A Collection of Memories by John Rawlings - Chapter 7

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by (Helen Smith) on behalf of (John Rawlings) and has been added to the site with his/her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

Chapter Seven

OCTU

We moved into different strata of life at Clifton. No longer were we regarded as automatons with no worthwhile contributions to the aspirations of the individual or team. To the NCO instructors we were now “gentlemen” and addressed as such. Even our dress distinguished us from the rank and file in that we were “asked” to wear a white plastic tape, about an inch wide, around our headgear so that we would be recognised as Officer Cadet. The interpretation of this title was invariably “the nobody class” - neither commissioned nor non-commissioned and certainly not “other rank” To us however, it was either a badge of unenforceable authority or a threat of instant RTU (Return to Unit) if caught in any act, however minor, in which gentlemen do not engage. Having got so far after so long most of us tried to keep to the narrow path.
We were disappointed to be told that our training included a measure of square bashing which I must confess smartened us up and brought us together as a team. When we were asked, individually to take over the squad, it was another matter. To move a group of well trained soldiers around the parade ground may seem easy to the onlooker but when attempted by a fledgling cadet with raw recruits the results could be disastrous. It is no exaggeration to admit that with the squad marching off the parade ground towards an obvious hazard, it is not the time to forget how to order: “Halt”. As the squad broke up on their own accord to avoid injury, the drill sergeant bellowed out to the cadet giving the orders, “For Gawd’s sake say something, even if it’s only Good-Bye”.
In the same context, giving instruction to a group of unsympathetic trainees is fraught with danger. I learnt this when asked to explain and demonstrate the movement “About turn at the halt”. In the first place, if you are “at the halt” one considers oneself to be static and therefore not in a position to turn round or indeed carry out any other movement. However I ignored such inconsistencies and marched out to the front, fully confident that I could do what was asked of me in what was a very simple operation. Having shouted the obligatory order to the recruits, who were standing at “ease”, to come to attention, I immediately ordered them back to “at ease”. This pettifogging tomfoolery was, presumably, to make sure that nobody had fallen asleep although I think I would have noticed such an event. First of all I carried out the about turn just in case the squad had forgotten why I was out the front. Then I informed them that I would repeat the operation slowly and by numbers. Drawing myself up to my full height and driving myself to the pitch of excellence I wished to achieve, I started. “From the HALT position (which I had adopted) you swivel on the right heel and the left toe. This is movement ONE”. I had deliberately carried out this movement slowly, to give every one an opportunity to see what was to follow. Then “I will now repeat the movement in standard time again counting out by numbers”. Coming smartly to attention and in my best parade ground voice, I bellowed “ONE “ and started the swivel movement. I was so tensed up that I forgot or failed to stop as I reached the 180 degrees turn and continued rotating until my muscles refused to go further. I collapsed to the ground to the ribald laughter of the squad and the snort of disapproval from the drill sergeant. Having satisfied himself that I had not done myself an injury, he ordered me back to the squad.
The instruction was well organised. Map reading in particular was rewarding and proved its value not only in the army but also throughout my life. When we had mastered the rudiments of the subject we were taken out in an enclosed lorry and, one by one, dropped at different points. We were given one-inch maps, a compass and a map reference where a pick up truck would be waiting at a stated time. Those who failed to find their way back would have to walk home. Similar exercises were held at night. There were other less enjoyable outings one of which deposited the would be officers at the foot of the Clifton Gorge with orders to climb to the top The point at which we were dropped was devoid of vegetation or obvious footholds. Some of us made it to the top and were given ropes and tackle to help bring the rest up. There was also a classroom lecture on health and hygiene given by an army doctor. I have never forgotten even after all these years, and it still gives me the creeps. Put simply it was the life of the bluebottle. His skill of narrating the most lurid facts in a most colourful and descriptive terms was shocking, revolting but effective. Perhaps it was intended to be just that.
