Chapter 4 – Six months in Colchester (1932 - 16 years old)

 

 

After my sentence was confirmed at the general court martial, I was taken back to the guardroom and the necessary arrangements made. I was taken by train to Colchester, under the escort of two of the regimental policeman from the depot. It was perhaps, one of the strangest journeys that I have ever had. In that the passengers around me visibly flinched away from me.

I must have looked like one of the Bowery boys, my escort were in contrast, very friendly offering me; cigarettes, tea, whatever was at hand. I could see one older gentleman who appeared to go scarlet, when he saw the pampering I was being given as a prisoner, perhaps due to the circumstances of my case.

Colchester was a strange place. On entry I was handed over, as you would a commodity with the equipment I had been told to bring from the depot, towels, underwear, socks etc. Each item was searched for contraband. After the search I was informed to put on a set of overalls and placed in a cell at the back of the guardroom. The niceties I was used to, from my guards seemed to have now gone. I lay on the wooden bench in the cell, I tried to think, but everything that day was happening at such a speed, I couldn't focus my thoughts, I just stared at the ceiling. Within ten minutes the door swung open.

'ON YOUR FEET....you don't lie down during the day.......out, get out...NOW, NOT NEXT WEEK'.  I was hurried out of the cell and realised there was no other pace at this institution.

'DOWN, THERE, TURN LEFT, HURRY UP.' Into the quadrangle in the centre of the guard room I rushed, like a fox with the hounds in pursuit. It was a white washed area with one heavy door into it and several of the cell glass windows high on its walls. Lined around the edges were several large brass artillery shells, reminders of the Great War. Each of them polished by the inmates to a fine lustre and filled to the brim with sand, an oak stopper hammered into them as a retainer, where the projectile would have been housed. Some of these monsters weighed well over one hundred pounds in weight.

'Give me twenty press ups... NOWWWWW,' came the bellow from the Sergeant. He had a peculiar lisp which made his words of instruction trail off in a peculiar fashion.

'Up to slow, DOWN'. My haranguing went on for at least ten minutes, with another Sergeant stood by the door observing, occasionally the first would address the second.

'Not fast enough, what do you thing Sergeant Bree.' The response was as expected.

'Not fast enough at all Sergeant Smith.'

'Do it again' the cry came. Each time they stopped for a moment, I had to stand at attention. Any attempt to lean forward to regain my breath was rewarded by more of Sergeant Smith's rhetoric. Several times I had his picket cane under my chin to straighten me up.

The next trick he had in store for me was to be frog marched round the quadrangle with one of the heavy artillery shells above my head or on my shoulders, in a half squatting position. I several times stumbled and fell with the shell. I imagine there would be few who would have been able to continue with this for long. The back of my calves felt as if they were on fire, with the stretching of my muscles. I had to stand up now, I was in agony, I needed to relieve the tension in them.

As I did, Sergeant Smith shouted at me again 'DOWN NOW, NOBODY TOLD YOU TO STOP.'

I threw the shell at his feet and shouted. 'Why don't you do it, if you like it so much!'

Smith's face went through several colour changes the last being purple with rage. To have attributed the qualities of a sadist to him would have given him some control, he knew none. Stepping forward he raised his picket cane and brought it crashing down on my head, the cane hit me with such ferocity that the thick bamboo cane with its silver tips disintegrated, the air was full of bamboo splinters like a feather pillow bursting around me. The blow felled me like a bullock in the abattoir. On my knees I fell with blood running from my hairline over my brow and dripping onto the concrete of the quadrangle.

'Clever bugger now, aren't we' came the sarcastic words from the Sergeant, he spat the saliva speckled words, as he threw his disintegrated cane across the quadrangle. I looked up at him totally dazed as he raised his fist to deliver his coup de grace. Sergeant Bree caught his arm as he did so.

'You'll swing for him if you go any further!' Smith stared at Bree, the uncontrollable rage evident in his face. He lowered his fist and walked over to his discarded picket cane, bending down in a type of genuflect movement, so as not to crease the mirror finish of his ammunition boots. He picked up the broken cane, examining the ends coming back to where I was.

