ARBORFIELD - Friday 18th to Sunday 20th June 2004
inclusive
The
following report & photographs contributed by Trevor STUBBERFIELD (52A)
Saturday
I awoke early in a cold sweat of fear. I was seven years
old, back in London,
and listening to a V1 "Doodlebug" flying bomb spluttering across
the sky; no mistaking the sound of that ram-jet engine. Then a staccato
burst of a rapid fire anti-aircraft gun. The engine cut out and
selfishly I prayed the bomb would fall somewhere else. I cowered
beneath the sheets and, miracle of miracles, the engine fired up and carried
the bomb to a farther destination. Have you ever been in a billet with
a snorer? Listening to that long, raw intake of breath, and the
deathly silence that follows, you begin to pray that he will start to breathe
again. The possibility of having to give mouth-to-mouth is
too frightening to contemplate. Time to be somewhere else - so I get a
short, sharp shampoo, shower and shave and other morning requirements and
return to the room. It's a weekend so no bed-block to make, the pit can
be made down. Completing that task I made my way downstairs and out
into the most beautiful of Arborfield weather; I never remembered it quite
like this. There were quite a few strollers, must have been a bad
night for air raids.
I turned down the road that would take me through the old
playing fields and towards the MRS. Vast acres of uncut grass -
there had been no games played here and no exercise taken for a very long time.
Wildlife was abundant, the number and size of the rabbits would have fed the
camp for a week. Two scrawny squirrels approached and sat eyeing me up
and down. Their winter cache of nuts had obviously run down too
early. Remembering the wartime saying, "There will be no retreat,
what we have, we hold", I tucked the bottoms of my trousers into my
socks and put my hands in my pockets. I was taking no chances.
Walking to where there was a gate across the road - it was
certainly not as far as we used to go - and peering through the barbed
wire and brambles the memories began to flow. This was one of my escape
routes, usually during the hours of darkness, often returning in the
early morning. Going this way meant I didn't pass through Fred Silvers’
empire, in fact if you could have read the Booking In/Out Register it would
seem for nearly two years I remained in camp apart from annual leaves.
Oh look! Two Gloucester Old Spots have just flown over. I thought of
the times that we went this way to ‘California’,
of the great art-deco building there with the illuminated glass panels in the
dance floor, the restaurant on the lower floor, the boating lake, swimming
and diving area and the race track. Happy days, but don't go back
there, ‘tis all gone.
Turning to walk back I came face-to-face with my first ghosts
of the weekend. A short while ago I had uncovered some old, faded black
and white photos taken on this very spot. True, the trees had matured and the
hedges were overgrown, but this was the place.
The photos were of my late Mum and Dad, a friend, and
me. Mum had a lovely smile, not trying to conceal the pride she felt,
standing next to her youngest son. Dad, a much quieter person and not
one to show his emotions, couldn't stop the corners of his lips turning up in
a smile. Nothing fanciful, they weren't really there and they didn't
speak to me, but I felt an inner calm and peace come over me, the likes of
which I haven't felt for many years. If these were the sort of ghosts I
was to face this weekend, then bring them on, I could deal with them.
I set off up the road passing monuments to the reasons we
entered our training.
In the distance I could see the old gates, now padlocked, just
past the Memorial
Garden on the site of the
old Guard Room, with barrels of concrete and barbed wire to prevent
entry. Somehow it was very fitting that these would be removed later
for the Old Boys to march through the Gates. They would only admit
those who had done their time at Arborfield and then be closed for the last
time.
I paused and drifted back in time. When I have found old
friends recently, often their response is: "Sorry Trevor, I can't recall
you" and that proves that my strategy for dealing with the
rigours of Arborfield
life really worked. I planned to do my time without making waves, and
Pass-Out without being noticed. However, to quote the analogy of the
swan, all was calm and serene on the surface whilst under the surface I
was paddling furiously against the tide of regimentation and discipline that
threatened to engulf me. Many was the time when I left the Camp by the
back gate, donned my old jacket and crash hat, wrapped a scarf around my
face, dragged my motorcycle out of hiding and rode back through the Camp
- after all it was a public road - the scarf hiding my ear-to-ear grin as I
went past Fred and was waved out by an R.P. onto the Yately Road. It
might even have been our old friend Fusilier Ted Blowers who cleared the
way. Often I stopped a mile down the road and fell about
laughing at just having stuffed the system.
