ARBORFIELD - Friday 18th to Sunday 20th June 2004
inclusive
The
following report & photographs contributed by Trevor STUBBERFIELD (52A)
Sunday
The sun and I were up early. I cleaned up and the bed
was stripped, and the temptation to make a bed block, just because I
could, was resisted. I went outside for a last wander around the area
and found myself being drawn towards the Gates. I sat on a bench,
looking at the Garden
Of Remembrance, but
really seeing the Guardroom. I was there, full Service Dress, white
belt, boots beezed, cheesecutter
on top. It was Free Sunday. I desperately wanted to pass the
rigorous inspection so that I could be away for my first full free day.
I marched through the Gates and, with four or five others, piled
into a taxi. Too early for buses. A large Austin saloon took three on the back seat,
two on the folders and one riding shotgun with the driver. Even split
between six, the five-shillings fare took quite a
chunk of the six-shillings weekly allowance from seventeen shillings and
sixpence a week pay.
Wokingham Station and a Forces return
ticket to Waterloo,
onto the train and at last able to relax, we'd got away. I would travel
home to spend just a few very precious hours with my family before doing the
journey back to Camp.
Later I would be there. This time the bottoms of the trousers
being measured, shoes checked, no ‘brothel creepers’, no Teddy Boys got past Fred.
On the bus to the great metropolis of Reading,
Ma Beasley's for egg and chips and maybe the "Majestic Ballroom"
for a dance, practise the steps learnt back at camp in the Hall. More
often for me it was to the fleshpots of Wokingham. Afternoon in the
Ritz Cinema, meet a girl inside, cheaper than taking one in. Evening
might be the hop at "The Waterloo" or "The Drill
Hall". If you were lucky it would be dancing to "The Top
Five", doubly lucky if it was "The Top Five plus Two".
To finish it would be along to "The Queens Head" for a half of
lemonade shandy before going back to Camp. That was then but this
is now.
I walk back to the billet, as usual there's one with his head
super-glued to the pillow. Even a warning that the Easyjet
pilot had phoned and wanted to know if Sleeping Beauty would make the airport
in time failed to get a response. So it was off to join the breakfast
queue. The banter and chatter was there, but this time not quite so
intense, rather quiet. We got to the hotplates and it was all there
again, a gastronomic feast with the addition of something that looked like
sauté potatoes. In for a penny, in for a pound, or at least a
potato. At the table I sat looking at my plate, taking it all in. Would
I ever get this meal again? Forget the famous "Last Supper"
painting; this could well be the infamous "Last Arborfield
Breakfast" photo.
Almost in the words of Max Miller: "Do you like what you see
lads? There'll never be another".
The buzz of conservation was there, but strangely
subdued. Addresses and telephone numbers were being confirmed,
messages to be passed on to absent friends, plans for meet-ups. Time
and time again the same phrase was repeated, "See you next
year" and to be confirmed with a warm handshake. Where, when
or how we don't yet know, but I sincerely hope it happens.
When we returned to the rooms all signs of our occupation was
being removed by the lads. Tonight different shaped soldiers would sleep in
these beds. Collecting our cases, after a last look round it was off to
the car. On the way there were many "Cheerios"
and handshakes, not just from our own years but from those we
had chatted with throughout the weekend. Comradeship.
As we drove slowly away through the Camp, sweeping round to
the right, to our left stood the Gates that were opened for us
yesterday. One quiet voice spoke for all: "Fifty-two years
ago we came here, right at the start of our careers. Now we're leaving
for the very last time. It really is quite sad". It felt
like leaving an old friend to an uncertain fate and there was nothing we
could do about it. It was time to be somewhere else.
That was Reunion Weekend 2004, the last one on home territory,
seen through the eyes of one Old Boy. As a lad I always wanted to be
somewhere else. As a man, for this weekend, there was no other place I
wanted to be.
“T - 4 - 2”
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Alan Algy Morton (51B)
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Frank Sam Bass (52A)
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Published: 27th June 2004
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