Part 2 – London, Public Duties, Sybil - Chapter 9 - Dispatched to Wellington Barracks - 1933

 

While Alex was beginning his training at Sandhurst, I was, for my part passing out in my more modest way from the Guards Depot. I had been granted the weekend off before joining my battalion, and having no family to speak of I had stayed at the camp until my departure on the Monday morning.

The train from Caterham clattered along, forty of us in all had found ourselves heading towards Waterloo. We would disperse on arrival at the station to go our separate ways, to differing household regiments and customs. We were the lucky ones we would be supplying the battalions in London and Windsor. The few Grenadiers I knew were quite fortunate, Wellington Barracks being only a stones throw from Waterloo.

On leaving the station we could walk to the Thames then along the Embankment, cross Westminster Bridge with the houses of parliament on our left and down on to Birdcage Walk with the Barracks on the left. Remembering not to go to far though, as a little bit further on and to the right is Buckingham Palace. We wouldn't be the first to manage to miss Wellington Barracks and end up at the black gates asking the sentry stood outside where we were! The retort from the sentry under his breath would be, “to the right you silly sods.” But it is understandable, that sometimes with the pea soupers and smog, it's sometimes hard to see your hand in front of your face at midday.

Alas, there would be no occasion for me, or my compatriots to lose ourselves on our first visit to the big smoke, for as soon as we left our steam train and made our way with our kit bags up to the platform barrier we could hear a voice from the other side. Yes, we were being met by a corporal, he was dressed in what was called his brown number two dress uniform, buttoned all the way up to the collar and his unmistakable red banded forage cap and grenade cap badge on the front. He displayed several medal ribbons on his breast, and was due to achieve in the next year or so his full service time of twenty two years and his retirement. Until that time, he would nurse maid crows like us just joining the battalion.

I and the others made our way over to him and he ticked us off his list, waiting until all his fledglings had gathered. He managed to point all the other strays in the direction of their units, with some though the instructions had to be repeated several times. This may have had something to do with the fact that we had all been instructed for the last several months on the absolute necessity to perform any task without question, that indeed might be needed again if there was a war and we would be expected to be scythed down like many of our fathers had been in the previous war.

This had left many of our number beginning that institutionalised lifestyle which makes them reliant on others, for many it was just the fact that travel was still a new experience for them. We waited until the last strays had been sent on their way, via their travel warrants perused by our corporal to ensure they went to the right underground station. After which we were gathered our baggage and fell in. Our bags dictated that we could not march out of the station, but we nevertheless formed a squad and made our way outside under his instruction. My thoughts of a slow amble along the Thames and seeing the sights for an hour or two before arriving at my destination, had now expired as on leaving the station we saw the usual solid uncomfortable army lorry placed at our disposal. Its canvas sides would shut out all but the view from the back, this was good enough for us to all crowd around half leaning out of the back.

We drove over Westminster bridge, looking down the river we could see tower bridge, then over and past the houses of parliament with Big Ben in our vision. The lorry swept round parliament square past Westminster Abbey and not down into Birdcage Walk as would have been my choice, but down the rear past the Army & Navy stores and Petty France. My first thoughts on seeing the marvels of empire were disappointment. I had always thought perhaps like a fairy tale of the sheer magnitude and grandeur of these buildings which controlled the largest empire ever known to man. Having only ever seen these ships of state in newspapers, my disappointment was to the scale and magnitude that I had given these buildings in my mind. Moreover, I had given these buildings in my imagination some sort of personality, a mystique, which now seeing these grimy Gothic buildings, all but to quickly evaporated. My brief sightseeing of London was cut short by our arrival at Wellington Barracks, we had not as I thought gone into the barracks on what would have been my chosen route but arrived at what might be termed the back entrance. I found out much later that none of the resident battalions vehicles drove down Birdcage Walk, as it was put to me.

“Just imagine what the King would say if he was looking out of the front of Buckingham Palace and saw a dirty army lorry?” Indeed it worried me the moment I was told, I believed he would have just thought, that there was an Army lorry going into an army barracks, how young and ignorant I must have been, for I gave no answer. Sometimes, the wisest course can be to stay silent.

