In the beginning: -
My AFB108, ‘Army Certificate of Service’ will advise the reader that I, 23912899; Klak; Edward Frank Michael, enlisted at the army recruiting office, then located on Bank Street, Dundee on 6th of September 1966. It will also confirm that I had previously served in the corps, albeit very briefly. What it won’t tell you however, is that I had also previously served some 3 years with a local T.A. unit based at Bothwell House; Elgin Street; Dunfermline.

A weekend warrior: -
This previous service, was spent with a REME L.A.D, where I served with the humble rank of ‘Craftsman B3’ from the spring of 1962 up to and until my enlistment in the regular army.(hence the vintage of my army number).
This small but beautifully formed REME unit, was, attached to an RASC company, namely 297 (Field Ambulance) Coy RASC, and consisted of no more than a dozen souls, all, or certainly most of whom, were local chaps from a mechanical engineering background.
The L.A.D was commanded by a Major McKinley. I believe that he may have been a solicitor and was from Edinburgh. At that time, I was busily serving a 5 year engineering apprenticeship, which involved much study and further education in the form of a 3 year long commitment to technical college for day release and evening classes. The objective being to obtain the City & Guilds of London certificate.

A young man in the 1960s: -
During my time as a T.A. craftsman, I enjoyed many weekends away from home, time spent mainly in the field, on the ranges, on exercise, or at annual camp. The social life wasn’t too bad either. A bit like a gentleman’s upmarket drinking club. We had several WRAC girls attached to the unit, they brightened the place up no end, and all in the best possible taste you’ll understand.
Whilst this was the beginning of the swinging 60s era, unfettered nooky and most, if not all its constituent parts was still an eagerly awaited future pleasure for we young blades out in the provinces. For the most part these were pleasures which would only be enjoyed following the marriage ceremony, and in those days, (unlike today), marriage for the most part meant a lifetime’s commitment to each other.
What the modern day reader should also appreciate, was that the contraceptive pill, was not then, readily nor freely available to the general public, and certainly not to the youth of the day. Therefore free love, sex, or whatever other term you wish to use, was, for the most part, only available to Pop Stars, or those swinging softies living in London and other large cities of the kingdom, or perhaps to a few others who were in the know. Lucky devils. For the majority of the British public during that era, particularly those who were of a sexually active age, it could be a very risky business indeed. Essentially, if the girl became pregnant, you married her. Besides, nice girls just didn’t indulge in that sort of thing outside of marriage, at least that’s what they all told the young men of the day. Nonetheless, being in close proximity to so much female charm, was not only refreshing and exciting but could be extremely frustrating to a lot of virile young men fully charged with an overabundance of racing hormones.

Back to the safety of soldiering: -
 I clearly recall that I, together with my other fellow craftsmen from our little LAD Unit, took part in the squadron re-badging parade when the RASC became the RCT. This event would, I believe, have taken place sometime around the 15th of July 1965.
It was later on that same year, that I took the momentous decision to enlist as a regular soldier. This decision was in no small part due to the influence of my younger brother Freddie. He was already serving as a Driver R.E. with H.Q. Troop; 37 Field Squadron.
I had just completed a five year engineering apprenticeship and I decided to join the army, primarily through boredom, and the desire to instill some adventure into my life.
Also the prospect of decades stretching before me, spent at a bench in a dirty, noisy engineering environment, didn’t exactly appeal to me.

Gone for a soldier: -
I can still recall most of the details of my former service. I, together with about another 120 young men from every corner of the British Isles, went to make up 48 Training Party; 55 Training Squadron; at Morval Barracks; No1. Training Regiment; Royal Engineers; Southwood Camp; Cove; Farnborough; Hants. My AFB108 will advise the reader, that I had previously served in the corps, albeit very briefly. I had actually been a sapper from 19th November 1965 - 4th February 1966, but had purchased my discharge following 12 weeks of basic training. As my memory best serves me, this action cost me the princely sum of £20.00. You could do that sort of thing in those days. The usual story, (young, silly, and my then girlfriend missing me).

 Southwood Camp:
As can be seen from the plan on the left, this establishment was a vast and sprawling training camp. Southwood camp was built almost entirely of timber spiders, and had a every concievable facility contained within its perimeter. The camp was located immediately south of the British Rail, Southern Region, main railway line from London to Southampton, and in close proximity to the village of Cove near Farnborough, Hants.
 I recall that 55 squadron were based in the Morval Barracks part of the camp. The only part of my military address that I am no longer able to remember is the actual number of the spider, in which we were accommodated. It may have been Spider 14. However, after 40+ years, I submit that the reader will kindly forgive this slight loss of memory. At the age of 22, I was quite a modest and very self conscious individual. However, I considered myself smart and something of an old sweat. My complacency was no doubt fueled by the fact that, as previously stated, I’d already spent 3 years as a REME Craftsman in a T.A. unit, and I knew a little of the basics of soldiering. But as events were to swiftly and painfully prove, not enough to save me from the wrath of the training NCOs, who could undoubtedly spotted spot a budding smart-arse the moment one arrived. However, more on this subject later.

