Percy Smith's War Diary - Part 1

Introduction

It has been suggested to me on more than one occasion that some of my experiences up to and during the Second World War could be interesting to anyone who would care to bother in the years to come. I put it that way because the written word can be laid aside, where the spoken word can sometimes be greeted with “Oh Lord, here he goes again”. It may also be questioned as to its authenticity as of course these few notes are about things that took place over sixty years ago now, but to this I would say that they took place under such circumstances that one would be unlikely to forget. As it turned out, I personally was on the whole very lucky during the war itself, for the fact that I came through unscathed if not always out of danger. Others were less fortunate. I think one of my regrets, on looking back, is that the teenage years of my generation were rather spoiled in the 1930’s by the constant threat of war and being conscripted, as a result of the continuing aggression in Europe by Adolf Hitler in Germany. It is perhaps not too much to say that the origin of the Second World War was born in the ending of the First World War, which eventually gave Hitler the chance to come to power, but all this is remarkably told in the first book of Churchill’s History of the Second World War — The Gathering Storm.

I was born on 18th June, 1918 at no. 4 Seymoor Terrace in the little town of Totnes in Devonshire. My father had been invalided out of the army after being thrown from a horse, or rather a mule, and he had taken a job in a cider factory. He and my mother rented a large house and mother took in the ‘overflow’ guests from the nearby Seymoor Hotel. The First World War would still rage on for another four more terrible months and it would seem that occasionally some of the visitors to the house were ex-servicemen recovering from wounds and other war injuries, no doubt taking advantage of the more peaceful Devonshire life in the country. Years later my mother would sometimes relate how a certain Mr. Samways would look in my pram and say in “One day the young man will also go to war”. I don’t think it would have cheered up my parents very much but I have thought it would have been interesting to know his reasons, so accurate twenty years later.

In the autumn of 1938, I was 20 years old. There was another crisis with Hitler, this time with his eyes on Czechoslovakia, which resulted in a last ditch meeting in Munich between the British Prime Minister (Chamberlain), the French Prime Minister, Daladier, the Italian Dictator (Mussolini) and Hitler. War was avoided and most people went mad with relief. Chamberlain flew back with a paper which said that Germany and Britain had agreed never to go to war again and that it was “Peace in our time”. It was rather significant that Chamberlain by this time was rather an old man!! Ordinary people settled down for the rest of the year, it was a wonderful Christmas and New Year, but soon in 1939 the future once again became grim. Hitler’s threat to Poland destroyed all the hopes of the previous year. There was talk of conscription (just in case) and we all queued at the town hall to be fitted with gas masks. There were air raid precautions and first aid classes. My father enquired about getting me into the Fire Service — I think he had perhaps some idea of me doing war service at home — but while it was wishful thinking at the time, as it turned out, the Fire Service was a real front line job in the London blitz. Anyway the whole idea was overtaken by events and on a certain date in March all British men between the ages of 20 and 21 were required to ‘register’ for military service. In this way, I caught up with some of my old classmates from school. We registered and had a very elementary ‘Medical’ at Hounslow Drill Hall. I was asked if I had any preference for a regiment and on reply I said I would prefer transport. To this I was informed that the fighting services had to be supplied first, so I couldn’t see why they asked me in the first place!!

Conscription by this time was becoming a foregone conclusion. We were to be called up for six months and then be on the Reserve for three years. Every effort was made in the news media to glamorize the project — pictures of the marvellous army life, reception rooms for sweethearts and the Sgt. Major was going to be a second father!! A term we were to learn very early on was ‘Bullshit’!

Joining up

It would have been about the beginning of June when a letter arrived in good time for my 21st birthday. It contained a postal order for four shillings and sixpence, a railway pass for
Blandford in Dorset with complete travel instructions, and a small booklet on the wonderful life it was going to be in the British Army. Some of my friends, who had been just over the age limit, said I was really going to have a good time and they wouldn’t mind going - how soon that wish was to be granted!