It was fast approaching lunchtime as we leapt down from the lorry. The corporal, who was escorting us, took us to out transit or “crow” accommodation, to be inducted into the battalion before we would be allotted to platoons. It was his responsibility to ensure that we would be taken to different stores and equipped. One of the stores if I remember the name secured to the wall outside was called the “Home Service Stores”, its purpose was to equip us with those fineries which would allow us to stand outside the Royal Palaces and not be objectionable, in case the King happened to look out of his window.

We had already received several items of equipment during our training such as our buff-belts and straps these cow hide belts straps had to be whitened with an emulsion like substance commonly referred to as blanco. Our ammunition boots with the regulation amount of studs in and bulled to a mirror like finish and of course the leather laces, which always had a habit of snapping at the most inopportune time. In addition to these, we were equipped with our winter and summer home service clothing; for the summer this consisted of two under-shirts, the collarless type which you probably would have seen many working men wearing. The sleeves and bodies of which, seemed to have been modelled to fit Goliath, it was a constant battle to stop the sleeves from slipping and poking out from the sleeve of the tunic.

Oh yes, two red tunics. I would like to say one-on and one-in-the-wash, but the master tailor on your fitting would tell you which was your best and which was your second. They were sent to be cleaned, perhaps once a year, they did see the steam press though many times. The tunics were thick and heavy and weighed several pounds. They were done up to the neck and in the summer, you boiled in them. The trousers were black heavy wool, same as the red tunic and with a thin red strip piped down the side of them. You kept them at exactly the right length to the boots, by adjusting the braces which were essential wear.

If you were young and slim, the straps would bite into your shoulders and leave red marks. All this would be topped off with the bearskin cap, as the name suggests the cap that you wore is the skin of a bear stretched over a wicker frame. On the right side of this a white plume was inserted, to denote the regiment you were part of. All guards regiments save one have a plume and depending on the position that the regiment would take in the “thin red line”. The plumeless regiment formed the centre of the line. The idea being that you could always see by the plume who was to the right and left of the line.

The wicker basket inside the bearskin even with its basic padding invariably dug into your head. Especially, when wearing this heavy contraption for long periods of time. Keeping the whole thing on your head was the chin strap, or as it is termed the kerb chain; a piece of black leather that hooks into the inside of the bearskin and has a chain of closely fitting brass rings sown to the front of it. Other than wearing this rigmarole, the other annoyance of course, was the cleaning of the whole ensemble, which you became quickly adept at.

A grey cape completed the whole ensemble, these were distributed in case it rained. It wasn't so much to keep the guardsman dry, but to save damage to the uniform. If heavy rain came into contact with the blancoed belt and straps, this would run like mascara onto the lovely uniform ruining it. Winter was a far easier operation; the greatcoat was made of the same heavy wool material in grey. It’s strange to think that the summer tunics were actually more padded and warmer than the greatcoat. You did not wear a tunic underneath it as you might expect, but a jumper to keep out the cold. At least if the King did look out of his window, whether in winter or summer, we would not offend him.

From the home service store we went to the general service stores and eventually had our complete allocation of equipment. We spent the next few weeks being instructed how to clean and present our new equipment, being paraded in front of the master tailor to ensure our red tunics fitted as best as could be expected.

The master tailor resplendent in his three piece suit and bowler hat in place of a uniform, another quirk of the army, looked at each of us in turn and made numerous chalk marks on the uniforms, several of my contemporaries were sent back to the store to change their tunics. Sometimes he would detect a colour change and write “WO” in large letters on it; I believe this was for written off. One of the drill sergeants accompanied him paid particular attention to the bearskins and running his hand through them rocked them on your head to see if they were the right size and more importantly would stay on in the wind. Again, several were returned until at long last we all ended up with something moderately acceptable to our tormentors.

We were rehearsed in what they called battalion drill. This was meant to demonstrate to us the differences in things such as speed of drill movements, from that which we had been taught at the depot. Lastly we rehearsed the guard mounts we would have to perform at the various palaces such as; Buckingham Palace �" Buck House as we colloquially called it - and Windsor Castle.