Once a Sapper: -
Therefore, the solution was as plain as a pikestaff; resign from my civilian job, return to the Army Recruiting Office in Dundee, perform a few Mea Culpas and see if I would be permitted to re-enlist in H.M. Corps of Royal Engineers. The answer was, yes. The recruiting staff, they didn’t bear grudges. I happily re-enlisted for a 9 year term, (the choices then were 22, 9 or 6 years) I returned home a much more contented young man and eagerly awaited the arrival of the envelope bearing my travel warrant and joining details. These instructions duly arrived a few days later. I was instructed to join 62 Training Party; 27 Training Squadron; No1 Training Regiment R.E. That’s me rear rank right in the above photograph of Cpl George Black’s section from room 4 of Spider 4.

A hard lesson in discipline
Within my first month at No1Training Regiment, I had managed to fall foul of one of our training NCOs, and for the next few weeks my life became a decidedly unpleasant experience

Seven Days Jankers
Essentially, I managed to find myself on defaulters parade on three consecutive Mondays. The first charge I had to answer to, was for the stupidly , and to my mind, the extremely petty, offence of wearing elastic bands in my trouser bottoms. This was an old soldier’s trick, it helped keep your trousers hanging smartly half way down the length of your gaiters. For this offence, I was awarded 7 days punishment. The army had recently re-titled this punishment from C.B, (or as it was widely known amongst the rank and file), “Jankers”, to the softer sounding R.O.P, or restriction of privileges. Trust me dear reader, it was Jankers I was subjected to. The punishment was both highly demanding and relentless in it’s ferocity.
I won’t go into detail, but suffice to say, that I was a changed young man at the end of the experience.
At the end of a very long and extremely exhausting week, I was looking forward to getting through the final defaulter’s parade with a great deal of trepidation and not a little fear. However, the thought of returning to the bosom of my mates and the near normality of the training programme, helped steel me to face the ordeal. The final punishment parade was to be in No2 dress uniform and was to be held at 22.00hrs under the spotlights that were fitted over the veranda of the guardroom at Southwood Camp. The guardroom is the long low building on the extreme left of the photograph, above/left and the veradah can be clearly seen running along the front of the building.
 
Enter the villain
 It was here one late and cold, dark october evening that one of the regimental police NCOs carried out what we thought was the final inspection. It was he and he alone we thought, who bore sole responsibility for the fate of the defaulters present. There was nary a sign of the Orderly Officer, nor the Orderly Sergeant. I assumed that they were undoubtedly safely and warmly ensconced in their respective messes, and if they had any sense at all, were sitting before a warm fire nursing large whiskies in their fists. How muddle headed we all were in our thinking.
The individual taking the parade was a diminutive Scots lance corporal, a thoroughly nasty and unpleasant piece of work. His name and face are both burnt deep into my mind and my heart. I’ll never forget, nor forgive that thoroughgoing little bastard for taking such wicked delight from the misfortune of others.
I was immaculate, I knew that I was immaculate. The reason I know this was because my mates back in the spider had ensured that I was wearing the very best of everything to go on that bloody parade. I wore my own beautifully tailored No2 dress uniform, the best bulled boots in the room, and someone else’s best belt, I was beautiful to behold. When I marched smartly onto that veranda and fell-in with the other miscreants I was an absolute picture. 

Nonetheless, the poisoned dwarf seemed to make a direct beeline for me. He studied me from afar, and when he found my uniform to be utterly faultless, he homed in for a close-up inspection. Finding nothing there he next circled me like a vulture. He went round and around me like the ouzlum bird, and then following several circumnavigations of my manly and soldierly persona, he stopped immediately under my gaze and screeched into the area of my lower chest “show me your belt”.
I smartly broke ranks, unclipped the beautifully blanco’d belt with it’s glittering brasses and proudly handed the article to him. Taking comfort all the while, in the certainty that he wasn’t going to find fault with that particular item of kit. Nor did he. What he had however, spotted was the inevitable twin tracks of blanco around the waist of my No2 dress tunic, where the perfectly blancoed belt had rested. An inevitable consequence of using blanco, and one of which he was no doubt very well aware.
He howled, he screeched, his eyes bulged, he positively gurgled with delight and almost collapsed in what appeared to be something approaching an epileptic seizure before howling directly into my face, “you’re on a charge” this statement was accompanied by a gale of foul breath and a spray of saliva, which splashed all over my face. I refused to flinch, I held my ground and stared straight ahead, at the proscribed manner of attention. I simply ignored the little bastard, it was as if he didn’t even exist. He then suddenly became very calm, glassy eyed and relaxed. Almost as though he were entering a post coital state.
Then, surprise, surprise, out of the corner of my eye I espied the figures of the Orderly Officer, accompanied by the Orderly Sergeant, approaching the guardroom. I suspect that they had been lurking in close proximity to the guardroom. All the while observing the antics of this crazed baboon. They exchanged pleasantries with the R.P, briefly inspected the defaulters parade, and without further critical comment left the scene of so much malevolence and spite. They both retired into the dark frosty night.

