CALL- UP PAPERS
We kick off our readers’ memories of their time in National Service – pages 2&3
Exactly 60 years ago on December 31 the call-up ended, and with it a rite of passage which most of the young men who endured it dreaded or resented. But for most, it didn’t usually turn out so badly. BT takes a look at National Service, and has a couple of readers’ recollections, with more to come next week.
IF, between 1939 and 1960, you were a British male of eligible age, you were likely to have to spend some period of time in uniform, whether you wanted to or not. You had to do your National Service; you had, in a common phrase of the time, “get some service in” or just “get some in”.
Anyone could understand the necessity during the Second World War. The entire nation was mobilized for the war effort, and unless they were in an occupation or had skills which were better used elsewhere, men of military age were brought into the armed forces.
What many at the time failed to anticipate was that the country still needed soldiers, sailors and airmen after the war had ended.
Britain had vast overseas military commitments, a hangover of an empire which was now disintegrating, as well as being in the front line of a new Cold War with communist Russia and, it would turn out, Communist China as well.
So while there was a brief period of no conscription at the war’s end, the National Service Act of 1947 basically continued the system of compulsory military service which had been in place since the spring of 1939.
A new Act the following year shaped post-war National Service as most would know it. All males between 18 and 21 were liable to 18 months military service followed by three years as a reservist who could be recalled to the ranks if required.
As in the Second World War, you were exempted from conscription if you worked in a number of essential occupations. But now the list of essential occupations was much, much shorter.
As in the First and Second World Wars, there was also provision for conscientious objectors, who would have to appear before a tribunal and justify their refusal to fight. Many of those whose appeals were upheld ended up as hospital porters or working for the Forestry Commission. Some were accepted into non-combat arms of the forces, such as the Royal Army Medical Corps.
The start of the Korean War in 1950 saw the service time extended to two years and the age range widened.
The law covered England, Scotland and Wales, but not Northern Ireland, where the idea of conscripting young men from Catholic communities into the British army would have been a recipe for mayhem.
But otherwise, National Service was something that few young men at the time could escape; you could put it off for reasons of education, for example, but unless you had some serious health problem, it was a near-certainty that you would eventually fall into the far-fromgentle hands of HM Forces.
In all, around two million were conscripted between the war’s end and the last call-up in 1960. The last National Serviceman, who had had to serve an extended spell in the RAF because of skill shortages in the service, was not demobbed until 1963.
National Service was, for almost everyone going through it, an important and formative experience in their lives. Most would be living away from home for the first time, and for most, the first few weeks, the introduction to squarebashing and military bull, were brutal.
At the same time, though, most accepted it as a part of growing up that all their mates were going through, too, and which their fathers and grandfathers had as well.
In homes up and down the country, fathers would nod or shrug when their boys’ call-up papers arrived in the post: “His grandfather did his bit, I did my bit, and now it’s his turn.”
The great majority of young men went into the army or the RAF. The Royal Navy only wanted men who were prepared to sign up for several years and so relatively few went to sea.
Relatively few who were taken by the RAF ever left the ground in an aircraft, and relatively few who went into the army found themselves in front-line combat, despite the numerous big and small wars Britain was involved in over the period, including Korea, Suez,
Malaya and more. Just under 400 men were killed on active service, and while this was no consolation to their families, this was a very small proportion of National Servicemen.
When the end of National Service arrived, it had, though, been a long time in coming.
The armed forces were becoming more and more technically specialized, and so needed men for more than 18 months or two years after going to the expense of training them.
Even at the sharp end of the army, the infantry, the generals wanted committed and enthusiastic soldiers. Resentful Teddy Boys (or Mummy’s Boys!) who didn’t want to be there were worse than useless. The endless legends of conscripts being ordered to cut grass with nail-scissors, or whitewash a heap of coal, came about because the forces – especially the army – just wanted to give them something to do, while others got on with the proper soldiering.
National Service ended because it was more trouble than it was worth.
The experience was as varied as the men themselves. Most couldn’t wait to get out and return to civilian life, but most put up with it. For all that they hated the drill and PT, they found comradeship and solidarity with other lads from all walks of life, bonding in a shared loathing of their drill instructors.
Most would also look back in wonder at a time when they had never been so physically fit (and never would be again).
Most, too, would find that they did a lot of growing up while in uniform. Some took on important responsibilities, knowing that men would die if they screwed up. Others learned to duck and weave and work the system. All learned to polish things to an Olympic standard.
Most would keep a “chuff chart”, a piece of paper on which they ticked off the days until they were let out again, back to a world of proper wages, pubs and girlfriends and Mum’s Sunday roast.
And back in Civvy Street, all had opinions of their own in the great debate which went on for years afterwards, and which still breaks out intermittently today:
Should we bring back National Service?
Every newspaper report of juvenile delinquency or youth crime
could be relied on to generate readers’ letters about how we should bring back National Service to teach these kids respect, self-discipline and responsibility.
And what, would any general ask privately, are we supposed to do with tens of thousands of youngsters each year? National Service never came back because the forces neither want it or need it.
In more recent times, Prince Harry publicly stated that its return might be a good idea, while actor Michael Caine, himself a conscript who saw action in Korea, stated that it would be a solution to youth crime because at the end of it “you have a sense of belonging, rather than a sense of violence.”
