regiment at Dreghorn barracks Edinburgh. I was still a ‘learner’ drummer/bugler, and was attached to the Bugle section for the tattoo. Our part in proceedings was to play “Sunset” and the “Last Post” from the ramparts at the closing ceremony, and prior to that, along with buglers of the Cameronians, we joined with the massed Regimental bands, and played stirring bugle marches such as “Mechanised Infantry” and Sombre et Muse”. We also played our part when all bands combined at the end in a heart swelling version of “Scotland the Brave” and the If you have never heard this tune played by the massed Regimental bands, and Pipes and Drums and Bugles of the Scottish division, then you have missed a treat. (But then again, I would be biased) Our days were mostly our own, and we were free to visit Edinburgh’s hostelries, and the ancient watering holes in the Grassmarket area of the city were our favourites. This was at a time long before they were converted to yuppie bars for the well heeled, and Prince Andrew’s navy pals. Most dispensing cheap ‘draught’ cider, and draught wine, and sawdust was the only thing keeping our feet dry. If you ever saw pipers or drummers (or indeed other performers) struggling up the slope of the esplanade in the 60’s, then let me tell you they were not struggling against gravity, or with wayward musical instruments, they were struggling to stay upright after too many of the aforementioned wines and cider and the territorial Red Caps in attendance were often seen “assisting” these distressed musicians off the arena and into a “Comfy” cell to await the wrath of the OIC tattoo. Believe me, it was not only junior ranks that suffered from this allergy. Tattoo over, we packed up and returned to Germany and soldiering again. More exercises, 20-40 mile route marches, honing our shooting skills on the firing ranges and forever painting anything that did not move. 1964-65 saw the last of the National Service soldiers head for Civvy Street, and the British army started becoming fully professional.
Early in 1965 we were warned that our services would be required later in the year, on the Mediterranean Island of Cyprus, as tensions between the Greeks and Turks living on the island re surfaced. We were to bolster the UN contingent on the island, as part of UNFICYP, United Nations Forces in Cyprus, and our term of duty would be for 9 months. Unmarried soldiers were overjoyed, but I can’t say the wives of the married soldiers were too happy about the forthcoming 9-month separation, but that’s life in the army. Our training changed from mechanised warfare, to that of IS, (Internal Security), and we drilled incessantly on the barrack square, or any piece of spare ground in the camp. Riot control was about to become real, and as we were to find out, a precursor of things to come nearer home, in Ulster. Summer arrived, and we were packed up and ready to go, as we headed for RAF Gutersloh, and our flight to RAF Akrotiri, near Limassol in Cyprus. Sun, sea and sand, here we come.
In the evening gloom we were all excited as we crammed around the aircraft windows to get our first glimpse of the island of Aphrodite. As we approached Akrotiri from the East, along the south coast of the island, past the oil storage depots at Larnaca, the sight that greeted us was not of dancing lights on the water or glorious sunsets, but rather, the sight of those storage tanks engulfed in flames, and thick black smoke billowing skywards, blocking out any view of the landscape below. Welcome to Cyprus lads, EOKA is still very much active. A sombre atmosphere pervaded through our ranks as we touched down, and exited our plane, to be hit by a blast of hot air, as if opening a pre-heated oven door. Even though it was evening, the heat was unexpected, but no chance of sticking your feet under a mate’s armpits just to keep warm here. Our advance party had arrived weeks earlier, and had prepared the camp for our arrival. Situated on a hillside just to the north of Limassol, Polemedia camp consisted mainly of wooden huts laid out in neat rows, and a larger solid building that was the camp cookhouse. There was a swimming pool and large cinema and concert hall, but we found out that only the previous night, the Cypriot National Guard (conscripts) had cheekily uprooted part of the camp perimeter fence and moved it inwards, thereby cutting us off from all the modern facilities, which they set about stripping like locusts. By the time they had finished, there was nothing left worth bothering about, so it was left as it was, in ruins and technically “outside” of our base. I don’t know if any action was taken by anyone in government over this act of vandalism, but we were now under the auspices of the UN, and this was not a matter for the British government. Life is full of little surprises like that. After a much needed meal, we set about settling down in our new billets, and some shuteye.
06.00 hrs, the bugle sounded Reveille, and it was up, dressed, ablutions completed and off for some breakfast. Something was wrong here; we were not cold. Wearing only PT shorts and top, boots with socks rolled over the top, we marched to the cookhouse. Fed and watered, we returned to our billets to prepare for our first full day on the island. Roll call and muster parade, yes we were still all here, it was time to visit the quartermaster to get issued with our new UN Blue berets and accoutrements. This consisted of a brassard, to be worn over the upper arm, and a very smart looking Blue cravat. This is classy gear, we thought, the young Cypriot girls will be queuing up to ‘swoon’ at our feet. Not for long though, as our CO had decided his “Jocks” were not going to be preening around Cyprus looking like Clark Gable, so the Cravats were kept, unused, in our lockers for the next 9 months. As our normal headgear was either a Glengarry or Tam o’ Shanter, depending on which mode of attire we were wearing, the blue beret was proving to be a source of merriment amongst us, as we set about getting some shape to the damn thing rather than the Monty of Alamein look from the old war movies. This was proving harder than we thought and many methods were tried and discarded, including steeping it overnight in a pail of pish. The overpowering smell of stale urine was the downfall of that particular method, as well as the fact the acid in the urine turned once lovely blue berets a gaudy shade of pink. There were many red faced looking squaddies who had to revisit the quartermaster for another beret at his own expense. I suppose we could have started a new form of ‘crowd control’ though, as the rioters spotted 100+ men descending upon them wearing effeminate “Pink” berets; God, not only would they be rushing to lock up their wives and daughters, they would FIRST through the bloody door locking THEMSELVES in. At last, some of the more resourceful among our number, found the answer. While we used a hot iron to get the required shape into our Tam o’ Shanter’s and Glengarry’s, the strange beret required only the help of H2O. Yes, we just soaked the thing thoroughly in water and placed it upon ones head, and as we walked around doing our daily chores, the beret moulded itself into the required shape, easy as pie. With the UN enamel cap badge set the required distance above the left eye, we looked quite fetching in our new headgear.
Parts 7b and 7c to follow.
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 2:42:33 GMT 1
Tales of an East End boy Part 7b
It soon became apparent that things we were used to back in Germany, would not work just as well over here, and the rising sun soon proved that to be the case. At first, we worked a full day, just as before, 06.30-16.30 hrs, but very soon, everyday tasks were becoming ever more difficult in the 90 + degree late summer sunshine, so a new regime was implemented, much to our relief, all the camp’s necessary chores had to be completed before mid-day. The afternoons were allocated as free time for some, and the time honoured painting of non-moving objects for others. Polemedia camp was now looking more like a Mediterranean version of Edinburgh Castle. The challenge we now faced was mosquito annihilation and who could get the quickest tan.
Our camp was home to Battalion Headquarters, plus one of the rifle companies, who rotated regularly for some much needed R & R. One company was based at Ktima on the west coast, and another on the north of the island, at a small place called Polis and each had elements of support from our mortar and anti tank platoons, but I think, as infantrymen in this case. Their main duties were to man the UN observation posts sited on the mountains between Greek and Turkish villages, and report and intervene in any obvious confrontation between the two sides, or patrols in and around the hillside villages and hamlets. One downside of taking over these OP’s was the fact that just before we arrived on the island, the previous residents, a Regiment from Southern Ireland, had upped sticks after the mandatory 90 days (as required by the UN) took their UN bounty money, and headed back to Eire, suntanned and rich. bar studs. No such luck for our lads, it was to be the full 9-months and not a whiff of UN bounty money for us. Other countries that sent troops, like the Canadians, Norwegians and Swedes, all got this cash bonus for serving with the UN, but not the Brits. Shameful I say. We put in the most effort and longest time and got least reward. Our nearest neighbours were in fact the Canadians, and were the Black Watch of Canada, and we got on well with them. The following year, we would get the chance to meet them again, in their home in Montreal.
Our main duties at BHQ, was the camp security, and escort duties to the main port of Famagusta on the panhandle of the island to the east for necessary re-supplies. This particular duty was never short of volunteers. After our first week, the Pipe Band found we had guests in the vicinity of our billet, and pretty soon, Morticia, Thing, Uncle Fester and their numerous offspring (as we called them) were giving us many hours of joy, not to mention loads of scratches as we set about trying to tame our feral cats. Although failing in the latter, they at least grew confident enough to venture into our hut, especially when we returned from our meals with some tasty morsels for them. We put up with this, until some of our number reported large holes mysteriously appearing in their woollen socks, and we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anything remotely like a moth since our arrival. Mosquitoes, yes; Chit-Chats ;(small lizards who chirped incessantly all night long) yes, but moths, no. The search for the wool eaters was about to begin. Sun sea and sand, and now, wool gobblers! Whatever next? All will be revealed in the future, at a Kangaroo court for felines.
As well as UN troops on the island, there were also British troops garrisoned in Sovereign Base areas such as Episcopi and Dhekelia. These had nothing to do with the situation on the island, but if things got out of hand, they would available to reinforce the UN contingents. They are like little pieces of the UK on foreign soil, and are still there to this day. At this point, I must mention the battalion football team.(again) They were actually very good, and had reached the final of the Army cup (played in Aldershot) when back in Germany, only to be beaten by a very good SEME team. (School of Electrical and Mechanical Engineers) Unlucky, but when you consider we could only choose from within our battalion (or attached to us), and they could choose the very best from a whole Corps (even bringing back players posted abroad) then the exploits of our guys was nothing short of miraculous. Anyway, we got payback years later when 1RHF really was top of the heap in the whole British army for a number of years, either winning the cup, or being narrowly beaten finalists. No other infantry battalion has come close to our record in this competition in modern times. Forget the UDR battalions, they had many semi professionals in their ranks to choose from, so no comparison there.
While in Cyprus, we used to have great games against the resident battalion at Episcopi, the York’s and Lancs. Many a great scrap we had with them. One in particular stands out. With honours more or less even after many games, we played them at the sports facility at ‘Happy Valley’, and although vastly outnumbered, we were just as vocal in support of our ‘heroes’. We were getting gubbed, and a wee dark skinned guy called Moustache (?) was running amuck on their wing. I think we were down 5-1 at half time. (Correct me here lads). Anyway, second half began and the great escape began to happen, as the goals started to go in for us. 5-2,5-3,5-4, 5-5, the jocks were going mental and our CO was jumping up and down on the bonnet of his Landover just as mental with joy as we were, and with time running out, we scored to make the final score 6-5 to us. What a game. Both sides gave there all, and in the end, both teams knew Cyprus would never see the likes again, and I’m sure those of us who were there felt the same. Yes our boys did good. I think we even drew with the Cyrus National team while there. That was some achievement.
Part 7c to follow
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 2:53:55 GMT 1
Tales of an East End boy Part 7c
I have not mentioned the toilet arrangements inside our camp, because to all intents and purposes, there were none. Well, none that folks back home would recognise that is. There were about three or four “Normal” type WC’s in the camp, and the Pipe band was lucky enough to have one very close to our billets, porcelain bowl AND running water. All the other huts had to make use of the DTL’s (Dry type latrines), which were spaced, around the camp. A DTL is just a large wooden structure built over a very deep hole in the ground. Dimensions, I suppose say about, 20yds long, 10 yds wide and 10 yds deep. Two rows of back-to-back stalls, accommodating 20 persons at one sitting (if you will pardon the pun) and with the luxury of a corrugated iron roof, to keep the infrequent rain oot, and to prevent any constipated Jock getting sunstroke on the top of his heid. Constipated? Cyprus? Naw, that canny be true.
As there was about five of these structures in a camp housing upwards of two hundred soldiers, it doesn’t take rocket science to work out that capacity would soon be reached, especially after an outbreak of Polemedia tummy (which was as regular as the resident troops), and the epidemic of hover flies buzzing in and around the ablutions, meant a “Clean Out” was in order. This is the part where those with a delicate stomach skip to the next chapter.