Seven & Seven is Fourteen
I was hauled up on defaulter’s parade the following morning and awarded a further 7 days punishment. At the end of that second week of purgatory, the same malignant dwarf, went through the same rigmarole as before. This time I was convinced I was ready for the little bastard. All went swimmingly, despite his very best efforts. He was unable to pull the same stunt again. I almost started to breath more easily, when he suddenly ordered all those on defaulter’s parade to “get-away”, and return to the guardroom in 10 minutes, wearing working dress.
On my sweaty and breathless return to the veranda, which by this time I considered to be little more than an annex to the madhouse or the coliseum in Rome, I was certainly starting to appreciate how the Christians must have felt when they were thrown to the lions, we were once more inspected by this tireless pocket napoleon.
It goes without saying that there followed an action replay of the indignities we had already had to endure the previous Sunday night. However, I have to hand it to the little runt, he was even more thorough than on the previous occasion.
On this particular Sunday night his inspection was carried out within the confines of the guardroom. I distinctly remember that there was a steel strip running along the floor of the guardroom for about 12 to 16 feet or so. This had been screwed through the lino and onto the floor, about 4 feet from one wall. It glittered like finest sterling silver.
An example of where generations of previous defaulters had expended much elbow grease and sweat. I also noted that even the non-galvanised steel dustbin within the guardroom, glittered. A testament to the mindless and pointless disciplinary foibles of the cretins who, for the most-part served within the ranks of the Regimental Police at No1 Training Regiment. 
We defaulters, had to “Toe the Line” along the length of this metal strip, in a single rank whilst this unpleasant little zealot mercilessly harangued and bullied us .
He had one poor chap actually stripped down to his underpants, socks off, and inspected his feet, ensuring that they were clean, and that his toenails were correctly pared, as per regimental standing orders.
This was a tall fine looking lad from the training squadron which was the final stopover for ex boy soldiers. In those days, despite the fact that these lads had already served two years or more in one of the boys regiments, they were forced to endure a further 18 weeks basic training on reaching the age of 17½ years when they were transferred to the man’s service.
It was common knowledge throughout the camp that the Regimental Police loathed these boys. I imagine the reason for this hatred was simple envy of their unquestionably high standard of bearing, drill, and dress. Those young men really were a splendid sight to behold, particularly on the drill square.

Back to the yarn. Bye & bye MacNasty turned his full attention on me, and whilst feigning that he didn’t recognise me. We went through the usual performance of me having to report to him, giving him my number, rank, name, squadron, party, room number, offence, verdict, sentence, and punishment outstanding, routine. Although I say it myself, I gave a virtuoso performance. Faultless and syllable perfect. This only served to infuriate my tormentor, and he once more gave me a thorough going-over. The offence I was finally charged with, was that my jack-knife was dirty. In fact, it wasn’t dirty. I had thoroughly cleaned, lightly oiled and checked the knife before leaving my spider. The spring on which the main blade operated had become dulled with the constant action of opening and closing the blade.

Fourteen & Seven is Twenty one
Once again, the very next morning, I was up before the old man and was awarded a further seven days punishment. I gritted my teeth and vowed that I wouldn’t ever let the little bastard get me down, nor break my spirit.
Fast forward to the next Sunday, final parade, in the guardroom, and the charge against me this time was that my lanyard, (the white one worn around the waist by Sappers), was dirty.
Of course it was dirty. It had managed, purely by happenstance to get a little blanco on it, This despite being freshly scrubbed and dried on a radiator, just before that final defaulters parade. By now, I was starting to lose all reason and had decided, that I was going out of my mind, I should kill the evil little toad, the cause of all my grief. Or as a poor second choice and despite the fact that I’m not a quitter, I should go over the wall at the first opportunity. 

Plus Seven is Twentyeight and all in a row
I shall draw a veil over the next seven days punishment. After 40 years passing of time, my memory protects itself by not permitting me to recall many of the painful details. I do however, recall that on that final Sunday night parade, we defaulters were faced with an NCO whom we had never met before. This chap was a totally different kettle of fish and seemed to have more of a live and let live attitude to we unfortunates. The final parade must have passed without incident, for I suffered no further torment from that quarter whilst at Southwood Camp.

Quite why all this was happening to me when I was trying so hard to be a good soldier, I didn’t then understand. However, now, with the benefit of some 40 years time for reflection, coupled with 20/20 hindsight, I now believe that I had somehow or other stood out from the crowd, and it was therefore decided to teach me a short sharp lesson. In any event it was a painful and long remembered lesson. Don’t be too clever.

Goodbye to all that
At the end of our 18 week long basic training and on the final evening before our passing-off parade, the bulk of 62 training Party were gathered in the bar of the NAAFI at Southwood Camp, doing what most young soldiers do best. Being exuberant, noisy and getting not a little too drunk. Whilst on the surface we exhibited enormous and carefree bonhomie, in effect it was something of a wake that we were participating in. For beneath the bold exteriors being displayed, by the participants, there was a certain mourning, or grieving process taking place
We were all only too well aware that we had just spent the previous few months building a special kind of relationship with the other young men around us. Those with whom we had been thrown together. We had endured and enjoyed all that had been thrust upon us, and come through the process as changed men. These relationships we had formed, were strong, they would, for the most part be enduring, more like brothers than friends.
 We knew within our hearts that we would never forget each other. This despite the fact that we were now to be scattered to wherever the British Army sent us to serve. The likelihood of any of us ever meeting up again in any single unit of the army was, remote to say the least.
So, there was present in that place, a certain undertone of sadness and of impending loss. However, my own special memory of that evening and one which I carry to this day, is, as I recall, warmed with a little self satisfaction and malevolent glee. It was gifted to me by the discomfiture of the Scots Regimental Police NCO previously mentioned in these annals.