Back at the beginning of this year we asked readers for their memories of National Service. Here are just a couple of the replies we had, with more to come next week:
Shedding blood for King & Country
Tony Everett recalls a small case of military injustice
One Saturday morning in 1948 we assembled for the morning parade and our usual sergeant had been replaced by a short portly bombardier (the term used in the Royal Artillery for ‘corporal’). He strutted around in front of us and I instantly took a dislike to him. This turned out to be mutual. By the side of the square was parked a large blue van. He suddenly turned and faced our squad. Without further ado he launched into us”
“Your mothers may love you; they may love you dearly. But I HATE you, every single one of you !
“Now you see this van ‘ere. Well it’s the Blood Donor Van, and this is your chance to give your blood. Let me say that this purely volun’ary, but GOD HELP ANY MAN IN THIS SQUAD WHO DOESN’T VOLUN’EER!
“Now hands up all those who will be giving their blood.”
Because we were more scared of him than the Blood Donor Van, all our hands were raised aloft.
Eventually it was my turn to enter. A man in a white coat said: “Hold out your right thumb and grip it with your left hand.”
I did so and he immediately produced the biggest looking needle I had ever seen. With a ‘ thunk’ he rammed it into the end of my thumb. I jumped, and wished I had been brave enough not to have volunteered.
He put the blood from the needle into a glass of transparent liquid. But what should have happened did not do so.
“Funny”, he said, “we’ll have to try again. Hold out your thumb.”
The needle reappeared. Thunk! It was even worse the second time.
But the blood performed correctly and I was ushered into the next room to give what was left of my blood. They extracted twothirds of a pint and by contrast with the blood test this was a doddle.
I sat up and was given a mug of tea. I was happy now and looking forward to the 36 hours off all duties that every one of the blood donors had been promised.
On entering my barrack room I saw that the next day’s Troop Orders had been posted up. I could not believe my eyes. The message it purveyed said:
Coal Fatigues 22063376 Gnr Everett
This had to be a mistake. These fatigues were particularly arduous and involved filling continuous buckets of coal from a bunker and carrying them to all the surrounding barrack rooms. I went straight to the Battery Sergeant Major.
“Look here, Everett”, he said, “the whole bloody regiment has given its blood today. Someone has to provide the barrack rooms with their coal tomorrow morning. Who better than you?”
So the next day I spent much of my time with a near bloodless left arm carting this coal around while most of my companions spent most of their time in bed.
Happy days!
Christmas Island
Robert Garland had to work hard, but in return he got to see much more of the world than he anticipated after being called up in 1957 and being accepted for training as an RAF wireless operator.
So followed the eight weeks of square-bashing at RAF Wilmslow near Stockport. At first it seemed like Dante’s Inferno, but with common sense and cunning I soon adapted. I quickly learned that you cannot beat the system.
There were the inevitable hard men who thought that they could. Those were the ones scrubbing the guardroom floor as you passed them on your way out of camp to the local pub.
Then followed five months of arduous trade training at RAF Compton Bassett near Calne, Wiltshire. That was a Siberian winter.
I passed my final exam in early February 1958 and felt quite proud. I had seen many fail, some with much better previous jobs than me, but the ability to transmit and receive Morse code at speed does not necessarily mean that you have to be super intelligent, you can either do it or you can’t.
A few of us were posted to Christmas Island, now called by its original Polynesian name Kiritimati, in the central Pacific.
Then followed a week at RAF Innsworth near Gloucester for medicals, jabs for hideous tropical diseases, tropical kit etc. Our party of about thirty flew from Heathrow in a civilian DC4. I had never flown before, and we took off in the snow to land at a snow free Shannon in Eire.
The next day was quite interesting.
After about ten minutes of being airborne, the plane returned to Shannon because the undercarriage would not retract. Everyone got off, out came ladders, spanners and hammers, and we were airborne after a couple of hours.
Half an hour later we were back again, this time one engine had failed. Much later we took off again for a twelve-hour flight to Gander in Newfoundland. Everyone was rather nervous to say the least because this was just three days after the Manchester United air crash at Munich.
We arrived eventually at Gander in about four feet on snow for a good night’s sleep. Next day off to Duluth in Minnesota. A night’s sleep and on again to Fairford, a US Airforce base near San Francisco. The next day on to Honolulu, then the day after finally arriving at Christmas Island.
I spent almost a year here, doing a very interesting job which carried a lot of responsibility. As a wireless operator I had to keep in contact with RAF aircraft flying to and from Honolulu, Fiji and Samoa. It was a very demanding job and I enjoyed it.
During this time, I witnessed and felt the detonation of three atom bombs and two hydrogen bombs. I also went on leave twice to Honolulu.
I came home by sea, five weeks on an elderly immigration ship stopping with shore leave at Honolulu, Panama and Curacao in the Dutch West Indies. Arrived at Southampton in early January 1959.
After a lengthy leave I was posted to RAF Digby, a little WW2 fighter station in the wilds on Lincolnshire. A lovely little camp with very good food.
I was demobbed on July 11th, 1959, a day looked forward to for the two years, and yet when it came it was a bit of an anti-climax, saying goodbye to some really great friends. There were, of course, some grotty days - but very few.
It was a wonderful experience and I would not have missed it for anything. The Morse code remains as clear as ever in my mind.
If you have any memories or stories you would like to share about National Service, we’ll be publishing more next week AND BT’s normal letters page will be back. Email bristol.times@b-nm. co.uk