was a Class Three Tradesman Driver/Operator, so I got a few shillings more per day.
JANKERS
J ankers can be painful. It usually means confined to barracks and menial tasks like, “Soldier! Pick up that menial cigarette-end.” My first jankers was for causing a fire. In the hard winter of 1940, coal fires were forbidden except on Sundays. But I was freezing on a Saturday. My bed was on the first floor, directly in line with the North Pole. The window was over the coal shed. With some rope and a length of bucket it was simple; Edgington went down, filled it, and I’d haul up. Suddenly, with a full bucket ascending, a snap inspection! “Orderly Officer! Eyes Front!” (Where else?) I turned, managed to face him, arms behind me. I nearly got away with it, but Edgington gave a tug on the rope to haul up, and I was pulled backwards out of the window. The game was up. I blamed Edgington. Edgington blamed me. We blamed the Germans, Florrie Ford and finally the Warsaw Concerto. Captain Martin gave us a roasting: “It’s a degrading trick depriving other men of their fuel ration! Indeed, it’s a disgrace!” he said, standing with his back to a roaring coal fire on a Monday. Most jankers time was spent lagging the plumbing; this was called ‘up yer pipe’; another fatigue was peeling spuds. We delighted in peeling spuds to the size of peas. It made no difference, they cooked the peel as well.
It’s not too difficult to become a military criminal. Not shaving, dirty boots, calling a sergeant ‘darling’, or selling your Bren Carrier. Any Sunday, down Petticoat Lane, you could find some of the lads selling lorries, jerrycans, bullets, webbing. “Git your luverly Anti-Aircraft Guns ‘ere.” It got so that Military Depots were shopping there for supplies. Often London-based regiments sent their (quarter Blokes out for ‘a gross of three-inch Mortars and a dozen bananas’.
It was common knowledge that Caledonian Road Market was a German supply depot. The true story behind Hess: he flew here for cut-price black-market underwear for the S.S., but on arrival he chickened out when Churchill told him the price, unconditional surrender. An easy way to go ‘on the hooks’ was not saluting commissioned ranks. “Ewe har not salutin’ the hofficer—ewe har salutin’ the King’s huniform.” Gunner Stover took this as Gospel. At reveille he would wake Lieutenant Budden with a cup of tea, turn, face Budden’s uniform hanging on the wall, salute it, and exit. “There’s no need to take it that far, Stover,” said Budden.
“I can’t help it sir—I come from a military family—if I didn’t salute that huniform—I feel I was livin’ a lie sir.”
“But,” reasoned Budden, “when no one’s looking there’s no point.”
“Beggin’ your pardon sir—but there is! Many a time, when I’m alone, cleanin’ up your billet, when I finish, I face your best battledress—and I salute it—no one sees me, but deep down I know I’m on my honour, alone with tradition.”
“How long have you been in the Army, Stover?”
“Thirty-two years sir.”
“Very good,” said Budden.
We had ‘Saluting Traps’. A crowd of us round a corner smoking would get the tip ‘Officer Coming’. We would set off at ten-second intervals and watch as the officer saluted his way to paralysis of the arm.
DIEPPE
O n August 18 th , 1942, we were learning how to shoot Bren and Vickers machine-guns at Fairbright. The range was on the cliff facing out to sea. Our instructors were from the Brigade of Guards. We stood at ease while a Grenadier Guards Sergeant told us the intricacies of the “Vickers 303 Water-Cooled Machine-Gun. I will first teach yew which is the safe end and which is the naughty end. Next, I will show ew how to load, point and fire the weapon. Following this, I will dismantle the gun and reassemble it. It’s not difficult; I have a three-year-old daughter at home who does it in six minutes. Anyone here fired one
JANKERS
J ankers can be painful. It usually means confined to barracks and menial tasks like, “Soldier! Pick up that menial cigarette-end.” My first jankers was for causing a fire. In the hard winter of 1940, coal fires were forbidden except on Sundays. But I was freezing on a Saturday. My bed was on the first floor, directly in line with the North Pole. The window was over the coal shed. With some rope and a length of bucket it was simple; Edgington went down, filled it, and I’d haul up. Suddenly, with a full bucket ascending, a snap inspection! “Orderly Officer! Eyes Front!” (Where else?) I turned, managed to face him, arms behind me. I nearly got away with it, but Edgington gave a tug on the rope to haul up, and I was pulled backwards out of the window. The game was up. I blamed Edgington. Edgington blamed me. We blamed the Germans, Florrie Ford and finally the Warsaw Concerto. Captain Martin gave us a roasting: “It’s a degrading trick depriving other men of their fuel ration! Indeed, it’s a disgrace!” he said, standing with his back to a roaring coal fire on a Monday. Most jankers time was spent lagging the plumbing; this was called ‘up yer pipe’; another fatigue was peeling spuds. We delighted in peeling spuds to the size of peas. It made no difference, they cooked the peel as well.
It’s not too difficult to become a military criminal. Not shaving, dirty boots, calling a sergeant ‘darling’, or selling your Bren Carrier. Any Sunday, down Petticoat Lane, you could find some of the lads selling lorries, jerrycans, bullets, webbing. “Git your luverly Anti-Aircraft Guns ‘ere.” It got so that Military Depots were shopping there for supplies. Often London-based regiments sent their (quarter Blokes out for ‘a gross of three-inch Mortars and a dozen bananas’.
It was common knowledge that Caledonian Road Market was a German supply depot. The true story behind Hess: he flew here for cut-price black-market underwear for the S.S., but on arrival he chickened out when Churchill told him the price, unconditional surrender. An easy way to go ‘on the hooks’ was not saluting commissioned ranks. “Ewe har not salutin’ the hofficer—ewe har salutin’ the King’s huniform.” Gunner Stover took this as Gospel. At reveille he would wake Lieutenant Budden with a cup of tea, turn, face Budden’s uniform hanging on the wall, salute it, and exit. “There’s no need to take it that far, Stover,” said Budden.
“I can’t help it sir—I come from a military family—if I didn’t salute that huniform—I feel I was livin’ a lie sir.”
“But,” reasoned Budden, “when no one’s looking there’s no point.”
“Beggin’ your pardon sir—but there is! Many a time, when I’m alone, cleanin’ up your billet, when I finish, I face your best battledress—and I salute it—no one sees me, but deep down I know I’m on my honour, alone with tradition.”
“How long have you been in the Army, Stover?”
“Thirty-two years sir.”
“Very good,” said Budden.
We had ‘Saluting Traps’. A crowd of us round a corner smoking would get the tip ‘Officer Coming’. We would set off at ten-second intervals and watch as the officer saluted his way to paralysis of the arm.
DIEPPE
O n August 18 th , 1942, we were learning how to shoot Bren and Vickers machine-guns at Fairbright. The range was on the cliff facing out to sea. Our instructors were from the Brigade of Guards. We stood at ease while a Grenadier Guards Sergeant told us the intricacies of the “Vickers 303 Water-Cooled Machine-Gun. I will first teach yew which is the safe end and which is the naughty end. Next, I will show ew how to load, point and fire the weapon. Following this, I will dismantle the gun and reassemble it. It’s not difficult; I have a three-year-old daughter at home who does it in six minutes. Anyone here fired one
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