Almost like a gift from God, there through the fug of tobacco smoke and beer fumes of the NAAFI bar, appeared the form of the aforementioned R.P I hadn’t seen him for some weeks. In fact not since he had made my life a living hell. Now he rather nervously approached the area where we band of brothers sat shooting the breeze and swilling ale. He rather hesitantly and almost apologetically attempted to engage some of the party in conversation. Something along the lines of congratulations on finally completing our training was offered to us.
This overture was met with no response from the men sitting there, for we knew him, and of sort. We knew his character and his reputation. He was foul, furthermore he was an unwelcome intruder. We hated the bastard, and we wanted him to disappear. He shuffled his feet a little and next followed that attempt at conversation by asking a few of the chaps where they were posted to. Some rather reluctantly but courteously responded to his advances and mumbled that they were being posted to Germany. He offered the information that he too was being posted to Germany, but didn’t as yet know where. He then seemed to sense my presence, and turned his head a little to gaze in my direction. I met his gaze and held it steadily. He got the message and turned and made to leave the bar. I rose, followed him and caught up with him near to the door of the bar. Once I was within earshot of him, but so low that the others might not hear, I told him that I fervently hoped that he was being posted to Osnabrück, because that’s where I was headed, and that if he was, then he’d better look out for me, because it was my intention to kick the fucking life out of him if I ever laid eyes on him again. His face turned a deep scarlet, he refused to meet my gaze, and he scuttled swiftly out of the NAAFI. I never clapped eyes on him again. Perhaps I was a little harsh on the little bugger. For I found out some years later that some of those who went to make up the Regimental Police Force at No1 Training Regiment were for the most part soldiers who had been posted there on compassionate grounds. Broken marriages and the like. That aside, that didn’t entitle him to be such an unpleasant and sadistic little bastard. The old adage, never take your problems to work readily springs to mind.

25 Engineer Regiment: -
I note from my AFB108, that I next arrived at 25 Engineer Regiment; Roberts Barracks; Osnabrück on the 7th of March 1967.
I distinctly remember that there were three or four of us who arrived together, all fresh faced and newly passed off arrivals from No1. Following a few days spent in Holding & Drafting at RHQ, where we carried out general duties for all and sundry, we were soon dispersed to various squadrons throughout 25 Engineer Regiment, and the other regiment sharing Roberts Barracks at that period, the then 2nd Division Engineers.
I had asked my brother Freddie to claim me, and despite the adjutant’s best efforts to send me to work in the officer’s mess as someone’s batman, I managed to convince him that I’d be much more use in a field squadron, and was duly posted to Plant Troop of 37 Field Squadron It was here that I spent the next few months in the role of Driver R.E.

37 Field Squadron - Plant Troop
Following a bit of a shaky start, where I spent several weeks in the troop G1098 store, doing nothing but endlessly, clean, oil and rearrange tools and equipment, that I had already cleaned and oiled and rearranged a hundred times previously, I finally convinced S/Sgt Troopy Duncan, the then Plant Troop Commander, to permit me to join the rest of Plant Troop, up at the Bergen-Hohne training area where they had spent several weeks of fine warm spring and summer weather, busily carrying out meaningful sapper tasks, including culverting works on the ranges etc.

My duties were mainly that of driving S/Sgt Troopy Duncan’s Land Rover, or from time to time a Commer tipper truck. This task was done in cahoots with Spr Ian Henden, and a most enjoyable time was spent by all. We worked hard, and in the evenings carried out some serious relaxation, in the notorious Snakepit or in the bar of the Roundhouse.
We were accommodated in one of the blocks at Hohne which was within a couple of minutes walk from the Roundhouse NAAFI bar. I well recall, that one had to sit with a beer mat covering any glass from which they may have been drinking. Otherwise the cockroaches, with which the place was utterly infested, would use the opportunity to perfect their high diving skills from the ceiling and into one’s drink. The constant plop, plop, plop of insects plunging into beer glasses following death defying leaps seemed endless. It was also necessary to sweep the critters off the top of the jukebox in order to see what music was available. despite these little problems, we had a splendid few weeks.

 At the end of that long and warm summer, we returned to Roberts Barracks in Osnabrück and the usual round of cleaning and checking everything under the sun.
In that first autumn I spent with Plant Troop, there occurred several farewell smokers. These memorable happenings were usually manfully participated in by everyone in the troop, and they were eagerly looked forward to. We could seemingly conjure up a farewell party at the drop of a hat. This type of soiree was the normal way in which we bade farewell to someone from the squadron with whom somebody, anybody, in Plant Troop had become remotely friendly. It was unimportant whether or not the individual concerned was a member of the troop. he merely had to be half willing.