I suppose there was a commissioning ceremony but that has not been recalled. We all passed and now waited our first appointments. These were widespread but I got the one which was considered to be the most exciting - to an Armoured Division. After a farewell dinner with the instructors we were given our first class rail tickets and the following morning, dressed in our best uniforms, we left Clifton having discarded our white-ribboned forage caps forever.
At last mother was satisfied. Ron had followed the same route but to a different pre-OCTU which was much stiffer than mine and was at a different OCTU centre. Whether mother was ever told of Dad’s intervention was never known. At the end of my promotion leave I travelled to East Anglia to join my unit, the 9th Armoured Division, whose divisional sign was the Panda. It was a Sunday and I was picked up by a driver who was to be my batman and served me well. We drove to the Company HQ and I was introduced to my fellow officers.
The Panda division was recently formed and, as I later discovered, was equipped with tanks of a new design to be tested and compared with another tank used in the 11th Armoured Division. Training had been designed to ensure that all officers understood the way in which other regiments operated. Thus the RASC would drive tanks, fire guns and train with the infantry and vice versa. This was very instructive but there were hiccups at times. When firing the 25 pounders you had to be very quick to avoid the recoiling gun barrel which could cause a nasty injury. Tanks were steered by toggle arms not by steering wheels and took some time to master. It was more difficult to share in the infantry’s exercises but every effort was made to do so. Officers of all arms were assembled on a firing range close to Thetford. We were told that a small hill in the middle distance was held by the enemy and the infantry had been called up to capture it. Three sections appeared, one on the right, a second on the left and one in the centre each moving forward and giving the others covering fire in turn. The troops passed close to us and we could see and discuss their equipment etc. In particular I pointed out to my neighbour one poor fellow loaded with ammunition, some in boxes some hung round his neck and ventured the remark that I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. The attack was completed together with a counter attack with mortars but then victory. The methods used were then discussed and to our surprise we were told that that we would carry out the same exercise. Those watching were divided into groups and given their tasks leaving me to the last. With a look of malevolence the Brigadier said to me “and you will be the ammunition carrier”. How I got to the hill I never knew but at last I was there. A loud hailer told us to get into the slit trenches and keep our heads down as the mortars would be firing. We all knew that mortar fire was most inaccurate and this seemed to put us at unnecessary risk. Explosions began haphazardly around us. Then the all clear sounded and we climbed out of the trenches with great relief. We were then told that the “mortars” were simulated by buried gunpowder in strategic spots around the slit trenches. They were real enough to make the exercise successful.
Weapon training was equally realistic. The NCO demonstrated how to pull the pin from a hand grenade which had to be thrown before it exploded after ten seconds during which cover should be sought to avoid the blast. This was critical for safety. With the pin drawn he threw the live grenade but it slipped out of his hand and rolled to where were standing. We dived for cover only to be told that the grenade was not primed. It was a demonstration, which we never forgot.
Our Divisional head (CRASC) was a regular who had lost both legs in a plane crash but managed very well on artificial limbs. However he was a crusty old devil and had some funny ideas of command. He expressly ordered all officers not to use staff cars but motorcycles. He obeyed his own orders, and managed quite well until he reached a hill when, if he missed a gear change, he came to a stop and fell against a convenient bank. With the second front looming, the War Office decided to transfer him to which he violently disagreed. He persuaded his three company commanders to walk with him, from Carlisle to Hexham, to prove his physical fitness. I believe he managed most of the distance but had to give up as the amputated area of his legs became a mass of sores. Unknown to him, Major Nicholson, our OC had arranged for an ambulance to shadow their walk and he was quickly in hospital.
These were happy days with fellow officers working together to form lasting friendships.
Muriel was with me most of the time with Jo our first child. The sad day arrived when we were told that our divisional tank had proved to be inferior to those tested by the 11th Armoured division and the 9th Armoured was to be dismantled. So good-bye to the Panda.
509 company RASC was reformed into a common Transport company with a divisional insignia of a red oval. What could be more devastating?

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