We soon found, much to our amazement, how this exercise in waste management was to be achieved with minimum fuss, as one day, into the camp rolled a couple of lorries, each carrying about ten labourers armed with buckets and shovels, and wooden ladders. “Aw naw, they couldnae” I can hear you say. “Aw aye, they could” and they did. In about 20 minutes these brave (very brave) men, had the wooden structures dismantled, leaving the gaping cesspits open to the sunny sky above, and the with the wooden ladders in place, four guys wearing wellies, armed with a bucket and shovel and with nothing but a hankie covering their mouths, descended manfully into the reeking depths below. Brave? These poor buggers deserve nothing less than a VC at the very least.
A few hours later, the wooden structures were re-erected, disinfected, and ready for action, and with a cheery wave, the “S**t Shovellers” as we had christened them, left a near deserted camp to go home to their village for a wash and brush up and a wee peck on the cheek from the wife. Why was the camp deserted? It wasn’t, but when the lids came aff the cesspits, we decided that chasing scorpions at the farthest extremes of the camp, was a better place to be, and better for our health, even if we got stung. Our suntans deepened, our health improved no end, but that which we had trained for so hard back in Germany, was soon to surface on the sun-drenched island. Off came the PT kit on went the riot gear. We were about to find out that a neighbourly dispute meant much more than banjoing a noisy neighbour here on Cyprus. Our rifle company in Ktima reported a confrontation between two villages. One Turkish, the other Greek Cypriot, over the ownership of some logs, used in the construction of a bridge on the main road (track) between the two, and tempers rose to such an extent, that explosives were used. Unfortunately, a British woman, a Mrs Bell, got caught up in the midst of the confrontation whilst passing through the area, and was very seriously injured. Only some very good luck, and the fact that our Regimental doctor happened to be in Ktima doing his rounds of the outlying troops, saved Mrs Bell’s life. Reinforcements, including some of us in the Pipe band, were despatched with haste to the area, to keep opposing factions from dismembering each other over some dead trees, and a nervous standoff dragged on throughout the long hot day. Mrs Bell was rushed to the nearest British medical facility in Episcopi, and she made a full recovery. Our CO had by this time arrived to take command of the situation, and through interpreters, and some pigeon English, both sides understood what he was saying. Nevertheless, a compromise was agreed between both parties, and without a shot being fired in anger, peace returned to the mountain dwellers, and we returned safe to our Polemedia base, and the recently emptied DTL’s were given a good deposit of Scottish nervous tension.
Visits into the town of Limassol were great fun, and liberty trucks were put on to take those lucky enough not to be on duty or standby off to meet the locals. Limassol was quite a large town, and the smell of limes growing on the trees that lined the streets hit you as soon as you reached the outskirts. It was a divided town, mainly Greek Cypriot, but it had its own Turkish quarter down near the main “Hero’s” square, named in honour of those Hero’s (?) who were killing British soldiers hunting EOKA (Union with Greece) only a few years before. Communication was not a problem, as English was spoken by both Greeks and Turks, and both communities were just as glad to relieve us of our pay, in exchange for the local KEO beers and goat meat kebabs. The lack of local cats in the area gave rise to much perplexion when dining out. We were “advised” not to frequent the Turkish quarter, but whenever we did, we were treated with courtesy at all times, even if there were no bars in the area, due to their religious beliefs, but their coffee houses could certainly put Starbucks in the shade. There were “British” bars in the town, and it did not take too long to find one that we would adopt as our own, so the “Steady Pint” became home from home for many a Jock. The friendly landlady became our friend and mother figure, as well as a damn good pourer of ale. Darts, dominoes and some good music. All the things to make us feel at home, oh, and the odd punch up, just for good measure. 00.30hrs, all good things must come to an end, so, we piled aboard our army taxis, (the liberty trucks) and, happy as a pig in s**t, and fu’ as a whelk, made our way back to camp with the drunken strains of “Bonny Mary of Argyle” belting out from the rear, as we passed through the sleepy outskirts en route to rejoin the waiting mosquitoes and slumber.
Ronnie
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
I hope the chopping of my story is not spoiling the end result for you.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 3:42:22 GMT 1
Part 8a Tales of an East End Boy
The Kangaroo Court is in session (or, a pet is for life)
Life continued peacefully in Polemedia camp, and the outlying areas of responsibility. The rifle companies rotated for their well-deserved stint of R & R, and we residents of Battalion HQ, saw it as our duty, to acquaint each in turn with the delights of Limassol, and the Steady Pint pub in particular. Our signals platoon had the unenviable job of maintaining a REBRO (re broadcast) station, high up on the Troodos Mountains, so that communications could be maintained between the regiment and UK and the rear party back in BAOR. When I say unenviable, I mean because up there on the mountains, the temperatures often fell below freezing, and snow was a regular occurrence. While us lucky ones were burning to a crisp in the lowlands, they had to dress like Eskimo’s just to use the radios. However, those who had a penchant for ski-ing were afforded the opportunity to indulge, as often as the situation would allow.
I mentioned the subject of feral cats at the beginning, and the Pipe band was not alone in finding furry felines to befriend. One guy, who happened to be English, and was a Regimental cook, (Nick the pig he was called) and was part of the reason our DTL’s needed cleaning out, had a lovely ginger feral tom-cat with whom he shared his accommodation. Nothing strange about that you might think. No, but this guy was the camp bookie. He took bets on everything (illegally according to Queen’s Regulations), but who cared when the chance to win some extra KEO money was in the offing. There was nothing extravagant here; just the odd few shillings bet here and there, on the outcome of intercompany sports and stuff as mundane as that. It was a bit of fun, and nobody got his fingers burnt. However, things took a turn for the worse, when an England/Scotland football match was about to take place back home. We piled our money on Scotland of course, and were already rubbing our hands and thinking of all the extra pints that would soon be pouring down our parched throats, when catastrophe struck big style. Scotland got gubbed by the auld enemy, and spirits sank. This should just have been a warning to us all not to indulge in illegal pursuits, but some guys took it real bad, except the English cook, who was laughing all the way to the bank and wondering what shares he would invest his ill gotten gains in next. He was to get a wee surprise, when his cooking chores were finished the day after Scotland’s defeat, and whistling merrily on his way back to his billet, he found his beloved ginger Tom waiting for him as usual at his front door, only this time, it was spread-eagled to the door by a six inch nail through each of its legs in the shape of a St Andrew’s cross. The poor guy was devastated, but no’ hawf as devastated as his now redundant moggy. Of course enquiries were made, but he could not very well implicate himself by mentioning the fact it was done by some bad losers, so, the perpetrators were never caught, and for weeks afterwards, he refused to take any bets, just in case he was on the winning side again, and he would find himself nailed to the door.
I should have mentioned before that we did have NAAFI facilities on camp, but it was only ever busy in the evening when the bar opened. At all other times we had a “Choggy-Wallah”, that is, a hut in which a member of the Indian sub continent was allowed to ply his trade to the troops. The boss of the operation was a Mr Mohamed Ishaq and he had control over the entire various char wallah outlets attached to 1RHF. We came across his band of chip banjo Mujahidin later in Singapore, and yet again when we had similar outlets attached to our various company bases in Northern Ireland. The RHF must have made him millions. This was the first time most of us had come across this phenomenon in the army, and he was a godsend to skint Jocks, as each ‘shop’ had a “Tick” book. The Choggy or Char wallah as he became known, provided us with all manner of goodies, such as fried egg rolls, bacon rolls, chip rolls, and any combination of the aforementioned, and soft drinks. The hut where he plied his trade also stocked those little touristy nick-knacks we could purchase for ourselves or to take home, as presents for loved ones. There were Seiko and Rolex watches with any number of faces and twiddly bits, and Zippo lighters, Cyprus wall pennants, Persian carpets as well as the china tankards, wall plaques and cigarettes. He also sold all our writing materials and stamps. In fact, he stocked just about everything the soldier far from home would need. The Seiko watches we knew were not the Japanese variety, and were the product of skilled 10 year olds in the sweatshops in Cairo, but they were cheap. It was easier, and much more profitable for the Ghandi of Grease (or boss man) to hop over to Egypt and return with two battered suitcases full to overflowing with replica watches, than import the real McCoy from Tokyo, but some guys still had them in full working order, many years after, so, maybe there is a lesson there to anyone who thinks that Japanese workmanship is best.
I mentioned the “Tick” book, and said it was a godsend, and that was the case, but some guys went overboard, and ran up excessive debts, sometimes more than a week’s wages at times. This could be attributed to over eating and gluttony, or could have been because someone overheard his individual account number, and later when a different person was on duty in the hut, would place his order, and give the other guys account number. Boy, we could be scallywags at times. Each week, the Regimental Sergeant Major, (GOD) or the CSMs of outlying companies, would take it upon himself, to inspect the books (in return for free rolls and pop) and ensure that anyone who had not cleared his debt, paid up, or had the amount owed docked from his pay. This ensured fairness all round.
Wild dogs (Pyards) were a problem in camp, and could be a nuisance, not to mention they could also be carriers of rabies, so it was the duty of the Provost Sergeant and his Storm troopers in charge of the guardhouse, to react immediately any were found on camp, and they set to work cornering the beasts, and a well placed .22 or twenty (or as many as it took), sent the mangy flea bitten curs to dog heaven. The carcasses were quickly incinerated after being dowsed in petrol. Cypriot hot-dogs anyone? No thanks.
Parts 8b and 8c follow
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 3:45:57 GMT 1
Tales of an East End boy Part 8b
A major incident in our area, threatened to bring full-scale war between Greece and Turkey, and it made the news all around the world. Bubbling away under the surface was the mistrust between the Greeks and Turkish Cypriots, and although the Greeks were in the majority, we were well aware that the Turkish air force was less than one hours flying time away, hence the UN painted in large letters on every one of our huts. It all started in the Turkish quarter in Limassol, when a Greek Cypriot city councillor was kidnapped for possibly not acting impartially during a disagreement between the sides, and his captors were threatening to shoot him out of hand (and they would have). All hell broke loose around the Island, and every base, UN and British was put on full alert. We immediately loaded up in our trucks, leaving only the bare minimum to protect our base, and raced to the scene. On arrival at Hero’s square, the scene of the crime, we immediately deployed around the square and surrounding area, keeping the Greek Cypriots apart from the beleaguered Turks, who were holed up in a carpet store off to one corner with the terrified Greek councillor. We were vastly outnumbered by the Greek Cypriots, and on every roof top around the square was a man or boy armed with all manner of weapons, rifles, shotguns, and even young boys with bloody hand grenades, all ready to make mincemeat out of the Blue Berets between them and the Turks threatening to butcher one of their own. Yes, it was bloody scary I’m not afraid to say, but we were professional soldiers, and we would do our duty come what may. It was at this time most of us realised what it meant to be a soldier, and the respect we had for our Commanding Officer reached new heights. (Those who were there know who I am talking about) God rest his soul. With only a sidearm, his trusty Cromach (large shepherds crook), his Adjutant, radio operator, and a couple of riflemen, we watched in awe as he marched, back straight as a rod, straight to the store on the corner where the kidnappers were, and we could see him angrily confront them. He gesticulated and pointed with his Cromach to all his troops around the square, and pointed to all the gunmen on the rooftops. We could not hear what he was saying, but we could see from his actions, that terms were very definitely being spelled out to the Turks. Only later, were we to find out what had transpired, and how near to death a lot people had come, including yours truly and many other blue berets. One wrong word, one itchy trigger finger, and all hell would have broken loose in the confines of that square. Not a pleasant thought. But for the actions of a very brave man, our Colonel, a lot of Scots soldiers would have been flown home in body bags. The Brigade commander arrived on scene, just in time to see our Colonel emerge from the store, with a battered and bloody, but alive councillor, and we were relieved to hear the gunmen on the rooftops, and the Greek Cypriots surrounding the area cheering, and as the man was handed back over to the Greek side, the gunmen and crowds started to disperse. We remained in the vicinity well into the evening, and patrols continued throughout the night. Those not required, retired sombrely back to camp for debriefing and going over the “What might have beens.” The beer bar remained closed that evening, as we were all still on full alert, and dressed ready to move at a moment’s notice, but gradually over the next couple of days, normality returned to the island. Just how close the world had come to world war three only came out days later, when we found out what the Colonel had said to the kidnappers. The story was told and retold many times in the beer bar, by the radio operator and riflemen escorts, who had by now achieved their own hero status among their peers. The colonel was raging when he approached the store, and when the leader of the kidnappers came swaggering out as if he held all the cards, our colonel told him in no uncertain terms (this was the gesticulating and pointing we saw at the square), that if one of his Jocks suffered even the slightest of scratches (note no mention of the kidnapped Greek’s welfare yet), then he would have no hesitation in telling us to open fire. Before this had sunk in, the colonel continued without a flicker of fear, and told the man, that just outside Limassol, was a convoy of at least 3000 Canadian, Norwegian, Swedish and other UN nationalities troops, ready to enter the area at the sound of the first shot, and he emphasised, that although many of his beloved Jocks would die, not one person not wearing a blue beret would walk away unscathed from the scene. When the hopelessness of the kidnappers’ plight finally sunk in, and no doubt the realisation the man in front of him meant every bloody word, the Greek was released, and the rest is history. Back in camp, things returned to normal, and our time on the island of Aphrodite was nearing an end. Thoughts turned to topping up our tans, getting plastered in the beer bar or in the “Steady Pint”. Locals looked at us in a new and admiring light. Where only a short time before, they would happily have blown us to bits, they now went out of their way to make us welcome in their bars, and it was not unknown for a bunch of jocks to return after an evening on the town, with the same amount of money they left camp with. To be fair, we were made just as welcome in the Turkish quarter, those of us who just fancied a quiet coffee or two that is, but most preferred the beer option.