So long as the participating sapper was someone’s mucker, then that was excuse enough for Plant Troop to wish that individual a very well lubricated farewell. The jollifications were completed by organising a smoker on the victim’s behalf, and in the course of events, as is the way with all licentious soldiery, it was de-rigour to visit havoc on some local and usually unsuspecting hostelry in the neighbourhood.
The venues for such abandoned worship of the god bacchus was usually somewhere where mine-host was sufficiently unsuspecting, and foolish enough for he, or indeed she, to accept a booking from the Plant Troop representative. There was no sexual discrimination practiced by Plant Troop with regard to our German hosts. Nor, for that matter was there ever any vandalism visited on the establishment or the other customers. This seems to be a modern phenomenon. We were happy just to over imbibe, have a good meal, then at the end of the evening, to wend our weary way homewards.

The Gasthaus Hindenburg: -
These soirees normally took place at the ““Gasthaus Hindenburg”, pictured left. Located a few kilometres east of Osnabrück, on the road to the small town of Bramsche, this large and rambling hostelry, stood in its own grounds and sat well back from the then main road. During the 1960s, the Gasthof Hindenburg was owned and run by a Berlin couple, whose name now escapes me, but who always seemed to enjoy our visits, and they continually welcomed the Plant Troop boys with open-arms.
For our part, we of course, did our very best to foster good Anglo-German relations, and spent an awful lot of money with them. Their response to our open-handedness was to feed us like fighting cocks and to ensure that a constant stream of beer and doppelkorn arrived at the room wherein the drunken cavorting was taking place.
This fine teutonic hostelry, in which we spent so many a happy evening, is sadly no longer in use, but has long since been by-passed by the addition of a new dual carriageway, a new Bramscherstraße. The remains, of the once proud Gasthof Hindenburg now sit derelict and abandoned by the side of the old landestraße to Bramsche and beyond. That’s me on the extreme left of the photo. Sitting next to me is Geoff Holder. Then standing facing the camera is L/Cpl Mick Harness who was acting m/c on this particular occasion. Mick is presenting farewell gifts to Geoff and to L/Cpl Scouse Whittaker and to his good lady. Both parties had just been posted out of the squadron. This smoker must have been held in the late autumn of 1967 or thereabouts.

Not long after our return to Roberts Barracks, from Happy Hohne and despite being amidst the very best of good friends, I became thoroughly fed-up and bored of being stuck back in the troop G1098 store, and pretty soon I requested a posting to a field troop. However, before I finally departed from Plant Troop, there was a particularly memorable and completely legal escapade carried out by Ian Henden and myself, which earned we poor lowly sappers a very welcome additional wad of Deutschmarks to our monthly income. The saga goes thus;

A most enjoyable Admin Inspection: -
In the B.A.O.R of the 1960s Cold war period, there was an annual occurrence which had to be endured by all units. This was referred to as “Admin”, and involved several weeks of cleaning, polishing and much shining of personal kit, uniforms and unit vehicles.
Admin meant masses of time spent in cleaning, laying out and preparation of all the unit’s stores and documentation, NCO’s Cadre courses, drilling, and much else were the order of the day. In short a right old carry on with much palaver, and those regular features of military life also being involved , order, counter-order, bewilderment and confusion.
 
All of this suffering had to be endured by everyone in the regiment, because once a year the brigade commander would visit the regiment, spend a few hours looking around, enjoy a rather splendid lunch with the colonel and the other officers in the mess, before being poured back into his staff car to be driven back to wherever he had come from, or to go and torment some other unit elsewhere in the brigade area.
We  oftentimes cursed and question the perverse and capricious mentality that would have a military unit endure such meaningless and sadistic torture for no apparent good reason. However, back to the saga.
The day of the brigadier’s visit finally dawned, first dress of the day for the regiment was to be No 2 dress. With the exception of a few odds & sods, namely the elves of Plant Troop from 37 Field Squadron. The reasoning for this, being that the colonel of the regiment, accompanied by the RSM, the Adjutant, the Squadron O.C, the SSM and Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all, had decided that they would permit themselves one final and last minute panic attack. They had decided that they really had to carry out a final, final, final inspection of the entire camp before the arrival of the brigadier. This inspection would include all of the M.T. Hangars, the POL point, the REME workshops etc. Just as all previous admin inspections had been carried out during the preceding weeks, but this would really be their final opportunity to panic.
Essentially, no stone would be left unturned. The plan of action decided on by our leader, Troopy Duncan in conjunction with the O.C, was, that any final thing that needed sorting out or removed or hidden would be done by Plant Troop, and primarily by the two tipper drivers, namely Sappers Henden & Klak.