It was time I returned to reality and strolled back to the
billet to see if the ‘all clear’ had sounded. On the way I noticed the
queue forming outside the cookhouse; thoughts of the gourmet breakfast that
was being prepared for us made my mouth water. Eating irons and mugs
would be provided so, collecting friends from our quarters we joined the
throng, full of anticipation of the meal we were soon to enjoy.
Standing there amongst friends was a great experience. The
humour, wit, repartee and reminiscences flowed like machine-gun fire,
as rapid and as accurate as it ever was. How many times did we
hear sentences start with "Who was …?", "Who did?",
"When did …?", "Why did …?", "Have you …?",
"Did you …?"; there was no end to it as we shuffled, Gulag-style,
towards Food Utopia.
And then the rude awakening. I, an A/Sgt. of the old School
was being jipped by groups of current A/Ts who were walking to the front of
the queue quite openly. How could this be? Had they not been schooled
in the etiquette of the meal queue? Sprogs lived dangerously following this
type of action. Also, how could some of these joskins be sporting three
stripes after just a few weeks in the Army?
Queue rage subsided when, remembering my previous reunions, I
knew that these were the young lads who would pull out all the stops to make
sure that this reunion would be the best. Their assistance would be
available to us at the drop of a hat, questions answered with unfailing
politeness, always finishing with “Sir”. Some queried the spelling of
that word - did it start with C? I believe it was always given in the
right meaning of the word. The bridge between old and new apprentices
carried traffic in both directions. They were keen to tell us of the
trades they hoped to follow, the way their careers would be shaped,
the ongoing training that would help them to fulfil their ambitions and then reach even
further. They didn't yawn when we filled them in with the details of
how it used to be, how we had it the hardest; the deprivations we
suffered. Indeed, they were keen to hear our tales, realising that
in their own way they would be part of the Arborfield story. They were
the last intake. It may have been different in our days but these young
lads and yes, lasses too, would still face all the trials and tribulations
that are part of service life, in just the same way that we did.
Moving forward I received the second jolt - I had reached a sign
that proclaimed that this was "The Regimental Restaurant".
Oh come on now. Cookhouse, Mess Hall, Canteen. Dining Room
even, but "Regimental Restaurant?" Oooooh. The sign had
one saving grace. When the apprentices sign up they do so to their
chosen corps. R.E.M.E. Royal Signals etc. and they wear the corps badge
from the start. So what happens to the Golden Wheel that we knew; will
it disappear? It's still there, in all its glory, on the various
notice-boards outside all the buildings in camp, although we may not
recognise the words in the scroll underneath it. Yes, even
outside the Regimental blasted Restaurant. But as to its future,
will it be consigned to the history books like the badges of so many famous
regiments?
We've reached the hotplates at last and there it is; the menu
that we remember so well. Congratulations to the civilian contractor's
chefs, fifty years on and they have managed to follow the example of all
those Army Chefs so long ago - they can still take good food and turn it into
an unrecognisable heap of mysterious contents. Actually they had
managed to conjure up one or two items that we didn't remember. But
taking up a tray, eating irons and a mug we set off on the magical mystery
tour.
Tile-hard triangles of fried bread, sausages whose skins
resembled the Bronco toilet rolls of painful memory, bacon in heaps that may
well have come out of the old compo tins, Chinese fried eggs, well they were
"rubbery" as Benny Hill would say, next door were
"rubbery" granite chippings that were pretending to be scrambled
eggs. Poached tomatoes next, the dish I really remember. Poached?