Another memorable day was our welcome to the battalion by the Regimental Sergeant Major. We had been placed on his orders one morning, those wanting to go sick, those having committed misdemeanours and those new boys having come from the depot all had to face him. We stood there that morning, we had not had breakfast, the time for the Regimental Sergeant Majors orders was placed so that you either had breakfast or went to see him. If you wished to go sick, you would not have time to do both and after all, if you were sick, why would you require breakfast!

We stood in the queue in the corridor with our corporal who briefed us on the activity about to take place, shuffling along until it was our turn. We heard the shout from inside his office.

'DOOR' as it swung open a voice from inside echoed

'Guardsman, Right turn, quick march, left right left,' at the usual fast rate the guardsman propelled himself from the RSMs office. It was now our turn, when there were several of you on the same charge or in our case welcome, it was customary that you all marched in together, one after another, the collective name was commonly referred to as: “a train.” I believe there were about ten of us that morning forming the train, we had by our old corporal been briefed on the procedure, even down to Big T’s; parting present!  We were called to attention; the call came from his office.

'Ten guardsman for Sergeant Major's orders' or wording similar, the quick march came, the train, we hurtled into his room, wheeled round so that we were at a right angle to his desk, we were called to mark time and when all were in front of his desk the command to halt and left turn were given, we slammed our boots into the polished floor making it reverberate as we all stood to attention facing him. I had this overwhelming urge to raise my hand and pull it down sharply whilst making a train whistle sound, as if we had just arrived at the station, I decided that it would be a more prudent course of action just to let events unfold before me. I believe that my wish to do this was not out of devilment, but as a result of the excitement I felt at arriving at what I hoped would be my family and friends for the foreseeable future.

The Picket Sergeant, read out the indictment, after which the Sergeant Major read each of our names from a sheet in front of him to which we responded in the affirmative. His eyes seemed to burn an image of each of us on his memory as we confirmed who we were. His welcome was swift lasting perhaps less than five minutes and mainly talking of how we should look to the examples and history of the past to model us for the future. We warned as to what would happen if we crossed him and having heard this we then waited for his fait accompli. This was usually when he stood up at the end, it had gone into folklore that sometimes he would to prove this point by punching one of the intake, just to give them a taster of what to expect should they not heed him.

He had in his earlier days been the army heavy weight boxing champion, his nose testified to this, and his build was more of a mountain than a man, so as he came to the end of his speech and  he stood up, I noticed that I had the unfortunate position of being directly in front of him. I believe I flinched and tensed quite visibly expecting the full force of this hulk of a man to demolish me in one punch, but he placed his hands on the desk.

'Not today.' At which point the reverse procedure was called for us to leave the room. In the corridor outside we breathed a sigh of relief, in a strange way; I felt an anti-climax that he had not abused at least one of us with his ham sized fists. I felt as if I had been short changed, but the feeling only lasted for a moment.

We went later in the day to the Adjutants memorandum where we were welcomed and then later that week finally were placed on the CO's - Commanding Officers - memorandum, where the colonel performed a similar task of welcoming us and informing us of the rewards which would be ours if we stuck at it and how lucky we were, with countless thousands out there wishing that they could have three meals a day. It may sound strange now, but he was right, 1933 was not a good year to seek employment even if you had an education or skills, and I had neither, so I was grateful.

Our induction period was now complete and we were assigned to our various rifle companies and platoons to take up our duties. I was relieved as being part of crow platoon as it was commonly referred to, everywhere we went, whether it was the cook house or being taken between stores to gain our full complement of equipment we would be greeted by someone making a rather odd bird noise 'AWK, AWK' or something similar to indicate we were new, but at least it seemed to make them happy.

It was about this time that I had my seventeenth birthday, I remember having just being assigned to number two company, number three platoon, on the second night I was put in my place by the senior guardsman; this was customary to ensure that I did not get too big for my boots at the outset. I knew it would happen, forewarned is forearmed as the old saying goes and it always happens after they have returned from an evening of drinking. It is better to comply, to get it over with. The non-commissioned officers in the accommodation always turned a blind eye, and to complain or resist too much would usually only alienate you from your official welcome.

Shortly after this episode the men in my dormitory, being no more than two or three years older than myself, but believing that they had already seen enough of life decided that we should all go out and I should benefit from their wisdom and far greater experience of life. Thus early on that same evening a small group of us, probably no more than six, arrived at the guardroom in jovial spirits. The guard commander, who was from our own company observed our high spirits and enquired, where we were off to? He laughed as we signed out of the barracks, with a note of caution to my escorts for the evening, he advised that they should bring me back in one piece!

