Past Times

Field Marshal Montgomery inspects the CCF

TOECAPS LIKE MIRRORS: THE CCF

Michael Simmons (1946-52) shares his memories of ironing, polishing, exercises and camp

There were relatively small RAF and Naval sections in the Combined Cadet Force at St Paul’s but, as I was not in them, I am not equipped to talk about them. Most of us drifted into the Army section. Joining the Scouts with a return to the bare knees only recently left behind at our prep schools had little appeal except for the enthusiasts.

The idea of spending Monday afternoons in the Gym with Mr Williams was anathema except for crazy conscientious objectors and genuine odd balls, although it was always tempting to watch the totally inadequate attempts at gymnastics of Jonathan Miller (1947-53) and Jeffrey Winner (1946-51).

Thus, every Monday at St Paul’s in the late 1940s and early 1950s seemed dedicated to military matters. Swarms of khaki clad boys descended on the School each Monday morning in term time. There was no question of arriving in civilian clothes and changing into uniform later, although on reflection it might have been a good idea. I often wonder if the masters, most of whom had only recently abandoned their uniforms on returning from the War, adopted a different approach in teaching fledgling soldiers. If it had been only a Monday activity for us, it would not have been so bad but so much of Sunday was spent getting ready for the great day: the tip of the iceberg.

There was something singularly intransigent about the rough material of our government issue, khaki battle dress. Our mothers’ irons were borrowed to try to put some decent creases in the trousers. One trick was to turn the trousers inside out, smear the reverse creases with soap, put them back to normal and iron vigorously. The skill of putting creases in the battle dress blouse escaped me but some managed it. Our brass buckles and the bits on the front of the belt had to be polished with Brasso and a rag or Duraglit out of a tin. It was a delicate but messy business. The belt and anklets or gaiters now needed to be smeared with khaki blanco: a noxious powder mixed with water. Getting the combination right was an art. The truly keen among us now polished the straps on the anklets with brown shoe polish and, if they were entitled to wear them, added white chalk to pick out stripes and lanyards.

I have left to last the topic of boots: an all absorbing one. When first issued, they were depressingly dull and saturated in some sort of polish to keep them supple in storage. To get a shine on the toecaps and preferably heels as well, some over enthusiastic cadets managed to set fire to their boots and turn them into burnt offerings. Burning one’s boats can be acceptable but burning one’s boots is merely uneconomic. The popular way to get a shine was to set fire to a tin of black boot polish and with a red-hot spoon slowly beat the intransigent leather into a smooth finish with the liquid polish. It could take hours and the end results were a shining toe cap and an aching wrist. I devised an alternative method, equally time consuming, of holding the boots under the cold tap and beating them with the handle of an old toothbrush and then polishing them with a rag. The end result needed to be preserved until inspection on Monday afternoon: not an easy task for those of us travelling on the Piccadilly Line in the rush hour. On too many occasions one of my carefully constructed masterpieces would be ruined by some clumsy fellow traveller. Repairing the damage took time and that was in short supply. To summarise, most of Sunday was given over to the task of preparing for Monday. What was educational about all this? You may well ask.

Our drilling was a ritual rather like square dancing. We were led by Lieutenant Colonel LF Robinson DSO, MC who taught geography and, as he should, cut a very military figure. The three companies, A to C, were captained respectively by Buster Reed, Charles Hendtlass and Walter Cruickshank in their individualistic and much parodied ways. Other masters appeared as officers in supporting roles. The acme of achievement for any Pauline was to become an Under Officer. I was

considered lacking in leadership qualities and because of my seniority a special rank was created for me: Regimental Quarter Master Sergeant. This meant that I regularly took tea in my own designated mug with Regimental Sergeant Majors Walker and Ashurst: the two former regular non-commissioned officers whom the War Office supplied to keep us on the straight and narrow. Both were eternally extending their belts as they enjoyed the good life. We studied for Certificate A. Success in that exam entitled us to wear a four-pointed red star on our left sleeves. We were issued with loose leaf manuals which had to be kept up to date with regular supplements. I was not encouraged to find some headed “not to be opened except in the trenches.” What war would we be fighting?