On the 15th, 16th and 17th of July, the first 30,000 ever to be called up in peacetime joined the British Army. They were to be called the Militia. For me after the 16th July, 1939, life would never be quite the same again, perhaps it was the same for all of us. No-one dreamed that it would be six and a half years and that was for the lucky ones. It was awful to wake up in the morning and know you were going to leave home for the army, when that was about the last thing you would wish to do. A painful goodbye to Mother, then Dad drove me to the station, where about a dozen of my school mates were also waiting. On the way to Waterloo we were fairly subdued, we consoled ourselves with the fact that we would at least all be together, so it wouldn’t be so bad after all. At Waterloo, we had to join a special train which had been laid on for the Militia bound for Blandford. On arrival at the platform there was an entirely different atmosphere. It was, of course, crowded with chaps all of the same age, a few friends to see them off. There were platform trolleys with cups of tea (real cups), all free, and other refreshments. Some chaps brought an adequate stock of beer, which was being well taken care of. It was hardly a time for celebration but there was the sort of feeling — well, there’s no getting out of it, so to hell with the lot of them.
Eventually the whistle blew and we all got on the train, which turned out to be a madhouse. As the train began to move, it was as though an order had been given and most of the teacups and glass beer bottles were thrown out of the windows onto the platform with the railway staff cursing as we went. On the journey, some gambled with packs of cards, some were drunk and I’m sure there must have been quite a lot of damage to the train by the time we arrived at Blandford. The train came to a halt and out we got with our small cases of personal things. On being directed out of the station we encountered a convoy of private contractors with open trucks — builders, coal merchants, farmers — all sorts. Everyone climbed into these until they were full and after an army escort taking charge, the convoy drove out of the little town towards the open country, which was part of Salisbury Plain. After about three or four miles, we came to what seemed to be a forest of timber ‘uprights’ , which were to be future army quarters. Going over a hill, we hoped to see some that were finished and waiting. Instead the convoy came to a halt in the middle of about two thousand Bell Tents and various marquees for offices. The only item they seemed to have finished was a parade ground. Fortunately the weather was fine. We had to be sorted numbered and issued with kit. We were assigned six to a tent, in alphabetical order. This resulted in five of the six in my tent being named ‘Smith’ and as there was a CH and a PH, there were mostly two shouts at the same time at roll call.
Early on arrival , of course, we had to have our particulars taken. At the end of a long queue sat an NCO at a table. He never seemed to look up, just kept filling in forms and asking particulars. Name, birth, address, religion. The chap in front of me, when asked about his religion, answered ‘Atheist’. The NCO instantly looked up and said “You must have a religion”. The man insisted he hadn’t. “Well, what’s your father’s religion?” Answer — “He hasn’t got one”. The argument went on, so he was told to stand to one side and so my turn came. So, I started the day as Mr. P.H. Smith but ended it as 10024074 Gunner P.H. Smith, Royal Artillery.
The next day another convoy of recruits came in and we greeted them with shouts of “Get some service in”.

Blandford

The whole set up consisted mainly of two big camps — an Anti-aircraft depot and a Searchlight depot. We were to be part of an ‘Umbrella’ for Britain. We didn’t know any better then, but nearly everything was first world war. We were issued with tunics (jackets), breeches and puttees for a uniform. The date of manufacture of the tunic was stamped on the inside pocket — June 1918 — the month I was born in. The brass buttons were green with mould and our job was to make them shine! The last two items, however, were to be very much appreciated the following winter, as they were much better at keeping the terrible cold out when we were in Northern France. The puttees took some getting used to because, unless they were put on correctly, they would unwind on parade — much to the annoyance of the Sgt. Major.
The Quartermasters Stores was an early call. On entry you were given a kit bag so that everything else could be thrown into it as you made your way through. The next thing shouted out was “What size boots?” Here a painful mistake was made as I had always taken size 7. We didn’t know that army boots certainly needed to be a size larger, so after a couple of days, quite a number of us on the parade ground had blisters.
All the rifles, guns and metal equipment had been thickly greased and stored away for twenty years but there was no reason why it should not be instantly shining and ready for inspection. Our officers, NCO’s and instructors were Regular Army and their first job was to teach a bit of discipline and how to salute etc. I think , for the first few days, we were not quite sure who we had to salute and who not, so to be on the safe side we saluted them all!
Of course, the army is very keen on haircuts and one of our conscripts, a Jewish lad, had arrived well prepared for this. In the first bit of spare time, he got a wooden box for a seat, produced a white sheet, a comb and a pair of clippers and proceeded to make a small fortune at sixpence a time, with full army blessing.