Part 8c follows
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 3:52:36 GMT 1
Tales of an East End boy Part 8c
In the weeks leading up to our departure, the matter of the disappearing wool reached its climax, when the culprit was found by accident. Morticia, one of our feral felines was lazing in the sun outside our hut, and her increase in size we had just put down to being pregnant, until she started coughing up lumps of grey army issue socks. This was serious. Over the preceding months, many of us had to fork out hard earned cash to the quartermaster for replacements. Although each soldier had his own darning gear, it would have needed a whole bloody jumpers worth of wool to darn the holes left by the mysterious wool gobbler, hence the need for replacements. As Morticia had given the game away, she would have to be punished, and a hastily arranged kangaroo court was set up on the volleyball court near our billet. The evening was still bright, and most of us were well tanked up after our visit to the beer bar, when proceedings started. We had a presiding officer and a counsel for the prosecution and defence. A jury was selected and the trial began. The trial soon turned to a shambles, as most of the witnesses, and the defence and prosecution counsels could hardly stand up, never mind speak, and half the jury were snoring drunkenly or singing quietly to themselves. Statements of a sort were heard from both sides, and all that was left was the jury to make a recommendation to the court. “Guilty” shouted the singers, and this woke up the snorers who shouted “Guilty” as well. The court president deliberated long and hard, and in the end decided the fate that would befall the unfortunate, and by now fast asleep rotund tabby. “Guys” he slurred, “Morticia has been a friend to us over the months, as has Thing and Uncle Fester, but wool stealing is a very serious crime.” “We have fed her and made sure she wanted for nothing, and in the end, this is how she repays our love and affection.” “As she is the matriarch of our group of felines, she has to pay the ultimate price for her dastardly deeds, but I think it would be unfair of us to deprive the others of her company, so, I have decided that we shall adopt the three musketeers approach, one for all, and all for one, so at dawn, they die together.”
And so it was on the following day, just after reveille, we took the felines to where we knew there was a covered sceptic tank, removed the cover. About 30 feet below, the stinking morass bubbled. A piece of string was placed around each cat’s neck, the other end was tied to a brick and after a few words, the bricks were dropped into the depths below. The cats were enjoying this new game as they watched the string descend, when, without even a meow goodbye, the string became taught, and they were whisked off into obscurity. We replaced the cover, and after our ablutions, we headed off for breakfast. All too soon we were back in BAOR, cat less but with whole socks, and preparing for a trip of a lifetime. A three month tour of the USA and Canada…..God help them.
Ronnie
Note: Although the episode with the feral cats may seem to some to be extreme and cruel (and looking back, possibly so) however, these feral felines regularly ripped each other to pieces without human involvement, and had we left them untouched, Morticia, as the matriarch, because she was now so fat to lead the group would have suffered this fate at the claws and teeth of her own offspring.
The shooting and incineration of the wild dogs was a different story. These mangy flea ridden curs were 99% carriers of “Rabies” hence the ‘shoot on sight’ policy. One bite or scratch from them would inevitably (at that time) lead to a horrible and painful death of the victim. As soldiers we were often shown real film footage of a human being with rabies going through their final death throes and believe me, it does NOT make comfortable viewing.
Ronnie Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
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Post by Deleted on Jan 18, 2011 5:19:06 GMT 1
Coming NEXT week at our keelies own ABC minors, Parts 9-14. Prepare for the Wild West adventure of a lifetime. Bring your own popcorn and Kia-Ora. ;D
Ronnie
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Post by Waverley on Jan 19, 2011 13:17:35 GMT 1
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Post by Waverley on Jan 19, 2011 14:26:45 GMT 1
Haw Cousin I have just realised I have to come back over to France to do a lot of research in the Ham and Nesle areas of the Somme can I sleep in your barn for a month .... ;D
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Post by Waverley on Jan 19, 2011 15:22:13 GMT 1
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Post by Deleted on Jan 26, 2011 3:16:36 GMT 1
Part 9 Tales of an East End Boy
North America here we come (goodbye Germany, hell - O’ Canada)
Before returning to BAOR from Cyprus, we in the bands had been given the great news that we had been selected by the powers that be to undertake the army musician’s dream, a coast-to-coast tour of the States and Canada. The plan was to set up a group of aprox 120 and put together a show comprising of both bands, a physical display team, a comedy drill squad and highland dancers, all taken from the ranks of our battalion. We were told the whole show was to last up to two hours, with room for change to accommodate the smaller venues we would encounter on the tour. A working group comprising of officers and senior NCO’s from the bands and other participants, was set the unenviable task of working out the details. Meanwhile, before our departure from Cyprus, the bands made use of any free time, to practice many combinations of favourite tunes, and trying to form workable shapes that would work on the ground, without bumping into each other, and aesthetically pleasing to the onlooker.
Back in BAOR, we rehearsed endlessly for months on end, while at the same time performing our other regular duties, but finally, the time came, and the final content was agreed as a workable entity, and we got down to honing the skills we would need to keep members of the North American paying public happy for up to two hours. We did not underestimate the enormity of what we were about to undertake, and nothing was left to chance. Once it was agreed who was to go on tour, and who were first reserves, we rehearsed till each person (plus reserves) could do what was required of them in their sleep. While we were doing all this hard work in our own back yard, so to speak, the brass were busy organising a way of putting us on public display, prior to our departure, just to gauge audience reaction. It wouldn’t do to go all that way with a flop on our hands. The first public display was organised in the town of Iserlohn, where we were based, and it was held at a local sports ground and free for the good townspeople and soldiers and families of all the regiments in the area. Nothing like this had been seen in the Westfallen area since the war, and there were local dignitaries from surrounding towns in attendance, and Generals, Brigadiers and other officers from our Canadian and French allies as well as a similar cross section from our Wermacht friends.
Nervously, we awaited the opening fanfare, and with a final flourish, the show got underway. I would be lying if I said it went without a hitch, there were a few, but it was more a case of first night nerves, remember, some of these soldiers had never performed in front of a five figure crowd before, even some of the older musicians. At the finale, some two hours later, we stood breathless in the centre of the field, chests puffed out with pride, and glancing around as best we could, we heard polite ripples of applause, and then, the lighters and matches started to light up around the stadium (this was how Germans show their appreciation) and soon, the polite applause turned to loud cheering, and standing there, sweaty faces beaming, we knew we had passed our first test. On return to barracks, our CO, the hero of Limassol, thanked us for making him really proud in front of his superiors, and we changed out of uniform, showered, and headed for a good piss up in our respective bars. Next stop, the Royal Albert Hall in London, (this part I may have the timeline wrong. For the life of me I can’t remember if we played the Albert hall prior to our departure for Montreal, or on our return to UK before heading back to Iserlohn) and then, up, up and away, Montreal, here we come. The performance at the Royal Albert Hall was a resounding success, but a bit claustrophobic, but that was the plan, as we would be playing in similar venues stateside, so, better we had an idea of what to expect before we left. Before we left BAOR, we had all been fitted with smart new dark blue blazers with our regimental badge on the breast pocket, and two pairs of grey slacks, a couple of white shirts and a brand new regimental tie. To be worn at all times from now on when walking out. So, there we were, late August 1966, finally boarding the plane that would carry us across the Atlantic to the new world, and into the hands of the Columbia organisation, who were underwriting the whole shebang. The timing of the tour was critical, because we had to complete the Eastern seaboard part and move inland before winter arrived. If it arrived early, it could jeopardise the whole itinery. Luckily, no such problems ensued, and things went smoothly from the outset.
Perhaps before I go any further, I should give the reader some idea of our programme (as best as my memory serves)
Event Action Duration
Opening fanfare: By trumpeters of Regimental band. 1 min.
First half March on Selection of traditional tunes by Pipe band 15 mins. March on Selection of military tunes by Regimental band 15mins. March on Comedy drill team. British Army drill from the 1700’s 15 mins.
Interval 20 mins.
Second half March on Drums and bugles marching display. Drum Salute. 15 mins. March on. Physical display team 15 mins March on Pipes and Drums and Highland dancers 15 mins.
Finale March on. Regimental Band takes place in front of dignitaries. March on. Pipes, drums and bugles, plus remainder Music. Scottish Airs, Sing-along, Abide with me, Sunset, Last Post, and National Anthems. March off. Scotland the Brave, The Black Bear etc. 20mins.
Times are aprox. Show lasts around two hours.
We landed at Montreal Airport, and checked through immigration.
“Bon Soir Monsieur, welcome to Montreal.”
“Huh?” “Listen frog face, ah thought we were in Canada?” “Whit have ye done with it?”
“You are in Canada sir, Montreal, Canada.” The immigration chap said with a knowing smile.
Passport stamped, and it was on the bus to take us to our hotel. God, everything is soooo big over here. At least we made it safe and sound. It was time now to settle in.
Tomorrow, we shake out the cobwebs, and prepare for three months on the road.
Ronnie
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
Here is our itinery for the next three months.
