Recollections of a ‘Tourist’.

The Journey.

I joined the Royal Engineers in January 1960 . The medical examination I remember vividly. I was ‘requested’ to report to a recruiting centre somewhere in Glasgow. It turned out to be an unheated T.A. drill hall, just the place to strip off to your birthday suit. On entry I saw, at the other side of the hall, 2 large trestle tables. One table displayed a card bearing the word ‘Volunteers’, the other a card ‘Conscripts’. There was a long line of several dozen glum looking individuals at the latter table but no-one at the former. Feeling very self-conscious, and clutching my papers, I went and stood by the ‘Volunteer’ table. All eyes swivelled towards me. ‘Hey pal, over here, unless yer daft enough tae huv signed up’ shouted one of the apparent National Servicemen. Being rather shy, I waited and wilted under the raucous jeers of the assembled, disgruntled Glaswegians who were in the process of being forced into the service of their country. After an hour, I was still standing by the table and all the conscripts had disappeared into another room. Eventually, an RAMC officer appeared and was a bit startled to see me. Even he enquired if I had got the correct table!. However, after his examination my physique was considered fit enough to be classified A1 (nervous!) and suitable to be used in the defence of my country.

This was the first of many humiliations to follow in the next few months, but eventually, after basic training at Farnborough, and trade training at Chatham I was considered to be a qualified Engine Fitter (IC&Pumps) A3. After being required to complete what was then called POP or Preference of Posting Forms - what a joke this was, and another example of military cynicism. I entered, as I felt, nothing ventured nothing gained, 1. Far East Command, 2. Caribbean Command, and 3. Near East Command. When the postings arrived and we fought to get near the list, a mate of mine called out, ‘Here Jock, where’s Horsham, ‘cos that's where you’re going’. I doubted if there was a Horsham in British Honduras and I was right!. Two weeks later I was a member of a rather elite band of squaddies in the Royal Engineers Bomb Disposal Unit based in West Sussex. So much for swaying palms and grass skirts - or so I thought!. I spent the next 2 years travelling the UK, mainly digging holes to find and dispose of what Adolf’s Luftwaffe swine had dropped on us during the war. This was a satisfying and at times very spooky and extremely dangerous way of earning a living but I really enjoyed the life.

One day in winter 1963 I was working on a bomb location job on a freezing cold day on a railway embankment in north London when the SSM arrived with some startling news for me - my advance warning of posting to 73(Christmas Island) Squadron. Ex-Grapplers (2) in my unit proceeded to fill me in on the delights and horrors of The Rock and when subsequently, I flew out over Alcatraz from San Francisco I wondered if they really were similar!.

Chattys’ wonderful tale of the trip out from Heathrow varies only slightly from my own memories of that adventure. I joined the flight thinking I was alone on my journey to the other side of the globe but this was dispersed as soon as we took off and the booze trolley appeared. The British squaddie will not be backward in coming forward as long as he is hungry or has a thirst!. I soon realised that I was among 30 odd Sappers in the same boat (or plane) as me,all destined for The Rock. I was gob smacked when I saw that the guy on the starboard side of the cabin from me had a pace-stick tucked down the side of his seat - it transpired that he was to be my SSM (name of Wilson) on his way out to relieve another WO2. We had a short afternoon stop at Idlewild (New York). I recall the aircraft coming to a halt at the terminal and the captain requesting us to remain seated for the U.S. Marshall. I thought to myself, surely Wyatt Earp was shot dead years ago, when a huge guy, twice the size of John Wayne entered the cabin and slowly made his way down the aisle, closely staring at every face in turn. As like Chattys immigration officer, this bloke was dressed like a Japanese Admiral - you could hardly see his shirt for badges, medals and brightly coloured embroidered thingys. But most prominent of all was his GUN. On his hip was a small cannon which I am sure, if discharged there, would have taken out ten passengers and the tail of the aircraft. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I was sitting about 4 seats from the rear so by the time he slowly made his way to my seat I was feeling guilty as hell, about what I know not, but his intimidating presence was enough for anyone to fall on the floor grovelling at his feet and confessing anything from smuggling to the assassination of a President!. I have never known such a silence!. Anyway, he left the plane and we followed him into the terminal where we were directed to Immigration. It was here that I met one of Chattys ‘Sheriffs’. This guy took my shiny new passport looked at me, then my picture. Instead of laughing at it, he grinned hugely and said, ‘Well, looks like we got a Yankee Doodle here’. I thought he was deranged as I was just a wee Glasgow boy. What he had spotted was my date of birth - 4th July. He thrust forward a big meaty hand and welcomed me to the U.S. of A. and called over the other immigration officers to also welcome me. There I stood with a smug look on my face as officialdom rolled out the red carpet, slapped me on the back and welcomed me like a son, whilst my fellow-Sappers just gawped, before they were brusquely hustled through into America. Pity, I thought, no playing of the ‘Star Spangled Banner, oh well!.

It was in this city that we quickly found out how crap American beer was.

After a 6 hour wait, we took off for San Francisco where we were due for an overnight stop. Chatty’s description of the San Francisco landing is identical to my recollection and I well remember the sea getting closer and closer and then the reassuring bump as we landed. Only a few days before we got there, a Japan Airlines 707 had undershot and landed in the ocean just short of the same runway.

By this time I had become pals with an electrician, Sapper Johnny Bowman, a pure Cockney with an incredibly incomprehensible accent. He couldn’t understand my Scots accent no more than I could his Cockney. When we arrived at the motel check-in outside S.F. our conversations with the poor reception girl might as well have been in Latvian for all she could comprehend us!. They say the Brits and Yanks are divided by a common language - nothing could be truer on that occasion I assure you. Eventually, we filled in the cards and left the young lady shaking her head and were shown to our rooms. As Chatty has adequately described in his ‘Gizza’ story, the phones in every room, the plastic hygienically sealed bog-seats, and best of all was the 58 channel COLOUR telly!. I well remember watching programmes in colour that I had seen only in black and white for years, with amazement.

Next day we took off for Hawaii and enjoyed a delightful flight courtesy of the taxpayer and eventually landed in Honolulu late evening to be met by grass-skirted Hawaiian lovelies who girdled our necks with flower leis and kisses - the girls were quite nice as well!. Boy, I thought, this is more like it, but, we had no sooner cleared customs and the military reared its ugly head again and we were marched off in that lovely warm and fragrant air of Honolulu to a bus and our short wait at Hickam Field. We took off at 4am in a US transport which was a lot more comfortable than the Hastings - AND we got the full Yank breakfast!. The pilot, I remember was full of wisecracks, and he kept ‘pretending’ to leave his mike open and all the passengers were entertained by phoney arguments between pilot and navigator, like, ‘What d’ya mean you’ve left the maps behind’, - ‘How the hell should I know where this crummy island is’ - ‘I think its kind of claw-shaped!’. At one point he joked (unknown to us) over the intercom, ‘Has any passenger been here before, if so, can he come up here and point the place out to us before we have to ditch for lack of fuel!’. Nervous laughs followed this comment with much wriggling in seats but in no time he shouted, ‘There it is - look - Thank God, Thank God, we’re saved’. All an act but great fun. Soon we circled our tropical home for the next year and landed. Two things are branded on my memory as I reached the door - the oven-like heat and a land-crab that had been squashed under the wheel of the aircraft!.

The sentence had begun!.

©: R. Morrison. 23 Jul. 01