The master plan decreed that any item whatsoever which was found to be out of place during the colonel’s final inspection of the M.T. lines and which could not be accounted for, “would have to be got rid of”.
All went swimmingly well, and things were looking very promising until almost at the end of their final inspection, the colonel and his entourage demanded to know, what lay behind a small locked door, which they had noticed in one corner of 37 squadron’s M.T. hangar. When the keys to the door were finally produced, and the door unlocked, there lurking behind the innocuous door they unearthed a previously undiscovered and secret cache of assorted oils and lubricants, which belonged to 37 Field Squadron. This delightful hoard of goodies, this mother lode of lubricants, had been carefully garnered by stealth from various unsuspecting donors throughout the regiment, and over a period of several months. There in all its splendid glory, and to the uncomprehending eyes of the inspection party, lay this veritable cornucopia, nay, this treasure trove, of drum upon drum of partly used, unopened and pristine clean oils, greases and lubricants of every description.
There followed a few milliseconds of stunned silence accompanied by a collective and glassy eyed look of utter uncomprehension from the inspection party. This was swiftly followed by considerable shuffling, muttering, cursing and clearing of throats from the assembled flock of officers and SNCOs, including those poor unsuspecting souls from 37 squadron. Then there occurred a sudden and magnificent eruption of rage and unbridled fury. Much foaming at the mouth, purple neck veins, and crimson countenances were witnessed by the assembled throng of hard-pressed O.Rs.
After what felt like half a lifetime, the resulting hysteria subsided to a manic darting to and fro by all those SNCO’s and commissioned officers present. Finally, Troopy Duncan was ordered by Major Jenkins, the then squadron O.C. to get Plant Troop to load everything into a tipper and Sappers Henden & Klak were then detailed to remove the offending cargo forthwith, without delay and immediately to somewhere, anywhere, and get rid of it.

Achmer training area, was the immediate and obvious final resting place for this elicit contraband or as was ordered by Troopy Duncan. “Just find a bloody great hole and either bury it, or set fire to it” “ I don’t want to see it ever again”, was troopy’s instructions. Furthermore, on no account were we to be found anywhere near the barracks for the rest of the day. As far as the brigadier was concerned we didn’t exist, or had been suddenly detached or posted somewhere very far away.

A Very Happy Scrappy: -
Ian Henden and I drove the offending cargo to Achmer, as instructed. Where just short of the training area, we happened across a junk-yard. It seemed such a waste, just to dump all of these drums of lovely top quality oil and lubricants into a hole in the ground, nor would it be environmentally friendly, would it?. So after a brief conference on the subject, we found ourselves in unanimous agreement. So we offered it to the German junk yard proprietor. He was absolutely delighted to become the owner of such a generous shipment, and at such a knock down rate.
We were equally delighted to have, helped save the planet, make a sizeable sum of filthy lucre, and best of all, avoided admin inspection. All in all, we considered it to have been a pretty good day’s work, and, best of all, we were following orders.
There was of course the small and commonly understood problem, known within the ranks of H.M armed forces, and that was the knowledge that the detergent properties of M.O.D. lubricating products, could and undoubtedly would find its way through almost any kind of puny civilian oil-seal it came up against. However, we reasoned that that information was probably covered under the official secrets act, and therefore it could be construed as treasonous to impart that information to a foreign national. Accordingly, we took comfort from the knowledge that we had behaved in a truly patriotic manner in protecting this British national secret from johnny foreigner.

H.Q Troop - 37 Field Squadron
I next found myself in H.Q. Troop, beside my brother Freddie. Whilst there I applied for and passed a variety of courses, including a Signaller B3 and shortly thereafter a B2 signals course. This resulted in me becoming a qualified Driver/Signaller R.E. B2.
I note, that my AFB 6335 states that I was promoted to L/Cpl with effect from 16/03/1968. I recall that, about this time I was driving the Sqn 2i/c, Captain Timmins, in a Ferret Scout Car whilst on exercise, and carrying out the duties of Troop M.T. J/NCO whilst in barracks.
I very swiftly determined that becoming a signaller was not a very smart move. The main reason being, that in addition to normal driving duties, whilst on exercise, a qualified signaller, was also required to stand radio watch. The end result was, that whilst all sappers work long and exhausting hours, Driver/Signallers get even less sleep than almost anyone else. I fast became an utterly exhausted soldier. Eventually, self preservation dictated that I should relinquish my signaller qualification. This I did, and benefitted from the decision in fairly swift order. I also drove various other vehicles, including the POL truck, which in those days was a Bedford RL without a canopy loaded up with fuel in 20 litre jerricans. No fancy petrol bowsers then. I was next detailed to drive the squadron Morris 1 ton water bowser for a while. That in itself is a saga worthy of the re-telling.