Bands of the 1st Battalion The Royal Highland Fusiliers Tour of North America 1966 Itinery
Date Place State Venue/Performance September 20th Montreal Canada 21st Troy N.Y 22nd New York NY Madison Square Gardens 23rd New York NY MSG 24th New York NY MSG 25th New York NY MSG 26th No Performance 27th Washington DC 28th Philadelphia Pennsylvania 29th New Haven Connecticut 30th Providence Rhode Island October 1st Boston Massachusetts Boston Gardens/evening 2nd Boston Mass BG/afternoon 3rd No performance 4th Baltimore Maryland 5th Pittsburgh Pennsylvania 6th Rochester New York 7th Buffalo New York 8th Detroit Michigan 9th Cleveland Ohio 10th Toledo Ohio 11th No performance Date Place State Venue/Performance October 12th Columbus Ohio 13th TBC 14th St Louis Missouri 15th Champaign Illinois 16th Chicago Illinois Theatre/afternoon 17th Dayton Ohio 18th No performance 19th Kansas City Kansas 20th Witchita Kansas 21st No performance 22nd Denver Colorado afternoon 23rd Denver Col evening 24th Tucson Arizona 25th Phoenix Arizona 26th No performance 27th Claremont California 28th San Diego California 29th Los Angeles Cal evening 30th Los Angeles Cal afternoon 31st Santa Barbara Cal
November 1st Fresno Cal 2nd No performance 3rd Sacramento Cal 4th San Francisco Cal evening 5th San Francisco Cal afternoon/evening 6th San Francisco Cal afternoon Date Place State Venue/Performance November 7th No performance 8th Eugene Oregon evening 9th Salem Oregon evening 10th no performance 11th Portland Oregon evening 12th Seattle Washington evening 13th Seattle Wash afternoon 14th Victoria BC Canada cancelled due to airline strike 15th Vancouver BC 16th Calgary Alberta 17th Edmonton Alberta 18th Brandon Manitoba 19th Winnipeg Manitoba 20th No performance 30 hour train journey 21 st Peterborough Ontario 22nd Kitchener Ontario 23rd Guelph Ontario 24th Toronto Ontario evening/Maple Leaf Gardens 25th Toronto Ontario end of tour 26th Fly back to BAOR Germany
Notes: These dates and places were only a rough guide and often were changed to suit and we often found ourselves doubling back past places we had already played. TBC (to be confirmed) It was either a rest day or more likely an extra show or new venue if it could be fitted in.
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Jan 26, 2011 3:32:28 GMT 1
Part 10 Tales of an East End Boy
The Auld Alliance is alive (Not in Montreal it aint)
Our arrival in Canada took our breath away. Montreal was big and flashy. Our hotel was somewhat out of the ordinary for lads who had only been around Germany or the Middle East (for those guys who had been serving in Aden, Malta and Cyprus), and the hotel was down by the stockyards, where CNN trains were parked up. These big monsters made the Glasgow underground look like lifeboats on the QE 2. After we settled, a call came through to meet in the hotel foyer. Prior to leaving UK, we had been told what was expected of us across the pond. What happened next was an insult to many of the group. In the foyer, full of other visitors and guests, we were told in no uncertain terms what was required. (We had been through all that back home), but, now our officers, finding themselves far from the officers mess, decided that it was time to stamp their authority on the proceedings, by telling guys who only months before were minutes from death in Cyprus, that any indiscretion on our part would incur the wrath of the British government, not to mention the court martial. Plonkers. Not the time and certainly not the place. We were here to entertain, not fight a war.
It was then the Columbia rep said his piece. “Montreal is a divided city, and we can’t have any incidents, so, in the two days leading up to the first performance, by all means go out and sight see, but stay away from St Catherine’s, that is the French area. “Well thanks for the info pal, now we know where to head for”. Serving in BAOR we had often served alongside the French forces, The “Van Doos”, Canada’s 22nd Regiment based in Quebec, and other Canadian regiments such as Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry, and the Tank regiment like Fort Gary Horse, and of course, only recently The Black Watch of Canada, based here in Montreal, and as Scots, we had no axe to grind with our one-time allies. Needless to say, it went in wan ear and oot the other, and we dispersed to prepare ourselves for our first excursion to meet the descendants of Beaver trappers.
All kidding aside, our first foray away from the safety of our hotel was taken gingerly, except for a few of us who took the Columbia rep at his word, and headed straight for St Catherine’s. The thought among us was, “we’re no’ having a Yank telling us where we can go.” So we hit the bright lights of the French quarter. I would love to be able to tell you that all was sweetness and light, and the auld alliance was alive and well, but these Froggy Canuks had a different agenda. For a start, they could speak English, but on hearing our English accents, they clammed up and only spoke French. Even telling them we were Scottish seemed to make no difference to these French Canadians. I won’t say they were unsocial, but the bottom line was we had nothing in common. Auld alliance or not, they jist wanted their way, and we did not count.
Performance day minus one…. we reverted to the Anglicised part of Montreal, and gave no more thought to the French. We just shrugged our shoulders and dismissed it and put it to the back of our minds, and decided the English speaking parts of Montreal would be getting our dollars instead of the French.
It was here our drinking habits took on a new twist. If you walked into a bar in downtown Montreal in 1966, not a bar in Glasgow, and order a beer, and the bartender asks if you want salt with it. Sheesh “Why have salt in yir beer?” “We huv it oan oor chips.” I still don’t know the answer to that one, perhaps they were trying to make us thirsty, so we would drink even more, but we did not need any outside help in that department. One thing it did do though was put a “head” on an otherwise flat looking beer.
During the day, we were rehearsing at the arena where we would perform, but it was really only to help sharpen up the changeovers between acts.
We got the expected invite to go to the Black Watch armoury, and got on our buses and headed to where they were waiting to entertain us.
This was strange for us, as we arrived at the Black Watch Armoury. A good few of the guys had served alongside us in Cyprus and we had a good chat. We had a good time with our hosts, and good tales of times in Cyrus were bandied about all evening, as well as a few (many) beers, but all too soon, it was time to retire. Back to our hotel, and thoughts of our first show were top of the agenda.
Next day, our last before the first show, after a last rehearsal, we found out that the North American Drum Corps Championships was to be held at the expo ’67 stadium (and this was ’66), so a few of us piled into taxis and took ourselves off to see what was what. What a good night it was, put us drummers in the shade (slightly). Brilliant entertainment from marching bands from all across America and Canada, and we were very impressed by their musical talents. We had only seen the likes of this before in Hollywood movies.
Our first night was probably our best (human nature says 1st is best), no mistakes, everything perfect, and the mixed crowd, exiled Scots, English and Francophiles, all rose to acclaim our efforts. The sweaty faces from Iserlohn had now arrived in North America, and had not been found wanting. We were now officially “On the road”. Next stop America, via Niagara Falls on route to New York, Washington, Philadelphia, New Haven, Providence then Boston.
After a brief stopover and performance in Troy, NY. and the customary after show wind down, we retired, excited at what the morrow would bring. The “Big Apple”. Yes, New York here we come. Bring out the “Bowery Boy’s” and the “Keystone Cops”, they don’t know what they are in for
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Jan 26, 2011 3:57:11 GMT 1
Part 11 Tales of an East End Boy.New York New York. (It’s a wonderful place) Arriving after a long drive, weary and hungover we arrived in the “Big Granny Smith” and soon got settled in to our hotel. It was called the Paramount on 46th street, or something like that, and it was not very far from the place we would strut our stuff, Madison Square Gardens. The very name rolls off the tongue. What greats had given so much delight to thousands in that great arena? There are too many to mention so I won’t bother trying. We were in N.Y. for 4 days, from Thursday till Monday, and we performed on the Friday and Saturday, and had a free day Sunday, before moving to New Jersey on the Monday, so we had some time for sightseeing. We soon went about visiting all those well-known places we saw at the pictures. The Bowery, down by the river, and Queens, the Bronx and of course Coney Island. Pity when we got there it wis shut. How were we ti know it shut doon fur the winter, or did they just know we were in town? Somewhere along the line, we came across an Irish pub, the Blarney Stone, and proceeded to make our acquaintance with the well-stocked gantry. The barmen were OK and the pub regulars were mainly of Irish descent. They took an interest in our blazer badges (as they were our military badge), and of course questions about how we felt about Britain’s role in 400 years of Irish history went over the top of our heads. Remember, this was 1966, and although we were aware of the IRA and things that happened since 1916, we were more interested in what the Russians would be getting up to back in Europe. We found out over the next couple of days, that there were more than one Blarney stone pub in New York, but we tried to give them a miss and sample the other bars. This proved a better option, and we were made more than welcome by inquisitive Yanks. Some guys had relatives in Rochester, and they came to the show, and afterwards drove a few of us upstate to spend a few hours with them, then returned us back to our hotel in bits, just in time to grab a shower and get down to breakfast and the dreaded SS (senior NCO's resposible for 'calling the roll' ) checking off all the names to see how much money they could make off us (if we turned up late) in the Big Apple. I’m pleased to say they made heehaw off us, so it was breakfast then on the buses to take us to the Gardens for rehearsals The performances in the Gardens were absolutely brilliant, and we were playing to crowds in excess of 15.000, and the atmosphere was just like the Edinburgh Tattoo, but without the rain. Friday also saw us get our weekly allowance from Columbia of 140 dollars, which was meant to last us for a whole week, but many a guy made a big dent in that on the first day. Our army wages were frozen back in Germany for the duration of the tour which was magic and meant we had over three months 'back pay' to go home to.Of course we tried everything we could in the food department, the chilli dogs, burgers and big torpedo bread things the length of your arm, and pizzas. Not the cardboard imitations of the 1990s from Pizza joints in 'sheds' in UK, but the real McCoy from wee Italian pizza parlours, where the guy would make your order before your very eyes, and whatever size you thought your belly could take. Absolute magic; watching the pizza dough being spun and tossed in the air, just like a flying saucer, by the assistant. The taste was out of this world, and I have never tasted better to this day. We were well fed, well watered, and happy as a pig in s**t, and we had bucks in oor breeks. The bright lights of Broadway were calling us. The Columbia crew, who were running the show, had of course given us the customary warnings of where to go, and where not to go. They should have remembered Montreal so it came as no surprise that a bunch of us went for some fun on the subway and found ourselves getting off somewhere in Harlem, and although it was not apparent to us at the time, we sort of stuck out a wee bit in our blazers and flannels, as we exited the subway into another world. This was different. This was like parts of Glasgow, so we felt at home (except that our white faces sort of stood out a bit).. Finding the nearest bar, we entered, full of good spirits, and were looking forward to leaving full of even more of the local type. Although the place was not full, a deathly hush hit our ears as we entered. All eyes in the joint were looking in our direction, and a few mouths were agape, beers stopped in mid air between bar and mouth. It did not even cross our minds, that we were the only white faces in the place, so we made our way to the far end of the bar. The barman’s eyes followed us, another 20 or so pairs of eyes followed us. Eventually the barman approached and said “You guys lost?” or something like that. “Naw, we’re oot for a few beers” That took him aback slightly as he replied “Huh?” “Who are you guys? Where you all from talking like that?” “Scotland” we replied proudly. “ Scatland” said the huge barman, with a big grin on his face, as he looked past us to the now mumbling amongst themselves clientele. “S**t man” he beamed, “I did some time in the Holy Loch, your country is bootiful” By this time a few of the regulars had joined us, and (I’m pleased to say) with broad grins on their faces. The ice was broken, and once they had ascertained we were not the police or some crazy “Honkies” who had escaped from a loony bin, we were plied with ale and spirits and had a whale of a time reminiscing with some, who, like the barman, had served in the US navy in the Holy Loch. Tales of Saturday nights in Sauchiehall street and the Locarno dancehall, and the pretty Glasgow girls who were happy to help them spend their money, in return for a few dances, and the odd leg over up some lane near Charing Cross. We spent a few hours in that pub on the advice of the barman. “You’ll be OK in here buddies, we will see you are OK”, and I think we only bought one round just to be sociable, then it was time to go. A few of our new friends took it upon themselves to escort us back to the subway, and after telling us what stop to get off for our hotel, waited with us until our train arrived. After a few of the five minute handshakes which we had been taught in the bar, we were soon on our merry way back to the bright lights. We were all in agreement that our wee foray into Harlem was worth it. What an experience to tell the grandweans in later life. After a couple of hours walking about Times square and Broadway, taking in the bright lights, eyeing up aw the weirdo’s, transvestites, gays and lesbo’s, guys and gals with so many tattoo’s and piercings they could never walk past a magnet, and of course stopping off at a few watering holes, we decided that we would get some big pizzas and taxis back to the hotel. Arriving on our floor, we could hear sounds of merriment coming from one of the rooms, so we went to see what the fuss was. Only about 20 other pipe band guys having a party (after paying a visit ti the liquor store) for some supplies. We were ushered in and soon we were imbibing again, and the massive pizzas disappeared in double quick time. There was plenty of beers, and some bottles of bourbon, Old Crow and Jim Bean, but no sign of any soft drinks to accompany the firewater. When I say, there was no sign of any soft drinks, I mean there was no coke cans or bottles lying around the place, but there was about three or four buckets of the stuff sitting on a bed of ice cubes in the bath (along with our hawf pissed and naked bass drummer). Apparently the enterprising among them had hit upon the idea of emptying the ice machines on three floors and transporting it in buckets back to the shebeen bath, and then proceeded to empty the cold drinks dispenser along the corridor of its contents. The machine was stocked with bottles of coke and seven up, lying on their side. They could be accessed by opening the door at the front of the machine, and after putting in your 50 cents; you could extract the bottle of your choice. After a quick calculation, the partygoers decided that they would be better keeping the money for another day and worked out that if you held the door open and tipped the machine forward, a quick flip with a bottle opener, and a strategically placed bucket, and hey presto, mixers on draught. This wheeze was put to good use on many other occasions throughout the next three months. Enterprising?, or what? The hotel management must have known what had happened, but as they were on a good earner from the Columbia organisation for our board and lodgings, they must have decided to let us enjoy ourselves, as long as we did not set fire to the hotel or chuck beds out the window from 90 stories up. On the Sunday, our day of rest, the same bunch of us who had been to Harlem, decided to head for Brooklyn and have a wee wander, so in the afternoon, we headed back to the subway and made our way. Arriving at a station that had a sign saying somewhere or other, Brooklyn, we got off, made our way up stairs and got our first glimpse of the place. Not much different from Harlem really, same type of streets, houses and shops, and of course, the obligatory bars. That was our first priority, a livener to get us in the mood. Two or three bars later, and not having met any US ex servicemen to help out with the bar bills, we spied a sign saying ten pin bowling. Now, we had seen this sport on one of the many channels on our TV’s, and thought it would be fun to give it a try. None of us had played it before, as it had not yet taken off in the UK, never mind Glasgow or Germany, so in we go, up some rickety stairs and into the bowling alley. This was not like those we saw in TV. It was NOT automated and, it only had three or four lanes. Well, at only 50 cents per game, and being novices, we did not complain. The proprietor agreed to keep score for us, as we were the only ones there, so after getting to grips with the finger holes, the first ball was launched in direction of the awaiting pins. Wallop, some down, but no strike. This was when we found Brooklyn’s answer to children up chimneys, as from behind the pins appeared a wee pair of black legs, followed by a pair of black arms, and the knocked down pins still on the lane were hastily removed, and the wee black kid disappeared back up out of sight. “Clear” said a wee voice. “Ok, you can take your next shot now” said the proprietor. This went on for nearly an hour, and we were just getting into the swing of it, when one of the guys sent down his second ball, before the “Clear” was sounded, and as the remaining pins were rattled around the nearly broken wee black legs, the proprietor thought that it was time we left, before his star pin re-setter ended up in the local hospital. Back to the hotel, another few bars nearby, bed, and in the morning, off to New Jersey The Scots club in Kearney was gearing up for our arrival. This tour is going well. Ronnie Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved ps I'll save the last three chapters for next week. ;D
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Post by Deleted on Feb 3, 2011 5:29:00 GMT 1
Part 12 Tales of an East End Boy
Noo Joisey, Trenton, Newark (and quite a few other places too)
After a short hop across the river, we hit New Jersey, still done in from our exploits in the big Granny Smith, and prepared ourselves to entertain the good people in Trenton and Newark. Of course we had a night out pre-arranged for us at the Scots club in Kearney, and what a blast that was. The Red carpet treatment laid on for us by hundreds of ex-pats. Plenty of booze and the female club members had done their bit by providing the food. Excellent hosts.