Come on now, all they do is open the tin, tip the contents into a tray
and warm them up, but if that's how you do poached tomatoes then that's what
they are. I have often waxed lyrical over this dish at home and my
Mavis has offered to get some and cook them for me, always to be told
that if she does, then they will go in the bin and she won't be far behind,
yet here I am actually salivating over the coming treat. A
frightening thought hits me, at this posh Madjesky Hotel where we may dine
next year, will they know how to poach tinned tomatoes? Should we dispatch an
Army Chef straight away to school them in the culinary arts of preparing this
rare dish? The Committee should look into this very early to make
sure. Inevitably baked beans - sounds of gunfire again in the
billets tonight I suppose. Sauté button mushrooms - I don't remember
those before - looking as though they could be used for target practice
ammunition. Pontefract liquorish cakes are unusual for breakfast but
these are actually slices of black pudding in disguise. And finally
hash browns, eminently suitable for replacing the pointing that's missing
from the brickwork in the walls. Not much point in that now I
suppose. Cereal bar, bread, margarine and butter are available as I
stagger under my load to the tea urn. Putting my cup under the tap I
cringe, waiting for the wail of the banshee: "One mug only laddie,
ye'll get nae mare tea" and the inevitable cry of "Let it drip
laddie, let it drip". But G-Flog Jock is gone, they probably used
him in the foundations of the new Regimental Restaurant for safety for didn't
they always say: "Take Jock out of the Cookhouse and the whole place
will come down”?
Sitting at the table I look around and see lads staring into
their loaded plates as if they can't believe what they've just done, or are
they waiting for their wives to prick their consciences: "You're not going
to eat that load of artery clogging garbage are you?" Throwing
caution to the wind, irons raised, they fell on their prey like hungry
wolves, all plates to be cleared in the time it takes to blink.
The verdict? Absolutely delicious, ‘nonpareil’ (Fr: Peerless, matchless, unparalleled); as the schoolies
would say: “Ruddy marvelous”. What about seconds? I resist the
temptation to grab a slice of fried roof tile and rub it around the bottom of
the baked beans tray to soak up the sauce, enough is enough, and anyway
we have to suffer these delights again tomorrow morning.
I stood with some difficulty and moved towards the door, was I
going to get out before the dreaded cry of "PLAAATES!" rang
out. Somebody had already dropped a plate and the resulting noise of
rebuke was deafening. But then, this was one of the tasks our guardian
apprentices would perform for us, so I slipped quietly away to the billet to
wipe the grease and bacon fat away from my chin, don a tie and set off for
coffee in the Sergeants’ Mess. It was time to meet up with some more
old friends who were turning up today for the parade. More
pleasure to come. If you're ready, we'll step off to …
The Sergeants’ Mess
Strolling along, we are passed by a squad of apprentices on
their way to duty, at speed and with arms flailing like demented windmill
sails in a hurricane. Even a singleton, going the other way, is
swinging his arms with gusto. I think it looks ungainly but I'm
told that I would have marched that way. I prefer not to remember that.
In the Mess we meet up with one or two 52A who are here for the
day. Coffee is served but joining the queue too late it becomes obvious
that we won't be served before the Parade assembles. A CSM starts to
get agitated as time runs out; he is charged with making sure we get on
parade in time and starts using all the old phrases to move us along.
You'd think, at his age, he would have learnt to stop digging when in a hole,
and to quit whilst he was losing. We not only know all the phrases, we
know all the answers, some of which he's hearing for the first time.
The pace-stick starts being waved about and he is informed that if
he doesn't calm down, his pace-stick will be inserted into his body in such a
way that he will have a ramrod straight back when he gets on parade.
To humour him we start moving, some to the top of the camp for
the Muster and some towards the Memorial
Garden for the Drum
Head Service. It's with great regret that I will not do the march; I
did it on my Golden Reunion (2002) and
know that from the start to the final march-off from the Square it's a
long way. I also know that I won't have control of my knees for long
enough, and after the long stand for inspection my back will resemble a
corkscrew - a skateboard will be needed to get me off the Square.
