The enclosed letter was a short officious note .. You are to report to the Military Recruiting Office. Corner Newton Street and Steelhouse Lane at the time and date specified. Your Medical Examination is to be held at 10 o clock in the fore noon .. Blah Blah Blah ! Oh and the usual warning of dire consequences if one did not comply .. but non compliance was not even considered .. there was the whiff of adventure in the air. I was barely 18 years of age.

Grim factories with the chemicals, lathes, turret drills and stamping machines .. then mingled with it all, that peculiar smell of burnt oil from sharp cutting tools shaving and shaping Sheffield steel .. it worked it way into the pores and stank up the hair and work clothes .. murk and grime was the order of the day. The early morning and evening trolley buses and trams stank of it. I could have applied for exemption until I was 21,  for I was apprencticed to a Silver Smith .. but for many a working lad in that city, the call to arms in the form of National Service was a welcome respite from the grey monotony of working class life .. many of us went willingly and without a bleat. 

With half concealed excitement I read it again .. My Mother and Father had been expecting my call up papers, and here they were .. Great Britain still relied upon Military Conscription to man far flung outposts of what remained of the Empire and also to subdue an increasingly restless Kenya, Cyprus and Northern Ireland. A 2 years service stint at 26 shillings per week all found .. a pint of beer was a shilling and a packet of 20 gaspers (cigarettes) was one shilling and eight pence (12 pence made 1 shilling) At today�s rate of exchange .. Twenty six Shillings equals US Dollars 2.50 .. Ten dollars a month.

I think it was Napoleon who said an army marches on its stomach .. but he was a Frenchman � The British Army marched on beer and cigarettes and the memories of the girls in the garrison towns, and supported each other with obscenities and ribald songs whilst on the march. And with even more obscenities when under fire. All in the same trench .. we quickly learnt to fire in unison.

On the appointed day I reported to the Regimental Depot to commence military basic training. The whiff of adventure was eclipsed by the hard reality of the conscripts treatment by apoplectic training Sergeants. Conscripts were the lowest of the low .. bloody vermin the Sgt screamed .. lower than a pubic louse .. the Queen would have a restless night if she saw you bloody bunch of poofters .. what a heap of shit they sent us .. and this to defend the Nation! .. Firing squad! .. she�d scream .. send em to the bloody firing squad!

The barrack rooms were Victorian vintage .. drab and cheerless .. long windows .. high sills .. no curtains � the same sort of atmosphere sensed in those photographs of Victorian hospital wards .. With the regulation bed space, each barrack room held 27 men and 1 Corporal who oversaw the recruit platoon. His Lordship occupied a small room situated at the entrance .. to come or go .. one had to pass his open door .. no leave .. not even a nightly pass whilst one is in training .. All Prisoners of the Queen.

Lying on my bed .. hands behind my head .. I was contemplating the Recruiting posters that relieved the monotony of the barrack room walls .. Palm fringed shores with silver sands stretching into forever .. whilst perhaps at mid horizon the indistinct outlines of a grass skirted dusky beauty .. The posters were classics .. The Military must have hired a top flight psychologist before they printed those. Volunteers were sought. but discretely and with head games as I shall explain .. As the old saying goes .. One volunteer is worth 10 pressed men.

The fitness training and especially the daily assault course were arduous and relentless as they knocked us into shape .. Let me not forget the weekly 20 mile route march in full battle order .. wearing those ridiculous tin hats. What with the verbal abuse to the head .. and the fitness training socking it to the body .. and the utter exhaustion .. the instant obedience came robotically .. Obedience is an ambiguous word .. Some of the Worlds worst atrocities have been committed by the obedient. To be obedient one must totally bury the faculty of discretion .. even when taking a life .. After 3 lives it becomes easier. This as one sacrifices ones humanity .. However I digress .. on with the story.

The final three days of training entailed a ritual .. first came the Assault Course Demonstration for the Colonel of the Training Depot and his entourage .. usually the Quartermaster, the Adjutant and the Cook Sergeant. I think he must have been there to see what sort of a job the food had done .. he only saw us as walking stomachs .. and calculated calories in a note book.

Refreshments done .. came the order .. Right men, fall in .. the Colonel wants to speak to you tomorrow, but before e does .. He cleared his throat and said .. as your Training Sergeant .. today you did me proud .. well done men, and touched his forefinger to his peaked hat ... Fall out! .. and get busy bulling your Parade ground kit .. tomorrow was the Passing out Parade .. Soldiers wisdom was .. Bullshit baffles brains!.

The Colonel stood on a small dais .. face stern and non committal .. hands clasped behind his back .. feet spread and rocking on his feet .. standing easy .. whilst on the far end of the parade ground we stood ready .. Our battle dress with neatly ironed creases .. the webbing blancoed khaki with brasses softly gleaming .. boots and rifle stocks with a smooth deeply polished shine .