As for the shows themselves, we were by now well into the swing, and could do our stint with our eyes closed (sometimes they were when the lights were low at the finale) By now, although we were still in the very early stages of our tour, the late nights early rises and constant on and off buses, was beginning to take a toll, especially for the physical display team and comedy drill squad who were only normal soldiers, not used to performing in public like the bands, but they all mixed in well with the musicians and partied like the rest of us.
Washington DC
Washington, now what can you say about the nation’s capitol that has not already been said. We took in all the usual sights, Capitol Hill, the White House etc, but our socializing was a bit limited due to the nature of the place. The show in the evening was extremely well attended, and our announcer endeared us to the audience in his introduction, by informing the crowd, that we were direct descendants of the British Regiment who was responsible for burning down the White House and making off with the president’s banquet, during the American war of independence.
We thought we would get a hard time when he announced that little piece of information, but the opposite was true. The audience gave us a standing ovation. There’s nowt stranger than folks it would seem.
Once more it was pack up, take our seats on the buses, crack open the beers, and regale our drivers with more renditions of our NAAFI songs. By now, they could sing all the words along with us. Back on the road and onwards to Pennsylvania and the steel towns of Pittsburgh and Scranton, before heading for Connecticut and Rhode Island.
Philly was a typical large city and home to a very large American Fleet, and the prices reflected that in the bars. We played at the stadium of the ‘Philladelphia Flyers’ ice hockey team and the show went extremely well. I forgot to mention that most of the venues we performed in were either ‘Basketball’ or ‘Ice Hockey’ arenas. The BB arenas were no problem but the ice hockey arenas had to have woodchips and sawdust put down over the ice so that we could march on the surface. The way it was done meant we had no problems, though it was a bit ‘cauld’ up the kilt.
Next stop was Boston, Massachusetts and the famous Boston Gardens.
Travelling through New York State, we turned east and popped intae Boston. What an effin’ palaver that place is. Every second son is related to JFK and had family who suffered because of the potato famine in Ireland, and it was all Britain’s fault. We didnae know much aboot the IRA in ’66, but this mob did. Nevertheless, we got a fair reception in the Boston Gardens, proving that all Bostonians’ were not of Irish descent. We were there for two days doing an evening show and then a show the following afternoon followed by a day off to see the sights. The city is very much like cities back home apart from the skyscrapers in and around the Georgian architecture. Of course we paid a visit to the famous (or infamous) harbour, but we saw no Indians and no tea chests floating in the harbour. Time once more to pack up, board our mobile ‘off licences’, and hit the road. God almighty, we have been here only two weeks and yet we have witnessed so much. Yet again we find ourselves doubling back on ourselves as we took in Baltimore, Maryland then back to Pennsylvania and New York state.
Before leaving Canada I had phoned an aunt of mine who lived near Buffalo and told her we would be coming. She was surprised and pleased to hear from her nephew after many years and after some pleasantries we arranged to meet up in Buffalo.
Buffalo, NY. After checking into our hotel, and freshening up, I went down to the foyer to meet relations I had last seen in the ‘50’s, and I managed to rustle up some complimentary tickets for the following night’s performance. After initial greetings, a pal and I were invited to go out to their wee shack in the township of Tonnawanda, for a meal and some drinks. A wee shack wis it? Bloody hell, it wis the size o’ the White House, with more rooms than the whole of some Glasgow housing schemes. We were jist Glasgow boys, who’s families had toilets oan the outside landing, and here we were, in a strange land with toilets ootside each door. We had a brilliant meal, and retired downstairs to the bar, as one does, and we proceeded to down a few ales, and had our first game of pool. At the end of the evening, we were poured into a taxi, and returned safely to our hotel back in Buffalo. The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, we went to the venue in Buffalo where we rehearsed for that evening’s show, then back to the hotel to relax for a few hours.
Once again the show went splendidly, and we were given rapturous applause at the end. Afterwards, with all our kit packed in the transporters, they sped off to our next venue, Detroit, Michigan. We returned to our hotel, and made ready to hit the bars in Buffalo. My aunt and uncle had to return home, so after saying our goodbyes, and in company of my older cousin, we headed for an Irish pub quite near our hotel, where we drank and sang into the wee small hours. After seeing him off in a taxi, we headed for bed, and looked forward to yet another wee bus run. Things were catching up with us now, and we were popping wee pills called No-Doze like Smarties. Now, before anyone runs off to report me to the drug agencies, I must tell you that this medication was perfectly legal, and was much in use by long distance truck and bus drivers in the sixties (that’s how we found out about it), and certainly helped keep one awake and that’s a fact. What was not known at the time was they were highly addictive, and in later years, were removed from the shelves all across the USA. By the time we arrived in San Francisco much later, we were well in tune with the “Flower People”.
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Feb 3, 2011 10:02:50 GMT 1
Part 12a Tales of an East End Boy
Michigan, the Great Lakes and Ohio (Aye, and Al Capone country)
Detroit was big and brash and what you would expect of an industrial city famous for churning out motor cars by the million. Canada (where we started from only 19 days previously) was just on the other side of the Great Lakes. Not much else to say about it except that we performed o our usual high standard to an appreciative large crowd, including many ex pats working in the motoring industry. Ohio on the other hand, was a fine expansive state with large distances between the major cities and farming was the main industry.
It was in Columbus that we continued our education in the art of ten-pin bowling, when we found a wee all night bowling alley. We knew it was small, as it only had 160 lanes!!!!! By now, we were getting quite good at it and many of us now had managed to break the magic 50. We were convinced we could break three figures before the tour was finished. Strange to note then, that 20 years later, I would have a 170+ average and be playing in three different leagues in Berlin. British league (winners), German league (runners up) and American league (winners). All thanks to a night out in Brooklyn and a wee decrepit bowling alley.
We travelled back and forth across the state before making sure it was safe to venture into…..Al Capone country, Chicago.
First impressions as we rode into Chicago was that it was pretty much like New York, all skyscrapers and multi lane freeways, but it had the advantage of being beside the great lakes. Now these great lakes to us were pretty much like the Atlantic due to the large number of big ships plying their trade up, down and across the vast expanse of water. Seeing these, made Loch Lomond look like a wee puddle. Chicago was a break from our normal programme, in that we did not perform in ice hockey or basketball arenas, but we had to put on our show in a large theatre on the lakeshore, and on stage at that. Obviously, we had to cut down on the marching display element somewhat, and it became more of a concert. We did not complain, as being static gave our aching limbs a chance to recover, but the show proved a hit with the paying public, and we managed to escape the city without being chased by men in fedoras carrying violin cases.
We rattled on through the next few places via Minneapolis, Cincinnati, Milwaukee (where the beer was to our taste), and Indianapolis and back down to St Louis and the big yellow arch.
The freeways and toll roads just became one big blur, as we continued on the road trip of a lifetime. St Louis was where the tour of the East coast ended, and after a big party, and a hearty breakfast, we headed out West via another detour into Ohio. This was when we really realised just how big the USA was, and we spent up to 18 hours at a time in our mobile off-licences, stopping only at roadside motels to get some kip and food on our way towards Kansas City and the cowboys.
The scenery was breathtaking (when we were not sleeping) and eventually we rolled into Kansas City, Kansas and our drivers put our buses in a defensive circle in case the local ‘Injuns’ decided to retake their lands with even making a “Reservation” (pun intended). We started to notice a real change in the weather, as it was getting damn hot, so when we found we were to perform not indoors, but at a football stadium, it was some relief as the show remember was in the evening when it was somewhat cooler. At least it was only about 80 degrees when we took the field. Although KC was a large city in its own right, it was much more spread out than the major cities back east. A different sort of people too, and more laid back. We were surprised to find quite a large number of ex-pat Scots in Kansas, but we should not have been, knowing that we Scots are renowned travellers and adventurers. To try to put down in words the Midwest part of our journey would need a book on its own, and that would just be in describing the vastness and utter beauty of the region. Again we sampled local hospitality after our show, the bars, the nightclubs, the change in food, and most noticeable, the absence of high-rise hotels, replaced by more salubrious motels with swimming pools. This was more like it, as we amazed the resident’s with our death defying dives from our balconies into the said pools below. Not everyone took to it though, especially at 4 o’clock in the morning, and we were sometimes told to quieten down a bit by the management. No damage was caused, and we usually complied and took our parties back indoors. Tired, weary and somewhat hungover, we trudged back onto the wagon train, and with a “Head em up, move ‘em out, we followed the sun Westward towards Denver in Colorado.