I make my way towards the old Gates, now with the defences
removed and opened to receive the Old Boys. One sad reminder of the
times we live in is the sight of two armed guards standing at the
entrance. Looking right I see another set of gates, those for the Princess Marina College,
straddling a road but seemingly with no real purpose. They are part
of Arborfield's history but mean nothing to me. I walk through
them to look at the old stables, now sadly neglected, but I'm told they have
a preservation order on them so part of the camp will live on, that is
unless the developers have a convenient fire break out. I don't know
their full history, but could they have been built right at the start when
Arborfield opened as a Remount Depot where Army horses were trained?
And then I'm off down memory lane again. The stables became
a well-worn escape route for me. Collecting my motorcycle from the
surrounds of the camp was eating into my spare time and I jumped at the offer
to keep it up in Married Quarters. The offer was made by my REME
Sergeant Instructor, none other than Brian Conway 42A who at the time
was teaching Vehicle Ignition Systems. If the mentions of him in Peter
Gripton's fine Arborfield Apprentice history were joined together, he would
have a whole chapter to himself. I don't think either of us thought
about the possible consequences of being found out. I would be in the
clear; surely I couldn't be charged with leading a member of the Permanent
Staff astray? Another ghost appeared. Coming back into the
camp in the early hours I often came face-to-face with Polish Joe who I think
at one time had been a Polish Army cavalry officer. Who better to look after
the stables? I often spoke to Joe around camp; he usually had his
camera handy to record scenes around him, but as we passed in the shadows
silence reigned. Just a nod and a wink.
“Get on Parade!”
I was brought back to reality by the sound of the troops
being marshalled into
groups by Intake and then graded by height, but there wasn't a voice with the
authority of RSM McNally, or anyone with the sheer physical presence
of the man. I made my way to our Gates and out onto the
road. The band struck up and led the column out of the new camp and
onto the old Yately Road which
today is no more than a country lane. The sound of the music and the
measured tread of the column came nearer and there they were, sweeping down
the hill at a pace suitable for all ages. The band, resplendent in
red and blue uniforms, sunlight glinting on their instruments, the weather
would be kind to us on this, our day of days.
Then came the AOBA Parade Commander, followed by the Standard
Bearer …
… leading the column, in step, arms swinging to a comfortable
height. The step and pace were being called by members of the Permanent
Staff who had been given the honour of marching with the Intakes, but our
lads knew what to do. Hours of square bashing so many years
ago ensured that there would be no mistakes.
As they wheeled into the old Camp, through the Gates, there was a
visible pulling back of the shoulders, chests drawn up, the steps sharpened,
arms straightened.
The Drumhead Service would begin shortly, a time when
emotions would be pulled in many directions.
The Drumhead Service
The Parade fell out and friends joined friends and family members
for the service. A short address and then the first hymn, "Fight
the good fight". The Band led and the singing started, voices
faltering at first and then gaining strength and confidence in words we would
have sung many times.
A reading from Romans 8. 31-39 and then we remembered those who
had entered Arborfield through these Gates over many years, comrades in the
Arborfield Old Boys Association, and especially those who had walked with us
but had been recalled to Headquarters for eternal rest, their duties
done. We thought of the families of Old Boys and asked for courage to
continue the walk through life, to face the future as we did in our youth.
Next, the act of Remembrance, starting with those most moving
of words, "They shall not grow old as we that are left grow
old". My thoughts were of those young men to whom I said goodbye
at the end of our three years together, keen and ready to make their mark on
the world. When we walked out through these Gates there were those who
I would never see again, and now know that a meeting with them will be
impossible. In their case the words have the most poignant of meanings,
I will remember them as they were on that day; their faces will
never show the signs of aging. For me they will be forever
young.
Played by a lone bugler from the Band, the Last Post rang out
loud and clear …
… followed by a haunting Lament played by a piper, …
… the sound fading as he marched slowly away. Two-minutes
silence followed, observed in its entirety by we who know the true meaning of
the call. In the background the Arborfield Bell tolled mournfully, once
for every year of the School's history. There could be no shame in the
sight of handkerchiefs being raised to moist eyes, emotions being shared by
those who started their journey through Service life from this very place.
