Don’t cross that line till you reach Civvy St

TO Have seen active service in World War II, you must be nearing your mid-90s. The younger generation relies on the few of us who are left to describe what went on. This story isn’t about joining up, so much as getting discharged at the end of it all. All of us in the Royal Navy were given age and service numbers — mine was 50. The war with Japan was over and I was in Singapore in HMS Glenroy when the Admiralty announced those with numbers one to 50 could return to the UK — I was on my way home! I felt sorry for my mates whose numbers were in the early 50s, who had to stay. As we left, they called out to us: ‘You lucky devils!’ Back in Plymouth, we were given leave according to how long we’d been abroad, then it was back to base to find out the fate awaiting us. It was a long time before number 50 was called. I was told that, as a sick berth attendant, I was needed in the small village of Sparkwell in south Devon, where I was to teach basic first aid to new naval police recruits. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in the village. If a child in the playground fell over and grazed a knee or cut a finger, their parents would bring them to the main gate where I would treat them. The main attraction was a Saturday dance in the village hall where a lady played the piano and her son the drums. After two years of only male company, it was nice to mix with females again. Then the time came to report to the demob centre. This had three departments. The first was medical, where I was ordered to strip off to be examined in case in future years I claimed to have been injured to claim a war pension. Next was the clothing department, where I was given my demob suit and other clothing, then the departing area where I was given free railway tickets home and a nice chit for a good sum of money, redeemable at the Post Office, enabling me to get back to life on Civvy Street. The final remark from an officer took me by surprise: ‘There’s transport outside to take you to the station. ‘Remember, this side of the main gate is still in the Navy. When the rear wheels reach the main road, you’re in civilian territory. ‘Just to warn you, if you decide to put two fingers up at us, or make derogatory remarks this side of the gate, we will signal the driver to reverse and you’ll be put on a charge.’ I kept my hands firmly in my pockets, kept my mouth shut and watched closely for the moment when the rear wheels crossed the line.

Bob Hunt, Bengeo, Hertford.