For the first two or three weeks, the weather was quite hot and plenty of sweat was lost on the parade ground, which seemed like punishment, but soon it changed to the wet season. The only hard ground was the parade ground, so that with hundreds of recruits walking about over the grassy ground, it soon became nothing but mud, which was not easy to keep out of the tents. You could sometimes find a puddle beside your bed in the morning. Everything began to get soaked, boots were never dry. Our protection against the rain was a ground sheet which covered your shoulders and down to your waist. The disadvantage was that your legs got completely soaked. We soon found that if you are living in a bell tent in wet weather, you must not touch the canvas because the water will come through (or it did at that time),which is not very easy when there are six of you. So much for the reception rooms for sweethearts!
We lived under canvas the whole time before going to France, which was not too bad, if the weather was fine.

Washing and shaving was a bit spartan in that it wasn’t actually a room, but more like a cattle pen. A newly built, rough wooden building, boarded up to about waist level and then open to the weather up to the roof. Washing was with cold water. Fortunately it was summer. There were long, rough wooden benches running the length of the building with a curved zinc trough in the middle for drainage, a water pipe running the whole length with taps at intervals. Toilets were of rough wooden construction, with a hole in the ground. Someone, usually on punishment duty, had to cover the contents with a layer of earth each day, until it was full, then it was moved and another hole dug.

One of the chaps ,who soon became quite a good friend, said to me at an early stage “I don’t think Percy suits you at all. I’m going to call you Bill”, so Bill it was for the rest of my stay until war was declared and I was moved away.

From time to time of course we had lectures on all sorts of things after which questions were invited. On one occasion I made my first complaint which was about the washing up water outside the mess tent. There was a plain galvanised washing bath of hot water outside the entrance that about a hundred chaps swilled their mess tins in without any soap or soda, which meant that by the time the last chap had been, there was about half an inch of thick grease round the side of a bath of cold water. To my great surprise, something was done about it.

Food was plain but good. Officers and NCO’s were strict but fair. In our off duty, there was the Naafi, where there was a small radio. In the evenings there would be Housey Housey. This was all in a big marquee. Not many got drunk on 1s.6d. a day. To go into Blandford a pass was needed and there was about one bus in the evening. After about a month, we were given permission to go home for the weekend. My father had a little Standard 9 car, which wasn’t used much, so four of us got permission from the camp to bring it back and share the petrol to come back as often as we could, so I returned to camp with three other lads. Unfortunately, by the time the next leave came round, there was a crisis, leave was cancelled and father had to come down and take it back.

The main part of the next few weeks was spent learning the intricacies of a first world war anti-aircraft gun and its accessories. As I remember, it consisted mainly of a Range Finder, a Predictor and up to three guns. The Range Finder was basically a tube about 6 ft. in length, mounted on a stand with an eyepiece in the middle. There were mirrors at each end, which were trained on the enemy aircraft. The angle of the mirrors gave the distance the aircraft was away and this information was shouted to the chaps on the Predictor.
The Predictor was a box of works, about a 2 ft. cube, with dials and hand wheels. Information such as speed, height and direction of the enemy aircraft, wind and weather was physically fed into it. The result it gave out was shouted to the gunners. Considering the enemy pilots were highly trained and the gunners were novices, I got the feeling that the safest place to be, would perhaps be in the enemy aircraft!!

Everyone was required for ‘Square Bashing’, P.T., inspections and so on. There were various ‘trades’ you could put your name down for. I tried for Carpentry and Motor Transport, but they told me that as all I could make was coffins, I managed the latter, for which I was glad.
At least I had little more to do with guns.

After a week or two, life in the camp settled down to some sort of a pattern. The rest of the lads seemed pretty decent. Evenings were spent in the Naafi or in your tent, writing home. There would be a glow here and there from some of the tents with a candle as it got dark and someone would be playing ‘South of the Border’ on a mouth organ.

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