We left and proceeded across Green Park and into Soho, where there were several public houses which we frequented regularly and more importantly in which we were welcomed. We started at the closest quite near St James Palace a little place down a side street where the beer was as it was described to me by the others good and cheap to get you started for the evening. Progressing our way up Piccadilly past naughty Eros, an omen for the night and into Soho to one or two more pubs, here were several establishments where the hostess seemed quite inviting, asking us to go in as we passed. The older members of the group knew we couldn't afford these venues and guided us past them.

We trawled the public houses getting quite merry, the smog closing round us as we wandered through the Soho Streets with their street lamps and shop lights burning holes in it. We went from public house to public house until last orders were called “Time gentlemen please” and a few minutes later “now c'mon, lets be 'aving you.” There were several establishments which operated the private party scheme, this was a lock-in for after-hours drinking. It was meant to be illegal for money to exchange hands between the landlord and the customer, but if no money exchanged hands then it was classed as a private party, and within the law. There was no reason that the landlord could not ask people if he felt so inclined to continue drinking, the landlord at closing time would always check that he knew who was in his pub.

These were the days before Soho became rife with tourists. Many of the men that frequented the public houses in this area, lived in the streets and tenements which fell between the main arteries of the city. There were many tens of thousands crammed in the area between Regents Street at the bottom Charing Cross Road to the other and Oxford Street, between this area were enough working men living in the slums to fill one hundred such pubs as the one we were in. These were the only escape that many men, including ourselves had. We had no wireless set in our barrack room, the pub always had a piano which would be the only music that we might here for days on end.

The picture houses which had exploded in popularity were always crowded with queues going around the block. On evening showings, as soon as you got near the entrance, the “House Full” sign was placed out front. Not even standing room at the back of the auditorium. However, we could always find a little pub with enough space for us all to squeeze in and the landlord only too happy to relieve us of the few shillings we had available too spend. We were good customers to most of these pubs, being single men with a wage, meant most welcomed us with open arms.

We drank until the room seemed warmer than usual that evening and I remember the landlord unbarring the door so that we might leave.  We staggered half-drunk up into central Soho. Dick, one of the elders of our group having just turned twenty, had grown a moustache as was the custom to show his mature years. Informed us of a nice lady Madame Yvonne, whom “we should go and see”. The address was not far! We walked along giggling like school girls. Many of the evenings revellers had now cleared and noises could be heard coming from inside those premises that adopted a similar scheme from where we had just left.

Turning up a side street, there were a number of open doorways to the side of shops. A bare light    glowing from these dingy places, a card pinned to the door informing you of the models available. We crowded round the doorway, Dick's finger pointed to the card and as he read it his fingers followed the words. “Madame Yvonne, French Model First Floor”. We all stood transfixed, it was as if we had caught sight of the Holy Grail. We all piled outside into the street as if the corridor had ears and would hear our plotting. Dick and Mark, who were the oldest amongst us decided that they would go up and make the necessary arrangements. They ascended the creaking staircase and after a few minutes returned to us outside with the necessary information, which was mainly the cost. Sufficient funds were gathered together and I was dispatched to the first floor. I could hear the hilarity transpiring behind me as I left and mounted those stairs. The staircase was bare and lit by naked bulbs which gave a stark white light from the darkness of the street; the old dirty treads creaked and groaned as I went up, turning onto the first floor I stopped for a second to gain courage to proceed. The shapes the bulbs threw on the wall danced like vestals across my path, a small card had been affixed with a drawing pin to the brown painted door in front of me. It was in the same hand, “Madame Yvonne”. I knocked lightly on the door, so light that I thought I might have to repeat the operation, that no one would hear me. I hoped to a certain degree that no one would, and that I might slip away, in a few minutes.

That was not to be, the door opened several inches and a woman, perhaps of seventy years of age, with dyed black hair pulled back into a bun, in a dress as black as her hair stood at the door, she was a lot shorter than I, and I towered over her.