Three ranks in column of route with the Sergeant at our head .. and 5 yards in front of him .. the Regimental Depot Fife and Drums in Red jackets and leapord skin regalia .. headed by the Drum Major with his silver tipped twirling Mace .. And to the tune of The Minstrel Boy .. and with Union Jack and Regimental  flag unfurled .. we proudly stepped off with easy jaunty swing. To face the Colonel and assorted proud Mums, Dads,  Wives and Girl friends that stood behind him.

Three ranks facing the Colonel .. Preeesent Arms! the Sergeant roared .. and with synchronized stamp of feet and slap of palms on rifle butts and webbing slings .. we offered up our arms � Sloaap Arms! � Porrt Arms! � Unfiiix Bayonets ! .. ssssccch-snap!, as the bayonets were driven into the metal scabbards in unison .. we were doing well .. Staaand at Ease!

Well done men .. the Colonel said .. I cannot say that you were the best Platoon to pass through the Depot � but it�s a dashed close call .. you are a credit to your Queen, Country and your Regiment .. Blah Blah Blah! .. then off we marched bayonets fixed .. with Fife and Drum .. to the tune of The British Grenadiers� .. before being fell out (stood down) we were each issued a 12 hour pass for the town .. at last we had been tamed and civilised and made fit to mingle with Civilians and not disgrace the Regiment .. fighting would not be tolerated in English Garrison Towns. Ours was a disciplined violence.

Our first view of the outside world in 2 months .. The leave passes went from 6pm Retreat .. until 6am Reveille. This quaint two monthly ritual was well known to most of the Girls in the Garrison Town .. For the following night was the Regimental Depot Dance .. they were always a rave and well attended .. usually more females than males .. A well stocked bar .. and stacks of records from old favorites to the latest offerings .. For a young man with his balls between his ears .. what more could he want? .. it was rumoured that there was a spike at the Maternity Hospital every 9 months after each dance.

The following morning we were rostered at Depot HQ .. and all issued with travel warrants to our individual home towns and a 14 day leave pass with a fortnights wages .. Two pounds 12 shillings .. ( Five US dollars at today�s rate of exchange) a little less than 4 shillings a day and 14 days to fill .. Looking back analytically I was able to perceived how the Army filled its requirements for Regular Troops, who were the break water and stiffening, that held the tide line of the ebb and flow of 2 year army men.

Flat broke in 4 days and had to borrow from my Father. I got tired of Museums and Galleries of various kinds .. and with increasing frequency the recruiting posters intruded in my mind .. The day after return to barracks I made my way to the Depot Orderly room .. to find a small queue of like minded men.

I signed on for the Colours 9/22 �. Nine years in service of the Queen � with the option of extending for a further 3 years up to a maximum of 22 years .. whether one did this or not .. one was still committed .. to 13 years on the Reserve and subject to 7 days notice to rejoin ones Unit. My pay jumped from 26 shillings per week to 4 pounds ten shillings all found .. in those days if one was stationed in the Middle or Far East .. An overseas allowance was also added so it became a veritable fortune.

The Regimental Depot signed up on average 20% of every Platoon they trained .. they knew that of every intake of Conscripts .. not everyone had a wife or girlfriend or a mapped out future.

So they set their snares to capture the tumble weed and the gypsy that lurks in many a heart, The deft touch of Pomp and Circumstance .. just the right amount to stir the Patriotism .. the breaking down and then the rebuilding of the pride .. carefully stepped pay grades .. the invigorating sense of comradeship .. and the promise of foreign travel with its whiffs of danger � very cleverly done.

Seven days later found the Platoon on a Ferry from Liverpool to Belfast, going to replace the wastage of the First Battalion of the County Regiment .. There to undergo a further 6 weeks of advanced training .. Mortars .. heavy machine guns .. shoulder fired anti tank rockets and wheeled anti-tank guns .. The passing out Parade and demonstrations were done before the whole Battalion .. any slips were met with hoots and jeers .. but finally trained .. armed and dangerous .. we were admitted to the enfolding arms .. of Regimental life.

Those things I did not know then � but as far as I was concerned .. the pay and the recruiting posters did the trick for me .. I got to visit every place that hung on that dreary barrack room wall .. In hindsight I would not have foregone the experience but I could see how it was done .. some went on to forge successful military careers .. whilst others waited in a queue for prosthetic limbs. Whilst the unlucky ones received the final accolade of a firing party and the bugle as another man left his bones down a hole .. on a foreign shore.

To have the Military used as an agent of political expediency and chicanery .. is a long way from honour .. and even further from a sense of duty to ones Countrymen .. at that point in time I did not understand that it was just a well oiled killing machine .. That was set in motion ... Not for the Queen and Country as they would have us believe .. but as a tool for Political and Corporate Power .. There is no honour there .. Just Patriot Fools and Universal Soldiers.

Ivor Hughes
Dedicated to the Unknown Warrior.
Auckland. New Zealand.
7^th May 2006