(Originally published on the AOBA Message Board 11 January 2005,
subsequently deleted and, but for the grace of The September 49ers, would have been lost to
posterity). George Millie (49B) ‘Chief Clerk’. AAS Arborfield
Addressed
to the Arborfield Old Boys Association Editor: My name is Greta Silver Rindner; I am the niece of Fred Silver
and daughter of the late Bugle Major Reuben Silver. I was pleased to
find the page describing my uncle, which is correct, and not having been in
contact with him since 1960 when my father died in Greta Silver Rindner Response
from “Mcg”: I remember my first meeting with Fred Silver. Dennis deVeras (later Burnett) and I had arrived from Surely inscribed was not ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’? No something
much more prosaic. Inside this unwelcoming gate and to the right was a long dark
green corrugated iron hut with a verandah! How very Mediterranean! Standing on the verandah was evidently the School’s
Commissionaire. Not that I was particularly impressed as his buttons looked
as if they could have done with a good polish I thought, and the colour of
his uniform lacked vivacity. His general manner seemed a little curmudgeonly
too; not what a keen young cadet would expect from the doorman of a hallowed
institution. I noticed several younger soldiers marching around stiffly in
old-fashioned uniforms with peaked hats and white belts around their middle.
Evidently Secondary-Modern Hobbledehoys brought in as our servants! “Get inside!” said the Commissionaire and we entered the ominous
hut. Inside, it was a picture of simplicity, a long room painted
halfway up the walls with green and above that a cream colour. The floor
was wooden but a strange sepulchral white colour as if no-one had ever walked
on it and it was dying of grief. In one corner stood what appeared to be a
sort of pagan altar. It was a bed, but the mattress was folded to half its
length and perched on top of that was a squared layered concoction of
sheets and brown coloured blankets. Perched on top of that was an
array of boots, tins and knives and forks. Could this be an offering to
Wotan, the supreme pagan god of war, I wondered? In the middle of the floor was a single trestle table, again
glistening white. On that was a silver urn and a large glass jar filled with
purple cabbage. Next to that was an orderly pile of bread slices. The whole
gave a stark impression of Spartan simplicity. Handing my coat to the Commissionaire I said “Congratulations my
man, this is a picture of minimalism, hardly yet fashionable, but soon to
come.” To my surprise he let my coat fall to the floor and shouted some
something incomprehensible, but I could gather from his tone that he was not
feeling particularly friendly toward me. For the ‘Commissionaire’ turned out
to be none other than Sergeant Silver, a counterpoint to his namesake,
Sergeant Phil Silver of ‘Bilko’ fame, in that our Fred evidenced no sign of
humour. I would become very familiar with Fred over the next three years,
learning under his tutelage to operate fire pumps and the secret of the
whitened floor as he gently advised me to firstly apply more soap and then
more water as I scrubbed it (more f*****g soap, more f*****g water.) I found
this advice invaluable, but he would accept no thanks, although I could sense
that he was moved by the way spittle appeared on his moustache. I once found myself in his company for malingering by reporting
sick during a GOC inspection day. When I responded to his concerned
questioning (through the bars of the cell) with the information that I was
suffering from diarrhea, he gave me a thoughtful lecture on how, when faced
with a similar situation, he had let the s**t run down his leg rather than
miss the parade! After I had made repeated requests to go to the toilet
(supervised evacuations), Fred decided the best place for me was the MRS,
that strange place where inmates wore bright blue suits, white shirts and red
ties! So he ordered one of his minions to march me down there in that curious
fashion seen only (by me) in the AAS. This was a double-quick march with, it
seemed, a mandatory white mug held in the small of the back, whilst the
person in charge sauntered, ordering the villain to double-march on the spot
if he got too far ahead. Such were the gentle ministrations of Fred Silver. Loved by few,
scorned by many. But wait! Fred was a through and through soldier, who I am sure
in battle conditions would have sacrificed himself without second thought. Such
is the tragedy of the soldier. In conditions of peace he tends to be
neglected, even despised. What does one do with them when there are no wars? Not clever enough to be political (as, for example, all Sergeant
Majors must be), Fred was consigned to the Provost Staff. This was a great
failure of imagination on the part of his superiors. Surely he would do the
job to the best of his ability, but he would be despised for it by soldiers
who were brighter than he. And to have such a position in a School! Madness! So, my singular Silver, like you I did not, but in retrospect I
respect, even admire your single-minded attention to duty. It was not your
fault you found yourself in a position in which your virtues were laughed at. Rest in peace my dear Fred! Response from “Geo (51B)”: Dear old Fred. He was nasty to rascals and scallywags, the rest
were beneath his contempt. How many men of his size do you come across these
days who could face a couple of hundred of teenage hooligans and take
complete control with just a malevolent glare. Not many I think. The man had
presence, something you don't see much of these days. This "presence" was also owned by no end of those that
ruled our lives in those days. The R.S.M, C.S.Ms, Drill Sergeants, C.Q.M.S's.
Not all but most. The Army was a different place in those times. They didn't get
rid of those who had paid their dues; they found a place where their skills
and experiences could be passed on. We were lucky to have known such
characters and benefited from doing so. There's not many of us from that era
who to this day consider ourselves to be "civvies". We owe a lot to
those characters. God bless them all. Geo Response from “TeeCee (55A): Yes, these observations do give pause for reflection on our lives
in those days before political correctness and consideration for people’s
finer feelings. Although we would not have thought so at the time, Fred Silver
and all the "characters" who ruled our lives, wove a rich thread
through those formative years giving us a yardstick to judge, compare
and evaluate others in our later years. I often wonder if appointments by the then 'powers that be' were
deliberate, in ensuring that no matter who we encountered in later life,
there would be no one in quite the same mould as those we had experienced at
such a tender age. And let's be honest, without the Freds of our youth, what would
we have to talk about at our reunions! __________________________________________________________________________________ |
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Editor’s
Note. |
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1st September 2016. Additional information came to light in which Greta, niece of
Fred, expands the story of the family of Fred Silver, and in particular her father
Reuben, Bugle Major of the K.R.R.C.
The photo below is of Fred and his brother Bert (Moni). |
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The information is
contained in a separate web site. To
access it direct please __________________________________________________________________________________ |
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First
Published on this site: 24th
September 2005. |
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Latest
Update: 1st September 2016. |
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