Reveille rang out loud and clear across Arborfield, bringing us
back to today's purpose. The hymn "Stand up, stand up for
Jesus" followed, then prayers, finishing with "The Lord's
Prayer". There was one last chance to raise our voices with the
singing of The National Anthem. A blessing brought a very moving
ceremony to its close. Many stood for a few minutes, taking in the
place and the friends around them before the Parade reformed for the final
act.
The Parade
The Band moved to the road to head the march to the parade
ground, led by the Parade Commander, then the banner, followed by the ranks of
the marchers.
No doubt the ‘Faceless Whitehall Desk Warriors’
would like us to leave quietly, tails between our legs. Absolutely
no chance. Like the Rainbow Firework Factory that once stood a few
hundred yards away, we were going out with a big bang. Orders barked
out, the Band played and the column was on its way to the Square for the last
time.
Marching up the road, a right-wheel would have taken the column
towards the old Sergeants' Mess, at one time an open door onto the Yately Road for absconding
A/Ts. But they make a left wheel and left again to start the march down
the Square. To those standing at the side and near the saluting base,
as I was, the number of marchers was staggering. When brought to the
halt, they stretched almost the full length of the parade ground. One
of the lads experienced slight trouble with the right-turn and the RSM,
no doubt with the best of intentions but unwisely at the top of his
voice, dispatched a Corporal onto the Square to offer assistance. I
didn't catch the actual words used but I got the impression it equated with
"You can bugger off son, we'll take care of our own", and so it
was.
Dressed by-the-right, the Parade was offered to the Major General
for his inspection. His party made their way along the ranks, perhaps
there would be a faint blush on his face at being a boy amongst men.
Hands shaken, pleasantries exchanged, medals examined. Wherever there
had been action around the world since 1939, it was a fair bet that there
would be an Arborfield Boy not too far away, and this would be shown by the
decorations on display. Actions in far flung places, forgotten by the
general public, would be remembered by our lads. Particularly telling
was the sight of the badge of the Normandy Veterans’ Association.
1944 to 2004, men who made history come alive. In the centre of the
Parade were the 1954 intakes celebrating their 50th anniversary.
The inspection over, the party turned towards the dais and I
noticed one or two feeling their fingers and wrists. Surely not the
onset of arthritis in those so young? Or perhaps they were just
checking their rings, watches and bracelets - after all, apprentices were
renowned for having "winning ways". If it wasn't nailed down,
tied up, padlocked and chained and could be used for another purpose then it
would be "won" and put to good use. Surely not today?
General Salute and permission requested and granted for the Old
Boys to march past. A right-turn, and off they marched to the top of
the Square, two left-wheels and they were heading down the
Square towards the Inspecting Officer. The sight was uplifting, but
at the same time very moving. The smartness, the discipline, the
intention to make this last Parade the best that had ever been seen at
Arborfield, was outstanding. Ripples of applause broke out as the
various Sections came by, friends spotting friends from their Intakes, but
the applause that greeted the last of the marchers was loud and spontaneous
for after all, in this Section were the first of the Boys to enter
the Arborfield Gates, and now they would be the last of the men to leave the
parade ground.
The handkerchiefs came out again.
The final act was for the REME Band to march forward,
right-wheel, counter-march and then strike up with "Lilliburlero"
as they passed the saluting base. With this the mood changed, the
formalities were completed and now the party could get under way.
The group photo was taken, the photographer on his high perch performing all
sorts of manoeuvres to try and include everybody, quite a difficult task.
It was now back to the Sergeants’ Mess for liquid
refreshments, the barbecue, and a chance to sit with old friends and get
up-to-date with news.
Post-Parade: The
Sergeants’ Mess
An act of superb organisation greeted us as we opened the Mess
doors. On the right hand, stretching the length of the hallway,
were long tables and on them were row upon row of pint glasses filled with
lagers and bitters - no fighting one's way to the bar this time. Some
stopped where they were to quaff the first pint to the annoyance of
those panting outside. A closer examination of the situation showed
that one could grab a glass, drink and walk slowly, arrive at the end of the
tables with an empty glass, and pick up a full one and walk out into the
garden where the marquees contained all the food which was being
prepared. For my part, I was happy to pick up an ice cold bottle of
sparkling mineral spring water.