'You owe me a new cane.' He then turned and walked into the guardroom. Sergeant Bree took a step closer to me. The shock of the assault had left me nearly senseless, my wits now returning to me as Sergeant Bree spoke.

'Well get up, he didn't hit you that hard.' I returned to my feet, as I did I could hear Smith's lisping voice from inside the guardroom, calling those inside the guardroom to attention. The officer of the day had arrived.

There was no way to hide the mishap, the well clipped voice of the officer could be heard inside. There was nothing to do, the body of the officer appeared in the doorway followed by Smith whose face had now transformed from purple to white. Bree saluted the officer of the day. The blood on the top of my head was still fresh and as yet had not had a chance to congeal. The officer returned the salute and looked around the quadrangle; at the bamboo splinters, the discarded shell case, his gaze finally coming to rest on my head wound.

'Sarn’t Bree, what has been happening here?'

'Well Sir...' a slight hesitation as Sergeant Bree thought of something to say. 'I was conducting the prisoner in shell drill, when the shell slipped and cracked him on the head.' The explanation was weak, the day officer looked at me.

'Have you anything to say, you may speak.' I could see Bree and Smith visibly holding their breath.

'Nothing Sir, it happened just as the Sergeant told you.'

'Carry on then. Sergeant Bree Please be more careful in future, you'll perhaps want to take the prisoner to see the Medical Officer. He may need a stitch in that.' Salutes were exchanged and the duty officer left the guardroom.

Bree looked at me. 'Go into the wash room and stick some water on that.' There were several prisoners performing tasks in the guardroom. These were mainly buffing the floors, to obtain a mirror finish on them. Smith instructed one of them.

'You, Harrison, go and sweep out the quadrangle and get some water and wash off the blood.' This would be quite easy, as the floor of the exercise yard was painted in red lead.

I went in to the guardroom, at the end of the row of cells was a wash room, with a number of white enamel sinks in a line. I began to rinse off the blood. Sgt Bree came in as I did, with my Towel. Wrapped up in it, was my washing and shaving kit. They don't let you have these, except under supervision, in case you attempt suicide. He handed it to me; I placed the items contained within on the shelf above the sink, gingerly using the towel to dry off the wound. Once it was reasonably clean, Sergeant Bree spoke again.

'Put your head down and let me look at it.' I obliged and Bree used his fingers to part the hair slightly, he did this quite carefully and gently.

'It’s stopped bleeding,’ he informed me.

'Yes, it’s not too bad... I'll take you to the Medical Officer if you want. One of the orderlies will stick a stitch in it, mind it'll hurt to buggery now it's stopped bleeding. If I was you, I would just let it scab up.' He released my head from the examination, I agreed, I had, had enough excitement for one day.

'I hope you've learnt something from this… It'll make your time here a lot easier.' I agreed I had learnt a valuable lesson. Bree, took out an ancient tobacco tin from his pocket and placed it on the shelf.

'Roll yourself a few cigarettes.'

'I don't smoke Sergeant.' I answered.

'You don't have to in here, a cigarette is the currency, half a tab will get you your boots cleaned, a couple of drags on a butt will get you a shirt ironed.'

I opened the box and took one of the gummed papers, dropping some tobacco into it. Bree stopped me.

'You're not making a cigar - watch me.' He took the gummed paper and placed what appeared to be only several strands of tobacco in it. He rolled it expertly with one hand, raising it to his lips and licking the gummed edge.

'There, that's all you need.' he lit the cigarette and smoked it. A couple of attempts later and I had roughly the knack and quickly produced half a dozen. Bree picked a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue.

'Go in the bog and get a sheet of bog roll.' I did as instructed and returning, handed it to Bree he placed the cigarettes in the centre, twisting each end to make what resembled a small Christmas cracker.

'There that's the best way to keep y'r f**s! You'll be able to bend that in two and they won't break. That bog roll is useless for wiping your arse, they call it medicated, it's like using grease proof paper, but the one thing it's good for though, is keeping f**s dry.' He now extinguished his cigarette by pushing it down the plug hole of the sink and turned on the tap to wash the ash he had been flicking in the sink away.

'Now, your head looks fine, you'll be staying in here tonight, your escort got here later than we thought. Tomorrow you'll be on the Commandant’s Memorandum.'