Memories of National Service

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Bugles But No Tiger

What follows lacks tales of courage and initiative. I spent only one year in the uniform of the Second Gurkha Rifles (The Sirmoor Rifles or ‘2 GR’), which I was proud to wear. 50 years ago, in 1960, the world was more or less at peace in spite of the simmering cold war and the Malayan Emergency winding down. Consequently, I never saw action, except in Hong Kong observing drunken British soldiers being collected from outside the bars in Wan Chai by MPs late on Saturday nights.

How I became a Gurkha

Having applied for ‘early call up’ for National Service at 17, I was turned down because the Army was ‘full’. Consequently, like many black sheep before me, I emigrated to Canada. At least someone wanted me. There was a concessionary air fare of £10, one way, to Canada. I found Canada ‘interesting without being pleasant’ as someone put it. After a stint working in a uranium mine in Northern Ontario I arranged through a friend in the shipping business to work my passage back to Europe. The SS Helsingfors of some 1,400 tons left Montreal bound, so I was told, for Copenhagen with a cargo of copper wire destined for Russia. About a day out, the ship was redirected to Gothenburg.

I arrived in London one November and was called up the following January. In the interim, I became a temporary cellarman to help with the Christmas rush at a wine merchant. We worked in long, narrow underground passages below Regent Street, from the end of which one could often hear the voices of the partners. One had been in the Scots Guards. He was mad keen on ‘man management’. This was how he was known ever after. He seemed impressed by my enthusiasm for cellaring because, each time he saw me, I arranged always to be running. Whenever I heard his voice I used to race across the short gap at the end of whichever passage from which it came. At Christmas it was time to say goodbye. To my amazement, ‘man management’ said: ‘Nokes, I hear you’re going into the Army. What about the Scots Guards?’ Thanking him, I declined politely. It was necessary then to have a small private income which I did not have. ‘Oh! Well’ he said: ‘My partner’s daughter is marrying a Gurkha and they’re in Hong Kong!’ Music to my ears. I had no idea whether the Gurkhas were artillery, cavalry, infantry or gravediggers but, Hong Kong was my goal.

My initial posting was to the Royal Artillery (RA) at Oswestry, near Shrewsbury. In the evening gloom of the 8th January 1959 I arrived at Gobowen station in Shropshire en route for Park Hall Camp. It was freezing cold. That night in my barrack room there were twenty odd conscripts, many of whom I suspect had never before left the comfort of home. At 1030 pm, on the dot, the lights went out. Most of us were in bed but one or two of my new colleagues were caught in the dark in the middle of the room. One enterprising lad lit a torch. As light illuminated the area around his bed a quiet voice came from the other end of the room: “Bu**er me! Florence fu**ing Nightingale”. From that moment, National Service went downhill all the way.

The next morning, my 22nd birthday, at 6.30 am I found myself queuing for breakfast outside the cook house in the gently falling snow. A far cry from my usual routine although I had just spent eighteen months in Canada, where at times, the temperature fell to - 20 degrees C. After a delicious breakfast, full English with all the trimmings, we met the bombadier of some 22 year’s service whose duty it was to turn us into something military. As he cast his eyes over us he opined: “They should never ‘ave got rid of the ‘orses”.

My departure for Mons OCS was delayed because the War Office wanted assurance from the Mounties that I had not tried to overthrow the Canadian Government. This delayed by six months my commissioning. During that time I managed to read ‘Bugles and a Tiger’ by the ex 4th Gurkha, John Masters.

Life with 2nd Gurkhas

I arrived at Norwegian Farm Camp in Hong Kong’s New Territories on 13th December 1959. With only a year to go, it was not considered worthwhile sending me to Nepal to learn Gurkhali so I never spoke the language properly. I was initially appointed Company Officer of ‘B’ Company and later was demoted to Intelligence Officer with a staff of three after a few weeks.

Our role there was internal security (IS), which consisted, inter alia, of manning the observation post at Lok Ma Chau, one of four on the Chinese border. On October 10th (10th day of the 10th month!) the previous year, apparently, five thousand Chinese troops had massed along this border. Their purpose was not clear but eventually they went away without any encouragement from us.

One evening, I was detailed to meet a newly commissioned Second Lieutenant at Hong Kong Airport who had won all the available awards and prizes at Mons OCS so, here was clearly a man destined for greatness. After his ‘plane landed I could see in the gloom his erect figure striding confidently towards me. Later, when we knew each other better, he told me that at first sight he thought: ‘How nice, the Colonel has come to meet me.’ Coming a little closer he thought it must be the Adjutant. Only when we finally met, did he realise he’d been palmed off with the most junior officer. He is now a Lieutenant General (retired)!

A surreal appointment in my Army career was as temporary ADC to the Quartermaster General of the Nepalese Army. As his staff car, with his personal flag flying from the bonnet, crept along Nathan Road in Kowloon at a discrete distance, I followed him and his wife on foot as they shopped for children’s underwear. He drove a hard bargain. In one shop he picked up a bottle of sun tan lotion. Having read the label he replaced it on the shelf with the words: ‘I don’t think we need that.’ He was very popular with the soldiers as a well known writer of pop songs in Nepal.

The battalion moved to Malaya in June 1960. With only six month’s service left and the fact that whatever duties one had finished at 1.30 pm each day, my afternoons were spent water skiing in the Straits of Johore in the battalion water ski boat, a gift from the Nuffield Trust.

Apart from denting the Commanding Officer’s car on a bollard at Burma Camp in Johore Baru, memories of my time there are otherwise vague. That is probably why, when, on the day of my discharge orders were received to move the battalion to Brunei, I offered to stay on to assist but was told: ‘No thanks, Julian, we’ll have to manage without you’.

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