Now we are not talking aboot a wee bus trip from Glasgow to Blackpool here, we are talking more like John o’ Groats to Lands End or even further in one go (apart from refuelling stops) for the wagon train and the ‘easy riders’ within. I do not know what the makeup is in the town’s stakes in the USA today, but back then, in ’66, there was pretty much nothing between the big cities, apart from prairies, ranches the size of Scotland, and endless rolling black stuff. These "No-Doze” pills were now proving a godsend, along with the obligatory cases of beer. Our drivers appreciated this as well in the long haul westward, as our songs and ditties help keep them alert and amused. If you have never heard “Bonny Mary of Argyle” belted oot with gusto in a broad Brooklyn accent, you aint heard nothing.
It was while travelling along the never-ending tarmac on the long straight roads that disappeared beyond the horizon, that we encountered a strange phenomenon. As was the custom at the back of the bus, a card school was in full swing in this mobile saloon, and just as the stakes were being raised in the ‘Pot’, so our blood pressure nearly blew out the skylight. Everyone was so engrossed with who was bluffing who (or bloody cheating), when a familiar American drawl enquired from the gloomy interior, “Who’s winning guys?” asked Joe our driver, now standing beside the hawf jaiked gamblers. “Nobody yet Joe” someone replied, as eyes lifted from their cards and gazed bewildered at Joe, then to each other then back to Joe, and all hell let loose. “Who the feck is driving the fecking bus?” we all shouted, as cards, money and booze all went flying as we tried to see the front of the bus. By now everyone was wide awake and staring unbelievingly at the now empty driver’s seat.” Who? Whit? Where the fu’? Ah jeezus we’re aw deid,” someone cried as a now whistling Joe made his way nonchalantly back to his seat as if out for a morning stroll. “Its OK guys don’t panic, I have set the cruise control and the bus drives itself on these long stretches”. “Never mind the long straight stretches ya daft Yankee bassa, ah’ll stretch yir feckin’ neck if ye scare the oota us like that again” piped up one of the now Chivers Jelly like quivering wrecks. After an obligatory pit stop for refreshments (and a Calgary stampede to the nearest toilet), Joe explained the intricacies of these ‘long haul’ buses and said he often took a wee nap after setting the cruise control and we were none the wiser. We wished he had not explained that, because from then on we made sure he had company at the front of the bus for the rest of these long stretches.
Big Joe pulled that trick a few times, walking up and down the aisle while the bus was bombing down the road. Another thing I remember, he used to say if you hit another vehicle ‘You had to buy it’. When we went into cities and he was trying to negotiate tight turns made more difficult by a badly parked car, he used to scream down the bus, “We are gonna buy a Pontiac”.The guy was great. As I remember, he turned up at the new Madison Square Garden’s in ’68 to see us when we were on tour with the Household Cavalry and we made him our guest of honour. Insert courtesy of ex piper Ronnie Wilkie.
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Feb 3, 2011 13:23:21 GMT 1
Part 12 b Tales of an East End Boy
The Wild West (or we were Wild in the West)
Kansas City and Witchita were now well behind us as we made our dusty way further West.
Suddenly we found ourselves getting a bit out of breath and we thought that we were coming down with the flu, but we were only climbing, that’s what. Yes, we were heading uphill. Hundreds and hundreds of miles of rolling flat road, and here we were going uphill. Oor buses had hardly seen a hill since we left Montreal. Would they make it? Would we have to get oot and push? Not to worry, we were nearing our destination and the “Mile High” city of Denver, Colorado. Strange feeling, being asphyxiated oan yir ain bus. What a sight we must have presented as we rolled into Denver, a convoy of dusty buses, with the occupants to a man all hanging out the open windows and skylights trying to force what little available oxygen down parched tubes.
I can’t remember if we played indoors or out in Denver, as the oxygen deprived brain cells did not get back to normal working order until we hit Tucson and Phoenix in Arizona, but those cities posed their own problems, not least of which were the scorpions and rattlesnakes in abundance.
I ask a wee question at this point. “Who delivers the beers to these far flung outposts?” In Tucson and Phoenix, we were right in among the cowboys, and their bars reflected their outlook on life. So laid back as to be nearly horizontal, and the Beatles music was foreign and unknown on the jukeboxes. Johnny Cash, the man in black (whom we would meet in the flesh later in life) was the main entertainment in the sawdust-floored saloons. We could not quite manage the art of the “Spittoons”, so tended to stick to the more effeminate “Hankies”.
The heat was intolerable to say the least, as we were in the bloody desert remember, but we managed a day trip to Old Tucson, where we had fun on the movie set with the cowpokes doing their stuff. They even managed to get some of us dressed up in all the gear, and do the high noon bit. They tried to teach us some lines to speak, but no matter what, they still ended up coming out like “You’re fur a chibbin’ cowboy”. I do not think they quite understood our West of Scotland humour.
It was while in cowboy country that a few of the lads, who still had money to burn, splashed oot oan cowboy gear, the Stetson, and believe it or not, BB gas pistols,(full size) holsters, the lot. No problem buying them, just go in to the gun store and pay yir money, show some ID and away ye go, like Gary Cooper (or the guys with ‘bandy’ legs, Hoppalong Cassidy and Tom Mix). Now, this caused no problems in “Bonanza” territory, but it was to have drastic effects later in California, but that is another story.
Another strange thing happened while we were in Phoenix. Two of the regimental bandsmen decided to acquire their own transport whilst in town and commandeered someone’s car without their knowledge, and being under the influence of alcohol and the dreaded “No-Doze”, managed to park it halfway up a tree or a wall. I’m afraid to say, that should have been the end of the road for them (well technically it was) as they were charged and sentenced to time in the local penitentiary, shame really, but they did the crime, so can’t complain about doing the time. Our officer in charge did try to plead their case, but to no avail. Sadly, they were sent down. Released later, after some plea-bargaining they rejoined us thankful that Judge Jeffries (the hanging judge) had been dead for over a hundred years.
Ron you mentioned the two guys who ended up in the pokey after a wee drive aboot .I think the guys you were referring to were two members of the Mil Band. Benny M. and George R. our sludge pump operators (trombone players) As far as I recall they hired or borrowed an automatic car and ended up putting it through the plate glass window of a shop. They returned to the fold eventually after a bit of diplomacy and a few bob paid for the damage to car and window.
Insert courtesy of wee Hammy, ex Mil band, Malta.
Our foray in the desert was ending, and we were about to bid farewell to our buses and drivers, until we met up again on the other side of the Rockies in San Diego. Apparently, the buses would not make it over the Rockies fully laden, so we had to go by plane. What a sight looking down on one of the world’s wonders, and trying to take in the view below. Nothing prepares you for the sight, and all the different colours, the variety of shades and the sheer bloody size of it all. It is a sight that will live with me forever.
The east coast wonders and the desert forays now behind us, we were about to embark on our journey up the West coast.
Hollywood, Disneyland and Alcatraz beckoned.
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Feb 3, 2011 13:35:33 GMT 1
Part 13 Tales of an East End Boy
Hollywood or Bust (hope we make it past Alcatraz)
Now we were on the West coast of America, San Diego and just across the border lay Mexico. San Diego was our first glimpse of the Pacific coast. We felt much like what the old wagon train travellers must have felt, although it must be said, 'WE' had a bit more comfort in our push westward. Although we were in possession of our passports, I am afraid Mehico was “Off-Limits”, so we were confined to the San Diego area. Not that it was bad, far from it. All the lovely sunshine, the Pacific breezes, and of course, the dolphins, not that we had too much time on our hands, we had shows to perform. San Diego was pretty much like Philadelphia on the East coast, full of US sailors, and the bar prices reflected that, much to our dismay; however, we had the art of hotel parties down to a T.
It’s only when you reach California that you realise why so many of the early settlers risked life and limb to get there, and having sampled life back east on our travels, apart from Colorado and Arizona where the wide open spaces, were, er, wide open, this must have seemed like Valhalla to those early travellers. Remember, most of us had been brought up in overcrowded tenements, cold depressing winters and smog, that ungodly mixture of smoke and fog which pervaded everyday life in industrial West Central Scotland, and clogged the lungs of many thousands trying to eke out an existence in the shipyards, steel mills and coalmines in Glasgow, Ayrshire and Lanarkshire. Walking up avenues lined with fragrant orange trees was certainly different from walking up Sauchiehall Street on a driech November evening, that’s for sure. The only thing I could equate it to was the lemon and lime lined streets in Cyprus; only here was opulence with a capital O.
We did our show in San Diego and once more, it was back on the buses and head up the coast to the city of dreams, Los Angeles. How many of the billions of people on this planet of ours had not heard of Hollywood or Los Angeles? There cannot be very many. Even remote tribesmen in the Kalahari and the Brazilian rain forests have at some time, stared wide eyed at the stars of the silver screen at one time in their life.
LA was everything we envisaged it to be. Fast, rude, false, flashy, trashy, friendly, welcoming, you pick the adjective, it is sure to fit. Never had we seen so many beautiful people in one spot. Our eyes were constantly on the lookout for the stars of the silver screen, and our hotel, the Hollywood Roosevelt, was right on the boulevard. We have stayed in bigger, but this was, to us, the Hollywood Hilton, where everyone in the world headed for, in search of fame and glory. After our rehearsals at the “LA Forum”, we explored our surroundings on the famous “Boulevard”. Just walking along seeing all the stars of screen and stage names on the pavement was mind boggling, and we were not too far from the famous “Grumman’s” Chinese theatre.
The show itself was a cracker, and there were some film stars among the audience. Charlton Heston and Joan Collins to name but two, but there were more dotted around the arena.
Some free time in LA allowed us to take in other sights, so we had a choice of a trip to Disneyland or deep-sea fishing. I chose the fishing because at that time I was of the opinion (wrongly) that Disneyland would be more for wee kiddies, however, the fishing was great. I could say we were after the big game fish like swordfish or the large tuna, but to be fair all we caught were large ugly Red dog- fish, about ten times the size of those caught off Ardrossan back home, but a great day oot in any case.
All too soon, it was time to pack up and move on. The wee tablets we were taking to keep awake proved invaluable, how else could we stay alert oan the buses to scoff our “Carry oots” as we made our way north to San Francisco? Not too far as things go, but far enough. On our arrival, the City of San Francisco Pipes and Drums welcomed us at our hotel on the corner of Market and McAllister, which was a nice touch and gave us in the pipe band a chance to chat with other mad bassas who pursue the noble art of piping and drumming. Arrangements were made to meet up with some of them after our shows and they would show us the sights. This was early in the flower power era in Frisco and it was not quite the world haven for the gay community as it is now, but it was certainly different. Whereas LA was brash, loud and fragrant, Frisco was oldie worlde quaint and ahem, on the hilly side, but there was plenty of great bars to choose from. After our first show, we met up with the some of the SF pipe band guys and we went on a pub-crawl.
If you remember, I told you that some of our number had gone to town in Tucson and bought cowboy outfits, well this was the time they decided to give them an airing. The whole "kit and caboodle", including the six guns. Wrong move lads! Why they waited until SF to don the authentic attire is beyond me, perhaps they thought Frisco was more liberal. Well, we were whooping it up in a great saloon called McGoo’s, and enjoying the cabaret; the pitchers of beer we ordered were helping the lovely half-naked waitresses develop a stoop. No one bothered to tell us that you were supposed to share the pitcher; we just thought that they were one hell of a good size pint and wished the beer back home could be dispensed in jugs like this. (The waitresses also had ‘big jugs’). The table was threatening to collapse under the weight of all these pitchers (the ‘big jugs ‘waitresses were threatening to do likewise). Under normal circumstances, the table would have ten people and two pitchers, but there was our table, ten people, ten pitchers and we were in our element. As the evening came all too soon to a close, our new friends took us to The “Edinburgh Castle”, a proper “Chippy” in San Francisco. We were in heaven as we scoffed the delicious fish suppers, authentically wrapped in newspaper, lovely.