We learned map reading which was useful in later life until the development of the GPS, field craft and much time was spent learning to assemble and disassemble the Bren Gun. The champions among us could do it blindfolded. In the week, we went to the rifle range in the Territorial Army Headquarters on Hammersmith Road and shot .22 calibre ammunition to be awarded our second and first class shot qualifications: yet another badge on the sleeve. I might as well have joined the Scouts! The recoilless firing on the indoor range lulled me into a false sense of security. When I graduated to .303 firing on the outdoor range, I was not prepared for the bruised shoulder arising from the brutal recoil. By contrast, when firing the Bren Gun in short bursts, the wretched thing had a tendency to run away from one.

Why were we endlessly drilling? The annual inspection was always coming round, when Field Marshal Viscount Montgomery of Alamein OP (“Monty”) or some other military big wig would come and give us a cursory once over. “Three cheers for the inspecting officer!” Long term, we were all liable in later life for National Service. I ended up in a Royal Air Force Officer Cadet Training Unit on the Isle of Man where the standard of drill that I had to achieve was nowhere near as rigorous as in the SPS CCF. Once a term, we also went on Field Days on one or other of the commons or parks in South West London. We boarded our chartered coaches with a sense of anticipation. “A Company” was waging war on “B Company.” Our officers behaved like irresponsible schoolboys and threw thunder flashes dangerously in our general direction. Having been told continually how deadly the blank ammunition we were firing could be, we responsibly made sure that no damage was done. After a long morning of battle, it was good to pause and enjoy the packed lunch with which we had been provided. Our army marched on its stomach.

It was announced that Monty was being made a Freeman of the Borough of Hammersmith and the School CCF was to provide the Guard of Honour. There was great competition for places and I was lucky enough to be selected. You can imagine the hours of preparation. I even experimented with circles of lead piping around the inside of my trouser bottoms to keep my creases straight. It was fine until I had to stamp my foot while drilling when the lead piping jumped up and bruised my calf muscle. We drew our rifles from the Armoury and marched to the Town Hall. It was a bitterly cold day and we had left our great coats at School. We did the business and Monty inspected us. We were then supposed to go to our reserved seats to watch the freedom ceremony. But there were no seats for us. We straggled disconsolately back to School to find the Armoury locked up with our great coats inside. We dumped our rifles – the IRA could have stolen them for all we cared – and wandered off home shivering in disgust.

The annual camp was a week-long extravaganza where we put into practice what we had learned in the year. On one occasion, Monty arrived to inspect us. He approached me.

“How’s the food?” He barked.

“Very good, Sir,” I cravenly replied.

In truth, it was terrible. We were usually housed in barracks in army camps in the Home Counties but I vividly recall one camp under canvas near Colchester. As the senior NCO in my tent, I exercised my right to put my bedding in the deepest undulation for the most comfort, as I thought. The camp site must once have been a ploughed field and the floor of our tent was a series of peaks and troughs. It poured with rain on the first night and I woke to find myself and my bedding almost afloat in a newly created stream. Nevertheless, these camps were good for morale and, to the horror of my parents, I was contemplating a career in the Army. Seven days with the Irish Guards in Chelsea Barracks put an abrupt end to that ambition. They treated us like raw recruits and it was totally exhausting. The battalion was entirely run by the NCOs. The officers would appear at about 11 am in dark suits, bowler hats and with carefully rolled umbrellas, standing around for about an hour watching our efforts before going off to lunch at their clubs. They rarely reappeared again. I wondered what their function was in war.

In the view of some of us, it was all an enormous waste of time, as was National Service, but I do not subscribe to that view. Certainly, trying to get the encrusted blanco from under my fingernails or explaining to my angry mother why there were smears of boot polish all over the kitchen floor were not my idea of fun. I cannot possibly compute how many potentially profitable hours were wasted in mindless activities, but I have a strong suspicion that I would have wasted them anyway. My stentorian voice, developed on the parade ground at St Paul’s, still stops the drivers of fast disappearing taxis to their great surprise. Mine was a cohort which was mostly fortunate enough to avoid involvement in war though Egypt, Korea, Cyprus, Malaya and others were happening all around us. We played at soldiers. It was a lot safer than being involved in the real thing. 