Chapter 5 – Time Done (1932 – End of Year, Nearly 17)

 

The following morning, I and several others of my ilk attended the commandant’s memorandum.  Our sentences were confirmed and from there we were taken to what was to be our new home. Everything in Colchester was performed at twice the normal speed - at the double �" and it was an end to your cigarette ration for that day if you were caught talking. But where there is a will, there is a way. When the guards were not paying attention, we whispered to each other.

For the most part, we amounted to boys and young men in our teens and early twenties. The reasons we had arrived for were varied, most had been absent without leave. Our backgrounds were many, but the one thing the majority had in common was a disregard for the system in which they were now incarcerated. There could and would be no cooperation with the guards from them. They were, in essence biding their time until they were discharged.

I had been warned, that the majority of those serving sentences were to be dishonourably discharged once their sentences had been completed. As a consequence, many of these boys were embittered against the regime in which they were now serving their time. Mine was a different story though. If I wished, once my servitude had been completed, I could rejoin a regiment and begin again. It was down to me, as to how I chose to complete my time.

There was no real choice. I had already found this out to my cost on my first day! Bucking the system did not carry the odds that I wanted and yes the way to get round this, was to be seen to comply. As I had been told, “keep your head down and get through it”.

The food was plain, stodgy and kept you filled. I had three good meals a day and didn't have cause too complain. The regime of physical activity though always left me feeling hungry. Within the first months, I had lost several pounds though this appeared negligible as my physique became more and more enhanced month on month from the boy I had joined as.

Each month, I found my waist narrowing and my shoulders and chest becoming broader. The strict regime was for a young person a positive benefit, there were no distractions in this place. Days were formulated much the same, the same routine, the same inspections, one day became the next, the only way to tell the days apart being the menu. After a while, the blandness of this too began to dull the senses.

Misfortune was always on the cards for the weak, my disposition was strong enough to not allow this to overtake me. I began to live by my wits, to become hard to others. During my final month, I marked each day off, on a calendar that I made myself, a circle ringing the day for my release. This was a customary right-of-passage and was known colloquially as a chuff-chart. The tradition seemed to have been passed down over the years, rumour had it that the term, was coined by a northern prisoner of this establishment. On his last day he declared, “I'm right chuffed to be leaving here,” as he tore it up.

No misfortune overtook me, I applied myself like a ghost to any task given, always performing as requested, never giving any more, or less than that which was required. On the morning of my release I was summoned to the commandant's office, where I was informed that as I had proved a model prisoner over the last six months. Arrangements had been made for an escort to take me to a training battalion in the south of England, where I would be able to begin again. I had the chance to put this episode of my life behind me - if I chose to do so - I still could have a bright future. I said nothing other than to confirm in the affirmative, each time the commandant stopped and waited for my answer. I turned around when I was told and left his office; the sergeant major's words of command ringing in my ears as the door slammed behind me.

I was discharged from Colchester Military Prison having served my sentence of six months and was immediately taken into the custody of the Regimental Police of the Guards Depot in Caterham, for my transportation south. I warranted a lance sergeant and corporal who had been sent to escort me. The lance sergeant had evidently already achieved more than twelve years service, the medal ribbons on his battle dress signified this and of his time in the Great War. He was a big man with fists the size of hams, I had learnt a costly lesson to which my head still bore the scar of messing around with one of these veterans.

'You'll not give me any trouble and run off will you?' He said suspiciously. I looked at him.

'No Sergeant, I won’t.'

'Good, then we won't be needing these.' He gestured towards the small holdall that he was carrying; it was evident that, the bag carried handcuffs and other items that the two soldiers might have required on the trip, if their charge did not prove a willing one. I nodded in understanding.

  'No Sergeant, you won’t be needing those.' With that we made our way to the motor transport section where transport was arranged to take us to the railway station. We sat and waited, within the hour the clerk shouted over to us from his desk.

'Sergeant, follow the driver over there. He's off to the rail head to pick up supplies, he can drop you at the same time.' We followed as indicated, the truck was one of those general haulage types with a canvas back, which were commonly in use at the time by the army to transport everything from men to rubbish,  painted in olive drab, as was everything that the army touched.

We went to the rear and taking the pins out of each side of the tailgate, swung it down. A rope dangled from the middle of the canvas frame which covered the back of the vehicle. Each of us in turn placed a hob nailed boot in the foot hold in the tail gate and holding the rope pulled ourselves up. I went first, throwing my kitbag onto the back of the truck. It was usual for trucks such as this to contain plank seating back to back, running down the centre of the truck. This truck was going to the railhead to pick up provisions, and as a result these had been removed.

It would only be a short journey, so we stood looking out of the back hanging on to the metal frame. We were waiting for a working party to join us, conversation was sparse, the corporal unbuttoned the top pocket button of his battle dress and took out a packet of untipped Woodbines. He offered one to the Lance Sergeant and then hesitating for a moment he caught my eye, my look must have given away my craving.

'Do you smoke?’ Six months, had elapsed since the beginning of my incarceration. I had learnt and experienced many new things in this time, smoking was one of them.

'Yes Corporal,' I reached over and took one from the packet that was proffered to me. A match was struck which all three of us shared, the initial smoke as we lit our cigarettes caught under the canvas and then billowed out from the back. I inhaled deeply, I was not used to the amount of tobacco and for a moment I felt light headed and giddy, quite a pleasing sensation. The Sergeant narrowed his eyes like a sniper, looking out of the rear of the truck and remarked.

'Here comes the working party, we'll be off in a mo'.' We moved to the side as the working party and their escort mounted the truck. They looked enviously at the cigarettes we were smoking. I knew full well that they were limited to two a day, they would be waiting until dinner this evening for their second.

The tailgate was swung up and the fastening pins inserted securing it. The Cab doors at the front of the truck slammed shut and the engine roared into life. The truck lurched forward, causing us all to secure our grip on the metal frame, the buildings which had been my home and prison at the same time, moved out of sight as the truck accelerated past them. Through the gateway and past the white raised barrier with its sentries. I looked at them and the camp, as it receded into the distance. I felt no joy or elation, just the satisfaction of knowing that I had come through this chapter of my life. I drew deeply on the cigarette the paper burning fast and the tobacco crackling like a small forest fire, holding the last of the cigarette between my thumb and index finger as the heat began to burn, I took it from my lips and flicked it into the wake of the truck, the embers scattering on the road and exhaled hard.