This period was what the reunion was really about.
Groups of old friends gathered to swing the lamp, catch up with all the
news, talk about the future, talk about anything that came to
mind. Just to be happy in each others company.
At one stage we thought we might have to send for Fred's Fearless
Fire Fighters as the BBQ started to smoke rather ominously, but it was
soon under control. "Water off, lock off, knock off" and any
other "off" that came to mind would not be heard today.
We then dined on a most wholesome feast, something to everybody's taste,
well prepared and in plenty. After the sweet trolley, the strawberry
gateau was quite something, it was more "relax and chat time".
Some Hardy Survivors of
52A
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Graham Goodwin (51B/52A)
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Terry Jack Reddin
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Norman Tubby Brown
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Trevor Sexy
Trill puzzling over a digital camera - couldn't find where you put the film
in.
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John Scouse
Williams getting touchy-feely with Trevor Stubberfield. Such
behaviour in the 50's would have seen him strapped to a gun barrel and
dragged out of the gates.
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(standing) John Todd
(seated) Chris Taff Powell & his wife Margarete, & Keith Tilly (51B)
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AWOL from the AGM
And then, I have to confess, old habits die hard. I would
have to miss the AGM and slip out of Camp to visit old friends who lived
locally. Not quite the same as it used to be; I left openly by the
front Gate. Over tea and biscuits we exchanged memories and news about
mutual friends and our families. One thing I did note. No matter
when we attended the School, or under which name the School was known during
its history, all apprentices were "Tech Boys" from the "Tech School".
It looks as though Arborfield will always be referred to by its first
title "The Army Technical School". In view of why
we were there this weekend perhaps this would be how the Camp would be
remembered locally. Back to Camp to get ready for the dinner. It
wasn't half as much fun as it used to be - I booked in at the Guard Room.
The AOBA Dinner
Assembling once again at the Mess and following the Piper down
the road to the “Regimental Restaurant”, (the
Pied Piper of) Hamelin came to mind. It was a different layout in
the Hall this year with tables juggled again to accommodate the large number
who wished to attend the final dinner at Arborfield - it worked
well. And now I must eat humble pie, as well as the meal laid before
me. Excuse my breakfast comments - any team that can prepare and
serve a superb meal to approximately 350 diners in one sitting, with no long
delays and no mistakes, is deserving of high praise and thanks.
This was reflected in the applause after all of the team had been thanked,
not just for the meal but for their help throughout the weekend.
The music was supplied by the REME Band playing a good
choice of tunes to eat by. The Piper played as he toured the hall,
a much more acceptable arrangement than last year when the entire Pipe Band
at full blast marched around the place. Traditional toasts were
offered and the Commanding Officer delivered his address to be followed by
the cabaret. It wasn't meant to be a cabaret, it was meant to be
“Reflections” by the Intakes celebrating their 50th
anniversary. The intention, we were informed, was a multi-media son et lumiere show, or something
like. I always thought a recce, planning and preparation was never
time wasted. With all the Techies, Leckies, Wobbly Heads and Radar bods
present, wouldn't you have thought at least one of them would have made sure
there was an electric socket handy to plug the equipment into? At this
point I will take my share of the blame. When 54A joined HQ Company I
was there to smooth their way, show them how to clean kit, keep the billets
tidy, offer a friendly shoulder at times of stress, and generally lead them
gently down the paths of Arborfield. I thought at the time they were a
shower - well you do don't you - but 50 years on they don't seem to have
improved much. Somewhere I must have failed them.
Eddie Hind, Norman Brown & John Todd
(all 52A)
Frank Sam Bass, John Scouse
Williams, Trevor Stubberfield & Bill Gibson (all 52A)
Trevor Stubberfield (52A) & Frank Buster Townsend (52B)
Trevor Sexy Trill & Eddie Hind (both 52A)
Once again it was back to the Mess for a few drinks and memories,
and then to bed to prepare for tomorrow’s departure.
Published: 27th June 2004
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