The Iceman Cometh: -
Readers of this saga who may have served with the British Army in Germany. Then known as B.A.O.R, or British Army of the Rhine, particularly those who have served during the “Cold War” era of the 1960s, will no doubt readily recall the continuous round of field exercises that we took part in. The task of continuously fine-tuning and honing of our soldiering skills, seemed endless. The reader should appreciate that during that period of eyeball to eyeball confrontation, it was considered to be a racing certainty, by most of the leaders and not a few common folk in the west, that the vastly superior numbered Warsaw Pact forces ranged against the NATO allies and confronting each other on the East/West German border, were simply itching to take a pop at we capitalists in the degenerate west. In fact it was ingrained into both camps that the other side was on the very verge of invading each other.
In the case of the British army, I recall attending a lecture on one particular course which I was attending, where the Intelligence Corps Officer who was presenting the lecture, quite matter of factly advised all those in the auditorium, that the perceived wisdom in Whitehall and presumably in the Pentagon and elsewhere, was, that the Soviet Union and their Warsaw Pact allies had already taken the decision that when they chose to launch an attack on the west, then the first shots to be fired, would be in a surprise attack, would be by them and would be with they, the Warsaw Pact forces using nuclear weapons. Apparently. they had confidently forecast that they would reach the English Channel before the end of the fourth day of hostilities, having destroyed all before them on their way to the coast.
For our part, because we would be faced with such overwhelming weight of equipment and numbers, we would have to fight smart, as well as fight hard. The tactics to be employed would be of a delaying nature rather than a confrontational one. Essentially, we would deny the enemy any opportunities to advance by blocking his path at every opportunity. We would blow bridges, lay minefields etc, etc. The plan was that NATO land forces would carry out a fighting withdrawal behind the natural river barriers in a sort of leap frogging action, whilst a great deal of the actual stopping of the soviet armour would be carried out by NATO helicopters fitted with tank destroying weaponry. The masterplan was for the NATO forces in Germany to cause sufficient delay to the soviet advance, that this delay would enable additional forces held in reserve in the U.K. and elsewhere to join the fray, and/or, present our political leaders with an opportunity to convince the Soviet Union of the error of their ways. In other words, “back off Ivan before we in the west press the button to send the whole world to kingdom come”. This philosophy was known as the MAD scenario. Which was an acronym for what in common parlance was known as Mutually Assured Destruction.

Guess what, It worked, and it enabled the free world to remain free for almost 50 years without a major war taking place in Europe. Something of a record for this continent. Furthermore, the world was a much safer place then than it is today.

Anyway, I digress. The real story behind this history lesson is one of thirst quenching. So without further ado, we shall return to where I left you. That was with me being appointed to the duties of Squadron Water Truck Driver/Operator.
Now, the German summers can be very warm, dry and dusty. Particularly so if you have to spend the long hot summer days carrying out strenuous sapper tasks in some salubrious location such as Luneburg Heath or on any one of half a dozen more training areas located throughout the northern half of Germany. It isn’t long before you become absolutely parched with thirst. The sort of thirst that water cannot quench.
However, curiously enough, and surprise, surprise, ice cold beer has the uncanny ability to put the fire out in any soldier’s mouth and wash the dust out of his throat. So you may say, simple answer to a simple requirement. “provide the hot and thirsty Sappers ice cold beer”.
Yes, absolutely right.
However, there is a small but insurmountable problem. That is, that whilst it is perfectly acceptable practice for the Commissioned Officers and the SNCOs of the squadron, to slake their thirsts from time to time with a welcome Gin & Tonic with all that lovely ice clink, clink, clinking away merrily and the pearls of chilled tonic water forming droplets on the tall glass. Or perhaps, one may decide to have a nice cool beer within the shady confines of the mess tent. A tent which has been set up in a “tactical” location by a squad of sweaty, tired and extremely thirsty sappers, who are themselves in need of a nice cold beer or a chilled gin and tonic, but who are forbidden, under the threat of severe disciplinary punishment from participating in the same ritual being indulged in by those others whom authority has set above them. For it is decreed, that the drinking of alcoholic beverages whilst on exercise is not permitted and is a chargeable offence. Oh yeah, well what about that bloody lot in there?

When first I witnessed this extremely petty and unfair practice at first hand, I was appalled. I seethed inwardly at the blatant favouritism and I suppose, the class overtones of this most offensive example of preferential treatment. My Scottish sense of social fair play and inclusiveness to all cried “Foul how dare you treat your fellows in that manner, how utterly unfair of you”. I had certainly never experienced, nor had I ever previously witnessed such an example of the infamous class division at work. With the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, I suspect that this whole class thing is an English problem. I had certainly never experienced this sort of behaviour at home here in Scotland. If someone attempted to pull that sort of trick this side of Hadrian’s Wall, they’d be told just where to go in double quick time. Wasn’t it George Bernard Shaw, (an Irishman), who said that “The moment one Englishman opens his mouth, another Englishman despises him”.
So, there is the problem. Now, the conundrum is this. How can I, merely a lowly sapper with no rank or position to take advantage of, come to the aid of my fellow man and help subvert and circumvent this petty restriction. I love a challenge. Following much reflection I realised that the answer lay before my very eyes, and that answer was “Monika” herself. For that was the little Morris Water Tanker’s name, (we can’t go into how she got her name here. It may offend and cause embarrassment to a certain charming and generous lady, whom I presume is still living in the area of Luneburg Heath). However, once more, I digress, it must be an age thing. For It was she, my trusty little water bowser who would help me even the score, and get one in for the little guy, or as we would have it here in Scotland, “I’m for the wee man”.