'Yes, what do you want?' Her manner was stern and suspicious; the words nearly spat at me like barbs from her mouth. My reply was hesitant and unsure such was the ferocity of her words on me  

'My friends just came up... I've come to see Madame Yvonne.' The suspicious look seemed to remove itself, and in it place came her business look, her dark brown eyes penetrating me.

'It's ten shillings for half an hour, and another if you go over.' As I hesitated she added, 'Madam is very popular.' She held her hand out.

‘Show me the money.’ I went to place the note in it.

‘Not me, Give it to Madam, when you enter.’ She relaxed the door and allowed me in, as I entered she pointed along the corridor,

'Madame Yvonne is in the end room... Knock and go in she is expecting you.' It was a small flat with perhaps three rooms; I believe that each room may have had the same occupation. Though I did not feel at liberty to ask, I knocked and entered as instructed on the bed was a woman reclining she would have been in her mid-thirties, she had a voluptuous figure and was dressed in a satin oriental styled dressing gown, as was the fashion. She left the bed when I entered and came over to me.

I noticed that the room was dimly lit by one small lamp and the shade was heavy enough that the glow in the room was quite low. She presented herself to me as Madame Yvonne though her accent was more of Preston than Paris. My description of her would be of a kind person, she knew her profession well and seeing my nervousness put me at ease. I will not dwell on this point, but say. I did not stay for more than my ten shillings and as I left I felt a certain amount of respect for a lady whom I thought had earned her money more respectfully than any Lord or Lady marrying for title and here was a certain honesty, which you most certainly would not find there.

I returned outside to the amusement of my friends, they had been waiting very patiently, their main topic on sighting me being that I had really made things last, and they would never bring me again.

I laughed with them at their amusement and agreed with everything they said. Underneath though, I was sad, I was sad that behind me in that small room, I had left a thoroughly decent and respectable woman. During my absence, one of the other younger members of our party, it transpired was also due to have a birthday in a couple of weeks. He did not possess the required funds to make the visit, at which point a whip round took place to also allow him, those unforeseen delights. However, after the money was collected he refused point blank to venture up the stairs. He made a small scene, shouting that he would not see any dirty tart. After several minutes of cajoling and haranguing by all those present, it was clear that his mind was set and that no manner of persuasion would have him mount those stairs.

To a degree, this state of affairs made me happy, that this pimply youth would not venture there. My jubilation was short lived as Mark being an opportunist and with enough Dutch courage in him took the money and mounted the stairs. We looked at each other, I had no reason to wait for him to return and listen to the sordid little details of the stories in which he would relate. I excused myself from the others, and set off in the opposite direction out onto Charing Cross Road, up into Tottenham Court Road from where I cut along finding myself passing Tavistock Square and upwards to Gordon Square.

Though I spent much of my time with my contemporaries, it was good, every once on a while, just to be by myself. The houses in Gordon Square were enormous with grand entrance halls and colonnaded porches I walked past the black railings and gazed through them enviously. Sometimes, I was able to observe the people to whom I credited ownership of the house, coming in or out. On these evenings they were invariably dressed in tails and the ladies in their gowns and furs. I would stop to let them pass in front of me, sometimes they thanked me and I would walk on. I did not stop out of respect for my betters in letting them pass, just a natural inquisitiveness that I had, I enjoyed observing them.

I would continue and would hear noises from the steps that lead down to the cellars of these same properties. There I would observe the servants of the house, perhaps a footman or maid performing some mundane task which was part of their servitude. If they looked up, I would wish them good evening and continue. I, like most of London was alone on those walks. At length I would walk all the way back down to the Strand and past the Savoy. On weekends when the windows were open I could sometimes hear the music emanating from it. The same dance music which was broadcast over the radio. I listened and imagined what it was like to be inside. I watched the people going in and out, perhaps it was better to listen to it on the radio and keep the mystique.

I so wanted to go, but unlike Cinderella no fairy was going to wave a wand and let me go in. It is curious that I wished to have the adventure of attending, to see and experience and perhaps savour the atmosphere, ultimately I would turn away, without too much thought, after all, I had, in my short life had greater rejections. I headed back along past the Ritz cutting across Green Park back to the Barracks and my life. I would rise a few hours later, have a hearty breakfast at the cook house with my friends and be grateful for what I had and leave last nights thoughts behind me.