Author:
Dave P.
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Date Posted: 13:16:09 04/18/05 Mon
OK, as promised, part one!
I joined the Junior Leaders Regt Royal Artillery, Gamecock Barracks, Bramcote, Nuneaton, on May 1st 1962. 15 years old, 5' 2", 6st ringing wet, snot nosed, 2 years out of short trousers and the first time away from home. I was shitting myself and didn't get much relief for the next thirteen weeks. The period of Recruits Troop.
That first six weeks, we where subjected to the most horrendous period of Beasting, bullying and harassment that it is possible to imagine ( though no one actually laid a hand on us, that would come later!) by the permanent staff Troop Sgt and his Bdrs. Marching Drill (till we were ready to drop), kit cleaning (including bulling everything till it blinded you and was never shiny enough), kit inspections (that never proved good enough), changing parades (that were never quick enough), P.T. and the constant barrage of screamed insults and bad language that quickly became the only language that we understood. If it wasn't prefixed by F**king, we ignored it (a bit like playing 'Simon said') but at our peril if we did. This went on from one hour before the official, Reveille until well past the official, lights out. It was nothing to be literally turfed out of your pit at two in the morning for an impromptu kit/locker inspection. God help you if there was a stitch out of place or a finger mark on any shiny surface. Your bedding would more than likely go out the window and your locker would be tipped over, thereby making sure that you got no more sleep that night, not if you wanted to be ready for morning inspection and parade.
That first seven weeks, or so, was sheer bloody murder and many the night I cried myself to sleep (quietly, of course, didn't want to be branded a f****ink poofter) and I felt like a zombie most of the time. Life in boys service was divided into three terms of approx 12/13 weeks and where referred to as 1/62, 2/62, 3/62 etc. Much like a public school (and we enjoyed much the same holiday periods too). At the seven week mark, we had a semi passing out parade. Everyone who made the grade was given a 36hr pass and allowed to go into Nuneaton for the first time. Sadly, your truly, wasn't one of the lucky few. That Sat night, as the lads who had made it came back to the block, the tales that they were telling of Nuneaton where absolutely un-bloody-believable! The bus service from the camp into Nuneaton bus station, was called 'Monty's Bus Service' and was a tatty old single decker coach (or as we called them in those days charabanc, go on look it up!). Anyway, the story was that as the coach pulled into the bus station, it was greeted by a bevy of local girls, all looking for a date. It transpired that the ratio of young girls to young boys in the town was 4 -1 in the boys favour. If you couldn't pull in Nuneaton in the sixties, you must have been a 'munter' of phenomenal proportions. This news, more than anything else, spurred us to higher efforts and ensured that, most of us, managed to pass out of Recruits Troop at the end of term and go to our respective Bty's.
I forgot to mention that the only civvy clothes we were allowed, was Regimental mufti. White shirt (pressed and starched), Regt tie (pressed and starched), charcoal grey trousers (with razor sharp creases and NO shine!), brown/black leather belt, polished but not necessarily bulled???), grey or black socks, black shoes, highly polished. Moderate 'winkle pickers' were allowed but nothing too pointed. To get out of the gate on Sat afternoon, we had to pass the inspection of the permanent R.P Staff, and in particular, one Bdr Dobson. 'Dobbo' to his mates, certainly not to his face though. This process could take anything from ten minutes to a couple of hours, depending on how many times you had to race back to the block, polish shoes, press shirt/tie/trousers and, if you where really unlucky! wash/dry/press you shirt. The rewards were well worth it though and there was a great shedding of virginity, of both sexes in Nuneaton in the sixties............to be cont.
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