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Mémoire - Peter McGUIGGAN A.A.S. Arborfield - Early Days and Trade Aptitude Selection The early days were a blur of rush and bewilderment; getting
a uniform and lots of other things including a housewife! (Now that was a
disappointment!). As we were only 15-year olds, brought up on the
post-war Labour Government rations, we were normally small in stature and
skinny, and as the uniforms were designed for adults, then, drastic surgery
was necessary to get it to fit. Rather like super-models, safety pins were
the mainstay of our sartorial splendour – safety pins in the back of the
trouser waist to take up a slack of at least six inches; safety pins in our
denim jackets to reduce the voluminous material at the back to a manageable
size. Enormous berets needed shrinking in boiling water to look just a little
more warrior-like; oversize boots of pimpled leather needed the pimples
burning flat with a hot spoon and black polish. Brown plimsoles
needed a change of colour with black polish. Just why the kit couldn’t have
been issued in the correct condition? The sense of bewilderment was enhanced by the urgings of our
senior NCOs to “F***ing hurry, f***ing move it, you little f***ers.”
There was no doubt about it; the Anglo-Saxon words added an emphasis and
urgency which would have been missed with more polite language. Anglo-Saxon
epithets were adopted wholesale by the boys to pretend their manliness;
my favourite was the splitting of words with a profanity, making almost
poetic utterances, such as kangerf***ingroo’. We were boys using profanity to pretend our
manliness; at an AOBA reunion, I noticed many ex-boys using profanity to
pretend their youth! There was an overbearing sense that we had done something wrong;
no-one would tell us what we had done wrong and we had no clue what we had
done wrong, but by God, we were going to pay for it! I remember being quite miserable to the sounds of Paul Anka singing Diana on the NAAFI radio. Queues were
never ending because everyone else had priority over us. The food was
appalling. I remember my first breakfast of Bubble and Squeak, a dish that surely gets its name from the
bubbly buttered frying potato and squeaky green cabbage slipped in at the
optimum time. Our poor ACC staff had to produce a dish of that name using pom and dehydrated cabbage! Using all of the culinary
skills at their disposal (I suspect they were not many) they could not
produce a palatable dish. Never mind, there was an unlimited supply of bread
with the consistency of brick, fried to a deep brown. And dark-brown tea
aplenty to wash down this cuisine and dampen our ardour. There were marches down the road to the wooden hut near 3
Battalion where a short-tempered dentist dressed in riding livery would give
us a peremptory examination. I never did understand the riding boots and whip
– was he a cavalry vet? To fill in slack hours, we were set to cut the grass around HQ
Company huts. A good idea you might think, but we were told to use our
‘eating iron’ knife to cut the grass! This was a touch of genius, as it (a),
put us firmly in our place in the hierarchy of honour, and (b) would keep us
occupied for as long as necessary. One day I was told to put down my knife and go to the NAAFI hall.
Here I was told I would be tested for my Trade Aptitude. I was given sheets
of paper and asked to do some jolly difficult sums. I was given more sheets
of paper which asked me to find the association between various animals such
as elephants, cats, cows, mules etc. I must say that I jolly well had to
guess at some of the associations! Then they gave me a Meccano thingy and
told me to make a crane. They looked a little puzzled at my offering, so then
they gave me a tray filled with various sized holes, some with pulleys in.
They told me to insert the correct gear wheels so that these and the pulleys
would cause a heavy weight to be lifted by turning the small gear in the
bottom right-hand corner. I had ten minutes to complete the task, but I am
afraid I got into a bit of a pickle, and nothing seemed to work correctly. I
smiled at my monitor but he seemed in a bit of a bad mood that day. Then
there were some English tests which I found quite easy. “Right”, said the Sergeant, “Piss off and we will tell you the
next time we want to see you”. So I pissed off and was quite happy cutting
single stalks of grass with my knife to the sound of Paul Anka,
eating ghastly food and scrubbing belts and
gaiters in the blanco room. “This is the life for me” I thought. About a week later I was called back for my Trade Aptitude
Results. Inside the WVRS room was an array of scrubbed and blanketed tables
with three Officers sitting behind. I had never met Officers before, so I was
really looking forward to it. “Sit down McGuiggan”
said one, evidently the most senior. I inspected the name boards on their
lapels – Mitchell, Brown and Coles. “Thank you Brown” I said, as he was the
one who had spoken to me. They looked at one another. “I believe you have
been cutting grass.” said Mitchell. “Yes,” I replied, “jolly interesting work
too!” “Would you like to be a full-time grass-cutter McGuiggan?”
asked Coles. “Wouldn’t mind, Colesy” I said, “it is
a very interesting job”. “Call me Sir” said Coles. “Certainly I will, Colesy.” I said, “Just give me your telephone number and
I will give you a bell. Oh, and by the way, no need for formality Colsey, no need to call me Sir”. They looked at each other
again. “Look here McGuiggan, the reason we
asked you if you would like to be a grass-cutter is because we are having
great difficulty placing your aptitude in the range of trades on offer”, said
Brown, “In fact, although we may wish to make you a grass-cutter no such
trade exists and we have to fit you into the trade most suited to your
aptitude, or rather, the trade in which your ineptitude will cause the least
damage”. “Jolly good”. I said. “We thought of making you a VM” said Mitchell,
“But you are the only candidate to have actually broken the gear-wheels in
our kit!” “Yes” said Coles. “And what on earth was that Meccano crane
you made; we have never seen anything like it.” “Bit of difficulty making the
wings I am afraid” I said. “I say, you didn’t expect it to fly did you?” They looked at each other again. “Well you can’t be a VM”, said
Mitchell, “You would cause too much damage”. “Nor a Gun Fitter” said Brown,
“The consequences firing live rounds could be catastrophic!” “Similar
reasoning applies against becoming an Armourer” said Coles, “Someone
would die eventually”. “You see” said Mitchell, “In your case it is not a
question of matching your aptitude to a trade, but more of a case of matching
your ineptitude to the trade that will cause the least damage”. “You are not
clever enough to be a Radar Mechanic” said Brown. “All we can think of is a
Telecommunications Mechanic” said Coles, “At least with that trade, the worst
you can do is sending out a broken radio that was already broken when it came
in! What do you think?” I went into a reverie. Ah! Tele Mech!
Leaning back at 45 degrees from the top of a telephone pole with my yellow
hard-hat at a rakish angle, a cigarette drooping from the corner of my mouth
as I crimped the final joint of a telephone connection which allowed the
General to communicate with his forward troops! Taking a rubber glove off, I
would wipe the sweat of my brow, and agilely slither down the pole whilst the
General would cry “Who is that man?” I would walk into the café with a
playful smile on my lips, letting my golden curls tumble over my forehead as
I removed my hard-hat. Placing my Avo on the
table full of pretty girls I would smilingly ask them to look after it whilst
I ordered tea! Suddenly, all three, Brown, Coles and Mitchell were shaking me –
“Wake up McGuiggan, you dozy f***er. You are to become a Tele Mech”.
I proudly left the room and walked the length of the NAAFI with a swagger. A
Tele Mech! |
