Open Writing

After the mighty military action in Dad's Army, in which I outwitted every Staffel and confused every Generalleutenant in the Luftwaffe, I felt that I was wasting my time waiting for my call up with the RAF. Obviously my military genius would be of far more use to the army than to the indifferent RAF, who considered that they could win the war without me; besides, the way things were going, the war would be over before I would have had a chance to fire a shot.

The army it was. Nothing but the best - it would have to be the elite, the Brigade of Guards, and in view of my Welsh ancestry, the Welsh Guards. I no longer trusted Recruiting Offices, so I decided to go direct to the Welsh Guards Regimental Headquarters in Birdcage Walk, where I stated my intention. To my surprise, I was ushered in to see the Regimental Lieutenant Colonel, a kindly man with a row of war ribbons and a welcoming handshake and smile.

The interview was pleasant, his first question being that of a typical Welshman, "So, you were at Tonbridge; were you in the rugby football team?"

"Yes, Sir, I was; I love the game, I have been playing it since I was five." There was an intake the very next day and he added my name to the list. There followed a hectic dash for another medical, then a quick haircut, short back and sides, and the next day I reported to the Guards' Depot at Caterham, conveniently located next door to a lunatic asylum. All the months I had been waiting for the RAF call up, had taken me as many minutes to join the Brigade of Guards.

I found myself one of a motley collection of twenty-five apprehensive civilians outside a hut. A more knowledgeable recruit, looking through a window, observed, "We've each got two biscuits." This seemed to me a nice welcome; no doubt a sergeant would soon arrive and give us a friendly talk over tea and biscuits.

The door of the hut opened and a large Guardsman appeared, who reviewed us with evident displeasure. "I am Trained Soldier Langford. You will address me as Trained Soldier Langford'. The sergeant of your squad, God help you, is Sergeant Daly. Right! Now come in and pick yourself a bed."

A bed? The 'bed' was three planks of wood placed on two wooden trestles, three inches above the ground. The planks had been so scrubbed by thousands of earlier recruits that they were whiter than the whitewash on the walls. No tea. No biscuits. The 'biscuits' were two halves of a horsehair mattress, each two inches thick: some swore that it was more comfortable to sleep on the wooden planks only, and did so. But not for long; we were soon so dog-tired at the end of each day that we would have slept anywhere.

"Right! Get fell in outside, in three ranks. Sergeant Daly is coming. Get a move on yourselves." We watched with interest, mixed with apprehension. Frfty eyes watched Sergeant Daly approach. His tunic was immaculate, his boots shone like mirrors, while the low-cut peak of his cap almost, but not quite, covered his eyes.

His eyes always saw us, all of us as well as each one of us, simultaneously. His ears always heard us, even a furtive whisper two hundred yards away. Silently, he reviewed us embryonic Guardsmen as we stood there in three ragged lines.

"I've never seen anything like it in ail my life, Trained Soldier Langford." He did not say it; he never 'said' anything; he bawled it with a bull of a voice that could have been heard at London Bridge.

"Fifteen years I've served with The Colours, fifteen years and I get this lot. What a bloody, useless lot; pity the day I was born." Unanimous, silent agreement flitted through the minds of the twenty-five recruits.

Then he continued with his words of welcome, "STAND STILL!...I said, 'STAND STILL!' You're all moving about like a lot of drooping lilies. By God, you might have broken your bloody mothers' hearts, but you won't break my bastard, I can tell you. When I've finished with you lot, when I've finished with you, they won't even recognise you."

Sergeant Daly's welcoming speech was interrupted by the arrival of the Regimental Sergeant-Major; a mountain of a man, his brilliant Sam Brown belt looking like a hoop around a barrel as he stopped and stood there like the Colossus of Rhodes. His gold-peaked cap turned in all directions to encompass us all.

"By heavens, Sergeant Daly, where did you dig up this heap? Gets worse every time." He strode towards us and halted in front of me. My eyes were just about level with his fly-buttons. "YOU!" he barked with his bellowing voice, "YOU!", which set my eardrums vibrating painfully (and is now the cause, I am sure, of my old age tinnitus). His huge hand waved the point of his pace-stick half an inch from my nose, "YOU! Hold your chin up. And YOU! And YOU! and YOU!" he went on, his pace-stick pointing out the sinners. Like a flash, twenty-five chins pointed to the murky clouds above as fifty eyes sought the heavens, in vain, for salvation and inspiration.

"My word, Sergeant Daly," he continued, "talk about Fred Karno's army. Sort them out, Sergeant Daly, in double quick time. They're too idle, too idle. Get a move on 'em; warm them up. They look an extra dozy lot to me. Bless my soul, bless my soul, is this the best they can give us these days? Carry on please, Sergeant Daly." And he strode off, muttering what was to become a catch phrase among us, "Never seen anything like it in all me life....never seen anything like it in all me life," fading into the distance.

Sergeant Daly was not to be upstaged. He paraded up and down our ranks, staring at each one of us, and then stopped behind me. (Lord! Please, not me again; somebody from Dad's Army must have tipped them off about my past performance — probably that blasted Brigadier.) Bellowing in my ear, Sergeant Daly bawled, "YOU! One pace forr-arrd MARCH!" I tried to move but could not do so as his fist held the back of my coat, anchoring me to the ground.

"Yer can't move, can yer? And do you know why yer can't move? Eh? Well, do yer? Well, I'll tell yer why yer can't move then, — it's because yer hair's so bloody long I'm standing on it." I started to laugh, as did some of the others,

"Quiet!" he ordered, "wipe those bloody smiles off your faces. By God, when I've finished with you lot, you won't remember what the hell a smile was! You will move everywhere at the double. You are not, and will not be, allowed to walk until you have learnt to walk like Guardsmen. Right now you are NOT Guardsmen; you are recruits. That's all, just recruits.

"Trained Soldier Langford, take 'em away. Take 'em all away. Put 'em in uniform. Put boots on 'em and get 'em all a haircut. You'd think they were a bunch of recruits for the bloody London Symphony Orchestra instead of the Brigade of Guards. Take 'em all away, Trained Soldier Langford. Get them all out of my sight and don't bring them back until they've got rid of their civilian clothes, are in uniform and fit to be seen. Carry on, please, Trained Solder Langford."

We were taken at once for a haircut. A haircut? Yesterday I had a short, back and sides. This time I and all the others came out looking like Buddhist monks in tie Shaolin Temple.