We were in high spirits, all greasy fingers and lips as we stood swaying on the pavement (sidewalk) trying to think of ways to continue the evening, when what should roll up to the kerb beside us? Not one, not two, but three police cars, sirens screaming, and like the keystone cops of the old black and white movies, we were surrounded at gunpoint and told to get up against the wall and spread them. Hawd oan a minute, this was not in the evening plans. What is going on? Well it was not so much WHAT? Was going on, it was more like what WAS on, as in the case of our Wyatt Earp and Doc Halliday look-alikes. Apparently, someone had phoned the cops and told them a couple of loonies were in the neighbourhood dressed as cowboys, and they were armed to the teeth. To be fair, they did look the real McCoy, and the guns were authentic replicas. Only BB guns mind you, and that is bad enough, but these two gunslingers had them loaded as well! Up until now, all they had been used for was some target practise in our hotel rooms, as the trail of colander like Gideon bibles would testify. After a good talking to from the ”Highway Patrol”, it was decided that the “Gunslingers” would be escorted back to our hotel in the police cars, and the remainder, who were only dressed in blazers and flannels could either come along for the ride home, or go about our business. We bade goodnight to our new friends, and took the easy (and cheaper) option of a free ride back to our hotel. Wyatt Earp and the Doc were given a stern warning. While it was not against the law to own such firearms, it was an offence to carry them in public. Therefore, if they did not wish to pay a visit to the big hoose oot in the bay (Alcatraz), it would be better all round to keep them packed in the boxes they came with. At least until we crossed the border back into Canada, whereupon it would be the “Mounties” problem.
The remainder of our stay in San Francisco went without incident. We visited all the famous places like Chinatown, travelled on a cable car, not to go anywhere in particular, just hopped on, paid a fare, got off, found a bar, had a few beers, and then hopped back on another back to the hotel.
The continual grind of travel, rehearsals, show, and late night soirées in strange surroundings was taking its toll on some people and no one was exempt from this phenomenon, and it was not uncommon for someone to miss part of the show because he was asleep in the dressing room. The show went ahead nevertheless, but the sleepy heid copped a “Fine” which would help swell the final dividend for everyone at the end of the tour.
Again it was time to ‘Mount up’ and ‘Move out’, California about to be left behind, with only a final stop to perform in Sacramento, before we headed northwards towards the Oregon Trail.
This was where size reared its head again as we travelled through a national park towards Portland.(Taking in Eugene and Salem on the way). All we saw for about 8 to 10 hours was bleedin trees. Big trees! Big bleedin trees! The giant Redwoods, at least 1000 years old were awesome. Ah well, at least the back of the bus was in good voice as we sang our refrains and kept a beady eye oot for grizzlies. Mind you, the Jack Daniels, Old Crow, and other assorted beverages, which now included Mesqual and other brands of Tequila helped while away the long journeys?
Before you ask, the answer to the question on your lips is, YES. The wee worm in the Mesqual bottle was consumed on more than one occasion (perhaps because it kept coming back on the consumer)
Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Feb 3, 2011 13:48:09 GMT 1
Part 13a Tales of an East End BoyLumberjacks, wolves and cheese slices (or, Journeys end in sight) The weather was getting on the cool side as we rolled hawf pissed and weary into Portland, Oregon. The sunshine and open spaces of California now a distant, if pleasant memory. The folks up in this neighbourhood were of hardier stock it would seem. We were in “Timber” country, and we had visions of tartan shirted lumberjacks everywhere. Any moment now, we were expecting Howard Keel to come jumping, out of the trees serenading the squirrels along with his six brothers, as they went in search of some lovely young things to marry and raise even more wee lumberjacks. Portland was indeed a very modern city, and the preponderance of MacLeans, MacDonald’s and all other Macs made us proud to think that these descendants of the highland clearances had the courage to open up the Oregon Trail in this wild country. The warmth of our welcome by these “Sons of the Pioneers” made our visit all the more memorable. We were feted, invited out to homes after the show, homes bedecked in all manner of Scots bric-a-brac, and regaled with tales of the old folk who first tamed this part of America. We were also asked the usual questions as could only be asked by American descendants of the Scots. “Do you know Archie MacLean from Tiree?” and questions like that, as if Tiree was a wee suburb of Glasgow and not a place that hardly any of us had even heard of back home. It could just as well be between here and Seattle for all most of us knew, but we were polite, and it was good to taste the proper stuff (real Scotch whisky) for a change. We found the good people of Portland very friendly and down to earth. Hard working and retaining the strength of character passed down to them through the generations of Scots who helped build this great nation called America. Only one more stop on our journey north, and we would soon be bidding farewell to this land of opportunity, yes, Seattle; home of the dreaded Starbucks. Another great stopover, much like Portland in a way, with the amount of Scots names in the phone book, and just as friendly. Again, another round of invites after the show, more whisky imbibed, and friends made, then all too soon, it was back to the forests once more as we left that great country America in the wake of our bus fumes and headed for the back door of Canada, Vancouver. We started our great journey by arriving at Canada’s front door in Montreal, now, after having a wee look around the homestead, which just happened to include vast tracts of America; we were coming back in from the garden via the back door. What memories to tell ones grandchildren. What other young lads from the housing schemes of grubby old Glasgow and Ayrshire, would ever get the opportunity to see the wondrous sights we had seen on our travels. The Statue of Liberty and the Bowery; The Empire State building. Boston, where folk dressed as Indians decided to thumb their noses at King George and his dreaded tax, thereby starting a chain of events, which brought about a county of such vastness and wealth (and poverty in places). The steel towns. Rolling prairies. The deserts of Arizona and the cowboy towns, the majesty of the Rockies and the Grand Canyon in Colorado, the sunshine and beautiful people on the West Coast and California up through the great forests of the rugged North. No, it is all too much to relate and remember for one person, but those memories that remain, will stay with me until the day I die. We were on the homeward leg now. We were due to play in Victoria on Vancouver Island, but an airline strike put paid to that plan, which was a pity for the good folk of Victoria, but meant an extra day or two in Vancouver for us. Continuing the theme of Portland and Seattle, Vancouver was very Scottish, and once again, the welcoming Scots descendants feted us like visiting family members. Vancouver was, even back then in 1966, a vibrant cosmopolitan city, very Anglicised in the architecture, but inhabited by people from every corner of the globe. Our weary, well-travelled bodies were now on autopilot, as we left Vancouver and headed back across Canada. The weather was now just like back home as we arrived in Kamloops, except that the temperature was a balmy minus 25 degrees and the snow was about six feet deep outside the hotel. This is no place for blazer and flannels we thought, so we took ourselves off to the nearest outpost and bought all manner of sheepskin jackets and big furry boots. This is more like it we thought, until the officer in charge told us, in no uncertain terms, that the order of dress was blazer and flannels, full stop, so, after a show in what can only be termed as a very large fridge, we said goodbye to our bus drivers and prepared to board the Winnipeg/Edmonton express. When I say express, forget the 50 minutes or so it took the Glasgow/Edinburgh express back in those days, this was to be a 30+-hour train journey across Manitoba and the most remote parts of the known world, and, we had to fend for ourselves food wise. No fancy dining car meals laid on for us. It was a packet of cheese slices and a loaf or two purchased from the last trading post, and that was it. I well remember the train journey from Winnipeg to Toronto it took about 30 hours. Before the journey started, myself and Tam C. went up the platform in Winnipeg and spoke to the engine drivers or engineers as they called them on the steam locomotives. We had some general chat back and forward and when they found out we were Scottish, they proudly pointed to the locomotives and said, “Bet you aint seen nothing like these in Scotland?” I pointed to the maker’s plate on the side which said “Made by the North British Locomotive Company, Hyde Park Works, Springburn, Glasgow”, and that shut ‘Casey Jones’ up. Both Tam and I came from Springburn and we said, “Mate, we probably seen this thing being taken down to the docks”.
Up until then I don’t suppose they realised the locos were not Canadian built.
Thanks to ex piper Ronnie Wilkie for this anecdote _________________The obligatory brown paper bags full of beers and singsong juice helped the journey, but to be honest, this was a trip where sleep overtook the need to get blootered. so, apart from waking up, having a few drinks, it was goodnight all round, with only the stars and the howling wolves in the distance to keep us company as we rolled through the day and night towards the oil capitol, and home of the Oilers, Edmonton…. Journeys end is getting ever nearer. There is not a lot we can say about this part of our great escapade, apart from it was bloody cold, and Edmonton was very much oil mans town. Everywhere one looked in any direction, the sky was illuminated by fire as the oil wells burned off the excess gases. This was not Canada; this was the bloody United Nations. All manner of nationalities helped make up this place in the search for the worlds lubricant, but nevertheless, we had a good turnout at our show as we introduced the hardnosed oilmen to a bit of culture other than the scantily clad offerings they were more used to in the bars of an oil town. I must say we had a great time with the oilmen, and of course, money being no object to these generous souls stuck out in the backwoods, much merriment helped alleviate the cold, which was threatening half the group with hypothermia. We learned new songs in German, Slav, Polish, Italian, Yugoslavian, Russian, Hungarian, and we taught them Bonny Mary of Argyll and some of our rude rugby songs, which went down well when we explained what the words meant. Yet again, it was pack up time, and now with our new buses and our drivers to take us on the last legs of the tour through Manitoba and Alberta we moved eastwards. Next stop Calgary; Canada’s cowboy country; Saskatoon on the prairies, little Regina, and then our last stop, Toronto. Majestic Toronto; the famous Maple Leaf Gardens; Yonge Street; the longest street in the world, which we had unwittingly travelled beside as we journeyed from Vancouver eastwards. Our last shows were extra special, not because we knew the end was in sight, but the reception from the ex-pats and Canadians alike had to be seen to be believed. Perhaps word of our travels had preceded us, and like all good families, they were just welcoming home long lost sons. All that was left now was to pack up our gear for the last time, ready to be shipped back to Germany. We all got together on the last morning, resplendent in our well-worn uniforms for a group photograph. Believe it or not, this was the only one that was ever taken on the whole epic journey. It included all the performers, (minus one or two), Columbia reps (minus one who died earlier on the tour), officers and background staff, our bus drivers, and anyone else without whose help the whole shebang would never have taken off. Names as per the programme, except the truck and bus drivers. Note: The author is in the fourth rank in from the right and second from the rear. Sadly, many of the people in this picture are no longer with us. I am not ashamed to say that at the final goodbyes, tears were shed. Our bus drivers, truck drivers and the men from the Columbia organisation returned to their loved ones, as we left for the airport to board our Air Canada flight back to Dusseldorf. There was to be one last sting in the tail for two of our number, as we shopped in the airport duty free, buying presents for wives and kids or girlfriends back home. Two of our number decided, at this late stage in the proceedings to help themselves to some merchandise without feeling the need to pay. Needless to say they were caught, but were let off with a severe warning, but not before being brought before the officer commanding, who there and then, told then that they had forfeited ALL their (bonus) earnings from the preceding three months. What a bummer for them. What a godsend to those who would reap the reward in the final payout back in Germany. Ach well, ye reap what ye sew. And so it came to pass, that the great adventure was over. Canada passed below us as we flew over Newfoundland and the rugged coastline, onwards over the Atlantic pausing only to turn right at Greenland and onwards toward the bright lights of Europe, and if our luck held when we got there, we could expect a few days off to re-acclimatise before the balloon would go up once more, and we would be packing our kit and heading off to keep those pesky Ruskies in check on the plains of Sennelager and Soltau. Aye and pigs can fly, as we were soon to find out. As we rolled back into camp in Iserlohn, arms laden with goodies, we were, to be honest, 100+ well and truly knackered jocks. Heads full of tales of wonder with which we would regale those comrades left behind who managed to keep the Russians at bay without our help for the past 3 months. Strange then as we drove into camp only to find it nearly deserted. Yes, you’ve guessed it; the battalion were away on exercise, freezing their assets off in Sennelager in the lead up to Christmas 1966. Our billets were as we left them only 3 months earlier, only they were clean, warm and welcoming to our weary bodies. A welcome home speech from the OIC rear party, and so it was that we unpacked the travel gear, checked that our belongings in our personal lockers had not gone walkabout in the interim. It was great to be home. Wis it feck! No sooner had we unpacked our gear than word came through from a duty NCO that the pipe band was to be ready to leave for Sennelager the following morning to join the exercise. We felt sorry for the married men among us; they had some humping to catch up on that night, before telling their wives that they were for the offski again first thing in the morning. At least we only had a few days of the exercise to do before returning once more to base. And so it was, on the following cold December day, that Wyatt Earp and Doc Halliday hung up their six shooters, drew their Bren guns or SLR’s from the armoury, mounted not a trusty steed, but a steel clad Saracen armoured car and dressed in combat gear not blazers and flannels, in our own wee armoured ‘Wagon train’ we roared up the autobahn to join our battalion in the field. No Jamaica rum or brandy in our water bottles on this trip I’m afraid, but something from the drug stores of the Americas, which would ensure that we at least would get through the rigours of, a big military exercise with no problem. Let’s hear it for “No Doze” ya wee beauties ye. Ronnie
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Post by Deleted on Feb 3, 2011 14:21:04 GMT 1
Part 14: Tales of an East End Boy
Another trip to the Med (Corporal, that monkey stole my scoff)
After many more training forays up to Sennelager or Soltau, and the obligatory visits to our favourite bars in Iserlohn, we found ourselves posted back to Blighty, to Fort George, just outside Inverness. God almighty; talk about stepping back in time. From our first view of the Fort as we approached on the buses bringing us from the airport, along the narrow road through the village of Ardersier, the sight reminded some of us of Alcatraz! Built after the 1745 rebellion and the battle of Culloden, the place was indeed a marvellous piece of military engineering for the time, and was the most imposing artillery structure ever built in Britain, or indeed, Europe.