The solution to the conundrum was simplicity itself. What you must appreciate is three things
(A): The Morris 1 ton army water tanker truck, had an insulated water reservoir. This helps keep the temperature of the contents of the tanker at a fairly stable temperature.
(B): That mounted on top of the tank, there was a round man-door or hatch which measures some 18” in diameter, this man-door is hinged and secured by an arrangement of long fixed bolts and wing-nuts.
(C): That beer bottles in Germany of that period had a ceramic stopper with a rubber sealing ring and metal spring arrangement for a closure. This system was then old fashioned. Now its considered very chic and efficient. Perhaps we never really improve things after all.

Therefore, all one had to do in order to right this wrong was, to procure a supply of bottled beer, conceal said beer from possible discovery whilst in shipment or in storage, and crucially, ensure that the beer was delivered to the thirsty squadron O.Rs in a thoroughly chilled condition. Finally, I had to be able to retrieve the empty bottles, smuggle them out of the squadron location in the middle of a huge British Military Training area and return the empties to the original supplier of said beer whilst negotiating a replenishment of stock.

So this is how I achieved my goal. I recruited my previously mentioned sidekick, the diminutive, and piano playing REME Craftsman Al, (Oliver), Byron) to assist me in this most noble of ventures. Bye and Bye, he and I were detailed by the squadron ACC Sgt, Jock Gunther to , take Monika to the nearby Rheinsahlen Tented Armoured Camp, and fill up the water tanker.
This order was carried out in a smart uniformed and sapper-like manner, via the local beer wholesaler’s premises. The bottles were individually strung through their ceramic cork release springs in one long loop, with each end of the string being secured by tying off the ends round one of the man-door securing bolts. Whilst carrying out this task, I made a few enquiries of my friendly Braumeister, who revealed that he was able to supply large plastic sacks of ice cubes. Wonderful commodity ice. We haggled a little and he finally agreed that because of the volume of beer we were buying from him, we could indeed have a couple of poly-sacks of ice free, as a gesture of his continued appreciation of our ongoing business.

Much clinking later we arrived at Rheinsahlen Camp, located a water replenishment point that had recently been used by another unit and where the water was suitably chilled, we filled the water tank of the bowser, and with ice cubs in the chilled water and the bottles of beer sloshing and chinking in a delightful musical rhythm we made our way back to the squadron harbour area. Our efforts were much appreciated by everyone in the squadron from Sgt Harry Gunther down to the lowliest sapper. During the 3 or 4 weeks longer that we were on that exercise, we successfully carried out repeat operations of a similar nature on several occasions. The end result? No drunken sappers, no discarded empties no charges, no harm done. Our profit from all of this effort? The joy of helping to even the score a little. It was all done at cost price, they were our mates, our muckers, fellow sappers.

The night we got into very hot water: -
During one memorable autumn exercise, named “Oktoberfest 68”, which took place during october 1968 in extremely cold and frosty conditions on Luneburg Heath. These exercises always seemed to take place in very cold or extremely rainy periods. Anyway, I digress; late one evening, I, together with my sidekick, a diminutive REME craftsman named Oliver, (Al), Byron, were detailed to leave the squadron harbour area in order to refill the Morris water bowser at the nearest British Army base. This was located at Rheinsahlen tented armoured camp. This establishment was a semi permanent/temporary camp operated by the R.A.C and was some 10 kilometres distant from our location.
We duly set off, and on arrival at Rheinsahlen camp we were directed by the chappie on the gate, to a hangar like structure wherein there was a series of water taps. We duly inspected the various taps and connectors, and after some discussion and deliberation, we connected a hose into the top hatch of the bowser’s storage tank, and filled the tank to the brim. We then turned of the tap, replaced the filler hose, resealed the water tank and returned to the squadron location without further ado.
The next morning, and (allegedly unbeknownst to either myself or Al Byron), the squadron location was visited by a representative from the armoured camp who informed the SSM and then the O.C. that someone from 37 Field Squadron was suspected of having somehow managed to connect the wrong tap and had filled the bowser, not with cold fresh water, but with piping hot water.
Sadly, by this, (oversight), those responsible had managed to denude all of Rheinsahlen camp of their hot water, and had furthermore succeeded in angering lots of base wallahs who were reduced to taking lukewarm showers that evening. How crestfallen and sad we all were.
The upside was that we were held in extremely high esteem by a whole squadron of rather evil smelling sappers who, after about 3 weeks in the field without so much as a sniff of a mobile bath unit, were in very great need of a warm shave and wash. The squadron received an angered complaint from the armoured chaps, who had somehow got wind of our exploits, ahem, error. Despite this, the SSM and the O.C. did take us to one side, and congratulate us on our sapper initiative, but insisted that we must not repeat the error.
But what happiness, nay utter joy to have beheld all those happy, smiling, little mole-like faces of our squadron mates, from the humblest sapper, to the squadron commander, all delightedly splashing and gurgling in all that lovely hot water, whilst in the depths of a frosty German forest.

I note that I returned to the U.K. and completed a B2 Driver R.E. course. My AFB 6335 states that I then qualified as a Driver RE BI on 24/05/1969. 
On my return to the squadron I also note that that I sat and passed the ACE Cl 2 certificate. Curiously, there is an additional note to the effect that I am exempt The Army Educational Promotion Certificate, presumably this was due to my previous civilian college qualifications.

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