Our first impressions were rather different though, as we were allocated our billets, just how outdated the place was became apparent. The ablutions areas when we arrived were bloody awful, with only long troughs with cold water taps spaced above for washing/shaving etc. and the floors were just cold slate. Not the relative German luxury of Mons bks. here folks I’m afraid, but the modernization work was underway. The sooner the bleedin’ better we said. Still, this was our new ‘home’ and we would have to make do.
I got myself married the previous June, just before we were posted back to UK from Germany, and did not qualify yet for a married quarter, so the wife was back at home with her mum in the Calton. We eventually were allocated a private hiring. Not a proper married quarter, but temporary accommodation until a married quarter became available. This was a completely new experience being what the army termed a ‘married man’, and life was good.
We were not settled in too long when we were once more in great demand in Whitehall. It seems the Spaniards were getting uppity over a wee rock at the western end of the Mediterranean that Britain had ‘acquired’ hundreds of years before. Not to mention the fact that the Spanish had given it up voluntarily, and now, the nearly 30.000 residents of said rock, considered themselves British. Disregard the local names like Archibald Suarez, or Juan McGregor, because that just proves that integration can work if handled with care. Yes, Gibraltar was in trouble, or more to the point, the Spanish workforce, who every day crossed the border to their place of employment in HMS Dockyards. This could have been another flashpoint in history (not like Cyprus) but equally as bad if the situation was allowed to get out of control, so once again we found ourselves swapping the winter warfare gear, for the Gucci equivalent of “Shorts ‘R’ Us”, and another round of IS training. Many years later I thought to myself, that someone high up in government circles MUST have known something was on the cards back then, (but NOT the electorate), for us to be put through TWO major ‘Internal Security’ deployments, then only a year later we were putting it into force for real in Northern Ireland! Coincidence! You decide.
With a tearful farewell to a now well pregnant wife, we flew out from RAF Kinloss to Gibraltar and found ourselves billeted with the RAF at their base at RAF North Front. The accommodation was quite swanky and good: Situated beside the airfield, with battalion HQ on the other side of the runway. You could not walk across the tarmac due to the amount of aircraft traffic, and if you had business at RHQ, then it was a bicycle for you young man. Just wait until you see the green light, and then peddle like blazes across to the other side before an incoming Lightning jet fighter caught you in the saddlebags. I am sure we could have entered a pretty strong team for the “Tour de France” after this deployment. Although we still used our duty Bugler/Piper in camp, it was purely ceremonial, as all rooms had tannoys and they proved more useful due to the incessant noise of arriving or departing aircraft.
Just outside the back gate of the camp, was the beach. 5 minutes walk from our billets. Brilliant when we had some free time, which at the beginning, we did not, and it had its own beach bars. With memories of Polemedia still fresh in my memory, I left well alone; however, others had ideas of their own and the flimsy beach bars often found they had less stock in the morning, than when they locked(?) up the night before. One of our tasks was to patrol the mainly civilian boating marina’s to make sure none of General Franco’s swarthy goons sunk any of the luxury yachts or motor cruisers which were either resident or visiting from other ports around the Med. and we quite often met the owners who would offer us tasty sandwiches and ‘other’ refreshments. Other duties were to help guard the crossing point between the Rock and mainland Spain, just in case the Spaniards decided it was an opportune moment to take back what they conveniently forgot they had ceded to Britain, hundreds of years before. Another task was the patrolling of the camp perimeter, as many people had been trying illegally for years to make the crossing, by swimming across from Spain. The odd ‘failure’ was found washed up on the shoreline, and we left them to the Gibraltarian authorities and coroner to sort out with their ‘Dago’ neighbours across the straits.
Dominating the whole shebang was the “Rock” itself. It was very imposing, and majestic. Not having its own fresh water supply, one side of the rock had a large catchment slope where rainwater would-be collected to meet the needs of the residents. There were OP’s (observation points) at various vantage points on the Rock, and our task was to man the one halfway up, with our Intelligence section responsible for the more advanced OP near the top. I can’t say much more about the equipment they had up there, let’s just say that you could tell the time on one of the Spanish border guards watches from nearly two miles away among other things.
Our position was the Farringdon battery and though the big guns had been long silenced, the position dominated the airfield and the sea on either side. The magazine room and living quarters within the rock was bricked up and our accommodation when on guard duty was just a concrete building. Very basic, but we were used to that. We were self-sufficient for our time spent up there, and had our own compo rations and cooking vessels. Now, everyone has heard of the Barbary apes on Gibraltar, but not a lot of folk know that there were actually two troops of these blighters, the “Official” troop, which was resident at the top of the rock and the “Unofficial” troop, which hung about the lower reaches. The official troop all had army numbers, and were the responsibility of an NCO in the RAOC (Royal Army Ordnance Corps), or some other branch of jumbled up letters, and the other troop was made up of some who had been excluded by the main group many years before. Fights between the two groups happened often, and it was quite normal to find the odd broken ape body at the base of the sheer rock face after a wee set to between the groups. As no one looked after the unofficial group, they survived by hand outs from tourists who ventured up the rock, and by raiding our rations if we turned our backs for two seconds. They would often sneak into our hut while we slept, and made off with boxes of 24-hour ration packs. I don’t know if they ever mastered the wee folding can openers, or indeed the loose leafed Izzal toilet paper, but there are probably hundreds of these ration packs dotted all over the inaccessible sheer face of the rock, where only the apes could reach.
The Rock itself is like a termite mound inside. Hundreds of tunnels all carved out by the hands of the Royal Engineers in the earlier years. In the beginning, this was done using just hammers and chisels, no mean feat. Later, explosives were used to expand the tunnel system. There are hospital facilities, firing ranges, storerooms and enough space inside the rock, to accommodate all the citizens if need be. Enough rations are kept there in cold storage to sustain everyone on the rock for three months, and are replaced every three months.
It was not all work and no play during our tour, and we had plenty of opportunity to get down town and sample the ales (mostly English beers and pubs), and window shopping, looking at all the duty free Rolex’s and other luxury items, which even though duty free, were still outwith the reach of our meagre wages. We made many friends among the locals, many of whom were of Anglo/Spanish/Scots descent down through the years, hence the names like wee Wullie Gonzales and Sebastian McClelland. It is only when you meet these good people, that you realise how much they pride themselves in being British, and wishing to remain British. All the companies/platoons in the battalion adopted their own bars, but all were visited at some stage, depending on how we felt. We were welcome in them all. We could also travel across the causeway into Spain, and head for the resort of La Linea, and many guys availed themselves of this option, but not me. I was happy enough on the beach or downtown bars. The nightlife in La Linea was certainly different to that on the Rock, and some of the tales the lads brought back made our eyes pop. The things the exotic dancers got up to with empty vessels and other implements on stage certainly put me off drinking my beers by the neck for a while. This outlet for the guys came to an abrupt halt one night, when a group of jocks got a wee bit more adventurous than normal. It was the ‘done’ thing to throw coins onto the stage to show appreciation for the dancers, and they would then pick up the coins with a certain part of their anatomy to much cheering and applause. Well, that was until one daft bugger decided he would liven up proceedings with a pair of tweezers and a lighter. After heating up a coin, he threw it on stage, whereupon the smiling Senorita dancer did her trick with her lithe flexible body, and I’m told the ensuing scream could be heard in far off Barcelona! Needless to say, the group were escorted back to the border post by Capitan Pancho Villa and his Spanish police, and told in no uncertain terms, never to show face again in Spain.(or at least next time turn up with Pesetas that ‘rustled’ instead of ‘rattled’). That group of squaddies were persona non grata for many weeks afterwards for closing the border to the rest of the battalion.
As things were not as bad as expected on the Rock, the rifle companies used the time to do some desert training across the Med in Morocco, North Africa, and got the chance to visit nearby towns for some sightseeing. Alas, I never got the chance to sample the delights offered in the Kasbahs.
Life was fine on the Rock, and even though our tour there was nearing completion, the weather was great, and the tans were coming along nicely. With Christmas only a couple of weeks away, I got a letter from the wife saying that the arrival of our firstborn was not far away, and, as things had quietened down on the Rock, I applied for, and was granted some compassionate leave. (Something the guys in Cyprus never got unless it was for a serious family illness) So it was I found myself back home, freezing, and with a very fat wife, but happy to be there, and attached to the battalion rear party showing off my tan. Christmas day, 1968 my son was born in Nairn. The first Christmas baby there for ten years, so we were pleasantly surprised when the Lord Provost of Nairn turned up at the small hospital to present my wife with a layette for the baby, and we got our photos taken at the bedside, and a write up in the local paper. I was expecting to return to Gib, but as the battalion only had a short time left of the tour of duty, it was decided that it would be cheaper for me to remain with the rear party, and help with the duties at the Fort. No argument from me there then. No more sitting hungry halfway up the Rock because some thieving apes had stolen my scoff. Another tour of duty for Queen and country, and now, I am a family man in the real sense.
Well, for a short time anyway. It seems the Mounted Band of the Household Cavalry required the services of our bands to help sell their upcoming tour of the states. (A result of the outstanding reviews our tour got from the press and the Columbia organization) Not the three-month coast-to-coast tour this time, but because of the horses, only Boston, New York and Philadelphia.
Ach, a piece of cake to us seasoned artistes. (Or so we thought!)
Ronnie
Copyright © 2009 Ronnie Hughes. All Rights Reserved
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Post by Deleted on Feb 3, 2011 14:43:07 GMT 1
There you have it fellow Keelie's, that is as far as I got with my life story before 'writer's block, lazyness and health issues brought my work to a halt. (hopefully only temporary). I hope you have enjoyed reading them. I have many more adventures locked away in ma heid, even more than what you have read, some are side splitting humorous and some will be difficult for me because they involve the loss of comrades on active service. However, they are all part of my life, a life which has given me so many wonderful memories, and I hope, many more in the future. Not bad so far for a wee lad from the East End who left school at 14 1/2 with NO qualifications. Ronnie
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